Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

If he was not mistaken, though, a slight air of edginess had overcome the general public. People had become aware of this baffling string of crimes, and were wondering what might happen next time, and to whom.

Then he switched his attention to his new accomplice.

Detective Inspector Rooker had to be in his late thirties. Like the thousands on the streets, he was not wearing any suit. The policeman was clad in stonewashed jeans, a suede jacket and matching boots, and a purple shirt that was open at the neck. His hair had grown down to his collar – old Lestrade, he would have had a fit. And although he spoke in the manner of an educated man, his accent was pure East London. Stepney to be precise, Holmes had already decided.

But he was obviously intelligent and watchful. His dark green eyes missed very little, and he brought a quietly determined air with him to everything he undertook. That was Holmes’ first impression of him, at least. And during their short time together, it had not been in the slightest way diminished.

They parked in a cobbled lane behind a large grey building, and Holmes followed Rooker through a door.

“The perpetrator’s name is Raj Noor,” the inspector told Holmes as they walked along an echoing corridor. “Twenty-two years old, from Walthamstow. No criminal record whatsoever, not even a parking ticket.”

“Employed?” Holmes asked.

“He works in a record shop in Soho.” Which was merely a short walk from Perrington Whittleys, Soho being one side of the Regent Street divide and Mayfair the other. “In fact, he was there a few minutes before he committed the crime. According to his boss, he was attending to some customers, when he suddenly stopped talking and went rather stiff. And then simply walked out onto the street. His boss went out and shouted after him, but our Raj took no notice.”

“It sounds possible that he might have been mesmerised, or else subjected to some form of post-hypnotic trigger.”

Except that that didn’t even start to explain the way that he had appeared in the jewellery store, or the non-existent gun. And both men knew that.

“And you found him where?” the great detective asked.

“In a dead-end alleyway on the north side of Oxford Street.” Which was, once again, only a short walk away. “Several people saw him going in there. He was standing there when we arrived, just staring into space. And he still had the backpack, but the thing was empty. All the jewellery was gone.”

They stopped in front of a cell door. Rooker nodded to the duty sergeant who’d accompanied them the last part of the way.

Holmes could hear a dismal weeping coming from inside that confined space, even before the key was turned and the heavy metal door swung open. Then he was confronted by an utterly confounding sight.

Here was the young man in question, sitting on a low bench at the far end of the barren cell. Holmes could make out that his wrists had been cuffed until quite recently. But to identify him as the felon he had watched in action on the security footage … that was quite impossible at present, because his face was not visible.

The unfortunate Raj Noor was doubled over like a paperclip, his dark head level with his knees. Both his hands were covering his face, and his shoulders were quivering spasmodically. Indeed, his entire frame was being racked with massive sobs. The fellow was crying so fiercely that his bare forearms were slick with tears the entire way down to the elbows.

“He’s been like this since we locked him in,” the duty sergeant told the two detectives. “Guilty conscience finally got the better of him, if you ask me.”

“I’d genuinely doubt that,” Holmes said quietly.

His remark annoyed the man, who walked away and left them to it.

Under Rooker’s piercing gaze, the great detective walked gently across, stopped in front of the young suspect, and then crouched down until they were both at the same height. He reached out tentatively, brushed the fingers of one hand across the fellow’s shoulder. Raj Noor flinched, then finally looked up.

His fingers parted so that Holmes could see his eyes. And they were red-rimmed, bloodshot, damp to overflowing. That much he’d already been expecting. But there was something else there in those dark brown irises that were staring back at him.

Holmes had looked into the gaze of many villains in the past, and this man was not one of them.

He began talking softly, in a very even tone.

“Listen to me now, Raj. I fully understand how frightened and upset you are. But giving in to those emotions – it will do you not the slightest good. You must calm down and talk to me.”

And to Rooker’s surprise, Holmes’ words – perhaps simply the way he spoke them – seemed to have a very fast effect. The flow of tears abated, and the boy stopped shaking. He wiped one hand across his sodden cheeks, then stared at the detective mournfully.

“Is there anything that you can do to help me, sir?”

A gentle smile returned to Sherlock Holmes’ lips. This was the first time since he had come back to London – outside of his hotel – that anyone had addressed him in that manner. Raj was obviously a very polite and well brought-up young chap. His hand went back over to the fellow’s shoulder, stayed there.

“I’m going to do my best. Please be assured of that. But I am going to need your full co-operation.”

The boy in front of him nodded.

“You must tell me precisely what happened.”

“I was in the shop. I was dealing with some customers. They were trying to get hold of the special gold edition of a Nine Inch Nails album. Expensive, and hard to find.”

“Can you describe these customers?”

“The girl was pretty, sir, like in a hippyish way. The bloke was tall and blond. Both Dutch, I think.”

Holmes absorbed that, uncertain if it was relevant.

“And did they say or do anything odd?”

“Not a thing, sir. Not that I recall.”

“And then?”

“It all went black.”

“You couldn’t see?”

“I couldn’t … do anything at all. It was like I’d left my body, sir. Like I was floating in a void.”

“So you were not aware of anything?” Holmes pressed him. “Walking down to Bond Street? Entering the jeweller’s shop?”

Raj Noor’s head shook rather frantically. “Not a single thing about it. I just can’t believe that …”

Emotion began to overtake the unhappy young man again. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes and his shoulders resumed their nervous trembling.

“I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life, sir. What am I going to do?”

Holmes shushed and tutted, rubbing the boy’s shoulder with his fingertips until he’d calmed him down a little again. Or at least, that was what it looked like. It was actually a method of controlling the whole nervous system he had learned in the Far East.

“So the next thing you remember is …?”

“Standing in that dingy alley. Wondering how I’d got there. I was still there when the police came to get me.”

“And of the intervening period you recall not a single thing?” Holmes’ expression tautened. “Think, man. Your entire future might depend on what you tell me.”

Raj could see how serious the great detective was. He dried his face a second time. His breathing steadied, his expression turning pensive. And at first, he simply looked quite blank. But then a memory appeared to come to him, at least part of the way. He was obviously struggling to retrieve it, and he rubbed pensively at his brow.

“While I was out of it, I thought that I could hear something. Only in the background, very faintly.”

“Whilst you were floating in the darkness?”

“Yes. It was …” Raj pressed his thumb and index finger deep into the corners of his swollen eyes, “… I think it was laughter, sir. But not humorous. Nasty, mocking laughter, as if somebody was playing a cruel trick on me.”