The air was stifling and the streets of London – usually bustling with a cool, regal modesty - had morphed into a sweltering maze of congestion and red faced men. The working week was drawing sluggishly to a close and as Friday evening approached, the various offices of Cavendish Street began to empty of its workers. Eventually, only a handful of the most dedicated employees remained.
Including Karl Butler, a stout, balding man in his early fifties.
After a bad week with the boss, he was hoping to earn back some brownie points by working late. But unfortunately, Mr Hanson hadn’t appeared to notice his efforts and Karl’s temper was shortening by the minute. He finally admitted defeat with the latest tide of paperwork and swept them into a pile, before collecting his essentials and logging off his computer. Ten minutes later, Karl was marching out of the building, his hand still aching from a combination of rapid typing and writing. Rubbing his knuckles, he set off through the maze of streets as he headed back to his apartment where his wife would inevitably be waiting for him, ready to nag at him for something else he’d done wrong. He sighed, turning off to cut through Hyde park.
Caught up in the melodrama of his life, he didn’t even notice that he was being followed.
Halfway through, the footsteps behind him grew impossible to ignore. Wary but not yet alarmed, Karl swung around and found himself facing a man, mask obscuring his face.
“Nobody leaves, Karl”
Karl’s eyes bulged out of his head, as recognition dawned. He began to sweat, his neck slick beneath his wide collar.
“But you understand, right? I can’t keep it up these days. I told him – he understood. I have a wife, a good job-“
“Excuses, excuses,” the gravelly voice reprimanded him, edging forward, holding out a strange instrument. It was reminiscent of a large kitchen fork, but the ends buzzed, glowing a sharp yellow colour, “We’ve given you several chances to change your mind, to come back but you chose this. Don’t worry – it won’t hurt…too much.”
Karl’s scream lasted for less than a second. He keeled forward and collapsed on the grass into a lump of cold, heavy limbs and torso. The masked man inspected the large man to confirm whether or not he was dead before slipping his gloved hand into the depths of his pocket and retrieving a playing card. The four of clubs.
He crumpled it up into a ball as small as he could manage and placed it in the dead man’s mouth.
Satisfied, he disappeared – once again, becoming a shadow of the night.
* * * * *
Including Karl Butler, a stout, balding man in his early fifties.
After a bad week with the boss, he was hoping to earn back some brownie points by working late. But unfortunately, Mr Hanson hadn’t appeared to notice his efforts and Karl’s temper was shortening by the minute. He finally admitted defeat with the latest tide of paperwork and swept them into a pile, before collecting his essentials and logging off his computer. Ten minutes later, Karl was marching out of the building, his hand still aching from a combination of rapid typing and writing. Rubbing his knuckles, he set off through the maze of streets as he headed back to his apartment where his wife would inevitably be waiting for him, ready to nag at him for something else he’d done wrong. He sighed, turning off to cut through Hyde park.
Caught up in the melodrama of his life, he didn’t even notice that he was being followed.
Halfway through, the footsteps behind him grew impossible to ignore. Wary but not yet alarmed, Karl swung around and found himself facing a man, mask obscuring his face.
“Nobody leaves, Karl”
Karl’s eyes bulged out of his head, as recognition dawned. He began to sweat, his neck slick beneath his wide collar.
“But you understand, right? I can’t keep it up these days. I told him – he understood. I have a wife, a good job-“
“Excuses, excuses,” the gravelly voice reprimanded him, edging forward, holding out a strange instrument. It was reminiscent of a large kitchen fork, but the ends buzzed, glowing a sharp yellow colour, “We’ve given you several chances to change your mind, to come back but you chose this. Don’t worry – it won’t hurt…too much.”
Karl’s scream lasted for less than a second. He keeled forward and collapsed on the grass into a lump of cold, heavy limbs and torso. The masked man inspected the large man to confirm whether or not he was dead before slipping his gloved hand into the depths of his pocket and retrieving a playing card. The four of clubs.
He crumpled it up into a ball as small as he could manage and placed it in the dead man’s mouth.
Satisfied, he disappeared – once again, becoming a shadow of the night.
* * * * *
“He’s dead,” the voice on the end of the phone confirmed and Irene Adler’s lower lip curled in instinctive distaste. She paused for a few seconds before speaking. Deaths were always such…messy businesses.
“Oh, I hate it when clients die on me,” she murmured evenly “It always makes for such…inconveniences. Karl, you say?”
“Yes. Heart attack, apparently – discovered in Hyde park, earlier this morning. Collapsed on his way home last night. This early into the investigation, they think it’s probably a combination of the heat and stress but the police are currently in the process of examining the body and the crime scene.”
Irene tutted mockingly, her unease fading.
“Such a shame,” she said serenely “I’m sure his poor wife must be distraught.”
“Indeed,” the caller’s response was devoid of emotion, “And don’t worry – I checked. Nobody can link you to him. I erased all of the phone records and ensured that the payments he made weren’t visible in his viewable accounts.”
“Very good,” she replied absently, “But I do wish they would warn me first, even if I don’t approve of their methods. They do like to cause trouble. We don’t want the good people of this area to think there’s a serial killer on the loose.”
“You want to tell them that?”
She laughed humourlessly.
“Well no – I do like the idea of having a heartbeat. Just make sure they don’t put the good officers on the jobs. I’m pretty sure they’ll have left a clue that could cause a stir.”
The voice on the end of the phone stuttered, coughing uncomfortably.
“You ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?”
She frowned. The name wasn’t immeadiately familiar to her - she didn't believe that she had come across this individiual before. Names weren't something she tended to forget.
“I don’t believe so-“
“Good. I have to go, now – the wife’s getting suspicious.”
“I’ll see you later.”
She ended the call without bothering to bid her informant farewell; not that he would expect one. She wasn’t, by any standard, considered caring nor affectionate. It had no place in her life, at present.
She had been walking down the pavement, heading to her favourite morning coffee establishment but in light of recent events, she decided that a change in plan was in order. She stopped and instead headed towards the road, hailing a taxi. One promptly drew to a halt for her and she slid inside, instructing the driver to take her to Hyde park.
“There’s this lovely breakfast place just outside of the entrance,” she specified, airily, “You should try it yourself, sometime.”
The cabbie merely nodded, his expression blank.
They arrived twenty minutes later and he deposited her quickly at the park entrance, before zooming off, eager for more business from a less chatty customer. She smiled and walked over to the café – she hadn’t been entirely lying – casually glancing over at the police cars parked haphazardly at the side of the road. Through the gates, in the depths of the park, she could see a crowd gathering by an enclosed area of police tape, whereby officers were swarming about the site and blocking her view. Without so much as another glance, she entered the café and ordered a coffee, taking a seat by the window which looked out over the park - not that the distance allowed for her to distinguish much detail. But she was curious by nature. She couldn't resist the urge to check up on the scene, especially with all this free time on her hands provided by one of her client's untimely passing.
She sipped her coffee, watching and waiting.