The Sherlock Effect

by Raymond Kay Lyon

  Tuesday came, and we taxied over to Tripp’s house, which was an elegant, white, three-storey terrace in Oxshott Street, not far from South Kensington Tube.

  ‘He’s getting jittery already – the curtains are drawn,’ observed Mo, scanning the building as we walked up to the well-maintained columned porch.

  I rang the bell and the door was opened by a nondescript, grey-haired individual of about fifty who showed us into the reception room.

  ‘Kevin won’t be long,’ he said, casting a weary eye up at the ceiling. ‘He’s having a barney with his girlfriend at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Should we come back later?’ asked Mo considerately.

  ‘No, you may as well hang around until they finish. By the way, I’m Gordon, Kevin’s older brother. You’re here about the death threat, aren’t you? Nasty business.’

  I nodded. ‘You take it seriously?’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it, to be honest.’

  ‘But your brother does have enemies?’

  ‘Some people might call him ruthless,’ he replied carefully. ‘But that’s how you’ve got to be in business. I’ve watched him build up the company from nothing, and I know exactly whose toes he’s trodden on. I could make you a list, but I warn you it would be quite long.’ He broke off to pour himself a glass of scotch. ‘Want one?’

  Mo and I both declined.

  ‘I work for Kevin, did you know?’ he continued conversationally. ‘Yes, I’m his Finance Director – joined about five years ago. That’s when profits started going through the roof. Kevin needed someone he could trust; someone from the family. Of course, my wife had scruples, but when she realized how much I was going to earn she forgot about them.’

  ‘Scruples about the nature of the work?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘At least you don’t produce hard-core material,’ put in Mo lightly.

  A sardonic expression passed across Gordon’s dull countenance. ‘Is that what Kevin told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked up at the ceiling again, this time furtively. ‘Well, if that’s what he says, it must be true. Who am I to contradict the boss?’

  ‘Then it isn’t exclusively soft porn?’ I asked.

  Gordon took a copious slug of whisky and grimaced. ‘No, we churn out all kinds of stuff. Some of it would make your hair curl. Actually, it’s amazing how many different types of perversion there are. I’d never even heard of some –’

  At this point he halted, and cocked an ear towards the door apprehensively. We could hear raised voices, one male and one female, then a door slamming. I wandered out into the hall in time to see a tearful, buxom brunette thundering down the stairs, carrying a large suit-case.

  ‘I’ll give you a ring tomorrow – promise,’ called Kevin Tripp indulgently over the bannisters.

  ‘Don’t bother, you bastard!’ screeched the girl. She walked straight past me as if I didn’t exist, and out of the front door, without bothering to close it behind her.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ mumbled Tripp, descending rather sheepishly.

  ‘Not at all,’ I returned.

  ‘I can’t have her staying here while all this business is going on, can I? It’s not safe. You’d think she’d jump at the chance of having a country house to herself.’

  ‘Country house?’

  ‘In the Cotswolds. I use it at weekends.’

  At that point Mo came out of the reception room to see what was going on.

  ‘Good, you’re both here,’ said Tripp. ‘I’ll introduce you to Jacko now. Follow me.’

  We climbed the stairs and turned right into a large, dimly lit games room. There was a pool table in the centre, over which crouched a tall, athletically-built man with receding hair swept back into a tiny, neat ponytail. He potted a red ball, then looked up and gave us an unpleasant grin, revealing a chaotic set of teeth. He was wearing a holster containing some kind of handgun.

  ‘Jacko, these are the people who are going to watch the house. If they see anybody hanging around they’ll warn you.’

  ‘And I’ll be waiting for them,’ added the henchman grimly, giving his gun an affectionate pat.

  ‘Your shirt’s hanging out at the back, mate. Sort it out, will you?’

  Jacko obeyed, seemingly without resentment.

  ‘I can’t stand scruffiness,’ explained Tripp, turning to me. ‘It does my head in, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ I replied, looking at him slightly askance.

  To me the criticism seemed ill-deserved because apart from the shirt Jacko’s attire was immaculate – right down to the gold cuff-links and matching tie-pin.

  ‘I’ve got to make a few calls,’ said Tripp, ‘so why don’t you take a wander – have a look at the neighbourhood. There’s a local map downstairs if you need it.’

  ‘We’ve brought our own,’ said Mo.

  In fact our preparation had extended as far as researching all the properties in Oxshott Street. Of the twelve on the opposite side of the road none had changed hands in the past year, and none were being rented out, according to the available information. I therefore felt it unlikely that the assassin had taken up residence nearby. However, it was always possible that some unofficial sub-letting was going on.

  ‘I’d like to take a look at your garden,’ I requested. ‘It would be useful to know how accessible the house is from that side.’

  Tripp nodded and led us downstairs. When we reached the back door he paused.

  ‘I’ll stay inside, if you don’t mind – I don’t want to get sniped at.’

  ‘It’s not March until tomorrow,’ Mo pointed out.

  ‘Even so. I’ll leave the door unlocked so you can get back in.’

  We stepped out onto the rectangular lawn, which was still crisp with frost, and looked back at the house. A wrought-iron fire-escape spiralled up to the top floor, next to which nestled a satellite dish. The garden backed onto a huge, featureless brick building, which we already knew to be a municipal swimming pool.

  ‘The assassin would have to come through these adjoining gardens, which would mean scaling a number of walls and fences,’ I concluded, surveying the scene. ‘Then he’d have to use the fire-escape and break in – perhaps through one of the windows.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Mo.

  ‘But difficult not to be seen. It would have to be a nighttime assault.’

  ‘You think we should concentrate on the front of the house, then?’

  ‘On balance, yes. But really, the whole idea of wandering the length and breadth of South Kensington in search of suspicious characters is laughable – a complete waste of time. If Tripp wasn’t paying us so much I’d tell him so to his face.’

  ‘Aren’t you being a bit defeatist?’

  I shook my head. ‘What we should be doing is investigating his enemies, in a systematic way. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘But he’s adamant that we stick to our allotted task.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied with a frown. ‘It’s infuriating.’

  My feelings of frustration mounted over the next three weeks, almost to the point where I was ready to chuck the whole thing in. It was Mo who kept me going, constantly reminding me of how healthy our bank balance was going to look by the end of the month.

  We had developed a system of patrolling the surrounding streets, calling in at pubs and shops on our way. The shifts were long and the work repetitive. We made a note of any untoward happening or suspect individual. The information was condensed into a short bulletin and handed in to Tripp at the end of each day. He would then glance over it, make a few inconsequential comments, and throw it into the nearest bin. It was a ritual from which he appeared to derive some kind of peace of mind.

  A little before seven one Saturday evening I arrived at the end of my tour of duty feeling particularly low. My feet ached, I was chilled to the bone, and I’d been accosted by a drunk. Mo met me at the end of Oxshott Street, and we headed for Tripp�
��s house in search of a restorative cup of tea.

  ‘Only a week to the end of the month,’ said my associate, slapping me on the back encouragingly. ‘No sign of any assassin. Do you think this Mad Monk thing could be a joke?’

  ‘It’s in pretty bad taste if it is,’ I remarked sourly.

  Just then there was a loud bang, as if someone had let off a firework nearby.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Mo, tugging at the sleeve of my overcoat.

  ‘I don’t know. Seemed to come from up ahead.’

  We both accelerated into a run, and were within thirty yards of Tripp’s place when a tall figure appeared on his balcony. Despite the fading light we were able to make out that it was someone dressed as a monk, with a cowl drawn up over their head. Suddenly the man pulled out a gun, waved it about, and screamed: ‘Get down!’

  The instruction was evidently aimed not at us, but at whoever was inside the house. Seconds later the odd apparition disappeared again through the balcony doors.

  By now a few pedestrians had gathered alongside us on the pavement, anxiously gazing up at the unfolding drama.

  ‘Is it a seige?’ asked one lady.

  ‘I think someone should call the police,’ suggested a middle-aged gentleman authoritatively.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, getting out my mobile phone and dialling 999. While I was in the middle of explaining the situation to the female police operator there was a second loud report.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes, what was it?’

  ‘Another shot. How soon can you get someone here?’

  ‘It won’t be long, sir. Don’t approach the gunman under any circumstances.’

  ‘He’ll probably try to escape through the gardens at the back of Oxshott Street,’ I predicted, ‘so make sure you post some men there.’

  ‘I’ll pass that information on, sir.’

  ‘Please do.’

  I replaced the mobile in my coat pocket.

  Mo asked: ‘Do you think they’ll act on your advice?’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

  ‘What do we do until they arrive?’

  ‘What do you suggest? I’m certainly not going to risk getting shot for Tripp’s sake – are you? Let’s just leave it to the professionals.’

  Within an admirably short period a squad of police cars and an ambulance drew up at the end of the street. They were followed by an unmarked van which spewed forth a stream of armed officers, who immediately adopted various strategic positions within range of the house. The whole well-orchestrated process took no more than a couple of minutes.

  ‘Right, I’ll have to ask you all to move right back, please, right back,’ said a constable advancing on us and waving his arms. ‘We’re clearing the street. Quick as you can, please.’

  ‘I’m the person who rang you,’ I informed him.

  ‘Thank you, sir, but you’ll have to move back for your own safety.’

  We were herded like so many wayward sheep to a position from which we could only just see the balcony. I sought out the most senior-looking official I could find – who I later discovered to be Detective Inspector Poole – and apprised him of the likely personnel in the house.

  ‘The owner is Kevin Tripp – a company director. There’s also his bodyguard, Jack Earle, who carries a handgun. I’m rather afraid they’ve both been shot, Inspector – by the man dressed as a monk.’

  ‘And you are?’

  I showed the D.I. my card, which induced a raised eyebrow and an evanescent smile.

  ‘Have you got the back garden covered?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, of course we have.’

  Just then the man in charge of the armed unit approached Poole, and took him off for a private discussion.

  The unnatural silence which had recently descended upon Oxshott Street was eventually broken by the dramatic appearance of a short, plump woman. She flew out of Tripp’s front door and ran down the pavement towards us, shrieking intermittently. I soon recognized her as Ruby Gates, Tripp’s regular cleaning lady. She must have been in the house throughout the whole terrifying episode.

  A couple of policewomen went forward to receive the poor thing, and helped her into the back seat of the nearest police car, where they offered what comfort they could. Poole joined them in the front seat. Once Ruby had recovered from the worst of her hysterics he began asking her questions, probably by way of a de-briefing.

  I don’t know what she told him, but it seemed to have a direct effect on tactics. Poole got out of the car and spoke into his radio, briefly. Within seconds the armed officers left their stations and began closing in on Tripp’s house. They moved in little darting sprints, silently, almost balletically. Soon two or three had converged on the porch. At a given signal they stormed through the front door and out of sight.

  Poole gazed intently at the balcony, exercising his jaw muscles, as the drama entered it’s most critical stage. I was standing only a few feet away from him, so when the message was radioed through from the advance party I could hear every word. The news was not good; two men had been found in the house, both dead from gunshot wounds. From the brief descriptions it was clear that they were Tripp and Earle respectively. There was no sign of the killer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once Mo and I had given our formal statements at the local police station I requested a more informal interview with Detective Inspector Poole. He took us into his office and closed the door.

  ‘We’ll be happy to assist you in whatever way we can,’ I declared. ‘As you know, my agency was hired to protect Kevin Tripp. Obviously we failed.’

  ‘Obviously,’ he smirked.

  ‘However, if we’d been allowed to employ our usual methods things could have turned out differently.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I feel we might have been able to identify the killer before he struck. The least we can do now is help you track him down.’

  Poole looked at me with amused scepticism. ‘We’ve moved on a bit from Sherlock Holmes’s day, you know. I don’t see how you can compete with modern forensic techniques.’

  ‘I can’t. My approach is complementary.’

  ‘And it works,’ added Mo loyally. ‘He’s solved a number of cases already.’

  Poole sank into his chair and rubbed his broad, badly-designed face thoughtfully. ‘I’m not too proud to accept help from any source, if it gets a result. The big problem here is, what happened to the man dressed as a monk? He seems to have arrived at the scene and left again, without being spotted by anyone. Now that’s quite a feat in a built-up area like Kensington. At least we know which direction he ran off in.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘They found a monk’s habit on the fire-escape. And the gun was lying on the lawn a few feet away. He must have run across the garden, jumped the wall, into the next garden, and so-on until he reached Warwick Mews. And he must have done it before we arrived. That suggests an athlete.’

  ‘You don’t have any witnesses at all?’

  ‘No, none of the neighbours saw him.’

  ‘But they can’t have failed to hear the gunshots. Didn’t that make them extra vigilant?’

  Poole shrugged. ‘It was getting rather dark, I suppose.’

  ‘The gun you found – is that definitely the murder weapon?’ asked Mo.

  ‘It’s been sent off to ballistics – but I’m confident it is. Both men were shot in the head, at close range.’

  ‘Was there any sign of a struggle?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not really. Tripp was found in the main bedroom, face down on the carpet. Earle was in the hall – the revolver in his holster hadn’t been fired.’

  ‘Was there anything else of interest?’

  ‘Needle tracks on Earle’s arms – he was, or had been, a junky. Oh, and his polo-neck jumper was on inside-out – the label was showing.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed in surprise. ‘Are you quite sure about
that?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that Kevin Tripp was absolutely obsessed about his employees being neat and tidy, wasn’t he Mo?’

  ‘Oh, definitely,’ confirmed my friend.

  ‘Well, I’m telling you, that’s how we found him. Of course we should know a lot more about what happened when Ruby Gates gives us her account. She’s likely to be our key witness.’

  ‘How is she by the way?’ I enquired. ‘Still in shock?’

  ‘Yes, but on the mend. I might visit the hospital tomorrow.’

  ‘Would you mind if we came along? We got to know her pretty well while we were working for Tripp. She might relax a little if she sees a couple of familiar faces.’

  ‘Alright. But I want something in return,’ said Poole with a calculating expression.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This is going to be a high-profile case – what with the pornography angle, and the Mad Monk bit. So if we solve it between us, you let me get the credit. Fact is, I’m up for promotion later this year; I need all the brownie points I can get. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. We’ll keep out of the limelight completely, just as Holmes himself did. You can be a kind of latter-day Lestrade if you want.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Poole, growing excited by the prospect.

  Mo, on the other hand, looked distinctly underwhelmed. He was always in favour of publicity for Baskerville’s at any cost. But the deal had been struck, for better or worse.

  The following morning Poole telephoned to confirm that Mrs. Gates was now well enough to answer a few questions. He instructed us to meet him at the hospital in an hour.

  We were there in good time, but the detective was half an hour late. He made no apology.

  ‘You’ll have to let me conduct the interview,’ he said firmly, as we headed through the main concourse towards Ruby’s ward. ‘We’ve only got a limited time with her, and I want to extract as much information as possible.’

  Having told the nurse behind the reception desk who we had come to visit we sat in the waiting area.

  After a few minutes the Sister approached us and declared briskly: ‘Mrs. Gates already has someone with her at the moment – I believe it’s her son. But she’ll see you. If you’d like to follow me.’