Networks

Chapter 3- Cora

I set the newspaper back down on the bench that had been my bed for the night. The sunlight was weak as it fought through the thickly veiled clouds. I stared down at the bold headline that was on the front page of nearly every newspaper.

LONDON'S RICH KILL-LIST.

How intriguing. Ten names, slowly being crossed off. Why would someone anonymously alert the police? They would all, especially this Mycroft Holmes, be under utmost security. And the killer was working up the list. Perhaps they knew Mycroft... wanted him to know, to realise they were coming. If I were to find out, I would have to talk to this Mycroft character.

Finding one man in the whole of London would no doubt be very difficult. But if he was the richest man in the whole of London, then people would be bound to know him. I would start, I decided, with the best possible people to ask; the homeless.

London's homeless network was very extensive, which was both fortunate and unfortunate. Unfortunate, because there were so many hungry, poor people living on the streets, but fortunate because they- we- had a way of knowing stuff that ordinary people could not.

I walked along the busy street, heading for a popular "home" amongst the homeless. It was under and shelter near the Blackfriar's bridge. I weaved through people and into traffic, ducking around taxis and buses. Everything was a blur of faces, smells and colours, with random words jumping out at me from billboards, people yelling on their phones and newspaper-sellers. It wasn't long before I reached the bridge. It towered over me, cars roaring along, unbelievably loud. There weren't as many homeless people here during the day as there seemed to be at night, but still far too many milling around. I didn't sleep with them because, as a rule, I didn't like people. There was almost nothing I hated more than human contact.

I picked out a familiar face amidst the hollow, sad ones around me. Jeremy was nineteen, kicked out by his parents when they found out he was gay. I didn't think he was far off being able to afford a flat, but felt it sent more of a message to his parents if he lived on the streets.

'Jeremy.' I said, nodding in greeting as I approached. He and some friends lounged around and against a pole.

'What do you need, Cora?' Jeremy was very tall; maybe 6 foot 5 inches, with short, pale brown hair and a pink, acned face. Unlike most of the other men his age, he did not have the ever-present bruising that indicated constant fighting, which was good. I also liked that he cut straight to the point and wasn't insulted about my curtness or lack of emotion.

'Mycroft Holmes. Ring a bell?' I asked, piquing the interest of a few of his friends around him. There were both men and women. The women looked wary and the men looked appreciative, their eyes roving too much for my liking.

'Yeah, that's Sherlock's brother, I think.' He said. He waited for me to possibly say, "Oh, yeah, Sherlock's brother! Right!" But I kept waiting, not registering the name. 'No way! See, maybe if you were a bit more social you'd actually know Sherlock. Seriously, don't know Sherlock Holmes.' He shook his head in disbelief. When he looked up, I think he sensed my annoyance... or more likely I just wasn't any good at hiding it. 'Sorry, yeah, he's a famous detective. He uses the homeless network like normal people would use like, I don't know, the police, or the secret service. Gives good tips, he does, if you're interested in giving his info.'

'About what?'

'Anything! He does cases from missing cats to triple-murders to suicides. He investigates whatever takes his fancy, no money involved, I don't think. Come to think of it,' Jeremy grinned, 'you're quite a bit like him.'

'How so?'

'Just wait until you meet him.' He said, smiling.

I sighed, talking aloud, but to myself, rather than Jeremy. 'Mycroft is his brother.'

He answered anyway, not to know I was talking to myself. 'Yep. Got himself in a pickle, don't he, being number 1?' He gave a laugh. 'I'm hoping some lucky homeless bastard's doing the killing, to be frank, to send them a message.'

'Where would I find Mycroft?' I asked, turning to face the street behind me.

'No idea, sorry.' He said, leaning back against a pole, chewing his thumb nail.

'Where would I find Sherlock?'

'No idea. He finds us.'

My interest was piqued by a newcomer, who ran over to the group next to Jeremy's. 'Hey, police found the 6th's body!' There was a cheer.

'Hey!' I called to the man, who was about my height, so basically 5 foot 2. 'Where?'

'Just round the corner, love.' He said, and I shot him a glare.

'See you, Cora!' Jeremy called as I departed.

Around the corner, police lights cast a glow over the buildings and sirens rang. I walked swiftly to the barricade, where a police woman stopped me.

'Sorry,' she said, clearly not sorry. 'But where do you think you're going?'

'I was planning on checking out the crime scene actually.'

'No bloody way in hell!' She snapped. 'Off you go. Now! Before I arrest you for acting suspiciously around the scene of a murder.'

'So someone was murdered, thank you for the information. What else can you tell me?'

She looked rather shocked. 'Nothing! I can't tell you nothing!'

'Anything.' I corrected as a man stepped out from under the barricade, followed by another. Both straightened up, looking from the police officer back to me.

The first man was very tall, with dark, curling hair and strange green-coloured eyes above extraordinarily high and prominent cheekbones. He had a long, dark, navy coat wrapped around him, and stood, looking rather, I had to admit, impressive.

In comparison, his friend was rather dishevelled. He had grey hair, and was not a lot taller than me, with a slightly lined face and soft brown eyes. He must not have gotten much sleep the night before, and it seemed he had fallen asleep in the taxi on the way here, because of the imprint on his cheek that matched the cuffs of his jacket. The car trip must have been more than 15 minutes if he had fallen asleep.

'Problem, Sargent Donovan?' The tall, dark-haired, cheek-boned one asked, seeming to feign politeness.

'Nothing I can't handle, Sherlock.' She spat his name and then turned and looked pointedly at me. 'Now, leave.'

'Sure.' I said, feigning politeness also and following Sherlock, who had begun to walk away to signal a taxi, I guessed. 'If I wanted to get in,' I span around and addressed her. 'I would get in.'

And I turned away from her slightly startled face to follow the supposedly great detective.