"Moriarty?" Russell paused mid-sip.
"He got knocked out?"
"No… he didn't kill anyone." Lestrade shook his head. "He stole something."
"How shocking. If Moriarty doesn't steal, what else is he supposed to do—run a crime syndicate?"
As he spoke, Charlotte finally couldn't take it anymore.
"Sometimes, Lestrade, your ability to communicate is genuinely worrying."
She tossed the newspaper in her hand straight at Russell.
"Read it yourself."
Russell caught it and his eyes landed on today's front-page headline—bolded, enlarged, practically screaming the editor's excitement:
[MIDNIGHT PHANTOM: LLOYDS BANK RAIDED — LEGENDARY THIEF MORIARTY RETURNS IN GLORIOUS FASHION!]
The article went into detail about last night's underground incident… and shamelessly turned Moriarty into a dark hero—a one-man army holding the line.
"These reporters really never fear making things worse," Russell muttered while eating, sounding casually annoyed.
"They write a thief like he's Zorro."
"That's exactly what they need." Charlotte took a sip of coffee.
"Citizens need a hero—even if he's a criminal. Scotland Yard needs an enemy to justify more budget. And the papers need a star to keep sales up.
Moriarty's return satisfies everyone's needs… except the unlucky people he robs."
Russell didn't comment.
He flipped a page, his gaze catching a tiny social-column blurb buried in the corner:
[Former Cabinet Minister Ethan Roy admitted to an asylum yesterday.]
Serves him right.
He closed the paper and looked back to Lestrade.
"So last night… Lloyds got cleaned out?"
"Not 'cleaned out,' not really." Lestrade nodded. "Losses weren't huge. But it was an attack."
"A criminal crew bribed one of the guards. Took advantage of the Saturday-night maintenance window and came in through the emergency access."
"And then?" Russell pressed. Charlotte looked over too.
"Then… by the time our people arrived, the gunfight was already over."
Lestrade's expression turned complicated. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to find a sane way to describe an insane scene.
"There were five of them. All down. Not one escaped."
"All dead?" Russell blurted—because he'd been careful with his force last night. Mostly.
"No." Lestrade shook his head.
"They weren't dead. Two had limbs shot through with a handgun. Three had heavy blunt trauma to the back of the head.
Worst case was concussion. No one was in immediate danger."
"Efficient," Charlotte said flatly. "Moriarty did it?"
"All our officers on site were out cold… except the inside man, who'd been knocked unconscious.
Besides that, there was another one who'd been drugged and stuffed into a vault room. So… yes. I think it was him."
Lestrade nodded.
"He impersonated one of the guards and got into the underground storage area. Maybe he went in just to steal—didn't expect someone else to hit the bank.
It sounds absurd, but… thank God he chose Lloyds. That's the strange blessing in the disaster."
He paused, drank a little coffee, then continued.
"At first, we didn't even know anything had happened.
The security system was under maintenance, so the emergency alarm line to Scotland Yard never triggered."
"In the second half of the night, we got a call—someone said a man had been drugged in their apartment.
We went there, woke him up, and he claimed he worked at Lloyds Bank. He was supposed to be on shift."
"And that's when you realized something was wrong," Charlotte smoothly supplied.
"You contacted the bank's management. The second they heard it, they knew the underground vault had been breached.
Then when you rushed to the bank and opened the underground doors… Moriarty's fight with the raiders was already finished.
He kindly solved your problem, then stole something on the way out. Right?"
"Uh… more or less." Lestrade nodded.
"He opened one safe deposit box and took what was inside."
"Whose box?" Charlotte asked.
"No idea. There wasn't a name tag, and in that moment we couldn't afford to care."
"So you came to ask Charlotte to help you catch Moriarty?" Russell asked, finally getting to the point.
"If Charlotte is willing, I—" Lestrade stopped and glanced at her.
Charlotte simply drank her coffee in silence.
"Right." Lestrade sighed, shrugging at Russell. "She's not interested."
"Honestly, Moriarty helped us a lot this time. So I'm inclined to look the other way on this incident.
Yes, he stole something, but… you know. He's Moriarty."
"He returns what he takes," Russell added, perfectly serious.
"Exactly." Lestrade nodded. "That's what I mean. The bank's executives are pushing hard, but we don't have the manpower to prioritize Moriarty right now."
He set his cup down.
"I'm here for something else."
"What?" Russell asked.
"We interrogated the surviving thieves—why Lloyds, who planned it, who gave them the playbook."
Lestrade's voice lowered.
"They said the entire operation was designed by a mysterious figure known as 'the Professor.'"
"The Professor?" Charlotte's eyebrow lifted—interest sparked.
"Go on."
"According to their statements, this Professor is a legendary figure in London's underworld," Lestrade explained.
"A true criminal strategist. A real genius. Supposedly every time he moves, it's a perfect crime—clean, elegant, no traces.
But he vanished almost a year ago. No one knows where he went. No one even knows if he's alive."
"Until last night?" Charlotte asked.
"More precisely—until five days ago." Lestrade corrected.
"Five days ago, the Professor resurfaced and began sending them information: Lloyds' layout, guard rotations, maintenance vulnerabilities—down to a full operation plan.
One letter per day.
By the fourth letter, the plan was complete. And they executed."
"Four days," Charlotte murmured, eyes sharpening. "To plan an assault on the largest private bank in London… and if not for Moriarty as a variable, he would've succeeded."
She looked up.
"Interesting."
Charlotte put down her coffee, stood abruptly, and shrugged on her coat.
"Let's go. Both of you."
"Go where?" Russell asked around half a piece of fried egg.
"To the station," Charlotte said without looking back.
"I have questions I want answered."
....
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