Chapter 16 : The Dossier
The red pin sat in the centre of the Blind Banker preparation sheet like a challenge.
I stared at it for three seconds, then pulled it and moved it to the edge. Not centre — edge. Because the Blind Banker was months away and I had more pressing business.
The serial suicides case file sat on the counter in a manila folder I'd bought at the stationery shop on Coldharbour Lane. Inside: the geographic profile, the transport theory, the suspect narrowing process, Jeff Hope's identification, and a timeline of my investigation from first pattern recognition to final suspect confirmation. Clean pages. Organised sections. The kind of presentation that a Bureau supervisor would nod at, flip through, and stamp "satisfactory" without comment.
The problem was that no Bureau supervisor was going to see it. The audience was a man I'd only watched through binoculars — Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard, Homicide and Serious Crime Command. A man who was currently dealing with the aftermath of a case solved by a self-proclaimed sociopath, the media circus surrounding the "serial suicide killer," and the quiet internal investigation into why a civilian consultant had been allowed to confront a suspect alone.
Approaching Lestrade with a case file from the same investigation was either bold or suicidal. Possibly both.
I sat on the edge of the bed and ran through the logic.
What does Lestrade want? He wants results. The serial suicides case gave him results, but they came from Sherlock — a man who treats police procedure like a suggestion and social norms like a personal insult. Lestrade tolerates Sherlock because he has no alternative. Give him an alternative and he'll at least listen.
What do I offer that Sherlock doesn't? Reliability. Respectful communication. Network intelligence. Geographic profiling. And the willingness to file reports, explain methodology, and not call his forensic team idiots.
What's the risk? Lestrade asks how I knew about the suicides. I say: newspaper reports, public records, analytical training. He asks for credentials. I have none — no licence, no formal background, no verifiable history. The amnesia cover holds for now, but it won't survive sustained police scrutiny.
The risk calculus was acceptable. Barely.
[Strategic Assessment: Police contact — high reward, moderate risk. Proceed with caution.]
I spent the rest of the evening refining the case file. Removed anything that relied on meta-knowledge — no references to brain aneurysms or Moriarty's sponsorship. The file presented a clean analytical chain: pattern recognition from newspaper reports, geographic profiling of death locations, transport theory based on victim acquisition analysis, suspect narrowing through public licensing data, and Jeff Hope's identification through cross-referencing forum posts with the geographic profile.
Every step was legitimate. Every source was verifiable. And nowhere in the file did it say "I knew because I watched this on television in another life."
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Brixton Library — August 5, 2010, 10:00 AM
The library's reference section had a dusty shelf of legal guidebooks. I pulled Private Security Industry Act 2001 and Security Industry Authority Licensing Guide and spent two hours reading about private investigator requirements in the UK.
The short version: there wasn't a specific PI licence in the UK. Not like the US, where each state had its own licensing requirements and you needed formal certification. In Britain, private investigators operated in a legal grey area — no mandatory licence, no required qualifications, no standardised oversight. The SIA had been discussing regulation since 2001, but implementation kept getting delayed.
Which means I can operate. Not optimally, not with full legal standing, but I can take cases, conduct investigations, and present findings without breaking any laws I can't explain.
The longer version was more complicated. Without a formal licence, my standing depended entirely on reputation and relationships. A police officer who trusted my work could use my intelligence. One who didn't could dismiss me as a nuisance and potentially have me charged with obstruction if I interfered with active investigations.
Everything comes back to Lestrade. He's the gateway.
I made notes. Filed them in the notebook next to the serial suicides post-case analysis. Then I spent an hour on the public computers researching Scotland Yard's visitor protocols — how to get past reception, who to ask for, what to bring.
The answer was straightforward: walk in, ask for the officer by name, state your business, and wait. Scotland Yard's main building on Broadway had a public reception area. Civilian visitors were logged, searched, and directed. No appointment necessary — but no guarantee of access, either.
My stomach complained. I'd had toast at seven and nothing since. The library cafe had closed for refurbishment two weeks ago — a sign on the door said "Back in September" with the particular optimism of British construction timelines. I walked to the kebab shop on Atlantic Road and ate a lamb wrap standing on the pavement, watching the Brixton market crowd, thinking about how to introduce myself to a man who had no reason to care that I existed.
[+5 SP. Pre-operation planning complete.]
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Brixton Bedsit — August 5, 2010, 4:30 PM
Pemberton called at three. A tenant in his Camberwell building was complaining about a leak. Could I check the building's exterior drainage?
I checked it. The downpipe from the second-floor gutter had disconnected at a bracket joint — probably wind damage. I photographed it, called Pemberton, and recommended a plumber. Forty-five minutes of work, £50 in my pocket.
The small jobs. The ones that keep the lights on while the big cases come and go.
Back at the bedsit, I laid out the case file one more time. The manila folder looked thin — eight pages of analysis, a hand-drawn map, a timeline, and three paragraphs of conclusions. In the Bureau, this would have been a preliminary report, the kind you attached to an email with "initial findings, pending full analysis." Here, it was everything I had.
I added one more page. A summary of my background — edited, careful, truthful where possible and vague where necessary.
Name: Nathan Cole. Background: Former analyst (overseas). Speciality: geographic profiling, pattern analysis, network intelligence. Current status: Private investigator, unaffiliated. Operating in South London. Previous case experience: Property security (Pemberton Properties), anonymous intelligence submissions to Metropolitan Police (two cases, both resulted in arrests/resolution). Seeking: Consultative arrangement with CID for cases requiring analytical support.
It was thin. It was honest. And it was the best I could do without credentials that didn't exist in this universe.
I put the file in my backpack, set the alarm for 7 AM, and ran through the pitch in my head until the words stopped sounding rehearsed.
Tomorrow. Scotland Yard. Either the beginning of a career or the end of a very short one.
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