The Premier Bachelor

“It’s no good John,” uttered the seasoned literary agent, his weary expression betraying his general lack of interest in Watson’s proposition. “I can’t get you another book deal when sales of the first one are stagnating. You’re competing in a tough market, up against celebrities like Kathy Rice. I’ve just negotiated a three-book-deal for her. An advance as big as her breasts.”

“But she can’t write for toffee!”

“No, but her ghost-writer can. And she’s got a 30HH chest, that’s a lot of boob John. Glamour models sell books. Especially ones with their own reality TV show who are about to marry a premiership footballer. An unknown doctor doesn’t quite attract that level of attention, I’m afraid. In fact, you and your book haven’t attracted much attention at all. Except for that fuss about Scotland Yard but everyone’s forgotten it now. I have to be honest; I’m not sure how much longer I can go on representing you. Perhaps you should just stick to the day job Doctor Watson, eh?”

***

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Watson thought as he walked home from his agent’s office. It had been five years since he left the army due to injury and found himself alone in one of the world’s most exciting cities. He had felt an exhilarating sense of freedom, of possibilities to be explored. He would get work, save enough to pay for his GP exams and start working for a good practice, get a lovely house, marry, have children. Between patients he would write that bestseller he’d always dreamt of producing. A lucrative publishing contract would follow and he could retire early from medicine, spend his days writing books and being the toast of the literary world. Little did Watson realise that his dreams would be hampered by a lack of fake boobs. Or not raising the money for his GP exams and having to work in ‘no-win-no-fee’ hell.

His journey into the literary world had been fraught with difficulties from the start. The initial elation over having his first book published quickly subsided when faced with Holmes’ scathing criticism of his accounts detailing their adventures since becoming flatmates - and the consequences for poor Gareth Lestrade. Knowing he had ended someone’s career by trying to kick-start his own was awful. Then, despite a flurry of initial sales, the public didn’t really share Watson’s fascination with his friend’s remarkable mind and the profession it had enabled him to carve out for himself. Consigned to bargain-bins while books by celebrity authors took pride-of-place in the bookstores, chances of improving sales were unlikely. Now he was faced with losing his agent and his literary dream was fading fast. He could try and publish the story of how Holmes helped pop star Della Breton escape the clutches of a master blackmailer and hide her affair with her security manager. His agent’s eyes would light up at the mere mention of a celebrity, but he couldn’t do that to Lestrade, not again. He’d sacrificed most of his morals working for the lawyers; he was keen to hang on to the few he had left. At least he still had his friendship with Holmes. And though they were no longer flatmates due to Watson’s marriage, they still shared the occasional adventure. This provided a welcome distraction for Watson from the humdrum monotony of his everyday life - but his wife didn’t approve. She thought he was a bit of a dreamer, ‘playing at being a detective’s assistant’, ‘playing at being a writer’ - too old to be playing at anything. She wanted him to grow up, settle down and accept that life is boring, that’s the reality for most people. But he still made his way around to 221b Baker Street whenever he had chance.

***

Watson was surprised when his phone rang and he saw his agent’s name come up as the caller. He hurriedly finished his consultation with a young man claiming to have whiplash from a car accident so minor that the person who rear-ended him caused nothing more than a cracked number-plate. The situation had ‘crash-for-cash’ written all over it but Watson hastily signed the forms and ushered the ‘victim’ out of his office so that he could return the call. He felt a knot of stress tightening in his stomach knowing that this could be the final phone call, the one in which he got officially dropped by his agent - the only agent who had been willing to take him on out of the fifty he had applied to. Instead, Larry Defonte’s booming, self-important voice was full of warmth and friendly intonations as soon as he answered.

“Oh John, so good of you to call me back. Many apologies for calling you like this in the middle of the working day. Truth is, I need your help. Don’t want to involve the police and need to keep it out of the press. A very lucrative three-book-deal now hangs in the balance. Oh dear, I’m fraught with worry. It’s Kathy Rice, she with the 30HH you-know-whats. She’s disappeared; no-one has seen her since Saturday afternoon - walked down the aisle happy-as-you-like, said ‘I do’ then pissed off before the reception and vanished into thin air! Thin air John!” he bellowed, his pitch increasing rapidly along with his anxiety. “I was hoping that your Mr Holmes might be willing to help me, hoping perhaps that you would consider introducing us and urge him to take the case.”

Watson was rather ashamed that his initial thought was not for the safety of the missing glamour girl, but rather that helping his agent to find her and avert the catastrophe of losing a valuable book-deal, might save his own literary prospects. “I really am running out of morals,” he sighed, before putting on his most soothing voice and offering to call Holmes immediately to secure his assistance and pushing himself ever further down the slippery slope towards moral bankruptcy.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was very much a man of scruples and professional integrity. This was something which the handsome young footballer found very frustrating when they eventually came face-to-face at 221b that evening. Initially reluctant to take this case and distinctly unimpressed by the celebrity status of those involved, Holmes had taken some serious persuading from Watson. He only agreed to a meeting on the condition that he wouldn’t take things any further unless the case presented factors which were of genuine interest to him.

Rich, good looking, arrogant and rather stupid, footballer Jimmy Jones was of no interest to Holmes whatsoever. Something which he did little to hide.

They all sat in the untidy living room at 221b - Watson, Larry Defonte, Jimmy Jones and his agent, the wealthy and powerful Rico Tandy. Holmes was standing, his tall and lean frame leaning casually against the mantelshelf.

“Well,” said Holmes with a sarcastic smile, “I’m a busy man gentlemen and I’m afraid I can be of no further use to you. So, I must ask you to leave. I was listening to a scintillating piece of choral music when you arrived and I’m keen to get back to it. So, if you’ll excuse me...”

“Mr Holmes,” said Rico, sitting forward in his seat. “I don’t think you understand the delicacy of the situation or the financial rewards we are willing to offer in return for a resolution. My client is one of the highest paid players in the premier league and a powerful figure in the world of celebrity. I doubt you have had such an opportunity presented to you before,” he asserted, looking distastefully at the shabby surroundings.

“That would rather depend on whether you regard the head of one of Europe’s oldest royal families as a celebrity. He was the last person to sit in that chair Mr Rico. And, I must add, he fitted it rather more neatly than you do.”

Just as the bulky football agent was about to heave himself out of the seat in protest, Watson interjected.

“Holmes, why do you feel you can’t help?”

“Because I cannot help anyone who doesn’t tell me the truth.”

“My client has taken a great risk in coming here and he has told no lies Mr Holmes,” Rico insisted.

“Then where is his wedding ring? And why not go to the police?” Holmes turned to the nervous young player, “Mr Jones, you claim to love Miss Rice but here you are only 48 hours after she slipped a ring on your figure and you are sitting here without it - without any indentation around the base of your finger to suggest you wore it beyond the ceremony. And upon realising that your new wife has disappeared, your first thought is not to call the police but to summon your agent. You then continue to keep the disappearance a secret to protect your reputation - something which clearly means more to you than she does - and consult an unofficial person like me instead. Presumably because you think you can buy not only my services but also my silence. Well, you’ll be disappointed to know that I cannot be bought, do not find your case interesting and will not deal with anyone who does not tell the truth.” At which point he flamboyantly flicked a switch on his sound-system and the room was flooded with the celestial sound of choral music, which he proceeded to turn up to almost deafening levels. Watson could sense his literary career get up and leave the room.

Holmes didn’t turn down the music until the dejected trio had closed the door behind them as they left.

“Don’t look so worried,” he said calmly, smiling at Watson’s anxious face. “They’ll be back.”

“Defonte is about to drop me you know.”

“I know,”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because of your wristwatch.”

“Right, this is another one of those where you have to talk me through it. I will look astounded, you will look like a smug know-it-all and I will make a mental note to write it down for my next book. A book which no one will want to publish now that I’m about to lose my agent simply because you are too high-and-mighty to turn that massive intellect of yours to finding a glamour model who doesn’t deserve a book deal anyway. She doesn’t even write them herself. It’s a joke.”

“Simple. I knew you had a meeting with your agent on Friday to discuss a new book. Whenever things go really well for you professionally, you always celebrate by rushing out and treating yourself to a new watch. You bought that one when the dreadful lawyers gave you a pay-rise and haven’t changed it since. The fact you are still wearing it suggests that a new book deal was not offered. As your first book isn’t selling and a new deal is not on the cards, what possible incentive is there for Defonte to keep you on? You look astounded and I look smug, end of conversation.”

He turned back up the choral music and closed his eyes in concentration. Watson sat in silence as he had done many times before.

***

Holmes was right, the trio did return much later that evening and Jimmy Jones confessed that he didn’t really love Kathy Rice. It was a publicity stunt undertaken on the advice of both their agents to raise their profiles and give them maximum exposure. It had worked too - gossip magazines had lapped up the story of a promiscuous bad-boy footballer falling in love with the nation’s favourite glamour girl who had been lucky in everything except love. They had sold the photographic rights of the wedding to a glossy magazine for a six figure sum and the ceremony had been a showbiz wedding of epic proportions. All had gone well on the day, the bride had sashayed down the aisle in what could only be described as a big pink meringue, the celebrity guests cried in all the right places, both bride and groom said an enthusiastic “I do” and everyone headed for the reception. One minute Kathy was with Jimmy posing for photos in the grounds of the luxury hotel where the ceremony had taken place, the next she was gone and hadn’t been seen since. She had slipped into the venue to answer her phone, which had been ringing loudly and annoying the photographer. She didn’t return.

***

“How can one of the country’s most recognisable women just disappear?” Watson asked Holmes as they walked around the sumptuous hotel the following day. “Especially as she was wearing a pink frock-horror that you couldn’t miss even if you tried.”

“The dress was quite something,” the hotel manager added, nodding in agreement. He was showing them both around the scene of the wedding. They walked into a huge dining room which still had pink bows tied around the backs of the chairs and general wedding paraphernalia all around.

“Did the reception continue despite the absence of the bride?” Holmes asked, his keen eyes darting eagerly around the room.

“No. Guests were simply told that Miss Rice, or Mrs Jones as she is now, had been taken suddenly ill. They were informed that an ambulance was coming to take her to a private hospital and asked to leave. She had no family, only a best friend and two other bridesmaids who had to be told the truth. Myself and my head of security were also informed. We were already on high alert because of the press intrusion and that crazy woman who turned up just before the ceremony.”

“What woman?” asked Holmes, suddenly pulled back from his observations by this unexpected remark.

“She accosted Mr Jones in the reception area, drunk and causing a scene. They were standing in front of my office so I heard bits of the conversation. She threatened to tell Miss Rice all about the affair, to reveal everything. She was very angry at him. I presume she was a lover he had jilted - it’s no secret that Mr Jones has a rather colourful reputation when it comes to women. Typical footballer I suppose. Strange thing was, she didn’t look like your typical WAG. Seemed quite plain to me.”

“Perhaps that’s why he ended the affair?” offered Watson, “She wasn’t famous enough.”

Holmes had turned away from them and was looking at the flower arrangements still standing in the middle of the tables. “Do you know who supplied the flowers?” he asked the manager.

“A local florist I think. They left a card with our wedding planner. I can find it for you.”

“That would be most helpful, thank you. And I presume you have CCTV footage of the argument in reception with this ‘plain’ woman?”

“Yes Mr Holmes. I have been instructed by Mr Tandy to assist you in any way I can. You are welcome to view the tapes and anything else you might find helpful. We are as keen as anyone that the young woman is found safe and well.”

“I would like to see the groom’s suite please, the one he stayed in the night before the ceremony,” Holmes asked, as the manager ushered them back into the palatial reception area.

“Of course Mr Holmes. Follow me.”

The footballer’s room was typically ostentatious, as you would expect from a hotel of this grandeur. No one had stayed in it since Friday evening and Jones had left the hotel in such a hurry after his bride disappeared, that most of his things were still in the room. Holmes headed into the marble bathroom, picking up various toiletries and generally sniffing around in his usual way. He handed Watson a tube of cream from beside the mirror. Watson read the medical label stuck to the front.

“It’s a steroid cream to treat psoriasis - the skin condition. Jimmy Jones must have psoriasis, and pretty bad judging by the size of this tube.”

Holmes smiled a deep, satisfying smile and walked back into the bedroom. He proceeded to go through a pile of clothes tossed lazily onto a chair by the bed. He then had a quick hunt through the wardrobe.

“I’ve seen all I need to,” he concluded. “Make your own way back Watson, I have a busy afternoon ahead of me and you won’t be of any help. Meet me back at Baker Street, say 6pm?”

“Make it five Holmes, the wife will have dinner ready by six. You know how she gets about meal times.”

Holmes rolled his eyes impatiently and agreed upon 5pm.

***

Watson arrived at 221b and was surprised upon entering the living room to see a beautiful bouquet of flowers upon the mantel shelf. Clearly Holmes had visited the florist. The rather less beautiful Detective Inspector Hopkins was settled on the sofa opposite Holmes. He nodded to Watson a casual greeting and then resumed the conversation the pair were having prior to his arrival.

“We found the dress floating down the Thames. It looked like a giant pink taffeta jelly-fish all torn into shreds. No blood on it but a struggle must have occurred for it to be ripped up like that. There are now growing concerns for her safety Mr Holmes. We have been informed by Rico Tandy that he has engaged you to investigate Miss Rice’s disappearance so I’ve come to keep you informed. I know from past experience that it’s better to work with you rather than against. Though I don’t see what more you can really add. Our investigation has been quite thorough and I am already able to piece together roughly what happened. Though I still can’t work out exactly where Miss Rice is.”

“Then please, Inspector Hopkins, enlighten me,” said Holmes, settling into his usual chair opposite the eager young investigator, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his thin lips. “I presume,” he added, “that someone of your calibre would have noticed straight away the unusual table displays at the hotel? I’m sure that I wasted my time visiting the florist myself and should have known that a highly competent inspector such as yourself would already be following up that line of enquiry.”

Hopkins looked bemused, just as Holmes knew he would. Toying with the official police was good sport.

“Well, in light of more important discoveries, I...erm...decided to concentrate our resources elsewhere.”

“Then tell us please, we are all ears,” said Holmes, flashing Watson a playful look which suggested that much sport was about to be had. Watson, as ever, was completely in the dark and would be late home for dinner again, one of his wife’s many pet-hates.

“Straight away I knew that our priority should be to identify the woman Jones had been having an affair with - the one who turned up at the hotel threatening to reveal all. We checked the CCTV and thanks to my sergeant, an avid aficionado on all sporting matters, he identified her straight away as the wife of non-other but Jones’ agent - Rico Tandy. So, already we have a picture emerging,” asserted Hopkins, who by now had stood and was starting to pace with his hands clasped behind his back.

“It is clear that Mrs Tandy has been having a relationship with her husband’s star player. But Jones ended the relationship in favour of Miss Rice - a far more suitable celebrity match and one which would not cost him his agent, the very man who had orchestrated his success from a non-league side to top-flight international football. Jilted and angry, she got drunk and turned up on his wedding day to cause trouble. He sent her packing and she has taken her revenge by doing something to Miss Rice.”

“And have you arrested her?”

“We’ve brought her in for questioning but she’s saying nothing. Just keeps crying and giving ‘no comment’. She’s acting shifty though, clearly hiding something.”

“Do have any actual evidence to link her to the disappearance of Kathy Rice?”

Hopkins fidgeted nervously, “Well no, not forensically speaking. It’s all just circumstantial at the moment but it’s pretty clear what went on. And if she’s innocent, why doesn’t she just say so instead of refusing to answer our questions? I’ve seen the CCTV of her altercation with Jones, it’s pretty heated and she’s highly agitated. Just a shame we can’t hear what they are saying. She’s drunk, swaying like a ship at sea, and he clearly just wants to get rid of her. She’s furious, waving her arms at him, pushing him before she finally storms off. My theory is that she then tracks down his new bride and takes her revenge. But you’re right Holmes, I need evidence. I can’t hold her much longer without it. Did you find anything at the hotel?”

“I found plenty at the hotel,” Holmes replied, lazily picking up some sheet music from a messy pile of papers scattered on the floor. He started idly fingering through it while Watson and Hopkins sat awkwardly in the silence, awaiting his elaboration. It never came.

Eventually, Hopkins let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Clearly you are keeping your cards close to your chest, but I hope this means that you are still on board with the investigation. I have to say Holmes, I’m more than a little disappointed by your lack of input at this stage. I do hope you aren’t losing your touch. After all, the safety of a young woman may be at risk.”

“Thank you for your information about Mrs Tandy, Hopkins. It has somewhat confirmed a little theory of my own. See yourself out, would you?” added Holmes briskly, despatching the young inspector with a dismissive wave of his hand.

***

“You have a theory then?” Watson asked after seeing Hopkins to the door. His own manners often stepped in to make up for Holmes’ lack of social etiquette. Holmes lifted his violin and started scratching away, the sheet music poised on his knee. “If you have any ideas Holmes, shouldn’t you be sharing them with the police? I mean, Hopkins is right, this girl could be in danger.”

Holmes lowered his violin briefly.

“She’s not in danger. I know where she is - I’m just not completely sure why. I can probably clear it up in two questions though. Fancy seeing how the other half live?”

***

Within the hour, Watson found himself standing on the door step of Jimmy Jones’ mansion. Expensive sports cars adorned the gated driveway and when Holmes pressed the ornate doorbell, it rang out to the tune of a popular chant from the terraces of Jones’ premiership club. One of the household staff ushered them inside. The interior was as Watson had expected, ultra-modern and what could only be described as ‘a bit naff’. In the sitting room, professional pictures were hanging on the walls of Jones and his now-wife, posing together seductively, her ample chest and his massive gold watch clearly on display.

The man himself finally entered the room, looking agitated and tired. He offered his guests a seat but Holmes declined.

“Do you suffer from psoriasis Mr Jones?” he asked, abrupt and to the point as usual.

“No, I don’t. Glad though, it’s well bad. You can get it, like, everywhere on your body. Why are you here? Have you found Kathy? Has she said something to you?”

“And toiletries Mr Jones, you have a sponsorship deal with a leading brand - is that right?”

“Yeah, and?”

“Do they supply you with all you need or do you ever use any other brand - fragrance, shaving products, skincare?”

“No, they send me loads of the damn stuff, more than I could ever use. Never use nothing else. Why? What’s this all about? Have you found her?”

“Thank you Mr Jones. That’s all I needed to know.”

***

The following evening saw Hopkins back at Baker Street in response to a summons from Holmes. Watson was there too, responding to an insistence from Defonte that if Kathy wasn’t found in the next 24 hours, the publisher he was negotiating with would terminate the contract. Watson’s eagerness to save the day, and with it his own failing writing career, made him decide to visit Holmes and keep him on track. Holmes was clearly delighted to have an audience; Watson had noticed many times during their friendship that Holmes liked a touch of the dramatic, particularly when there was someone there to appreciate it. There was room in his usual cold and controlled nature for a liking of flattery and praise, particularly when he elicited it from the often sceptical official police.

“Well, I hope your summons means that you’ve finally got some news for me Mr Holmes. When I received your text, demanding I be here for 8pm, I’d just had to release Mrs Tandy. Couldn’t hold her any longer - no evidence. But all my instincts are telling me that she’s involved. We have a strong motive and a suspect...”

“But no actual evidence and no Miss Rice. As ever Hopkins, your brilliance astounds me.”

The young officer looked dejected and sat back down heavily upon the worn old sofa.

“Alright Mr Holmes, you better give me your take on things. But I don’t see how you can be any closer to knowing where Miss Rice is than I am.”

“Really, we’ll see about that then.” Holmes looked at his watch and there was a buzz on the intercom. “Right on time,” he smiled.

“Miss Rice?” Hopkins exclaimed, jumping up from his seat.

“No, your prime suspect,” Holmes replied, pressing a button on the intercom and asking Mrs Tandy to come up and join them.

Once she was settled into the fraying old arm chair, Watson brought Mrs Tandy a cup of tea and placed it into her shaking hand. She looked tired and fraught, lack of sleep and deep pain clearly etched onto her face. Hopkins simply looked astounded and sat in respectful silence as Holmes gently questioned her.

“Please, tell us about the affair Mrs Tandy, I know this must be painful but as I explained in the email I sent to you, full disclosure could be your only option to clear your name - regardless of the implications for others. This is why I asked you to come here. This is a safe place where you can put forward your side - I have special allowances from the police and they indulge my liking for hearing the truth in the comfort of my own home rather than a police interview room. I offer you my protection if you can tell me everything that you know.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s my children and what this scandal will do to them once it gets out. That’s why I’ve stayed silent, and I suppose after all these years I still have some loyalty. But clearly from your email you already know the truth so there’s no point in me hiding it from you. Please, tell me Mr Holmes, how did you know about the affair?”

“Initially because of the wedding flowers. I noticed what an unusual choice they were as soon as I saw them. I made some enquiries with the florist who told me that Rico Tandy had chosen and paid for them - a wedding gift. But why chose carnations and Forget-me-nots for a wedding? Flowers normally associated with funerals. To your husband, this wasn’t a wedding - it was a funeral after the death of an affair. Tell me, how bad is your husband’s psoriasis? I noticed a little of it on his wrists when he first came to see me, but suspect it is much worse.”

Slightly bemused Mrs Tandy rubbed her hand over her brow. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad - all up his arms and shoulders. Uses cream for it, doesn’t make much difference though. How is this relevant?

“There was a large tube of cream in Jones’s room at the hotel. I remembered noticing that your husband was a sufferer and I know that Jones isn’t. There were clothes too; a pair of trousers 36 inch waist, Mr Jones can only be a 28 at most. Rico must be at least a 36. And the toiletries, clearly they didn’t all belong to Jones. He has a sponsorship deal with a leading skincare brand and they supply him with all he needs, but in the bathroom I found products by another brand. I’ve made a little study of how to identify different men’s fragrances - I’ve got quite a nose for it now. The brand of grooming products was the same as the brand of fragrance your husband was wearing the night I met him.”

“Alright, I don’t want to hear any more. I get the picture.” Mrs Tandy interjected weakly. “Perhaps if I had been so observant I would have worked out my husband was sleeping with Jones ages ago. But I trusted Rico, we’ve been married for ten years, got three kids together. I helped him grow his business. I thought we were a team. But it was all just lies, a terrible, hurtful sham to hide the truth - a truth which is career suicide in the macho world of professional football. Rico is gay. My whole marriage has been a lie.”

She paused to wipe away a tear from her cheek then continued, “He came back to our house on the morning of the wedding and broke down in front of me, confessed everything. He had arranged this stupid wedding and called time on the affair with Jones but they spent one last night together, the night before the ceremony. He was heartbroken it was over, had been drinking and came home to me - the one person he had always turned to when in trouble. Jones is gay too but covers it up by shagging a stream of models and porn stars. They are both pathetic and I told Rico that, I screamed at him to get out of our house, never see our children again. I told him I’d take everything, break him. He sped off in his Porsche and I just collapsed in tears. I raided his drinks cabinet and drank my way through half of it. I had met Jones loads of times, had him round for dinner, for parties, to stay over with us. I suddenly became furious with him too - how could he be so normal to my face and be screwing my husband behind my back?

I went to the wedding, ready to tell all but he stopped me in reception and begged me not to. The security removed me and I felt so humiliated. I sat in the car park and must have passed out, I don’t remember anything else until waking up in my car and realising the wedding would be over by now. Then I remembered that I had Kathy Rice’s phone number stored in my mobile. I started to call her repeatedly, left her a message saying her new husband was a cheat. She called me back and I blurted out everything - thought she had a right to know. She was furious, called me a liar but I knew she believed me. I hung up and went home. I did nothing to her and have no idea where the stupid cow is. The only thing I’m guilty of is drink-driving.”

Hopkins insisted that he take Mrs Tandy to the station for further questioning but Holmes asked for a slight concession.

“Let her stay here with Watson and I promise that if I have not convinced you of her innocence within the next hour, I will accompany her to the station myself.”

“Holmes, I really should be getting back, my wife...” Watson interjected.

“But this gives Mrs Tandy an even stronger motivation for revenge on Jones. Until we find Miss Rice, she remains a suspect and should be back in police custody. Remember the ripped wedding dress? Clearly there has been an angry physical altercation and right now I can think of no one with better motive. Alright, I’ll give you an hour,” agreed Hopkins, “but after this revelation I dread to think what else you have in store Mr Holmes.”

***

The hotel manager was obliging as always and listened to Holmes’ request. Upon seeing Hopkins’ warrant card, he readily found the necessary room key and let them both up the grand staircase.

“I don’t understand what we are doing here Holmes,” asked Hopkins as they mounted the stairs. “Why are we at the hotel?”

“Because Watson made an excellent point last time we were here. He asked how one of the country’s most recognisable women could leave without being seen - especially in that God-awful frock. It played on my mind so I came back this afternoon and checked the guest-list. Something jumped straight out at me and made everything clear.”

They were standing outside room 34. The manager knocked on the door then swiped a card into the lock. Holmes opened the door and strode into the room. There, sitting on the bed watching television was a young woman.

“No one saw her leave simply because she didn’t leave, did you Miss Rice?” asked Holmes, as the startled glamour model jumped up from the bed in surprise. Her best friend came out of the bathroom and gasped to find two strange men standing in her hotel room. “Who are you?” she asked. “Did he send you?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Detective Inspector

Hopkins of Scotland Yard.”

“The police?” said Kathy in surprise. “What’s anything got to do with you lot?” she asked in a broad Essex accent.

“Are you even aware that you have been reported missing?”

“I’m not missing, what you on about? Is that what he thinks? My so-called husband? Yeah well, I am missing to him. So bloody missing he’ll never see me again!”

“She’s just lying low for a bit, staying in my room for a few days until Jimmy gets the message and leaves her alone.”

“If I’m missing, then how come you’ve found me Mr whatever-your-name is?”

“It’s part of my job - to find people who don’t want to be found. When I saw on the guest list that your closest friend was still staying at the hotel two days after the wedding, even though all the other guests had checked out, I suspected that you were hiding out in her room. I knew you had to be here somewhere because no one saw you leave. I spent an industrious afternoon making enquiries amongst all the wedding guests and hotel staff, I thoroughly checked all security tapes of the exits, gardens and car park. No sign of you. The only remaining conclusion had to be that you hadn’t left at all. Seeing that Miss Beaton was still staying here rounded off my theory rather nicely.”

“But why was your wedding dress torn and floating in the Thames?” asked Hopkins, his brain frantically working to keep up - and trying to look anywhere other than Miss Rice’s generously enhanced features.

“In the Thames?” Kathy exclaimed in surprise, turning to her friend. “I told you to get rid of it, not float it down the Thames where the whole of London could see it!”

“Sorry hun I wasn’t thinking.”

“I couldn’t stand to look at it. I was so angry that I ripped it to pieces and asked Candice to get rid. Thought she’s be a bit more cleverer than that though.”

“Alright, whatever. It ain’t my fault your husband’s a bender, babes. Oh, I mean, you know, a gay person.”

“Sod that political correctness nonsense, I’ve called him much worse. I ain’t got no problem with gay blokes but not when they’re shagging me as well! Does everyone know now? Have the press got hold of it? That’s another reason why I’m hiding away - can’t bare the shame of it. ‘Kathy Rice marries gay footballer’ - I can just see the headlines. I mean, I know this wedding was a publicity stunt - I never thought it was a great love affair but he said he really fancied me, we were having sex. How could he do that to me? How could he do that at all if he was gay?” Kathy started to cry, black mascara smudging from her false eyelashes.

“It’s ok sweetie, everyone will think he’s mad to choose that fat manager over you,” cooed Candice trying to be helpful but actually making Kathy sob even louder.

Holmes was clearly uncomfortable with such displays of emotion and eager to leave now that he had revealed Miss Rice’s whereabouts to Hopkins. He assured the girls that the press were still in the dark about the whole business and urged Miss Rice to come out of hiding and front it out.

“I’ve got lots of front Mr Holmes,” she added cheekily, a little of her old sparkle starting to return.

***

“I knew the dress had been torn in anger by Miss Rice herself,” said Holmes over the gentle sound of choral music rising from his sound-system back at 221b. Watson needed to get back to his wife but was desperate to know all the final details of the case. They were alone now - Hopkins had offered to take Mrs Tandy home ande resaasured the agreed that she was not to face any charge. Now that the case was concluded, Holmes was clearly bored of it already and starting to lose himself in the music enveloping the room. “Quite simply, if it had been ripped during a scuffle it would have blood on it, DNA. You’d have to be pretty stupid if you were the attacker to just throw it into the river.”

“But what about-”

“Not now Watson, it’s late and all my energies have drained. You are welcome to stay but please do so in silence.”

“Oh, right, I might as well go home to the wife then. She’ll be asleep by now; she won’t want to talk to me either. Shout at me possibly, but I’m getting rather used to that.”

***

The next time Larry Defonte called Watson at work, it was an altogether better conversation. Watson’s original publisher was interested in offering him another book deal. They were suddenly keen to see more of his adventures with the fascinating Mr Sherlock Holmes, as long as this included his write-up of Miss Rice and her wedding to premier bachelor Jimmy Jones. Defonte wanted to know if Watson would agree to reveal all about Holmes’ involvement. As the story of Jones’ sexuality was already out in the public domain after a press feeding frenzy, Watson didn’t see what harm it could do. Rico and Jones had openly rekindled their relationship, though Jones had been stuck on the subs bench and eventually taken a contract with a football team in China.

“Why shouldn’t I take a slice of the pie?” thought Watson as Defonte waited on the end of the line for an answer. “I’ll do it,” he replied, and genuinely relished another opportunity to show the nation why there really was something very special about Sherlock Holmes. And if it made him some money and pleased his wife along the way, all the better. Besides, it was the perfect excuse to buy a new watch.