It was done. Maria was safe.
The two men rose to their feet and started to walk away, pulling the stuffing out of Raffa as they went. In a moment, they had the flash drive—but they still carried the giraffe, dangling by one leg.
Sarah shook free of her mother’s hand and began to go after them.
“No!” Maria called out, her voice sharp with fear. “They’ll . . .”
Near the door, the two men stopped: a large party, a dozen or more guests, was coming in—and behind them, a pair of uniformed police.
The men instantly stopped. One of them spotted a doorway, and pushed his partner towards it. Marcus knew, however, that it was not a side entrance, but led towards the roof garden—and, an external stairway down again.
Sarah was on their heels.
“Stay here!” Marcus said to Maria grimly. “Stay where people can see you. If you come you’ll be a hostage again. That’s an order! Do you understand?”
“Get her back,” she pleaded.
“Stay here and I will!” Another wild promise he could only try to keep.
He dodged across the floor through the milling guests, sending one man crashing into a chair, but Marcus did not pause. He had to get Sarah before one of the men grabbed her.
Through the door, he saw the men near the top of the empty flight of stairs. The child was close on their heels.
“Sarah!” Marcus shouted as loudly as he could. “Stop!”
“They’ve got Raffa!” she called back to him. “It’s not right!”
It wasn’t right. Why couldn’t the bastards drop the toy? They were getting away with it, escaping. He charged up the flight, taking the steps two at a time. One of the men made a grab at Sarah, but she jerked sideways, and Marcus was only five steps away. The man changed his mind and raced after his partner.
Sarah went straight after him, quicker than Marcus would have believed. He increased his speed, but she was always two steps beyond his reach.
They went clattering up the next flight, and then the last one. The first man flung the door open onto the roof, the second man right behind him.
Sarah went straight after Raffa.
Marcus reached the door just as the second man lunged for Sarah, catching her wrist.
Marcus hit him with all his weight. He had never hit anyone so hard in his life. He felt bone crack under his fist, and the shock up his arm. The man collapsed to the ground. Was he foxing? Just in case he was, Marcus picked him up and hit him again.
Sarah had fallen, and was sitting up slowly. In the glare of the city lights she looked small and crushed.
Where was the other man? He was standing near the gate to the emergency stairway, Raffa in his hand, swinging him as if about to let him fly into space.
Sarah climbed to her feet, her eyes on Raffa.
“No!” Sarah shouted desperately. “Wayne! Don’t!” She took a shaky step towards him.
This was Wayne? Marcus lost his temper completely. The betrayal was total and unforgivable. He charged at Wayne, who had turned to wrestle with the gate’s latch, and hit Wayne with all the impetus of a man with Sherlock Holmes’s considerable height. Wayne smashed into the iron gate, dropping the giraffe as he staggered backwards, the breath knocked out of him. But before Marcus could seize him, the man’s heels caught on a tile and he stumbled towards the edge of the roof.
For a moment he teetered.
Marcus grabbed Sarah, blocking her view so she would not see her mother’s lover go over.
There was a long, thin wail, then silence. Marcus and Sarah stood, listening to the cries of passersby rise up from below. He bent, and picked up the limp toy giraffe, now minus a good deal of his stuffing. Beside it lay the scrap of plastic at the heart of everything. He pocketed the flash drive, and brushed some of the dust off Raffa. Very gently, he laid the child’s friend in her arms.
“He can be mended,” Marcus said. This time it was not a wild hope: he really did know how to do that. “It won’t be difficult at all. And I think we should wipe away everything on the flash drive anyway, just in case.”
There were sirens in the street below, and the ma?tre d’ was standing in the doorway to the stairs down, Maria Waterman beside him.
Sarah looked up at Marcus. “Thank you,” she said gravely. “Not that I was afraid, Mr. Holmes. I was sure you would get Mummy and Raffa back, and make it all right.” She gave him a slow, sweet smile.
He had not been sure—had never been less sure of anything in his life. But the child had just given him the most stellar review he’d ever received.
“It was you who got Raffa back,” he pointed out.
Now her smile was radiant. “Maybe I’ll be a detective when I grow up. I’ll come and find you . . .”
“I’ll be here,” he promised. He would be. Sherlock Holmes would always be, because he would be needed.
THE CROWN JEWEL AFFAIR
by Michael Scott
I forget things.