The Case of the Misplaced Models. Tessa Barding

serrated but we’ve not been able to figure out what kind of knife causes wounds like these.’

      ‘Too blunt for a knife,’ I said and stared into the young man’s face for a moment, then looked for and found a box of rubber gloves. I snapped a pair on, then hesitated.

      ‘I’m not sure if I should be doing this,’ I said, to no-one in particular.

      Rafi nodded encouragingly. ‘S’all right, mate, Sherlock already signed you in, yesterday, and Dr Muller authorised it.’

      I shot Sherlock a sharp glance. He smiled and winked, and so I bent forward to inspect the body.

      The deceased had been in good physical shape and of an average, unremarkable build. The body was slim with no excessive body fat and his muscles weren’t particularly defined. There were a few scars, small ones, stitched together expertly, no signs of drug abuse. His lower lip was split and his right cheekbone was bruised.

      Rafi helped me turn him on his side so I could look at the young man’s back and the back of his legs, too. Nothing noticeable there. The only eye-catcher was a tattoo between his shoulder-blades depicting the logo of a Premier League football team.

      We rolled him back and when I nodded, Rafi covered the man’s body once more and pushed the drawer back. I binned the gloves.

      ‘He was a football fan, wasn’t he?’ I asked. It was more of a rhetorical question, given the tattoo, and Sherlock didn’t bother answering. ‘Where was he found?’

      ‘Near Selhurst Park Stadium. In the parking lot of a car cosmetic specialist on Clifton Road.’

      ‘After a game?’

      ‘Yes.’

      I pursed my lips, thinking. I was well familiar with how football games sometimes went, or rather: ended. I stitched young (and sometimes not so young) hotheads together on a regular basis, splinted broken bones where possible, fixed dislocated shoulders, you name it. Why football brought out such violence amongst its fans was beyond me; I’d never seen anything like that after a rugby game. But that’s a whole different subject and doesn’t belong here.

      Most injuries I’d looked after had been caused by fists, booted feet, clubs, even brass knuckles on more than one occasion. Knives, too, although carrying weapons into a stadium wasn’t as easy as it used to be, with security having been enhanced. Unless–

      ‘Keys,’ I said. ‘The wounds were caused by keys.’

      I took my keys out of my pocket and positioned them so that one key blade pointed out between my thumb and index finger and the blades of the second and third key extended out of the bottom of my hand. ‘See? You can slash like this,’ I demonstrated, ‘or stab with the bottom ones like this.’

      Sherlock looked at me and nodded solemnly, as if I had just proven a point.

      ‘I knew it,’ he said, satisfied. ‘I knew you’d see it.’ He turned to Rafi and held out his hand. ‘I told you, didn’t I? You owe me a twenty.’

      I looked from Sherlock to Rafi and back to Sherlock.

      ‘What?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘You already knew the answer?’

      Sherlock inclined his head.

      ‘Was that a pub quiz to test me?’

      ‘Yes,’ my flatmate replied cheerfully and pocketed his winnings. ‘Of course I knew about the keys, and, yes, I wanted see whether it’s really so hard to find out. Most people look, but they don’t observe. They see many things, but fail to connect the dots. It pleases me that you seem to at least grasp the basics of proper deduction.’

      ‘Thank you, Sherlock. I feel so much better now. Mind telling me why you’re allowed to come and go as you please and how on earth you’re authorised to sign people in to look at a dead body?’

      ‘He comes here all the time,’ Rafi said, sorting through a pile of paperwork. ‘Dr Muller likes him, and he usually comes with–’

      ‘That’s quite enough, Rafi,’ Sherlock interrupted him. ‘I’ve kept John for long enough. He still needs to shower and breakfast before he can be let loose on his own patients. He works with people who are still alive and we’d like to keep it that way.’

      With that, he placed a hand on the small of my back and pushed me towards the exit.

      ‘Tell Dr Muller I’ll stop by again later today to collect the samples he promised me.’

      ‘Will do. Bye, Sherlock. Bye, Dr Watson.’

      Sherlock hopped out of the cab a few minutes away from home.

      ‘I’ll pick up breakfast for you,’ he said. ‘You go shower and all, and it’ll be ready for you when you’re done.’

      ‘Why would you do that?’

      ‘You won me twenty quid. It’s only fair to share, right?’

      ‘See you–’ I began but he’d already slammed the door shut. I looked after him, shaking my head and wondering what all this had been about. And what kind of samples could he possibly want from a pathologist?

      Maybe not the best thing to think about, given that he’d just wandered off to get breakfast. I’d probably find out soon enough.