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[no-npc-here.livejournal.com]

Date: January 19th, 2001
Status: Private (Dick) (Complete)
Setting: Scotland Yard
Summary: Introducing Dick.



He was stuck on this case. Scotland Yard's most tenacious – or at least so he liked to think of himself – man was close to admitting defeat. This case seemed impossible to solve.

Stephen Blackwell had died in an office, a peaceful office belonging to the BBC. Killed by a big cat according to the autopsy results, a tiger or lion. The vet that had been brought in insisted that the animal's paws had been too big for a jaguar or lynx.

Not that there had been any jaguars or lynxes reported missing at the time any more than tigers or lions. Those sorts of animals didn't just walk into office buildings unnoticed or throw the leftovers of their meals into garbage bins. Unfortunately nobody had seen anything. Nobody except, it was assumed, this one woman who'd worked for the victim. Even more unfortunately she had disappeared without a trace. The superintendent, god bless the poor man's runaway imagination, thought it was suspicious, that she might have killed the victim.

Dick shook his head sadly. He wasn't one to believe fantastic stories. A very down to earth guy Dick believed in reason and common sense. To him it was obvious that she'd run for her life scared of whatever it was she had seen. He hoped to god it was only the blood in the office, horrifying enough for the frail heart of a woman, and not the mangled body in the garbage bin or the actual death of the poor man. Though, for Dick himself it would have been better, if she had witnessed the whole event. Then, if only he could find her, he'd have a witness. Once you did it was usually easy enough to solve a case.

The woman however had somehow pulled off one of the best disappearing acts he'd ever seen and was nowhere to be found and Dick was stuck with no useful clues to his mystery. He sighed deeply. No, he was not ready to give this up. His reputation was at stake.

"Hey Holmes?" Inspector Nick Harris pulled open the door without even knocking. "We've got another one for you."

"My name is Watson," Dick snapped at him. "As you well know." Damn Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for using his name in his stupid books.

When the usual teasing 'So where's Holmes then, Watson?' didn't come and Nick just looked at him expectantly he added: "Another what?"

"Another gruesome cat murder," Nick said sagging against the doorframe. "Damnit Holmes, it's stomach turning what they did to the poor guy. We haven't even been able to identify him, yet. Not much left of his face." Nick closed his eyes for a moment, but hastily opened them again. "All we've got to go on is a plastic bag he was still clutching in one torn off hand. Selfridges, with the price tags still on, so it's likely he'd just recently left the shop."

A lead! He wasn't beaten yet after all!

Sergeant Dick Watson filed his papers away neatly and got up. "Okay, show me."

Nick shook his head at him. "Sometimes I really wish I had your nerves, Holmes, but you're a damn cold fish."

Dick had no idea what the man was talking about, so he said nothing. It didn't matter anyway. He had a case to solve.