Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

lower lip that seemed to serve more the purpose of a rain gutter than a communication tool. Almost constantly, he worked his jaws, picked and chewed his nails, and perspired on the very top of his red skull.
    ‘Mr Holmes, this is Dr Anton Kronberg, epidemiologist from Guy’s,’ said Gibson and I reached out my hand, which was taken, squeezed firmly, and quickly dropped as though it was infected. ‘Dr Kronberg, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ finished the Inspector, making it sound as though I should know who Sherlock Holmes was.
    ‘Has the victim been shoved into the trench, Mr Holmes?’ Gibson enquired.
    ‘Unlikely,’ Mr Holmes answered.
    ‘How can you tell?’ I asked.
    ‘There are no marks on either side of the Thames’s water edge…’
    The man trailed off and I made a mental note to go and check the Thames’s flow to ascertain that a body could indeed float into the trench without help.
    Mr Holmes had started staring at me with narrowed eyes. His gaze flew from my slender hands to my small feet, swept over my slim figure and my not very masculine face. Then his attention got stuck on my flat chest for a second. A last look to my throat, the nonexistent Adam’s apple hidden by a high collar and cravat, and suddenly his eyes lit up in surprise. A slight smile flickered across his face while his head produced an almost imperceptible nod.
    Suddenly, my clothes felt too small, my hands too clammy, my neck too tense, and the rest of my body too hot. I was itching all over and forced myself to keep breathing. The man had discovered my best kept secret within minutes, while others had been fooled for years. I was standing among a bunch of policemen and my fate seemed sealed. I would lose my occupation, my degree and my residency to spend a few years in jail. When finally released, I would do what? Embroider doilies?
    Pushing past the two men, I made for the Thames to get away before doing something reckless and stupid. I would have to deal with Holmes when he was alone. The notion of throwing him into the Thames appeared very attractive, but I flicked the silly thought away and forced myself to focus on the business at hand.
    First I needed to know how the body could have possibly got into that trench. The grass was intact; no blades were bent except for where I had seen Mr Holmes walk along. I looked around on the ground, Mr Holmes observing my movements.
    Only one set of footprints was visible, which must have been Mr Holmes’s. I picked up a few rotten branches and dry twigs, broke them into pieces of roughly arm’s length, and cast them into the Thames. Most of them made it into the trench, drifting towards me. A sand bank was producing vortexes just at the mouth, causing my floats to enter the trench instead of being carried away by the much greater force of the Thames. The chance was high that it was only the water that had pushed the body in here.
    ‘It seems you were correct, Mr Holmes,’ I noted while passing him. He didn’t appear bored anymore. As I walked back to the corpse, my stomach felt as if I had eaten a brick.
    I extracted rubber gloves from my bag and put them on. Mr Holmes squatted down next to me, too close to the corpse for my taste.
    ‘Don’t touch it, please,’ I cautioned.
    He did not hear me, or else simply ignored my remark; his gaze was already sweeping over the dead man.
    The exposed face and hands of the corpse told me he had been in the water for approximately thirty-six hours.
    Thinking that attack is always better than premature retreat, I turned to Mr Holmes. ‘Do you happen to know how fast the Thames flows here?’
    He did not even look up, only muttered, ‘Thirty miles from here at the most.’
    ‘Considering which duration of exposure?’ I asked.
    ‘Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.’
    ‘Interesting.’ I was surprised at his apparent medical background, as he had correctly assessed the time the man had spent in the water. He had also calculated the maximum distance the corpse could have travelled downstream.
    I cast a sideways glance at the man and got the impression that he vibrated with intellectual energy wanting to be utilised.
    ‘You are an odd version of a private detective? One the police call in? I never heard of their doing so before,’ I wondered aloud.
    ‘I prefer the term consulting detective .’
    ‘Ah…’ I replied absent-minded, while my attention was pulled back to the body. He was extremely emaciated; the skin with the typical blue