A dark, narrow hallway, with peeling wallpaper. Clearly this house has been uninhabited for some time. The corridor Logan and Virgil are walking down leads to an open door at the end of it, beyond it is DI Lestrade, waiting for them. Although, now, Remy is in full crime scene protective gear. He catches sight of them, and nods to Logan. "I can give you two minutes."

"I may need more than that." Logan says, striding confidently past him, and into the room beyond. Virgil follows him hurriedly, cane creaking against the dusty floorboards.

The room is a grimy disused kitchen. There's a couple of uniformed officers, this room being setup as the operations base of the investigation. Logan reaches into a bucket on a nearby cart, and tosses a white plastic crime scene coverall to Virgil, who catches it out of reflex.

"Put it on." Logan instructs.

Virgil doesn't question it, already sliding his foot into one of the legs. The DI looks at him, confused. "Logan, who's this?"

"He's with me." Is all Logan says.

Virgil is pulling on the coverall, and pauses when he sees that Logan isn't doing the same.

"Yeah, okay, but who is he?" Remy asks.

"I told you, he's with me."

"Logan, aren't you going to..?" Virgil gestures to his coverall as he zips it up.

Logan chills him with a look. The words crumble apart like dust in his mouth, and Virgil just lets it drop.

"Alright." Logan says. "So where are we?"

"Just up this way." Remy leads them over to another set of stairs. The three men climb the stairs, Remy shoots Virgil a suspicious look every now and again. They pass by other workers, and Logan is the only one not wearing a coverall, instead dressed with his calf-length black felt coat, but none of them questions or mentions it.

"Her name is Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards." Remy starts. "We're running them now for contact details. She hasn't been here long, some snooping kids from the area found her. Says she doesn't live here, no one does."

They reach the top of the stairs, and enter a small room beyond the landing. The room is dark, sombre, and the paint is peeling around them. In the centre of the room, is a slash of vibrant scarlet.

A woman in a bright red jacket, and matching shoes, lies dead, sprawled face down. The sight brings Virgil up short, and he feels his palms begin to sweat. But Logan, on the other hand, is eager. He's in his element now. He scours the room like a bloodhound, almost quivering with anticipation. His eyes are darting about, as if trying to keep track of imaginary floating notes or numbers. Then, as one of the workers passes by him, reading through notes on a pad in their hand, Logan winces.

"Shut up." He says, putting out a halting hand.

The worker, a young lady in her late twenties, falters. "I... I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

The lady opens and closes her mouth, before deciding not to retort, and bustles out of the room. Virgil and Remy exchange glances, and the latter rolls his eyes, clearly used to this. But Virgil, he's fascinated, trying to figure out what, exactly, Logan is doing.

Logan takes a step toward the body, eyes flicking over her, absorbing every detail. A blizzard of images filed away into memory, fast, close. He kneels down and lifts up her extended left hand gently, doing his best not to disturb anything if he can help it, and  noting the ring on the fourth finger.

Married.

His gaze pans down her fingers, to the floor, where she's scratched something into the wood with her fingernails. R-A-C-H-E. "RACHE".

Left-handed.

A fleeting thought, as he quickly focused on what was clearly more interesting. The word. The definition comes to him as if straight out of a dictionary, just how he has ingrained it into his memory.

ra - che:
German (n.) - revenge

Words begin to scatter and vanish in Logan's vision. Now, just the word "RACHE", but with alternating different letters on the end of it, spinning past, like a fruit machine or lotto machine style. The letters slow, settling on:

RACHEL

Logan settles himself beside the body, and runs his hand over the blazer of the woman, and lifts up his hand to inspect his leather glove. He rubs his fingers and thumb together, peering at them closely.

Wet.

He pulls a fold-away umbrella from her coat pocket, it is white in colour, which Logan makes sure to scribble down in his mind somewhere for safe-keeping. He shakes it a bit.

Dry.

He sets the umbrella back where he found it, and now slides a finger under her collar.

Wet.

Now, he pays careful attention to her jewelry. A necklace, earrings, bracelet. All matching in gold.

Clean. Clean. Clean.

He again looks at her engagement ring, as he sets her hand back on the floor. A mottled gold.

Dirty.

He makes sure to go back and edit his earlier observation.

Unhappily married.

He pulls a small rectangular magnifying glass from his pocket, and holds it up to the ring. The slot machine is spinning again, settling this time on a number.

Unhappily married. 10+ years.

Through the lens of the magnifying glass, he closes in further on the ring. He's then pulling it from the flesh of the finger, examining the interior curve of the ring, which is slightly brighter, shinier, than the exterior.

Regularly removed.

Logan then leans back, and looks at the woman's face. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are slack, red lipstick smeared a bit to one side.

Serial adulterer.

An accusation. Logan lets out a breath he's been holding, and smirks. He stands up, to face the two others.

"Well? Got anything?" Remy asks.

Logan straightens up. "Not much."

"She's German."

Remy and Virgil glance around. Roman Anderson is observing, sardonically, from the doorway. He looks very pleased with himself. "Rache is German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something."

Logan doesn't even glance at him, as he's now typing something in his phone. "Yes, thank you for your input." Without looking up, he reaches over and closes the door neatly in Roman's face.

"She's German?" Remy asks.

"No, of course she's not German." Logan says, cynically, as he tucks his phone into his pocket, having found what he needed. "She is from out of town, though. Planned to spend a single night in London, before returning to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"I'm sorry, obvious?" Virgil interjects.

"What about the message, then?" Remy adds.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?" Logan asks, without hesitation.

That catches Virgil off guard. "I-I, um, of the message?"

"Of the body, you're a medical man, yes?"

Remy frowns. "Holmes, we have a whole team right outside--"

"They don't work with me." Logan says.

Remy makes an annoyed noise. "Hun, do you know how many rules I'm breaking, letting you in here?"

"You're doing that, because you need me."

Lestrade glowers for a moment, but falls silent, because he himself knows better than anyone that Logan is right. "God help me." He grumbles, as he massages his nose. He leans back against the wall, and flicks his wrist dismissively. "Do your worst."

Virgil is now looking between the two like a cat at a tennis match. But his gaze sticks to Logan once he calls his name again.

Logan gestures toward the body.

"What?" Virgil says, dumbly.

Logan nods toward the body, quick, imperious. Do it.

Virgil, uncertain, looks to Remy.

The DI just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Oh, whatever. Do as he says, help yourself why don't you?"

Virgil finds himself stepping forward, to kneel down beside the body. Logan kneels across from him, watching him intently. "Well?"

Virgil swallows thickly as he looks down at the corpse, and his stomach churns uneasily. He looks up at Logan. "What am I doing here?" He whispers, so that Lestrade can't hear.

"Helping me make a point." Logan says, voice just as hushed, his eyes flick to Remy.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent." Virgil whispers.

"Yes, but this is more fun."

"Fun? A woman is dead, Logan."

Logan shrugs. "Perfectly sound analysis, Dr. Watson. But I was hoping you'd go a little deeper."

Virgil's eyes linger on Logan's for a moment, but then he sighs, and drops his head to look at the body. His gaze becomes critical, and he scans over her for a moment. Then, he slowly bends over her, and sniffs by her mouth. He takes a moment to stop himself from gagging, and sits up. "Asphyxiation, I think. Passed out, and choked on her own vomit? I can't smell any alcohol on her though, so it could've been a seizure, possibly drugs?"

Logan raises an eyebrow. "Come on, Virgil. You know what it is, you've read the papers."

"She's one of the suicides. The fourth one."

Remy interrupts now. "Logan, I said you had two minutes. I need anything you've got."

Logan sits back. "Victim is in her late forties. Professional, going by the state of her clothes. I'd guess something to do with the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of red. She's travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night, that's obvious from the size of her suitcase--"

"Wait, suitcase?" Remy asks.

"Yes, suitcase, do keep up, Remy. She's been married for at least the last ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none have known that she was married--"

Remy scoffed. "For God's sake, if you're just making this up--"

"The wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. That's the state of her marriage, right there." Logan continues. "The inside of her ring is more polished than the outside, that means that it's been regularly removed; the only polishing it gets is when she pulls it on and off of her finger. It's not for work, because look at her nails, she clearly doesn't do strenuous work with her hands. So what, or rather who, is she taking it off for?"

Remy has bitten his tongue now.

"Clearly, not for one lover, because she'd never be able to maintain the fiction that she was single over time. So, more likely a string of them. Simple."

Virgil has moved away from the body, and is now scribbling away in a notebook in case this might be important later for reference. "Brilliant!" He says.

Logan and Remy both look at him.

Virgil flushes. "Sorry."

Remy turns back to the detective. "So, Cardiff?"

"Obvious, isn't it?"

Virgil shakes his head. "Not obvious to me."

Logan marvels. "What on earth is it like in your silly little brains? It must be so boring. Her coat. It's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain within the last few hours. There's been no rain in London during that window."

The detective slips a finger under her collar once more. "Under her collar is wet, too. She must've turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left pocket, dry, unused, so strong wind then. Too strong to use her umbrella." He says, pulling out the object for emphasis.

"Now, we know from her suitcase that she meant to stay overnight, so she had to come from some distance. But, she can't have travelled more than two to three hours, otherwise her coat would've dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind in the time radius of that time?"

Logan reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out his phone, and turns it to face Remy, a weather report on the screen. "Cardiff."

"That's amazing!" Virgil says.

Again, both Logan and Lestrade turn to look at him.

"Do you know that you do that out loud?" Logan asks.

"I... Sorry, I'll be quiet."

Logan watches Virgil for a moment, and smiles a little. "No, it's fine."

"Okay, why do you keep talking about a suitcase?" Remy asks.

"Yes, where is it, by the way? There must be a phonebook or an organizer or something that can tell us who Rachel is."

"So... she was writing 'Rachel'?"

"No, she was writing an angry message in German-- of course she was writing Rachel! No other word it could be. The question is, why did she wait until her dying moments to write it?"

Remy holds out a hand. "Okay, wait, wait, wait. Can we go back to the suitcase thing? How do you know she had a case?"

"The back of her right leg." Logan says, matter of factly. "Tiny mud splashes on her heel and calf, not present on the left leg. She was pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand, you don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread of the mud. A case that sized, with a girl who dresses like that, there could only be enough supplies in there for a one night stay. An overnight bag, then. Now where is it? I'd like to look inside." Logan says, sinking down to look over the body again.

"There wasn't a case, Logan."

This reply brings him up short. He looks at the DI, stares at him. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never a suitcase here."

Logan bolts up, hand covering his mouth. Thinking, the wheels spinning. He shoves past Remy, and out onto the landing, and shouts over the banister.

"A suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Various officers from around the area stopped, only to look at him blankly. Remy emerges from the room behind him.

"Logan, there was no case."

Logan doesn't respond, now in a ferment of thought. "They take the poison themselves, Lestrade. They chew and swallow the pills themselves, there are clear signs. Even you all couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks. And?" Remy asks, bitterly.

"It's murder. All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings, serial killings. We've got ourselves a serial killer. Love those, there's always something to look forward to."

"Why? Why are you saying that?"

"Where's her case? Come on, where is it? Did she eat it?" He turns around to face Remy, eyes glinting. "Someone else was here, and they took the bag. So the killer must've driven her here. Perhaps she forgot the case in the car..."

"Maybe she checked into her hotel, and left her case there?" Virgil offers, as he steps out onto the landing.

"No, no. She never made it to her hotel. Look at her hair, all dishevelled from the wind. She colour coordinates her lipstick with her shoes, she'd never have left the hotel with her hair still like--"

And then he just stops. Like there's a whole bunch of thoughts arriving in his head all at once. He slaps his hand to his head, suddenly. "Oh, oh!"

"...Logan?" Virgil says.

Logan turns, and begins racing down the stairs.

"What? Holmes, what is it?" Remy calls, frantically rushing to the banister.

"Serial killers, always hard." Logan calls back. "You've got to wait for them to make a mistake."

Remy slams a hand onto the rail. "We can't just wait!"

"Oh, you don't have to. It's already happened. Look at her! I mean, really look at her, Remy!"

"Wait, Logan where are you going?"

"Go to Cardiff, find Jennifer Wilson's friends and family, and find Rachel!"

"Yeah, sure. But what mistake?!"

Logan turns around and shouts up from the bottom of the stairs. "Scarlet!" And the door slams shut behind him.

Remy is hunched over the banister, and looks wearied for a moment. Like he's just run a marathon, or that this isn't the first time something like this has happened. The DI sighs, and calls down to his crew. "Alright then, let's get on with it!"

His team starts piling up the stairs and into the room, practically shoving past Virgil. He's still on the landing, looking more lost than ever, everyone ignoring him. Virgil begins to unzip the white coverall, humiliated, as he starts to limp down the stairs.