The package arrives at Greg's door moments later. Announced by the ring of a bell, he finds it sitting inconspicuously on the stoop and takes it to the kitchen table where he sits and stares at it as Greg ushers the young men who had risked so much to help them out the door.

When they are gone Greg sits across the table from him. "It's not going to open itself, you know."

John looks at him balefully, but pulls the thick manila folder closer and slides a finger under the seal and empties the contents onto the table. It's much the same as the last, except that accompanying the faded newspaper clippings and witness reports was a thick piece of sturdy rubber. It was heavily grooved and worn, and smelt as though it had been burnt at one point or another. Wrapped around it was a note reading '2 Days this time.'

"Is that…a piece of tire?" Greg asked, reaching out to touch it.

"I think it is. Why would he send me a bit of old tire? She didn't die in a crash. She was shot."

"Might be a red herring. You know, give us something to throw us off."

John turned it over in his hands. "It means something. It has to. Just like with the dirt. It all means something. Puzzles don't have extra pieces."

Reaching out, Greg took the bit of rubber from him. "Sometimes they do, John. Remember who we're dealing with."

"I know, alright? And if it were anyone else, I'd say you were right. But this is Moriarty. He won't use tricks. He wants to prove he can beat me fair and square. Show the world just how stupid John Watson really is and, by extension, how stupid Sherlock is for believing in me."

Nodding, Greg turned his attention to the stack of papers in front of them. "Alright. Where do we start?"

Surveying the table, John sighed, and fingered a newspaper photograph thoughtfully. "I'll sort this lot. I need you to get me everything the Yard has on Jill Dando."

"You've got it."

"This is a bloody nightmare, Greg. I mean, Yugoslavs? Serbian war lords? Not to mention they had some poor sod in the chink for eight years who they later declared not guilty!" Tossing the police report aside, John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids until he saw stars. "She was a bloody TV presenter, not a MI-5 sleeper agent!" He paused for a moment. "Was she?"

Greg passed John a cup of much needed coffee before plonking himself back down on the sitting room floor amidst the endless files and dossiers on Jill Dando and the suspects in her murder. "You'd need to talk to Mycroft Holmes about that. I don't have the clearance for that sort of thing. Thank Christ."

Hanging his head, he rubbed his neck in frustration. "Where am I even supposed to start?!"

"Don't get pissed at me. I was just a lowly foot soldier back then."

Picking up a file at random, John began flipping through it. "Are any of these people still around?" John asked, taking a sip of the bitter coffee.

"I have absolutely no idea."

Setting his cup down, John stood up and grabbed his coat. "The paper work isn't going to tell us anything. We need to talk to people."

"What makes you think anyone will talk now?" Greg asked, pulling himself up from the floor. And just when he'd gotten comfortable too.

"Fifteen years is a long time to keep a secret. I'm just hoping someone's had an attack of conscience," he said as he descended the stairs, his shoes barely tapping one step before touching the next. "Where should we start?"

"Do you understand what you're saying?" Greg asked the woman before him. Once upon a time she had been a beauty, as the photographs on the wall could attest, but now she was pale and thin, her eyes sunken inside her skull, lips chapped and downturned in a self-depreciating smile.

Catherine Hogmyer pulled the oxygen mask away from her face and gave a soft cough. "I may be dying, Detective Inspector, but the cancer hasn't reached my brain just yet," her voice was hoarse. "I know what I'm saying."

"So you admit it was you?" John asked, leaning forward in his chair, the tea Mrs. Hogmyer's daughter had served forgotten on the coffee table. "You and this Umbar, fellow?"

Mrs. Hogmyer nodded.

"And where can we find Mr. Umbar?" Greg asked, pen flying across his notepad.

"Oh, in the graveyard," she said, pressing the oxygen mask back to her face, taking a deep breath, then pulling it away again. "Died of a heart attack last Autumn."

Standing up, Greg tucked his pen and notepad in his pocket before pulling out his handcuffs. "Catherine Hogmyer, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Jill Dando."

"But why?" John asked suddenly. "Why did you shoot her?"

Mrs. Hogmyer looked at him sadly. "I'm Irish, boy. Ireland has been war torn for hundreds of years. All around was death and destruction. Someone offered to get me and my babes' out if I did them a favor. Why did I do it, you ask? Because I valued my life and the life of my little ones over that of a total stranger."

John watched in silence as Greg put the woman in cuffs and loaded her into the police car waiting outside, suspicion growing in his belly and making it quake.

As the car pulled away, Greg jogged back up the walk towards him. "The lads are taking her to the station for an official statement and booking," he said. "Well done, mate. We'll be able to do without Sherlock at the rate you're going."

John leveled him with a glare.

"Right. Sorry. That was...in poor taste."

Sighing, John shook his head. "There's something not right about this," he said. "It's too easy."

Greg slapped him on the shoulder. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, mate. This is a good thing."

A cold wind blew, rattling the trees and sending their leaves flying. "But it's just too easy."