221b Baker Street Flat Novels & Stories

“Thanks by the way.” I straightened and went to find the apartment. The doors were labelled in numbers and easily I found the one numbered 2. It was one of the apartments that had the doors closed and it was also among the few that had glass walls and the lights inside were turned on revealing a fairly large kitchen area with a table that served as dining. I approached and knocked on the door. Behind the door came a squeal and laughter which was kind of weird because it sounded like a feminine squeal and Annabel Reed didn’t seem like the type to squeal. I knocked again a little harder this time.

Alice didn't tear her gaze from the vehicle until it had completely vanished from her view. "Right Alice dear, let's head on inside," Mr Smith grinned and unlocked the front door of the block of flats with a key that he pulled from his pocket. Alice took a deep breath and pushed open the door, wheeling her suitcase nervously behind her. "We're flat 3b," He mumbled to himself, pulling out another set of keys. "It's on the ground-floor and I believe it's this door here." He pointed to a white door, which was decorated with old-fashioned-looking swirls.

I would call the cops and ask them to rescue me… All of a sudden, I paused and held on to that thought. Someone would seek justice for me… I endured the pain and regained control of Rebecca’s phone. The priests stared at their prayer books anxiously and failed to notice the phone on the table. It was typing speedily on its own. [I want to report a rotting corpse in Flower Manor’s basement. The address is 2-38, Anson Road, Sector 6. The owner, Jaxon Lawson, killed his wife, and the surveillance camera is hidden in the hallway.]

We caught a taxi home as we had missed the last train and paid the extortionate fare to a grey-haired, grossly overweight driver, who told us we were his last fare for the evening and was heading home in the pouring rain back up the M11 to Harlow. The door to my flat hung off its hinges like a broken jaw. The place was silent, deserted. Its hands have been searched by hands of great malice. Everything had been piled into a heap in the centre of the room – clothes and books, shoes and old letters, photographs and crockery and furniture – the detritus of a life. It was as if someone had intended to make a bonfire but had been distracted at the last minute before they could apply the flame. Wed

Kristen introduced and I nodded politely. "Nice to meet you Sofia," She said. "Shall we?" "Sure. Lead the way," I replied. We climbed into the elevator and she pressed the sixteenth-floor button. "Each floor houses two apartments," She declared pointing to the door on our left as the elevator stopped at the sixteenth. 16B was written in golden on the door. "This one is will be yours, if you like it," She said with a confident smile, opening the door written 16A with a key card. "Here you go,"

Beside her, Elias Thorne was cross-referencing satellite imagery with the coordinates William had whispered in the Berlin courtroom. "Rue de la Paix, Number 14," Elias said, his voice a low hum against the distant cry of seagulls. "Blue shutters, just as he said. The building is an 18th-century tenement. No back exit, but the rooftops are interconnected. If she realizes we’re coming, she’ll be over the shingles before we hit the first landing."

Shortly, the night shift building manager and two security guards appeared. Lochlan pointed at Cary, who was still glued to me. ‘This man doesn’t live here. Remove him.’ The property manager, a portly, gentle-looking man, looked hesitant. ‘One moment, Mr Hastings, let me just check.’ He consulted his tablet. His expression turned awkward. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But Mr Grant is the owner of the flat on the twentieth floor.’ What. Cary had bought a flat on the twentieth floor?

"Daddy, you don't know that." Yessica said nothing. She had learned that inserting herself into Claire-and-Lewis negotiations about the theoretical future horse was never the efficient choice. The second flat was on Granville Terrace — a proper Victorian end-terrace, four bedrooms, a garden that ran thirty feet back from the kitchen doors, a view of the Meadows from the upper floor. Claire walked through the front door and stopped. She looked at the hallway. The staircase. The light coming through the original stained-glass panel above the door, throwing small pieces of colour across the wooden floor.

“That might be a coincidence.” “Yes,” he said. “It might.” He said it the way he said things he didn’t entirely believe. I looked at the address on my phone. “Let’s go,” I said. The address was a house on Grantchester Street. A Victorian terrace. Narrow, well-kept, Window boxes with winter plants, a door painted dark green. A brass knocker that had been polished recently. We stood outside it for a moment. “Ready?” Gabriel said. “Same answer as Room 14,”

Taylor, on the other hand, devours his burger, his appetite clearly unaffected, I think a little sourly to myself. “So, Abby, what I wanted to say before”—I keep silent this time, waiting for Taylor to continue—“is that it has come up through the grapevine via one of my property sources here in Brighton that the shop next door to Bread, plus the flat above it, is coming up for sale.”