The Unexpected Coincidence (7 page)

Once he had a
torch in his hands, he examined the helm area but he found nothing
of interest. He would have everything fingerprinted but doubted
they'd find anything. While he was looking the cockpit over, the
third agent, Williams, came running up.

“Everything in the
cache is gone. They must have taken it with them.”

“All right. Stay
away from the area and get it cordoned off. I'm going to deal with
the boat first, then I'll take a look at that. And I mean it. Don't
let anyone but me or my brother near it.”

Williams nodded.
All of them were used to Mycroft's brusque manner and dislike of
interference. If he was involved they kept back, so no one but him
could be blamed if the operations went wrong. Something that had
never happened under Mycroft's care. Until today.

Not even changing
into fresh clothes made him feel any better. He phoned his brother,
wondering if Sherlock could be persuaded to help, but the call went
unanswered, and although he sent a text, he expected that to be
ignored as well. His younger brother was in one of his moods and it
only darkened Mycroft's further.

It took him almost
two hours to check over the boat and the few cabins it had. He
found nothing but a smeared muddy footprint near the front left
rail. It let him know the pair had got off that way but didn't give
him anything to trace. It was too smeared for an accurate print,
and he already knew the man's physical make-up. Mycroft had seen
him.

The boat had
little equipment, and whatever the Russian had with him had gone
over the front of the boat with its owner. While Mycroft had been
sneaking up the back they'd snuck off the front. Once more, they
had slipped through his grasp.

Having nothing
more he could check, Mycroft got off the boat and allowed the
forensic team to do their best at finding some evidence. They might
find a fingerprint but the chances were slim. If there was anything
else there he'd have found it already.

He nodded his
satisfaction when he noticed the crime tape surrounding the area of
bushes and reeds that the Russian had used for a hide-out. The
circle had a good fifty metre radius and no one was inside it.
Instead, his three agents stood around it with their torches,
keeping the rest of the people well away from it. Considering how
little he'd communicated with anyone since the previous day, there
were over ten members of staff on top of the original agents
crawling over the marshlands or boat, and they were surprisingly
well informed. At least something was going well.

With this area he
slowed even further, using the torch to examine every patch of dirt
where a shoe print might have been left or some small item might
have fallen. Given the area, the possibility of an entire print was
slim, but a partial print might be enough. He worked his way back
and forth over a third of the circle before he noticed a patch of
mud that held a good imprint of the Russian's shoe.

Ten minutes later
a small team of two people had made a reed mat path over a patch
he'd checked and were using plaster to get an inverse impression.
Meanwhile, Mycroft had carried on and was almost upon the centre of
the area. He took even longer over the few metres closest to the
cache. If anything was left behind, it would most likely be here,
but he spotted nothing. A print alone wasn't enough. It wouldn't
lead him to men who were being so careful. It was evidence, but not
a lead.

By the time
Mycroft had gone over the entire patch of land, the morning was
almost upon them and the horizon to the east was no longer black.
He scowled at his agents as he ducked underneath the crime tape and
left the area.

“Sir, they've run
checks on the boat. It was stolen four months ago but the police
had no leads.”

“The boat was
still in the Thames. How can it have been stolen four months ago.”
Mycroft sighed and noticed Herbert was about to speak. “No, don't
answer that. It wasn't a question. Have the police report and the
victim's name and address forwarded. I'll have it looked into. In
the meantime, liaise with the rest of the team on our other
locations.”

“What about this
one?” Williams asked.

“I'll get someone
more...
subtle
... on it,” he said and walked off without
another word. He then pulled his phone out of his pocket and
messaged Sherlock.

Need one of
your friends to watch Rainham Marsh for me. I'll pay, as usual.
Daniels will bring the money around and some other information I'd
like you to look at.

“Home, sir?”
Daniels asked once Mycroft was back in the car.

“No, the club.” He
needed some space to think away from all the distractions. “And
then take a payment and the information I'm about to receive to my
brother.”

“Anything else,
sir?”

“No. I'll let you
know when I want picking up. Get some sleep until I need you.”

“Thank you, sir,”
Daniels said and Mycroft realised the chauffeur wasn't as young as
he used to be. It often took Mycroft by surprise when the people
around him got older. Being ageless had become normal, far too
normal.

As the sun started
another journey across the British sky Mycroft walked into the
Diogenes Club. He'd been the co-founder of it well over a hundred
years ago, although they were unaware of that. Just like everyone
else, except Sherlock, they believed him to be a descendent of the
great Mycroft Holmes and not the man himself.

Less than five
seconds after stepping through the door, a butler appeared carrying
his personal slippers and a tray with the day's paper. By the time
he had the comfortable burgundy slippers on his feet and the paper
in his hands, he was perfectly relaxed. The butler picked up the
discarded muddy shoes and neither needed to say anything for
Mycroft to know they would be clean by the time he left.

The sound of
Amelia's phone alarm woke her from a deep sleep. She winced as her
head protested to her sitting up but she sat up anyway. Drinking so
much hadn't been the wisest of ideas while on tour, but after the
evening scare, she'd not been able to resist having another glass
of wine before bed. It had helped calm her after her run-in with
Guy and the suspicion that she'd been followed. Hotel room service
was a dangerous temptation.

She tried not to
think about the events contributing to the knot in her stomach as
she gathered up her discarded clothes and retrieved her handbag
from underneath the bed. As she reached into it to check the phone
Myron had given her, she brushed up against paper she wasn't
expecting. Frowning, she pulled apart the opening to get a better
look and dropped her handbag.

Inside was another
letter from her stalker. For a minute, Amelia couldn't do anything
but shake with her mouth wide open. If she'd not regretted drinking
before, she did now. At some point while she'd been out at dinner
last night the stalker had been close enough to her to put the
letter right into her handbag and she had no idea when.

Leaving the bag in
the middle of the floor, she sank into the dresser chair and tried
to focus on the events of the previous night. She didn't think
anyone had come close enough to her to slip anything inside before
she walked into the restaurant, and she'd only left her handbag
unattended for a few minutes while she went to the toilet, but
Shelly had said she'd keep an eye on it. It could only have been
when she was leaving and Guy had been waiting for her. In that
moment she decided Myron must be wrong. Guy was stalking her and
she'd probably made it worse with how encouraging she'd been the
second time he'd appeared at her signing.

As this thought
occurred to her, Amelia had to fight the urge to heave. Oddly this
had a good effect on her. She mentally told herself to get a grip
and fought to take command of her emotions. Nothing she'd already
done could be changed, but she could think rationally from now on
and act before this got out of hand and she found herself in
danger. Myron had already told her he would want to know about
this, so she wasn't alone in figuring this out.

Feeling braver,
she got up and went back to her handbag. Using all the precautions
she'd implemented on both previous occasions, she brought the
letter over to the dresser and opened it.

Dearest
Amelia,

Sometimes I
really cannot understand your actions. After both my previous
messages mentioning my desire to meet up with you for a meal or at
least a coffee sometime, I thought that you'd have invited me this
evening. I even told you I'd be nearby and available. Then when I
did find out where you were and what you were doing, you were sat
next to another man and barely spoke to anyone else. I hope he
doesn't get the wrong idea about you. I also don't think you should
encourage him, or anyone else. Not while I'm around.

This is so out
of character for you. Normally you're so nice. If you forgot, I can
possibly forgive you, but if you do it again I won't write you any
more letters to explain my feelings. I will insist upon you
acknowledging my presence and talking to me in front of your
colleagues.

I also noticed
your tweet today and the excerpt you posted of your new Dalton
book. I really don't think he would have been so mean to Cassandra,
and I would know. I am Dalton. Instead, he should be considerate of
her feelings. She evidently cares for him, and her worry shouldn't
just be ignored. I hope you change it before you send the story to
your publisher.

I'm sure we'll
meet again soon. I want to tell you all my ideas for what you can
do with Dalton in your next few books, and we can bond over your
characters. I know you'll appreciate my point of view on your
stories, and if not, I can be persuasive.

With
affection.

Amelia had to read
the letter twice before she could take it in. Each letter was worse
than the one before and this one had more of a violent undertone.
She had no desire to find out how persuasive he could be if she
didn't listen to him, nor did she wish to find out how he'd act if
he saw her flirting with another man. On top of all that, he seemed
to always know where she was. It had to be Guy and he had to be
stopped.

She rooted in her
handbag for her phone and called Myron. He would know what to do,
but he didn't answer, and she reached the message system. Knowing
he'd not want messages to be left on the answerphone, she hung up
and tried again. When it happened a second time, she left a message
mentioning having another letter and being in danger. Finally, she
asked him to call her back as soon as he could. It might make him a
little cross, but she'd been careful with her words.

With that done,
she sat and stared at the letter, trying to think of what else she
could do. It wasn't safe for her to leave the hotel room unless she
knew where she was going. A minute later she realised that she
ought to phone her publisher as well. Shane answered after the
fourth ring.

“Hi, Amelia,
everything all right?”

“No, I've had a
third letter.”

“What did it say
this time?” he asked, getting straight to business. She read him
the contents, still feeling calmer than she ought to after her
panic and stern lecture towards herself. “Crap, it sounds like he's
getting angry.”

“Yeah. I think I
know who it is, as well. He's come to both book signings and I
almost walked right into him when I came out the restaurant
yesterday evening.”

“Can you prove it
in some way? Or has he said anything?”

“No.” Amelia shook
her head. “It's only who I think it is.”

“Do you think your
friend in London would be able to prove it?”

“He might,” she
said, knowing Shane was thinking of Sebastian while she was
thinking of Myron. “I've already tried to phone him, but I didn't
get an answer yet. In the meantime I don't know what to do.”

“We can postpone
the tour, if you want. Or just a few days of it. I'd rather you
stayed safe.”

“Thanks, Shane.
But don't tell people the real reason. Tell them I'm not well and
I've gone home for a few days to get better.”

“That sounds like
a good idea. I take it you're not going home.”

“No. At least, not
yet.”

With a plan of
action and her editor making arrangements for her signings to be
rescheduled, Amelia packed up all her belongings, ate a quick
breakfast and checked out of her room. While waiting for her taxi
to the train station in the hotel reception, she tried to phone
Myron again and let him know she was coming to London, but he still
didn't answer.

She tried again
once she was on the train to Paddington, but again he left it to
ring. Not wanting to annoy him if there was a good reason for him
not picking up, she decided it would be the final time and tucked
the extra phone in her jacket pocket, where she would be able to
feel it vibrate if he replied in some way to her request for
communication.

To keep her mind
occupied and her emotions as calm as she could, Amelia wrote more
on the train, but the letters kept popping into mind every time she
wrote Dalton's name. After only a few hundred words, she gave up. A
now familiar sick feeling settled into the pit of her stomach, and
she found herself wondering if she would ever find stories about
Dalton easy to write again. The longer she felt scared and the more
letters she received the more she would associate the character
with the stalker.

The train journey
felt like it took all day, and by the time she was getting off in
London she was exhausted and tense. At every stop she'd felt the
nagging sensation that the next person to get onto her carriage
would be him. That somehow he'd know exactly what train she was on
and where she was going and he'd appear like he had the night
before.