by Amelia Price
He tried not to get impatient as he sat and waited to arrive. The agents were feeding him very little information. Hopefully, because the Russian was still eating, or even better, trying to get some sleep.
When Daniels finally pulled up in the right place, Mycroft sprang into action. Not saying a word to his driver, he headed away from his car and towards the marshlands. Daniels turned the car off and the headlights went out. The darkness wrapped itself around Mycroft and he had to wait several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the new environment.
It didn't take him long to spot the closest of his team of three agents. The light pollution from the large city helped to prevent it being totally dark, and his observant eyes did the rest of the work.
Being careful to move as silently as he could and going more slowly, Mycroft wound his way across the marshes to his agent. As he went, he kept a close eye on the area around him. Many birds roosted here and he didn't want to startle any and draw attention to his presence.
It took him another fifteen minutes to get to the agent, making his total arrival time from notification to the present just shy of forty-five minutes. Not bad, considering everything he managed. For someone well over a hundred years old, he was still in good shape.
“What's the latest?” Mycroft asked in the ear of agent Herbert.
“He stopped eating but doesn't appear to be leaving any time soon. Might be reading; hard to tell,” the agent whispered back.
Mycroft nodded and took the spare heat-vision goggles, before finding a fourth spot of his own to keep watch. Just like Herbert had said, the Russian was sitting, and from the tilting back and forth of his head, appeared to be reading something.
After ten minutes the man stood up, fiddled with some items, moving them about within some kind of container or bag. When he straightened again, he took a look in several directions and then loped slowly towards the waterfront.
For a few seconds Mycroft only watched, giving him time to get far enough ahead Mycroft wouldn't be heard following. It didn't take that long with the long strides of the tall Russian, and then he was up on his feet and hurrying after.
The Russian continued a meandering pace, evidently confident he wouldn't be seen and making it easy for Mycroft to keep up. With the goggles, Mycroft could see the small animals hidden within the undergrowth, but it made it harder to see the rushes and reeds that rustled when he brushed past them.
The odd breeze or two helped to hide his movements, so he made use of them when they happened, moving faster when it blew and slowing when it didn't. With this strange method, he managed to keep a reasonable distance behind his quarry.
When the Russian reached the edge of the marshland and the bank of the Thames, he stopped. Coming down river was a boat-shaped patch of warmer colour. It was smaller than the yacht that Mycroft had been taken on only a few weeks earlier, but another person steered it towards the bank and threw what was logically a rope over to the Russian, who caught it easily.
Mycroft moved closer and removed the goggles. It would give his eyes time to adjust again before he made the last dash and got onto the boat as well. The men took a few more minutes to bring the boat in close enough that the Russian could step aboard, but as soon as his foot touched the edge of the boat, Mycroft leapt up and hurried after.
It was important they didn't spot him so he kept low and didn't sprint, but he made sure he was fast enough not to lose sight of the boat. While jogging, off to one side, he spotted another of his agents, but she sensibly remained crouched in the undergrowth. Their job was done.
By the time he reached the bank, the boat was several metres away but not travelling fast. He couldn't make the jump, but the boat moved slowly enough a quick swim would get him to the back. He put down the goggles and yanked off his shoes. Hopefully, one of his agents would have the sense to come fetch them when it wouldn't endanger the operation to do so.
The water brought goosebumps out on his skin as it seeped through his clothes. He frowned despite knowing his car always had an entire spare set of clothing. The current set would be ruined by the time his little adventure was over.
Once in the water, Mycroft could only see the back of the boat. The rungs of the little ladder glinted in the low light and gave him something to aim for. Stroke after powerful stroke, he closed the gap and latched onto the bottom rung. Pausing, he took several deep breaths to calm his heart rate. It was important to be slow and careful.
Using the strength in his arms, Mycroft lifted himself inch by inch out of the water. If he did it any quicker, the water draining from his clothing would make too much noise.
Minutes ticked by as the boat took him farther away from London and left his agents behind. His arms soon ached from the strain of holding his weight and that of his water-logged clothes, reminding him why he liked to leave this sort of thing to other people. Eventually, the majority of his body was out of the water and it was time to lift his head above the edge of the boat.
His eyes widened. There was no one there. No longer trying to be quiet, he hauled himself onto the deck and rushed towards the helm. A large piece of wood held the steering wheel in place. He swore as he put the boat in neutral. Somehow, both passengers had slipped past him while he was tailing them. It could only mean one thing. They'd realised he was following.
Hoping one of his agents might have seen something, he turned the boat around and brought it back to the marshland. By the time he got there, two of the agents were standing waiting.
“Did you see where they went?” he asked before anyone else could speak. They shook their heads. Mycroft swore again. “Get me a torch and my dry clothes. And tie this to something.”
Herbert caught the end of the rope and looped it around a sturdy fence post a few metres inland, while the woman ran off. He hoped she wouldn't take too long to get back. While he waited, he kept to one section of the boat. He didn't want the water dripping off him to obliterate any of the evidence that might give him another lead.
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-ou
t. 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.
Chapter 6
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 cr
oss, 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.