The Unexpected Coincidence

  The Unexpected Coincidence

  Amelia Price

  Copyright 2015 Jess Mountifield

  Cover Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Mackey

  Smashwords edition

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, organisations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgements

  There's always that awkward moment when getting to the acknowledgements where I panic that someone gets forgotten who should be thanked, so I'm going to start by thanking anyone I've ever forgotten to thank who has helped in some way. I didn't mean to forget you and I often remember later exactly what I wanted to thank you for and that it meant a lot to me. Writing books is never a solitary task despite how often it can seem it. From little nudges in the right direction to something as seemingly random like listening to the right song at the right time, so much goes into a book.

  Thank you, Phil, for being a husband I often don't feel I deserve. For making dinner those times I didn't want to stop writing, and being gracious when I moaned because I had to stop writing to make yours.

  To Bear, for always listening, even when I knew you were meant to be doing something else. I hope I haven't spoilt the plot too badly and you can still enjoy reading the stories. Just being able to say my ideas out loud makes it so much easier to get them straight and make sure there's no plot holes.

  To Ella, for being an awesome editor. Fixing all my mistakes can't be an easy job but you've managed to make my rough draft shine much brighter and your suggestions for changes often feel like what I was trying to think of the first time around, but didn't quite manage.

  To Elizabeth for the amazing cover design. You're always a joy to work with and help put my words into pictures that often say so much. I know the books find themselves into more of the hands that will enjoy them most thanks to you.

  Finally to God, for being there, always.

  Dedication

  To Phil, for making me feel safe.

  Chapter 1

  Mycroft took another sip of his tea from the delicate china cup Mrs Wintern had provided. It would have tasted perfect if it wasn't for the lingering smell of formaldehyde. Sherlock's flat never smelt normal at the best of times, but his younger brother had a case and was experimenting on some severed body parts.

  “It's not that bad,” Sherlock said, disturbing him from his thoughts.

  “What's not?”

  “Having to look over a crime scene for yourself.”

  “Apparently not. You seem to enjoy it,” Mycroft replied, not sure whether to be relieved that his younger brother hadn't read his current thoughts or annoyed that Sherlock had figured out the real reason he was there.

  It had been a week since Mycroft had realised his own people were too incompetent to do what he needed, and still he hadn't gone himself. Coming to see Sherlock was always his last resort. Most of the time his younger brother was only too eager to go take a look at a crime scene or evaluate a suspect, but Mycroft had found him in the middle of his own case.

  Since Mycroft's abduction along with Amelia Jones, Sherlock had changed his tune a little. His younger brother seemed to think it was good for Mycroft to be in the thick of the action. He, however, felt as he always had, that it was far too much effort when he could get someone else to do it for him.

  “You could get Amelia to do it.” Sherlock plonked himself down in the armchair opposite Mycroft. He had a smug grin on his face. He put his cup down on the nearby tray to buy himself a few seconds to compose his voice.

  “And why would I ask her? She's hardly suitable for the task.”

  “She'd be perfect. I've taught her plenty, and I'm sure she'd love to help you catch the people who took both you and her. No doubt the event was more traumatic for her than you, even with your aversion to getting physically involved.”

  “Which is exactly why I would never involve her further. The last thing I need is a woman's emotions clouding a delicate situation. And besides, I've not seen her since. It's not as if we're acquainted.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and hoped his brother would drop the subject. He didn't want to talk about Amelia. Every time she was brought up he ran the risk of giving something away about their arrangement, and it was bad enough that Amelia spoke to Sherlock often.

  “Then I can ask her. I'm sure she won't mind.” Sherlock grinned and got up again to go back to the kitchen table, which was covered in laboratory equipment.

  “No, she won't have the time. She starts another book tour tomorrow and they have her signing all over the country. It seems the new book is a big hit.”

  “So you've been keeping an eye on her then,” Sherlock said as he stared down the microscope lens.

  “Of course. She's an acquaintance of yours. For her safety, I thought it best.”

  “Perfect,” Sherlock muttered under his breath right before taking the specimen out from under the light. “Although it has nothing to do with the novel, does it, brother of mine? The one she re-wrote for you. I suppose you feel she ought to be thanking you, considering how well it's selling.”

  “Nothing of the sort. I only know that part because she seems to have charmed Daniels.” Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. “Every time I come back to the car he's got one of her books in his hands.”

  “Well, she is very charming. But if we're done here... My case is waiting and I really have a lot to do.” Sherlock put his hand out towards the door and gave his brother another brief smile.

  It was fake, and Mycroft knew he'd outstayed his welcome. With another sigh that was a last attempt to sway Sherlock into helping, he got up and nodded his parting.

  “Have a good day, brother of mine, and try not to cause an international incident,” Sherlock said as Mycroft was part way through the door. He rolled his eyes and ignored the jibe. It was meant to annoy him, and he wasn't going to give his brother the satisfaction of seeing his success. But it wasn't the only part of their discussion that irked him. Sherlock had focused on Amelia much more than Mycroft was comfortable with, and even worse, he was going to have to look over the house himself. He'd gone to Baker Street for nothing.

  When he stepped outside the sun was shining, which helped to take the chill off the late November air, but the wind had a bite to it that reminded everyone it wouldn't be long until Christmas. Not wanting to be out in such cold when wearing nothing but his favourite suit, he took several quick steps to the car and the door Daniels already had open for him.

  “Back home, sir?” the chauffeur asked once he was back behind the wheel.

  “No, Moffat Road in Thornton Heath. Number eighty-nine. And try to avoid traffic. I want this dealt with as swiftly as possible.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Mycroft gazed out the window as his driver did his best to wind through the traffic and ensure it didn't take too long to get to their destination. For a few minutes, he let the details he picked up from the passers-by go through his mind, noticing a young woman evidently having an affair and two teenagers who were about to try and rob a local shop. He knew they wouldn't succeed, or he might have got out his phone a
nd sent a quick text to the chief of police.

  When the people in the streets failed to keep his interest, he re-focused his thoughts to business. Since his little adventure with Amelia, when both of them had been abducted from the Thames barrier in Silvertown, he'd been trying to track down the terrorist group responsible. It didn't make it easier that the North Koreans and Russians appeared to be working together on this.

  Of all the countries causing concern, they were two of the worst. Russia was making threatening moves in Eastern Europe, and North Korea was adapting to its younger leader. Like all people who were brought up knowing they would run a country, the Korean was a spoilt brat used to getting his own way. But all this knowledge didn't help in finding the terrorists who'd tried to flood the capital city. There was no guarantee they were acting on orders and were not simply some extreme group of mercenaries who happened to have aligned goals. Whoever they were, they had plenty of funding from somewhere.

  The yacht they'd held him and Amelia on hadn't been small, and they had moved house twice since Mycroft had become aware of them. Each time, they'd sent someone into an estate agent with the deposit and several months' rent in cash. On top of that, the first house Sherlock had found had been left in such a hurry that there was technology and money left behind. Most of the computers had been wiped clean, but Mycroft had found enough information to know it was the right place. The police had completely bungled the attempt at catching everyone, alerting them to their detection and giving them time to run.

  He'd been praised for saving London, despite Amelia being involved, but since then the trail had been difficult to follow. Little head-way was gained until his brother helped him track a lead to a second address. The address Mycroft was now being driven to.

  Over half an hour after setting off, Daniels pulled the car over to the side of Moffat road right in front of the driveway of house number eighty-nine. It looked worse than Sherlock had said. The drive had once been bricked over, but areas had sunk while the bricks themselves had worn and crumbled. Weeds grew up in the cracks, and a large pile of rubbish filled one corner of the front yard.

  As Daniels opened the car door Mycroft was assaulted by the smell of the rotting refuse. He wrinkled up his nose in disgust and hurried over to the front door. Before he made the six steps to the porch, he'd managed to fish his skeleton keys from his pocket. Pretty much every door in London opened to these.

  Once inside, he paused in the hallway and surveyed the area. It smelt musty but nothing that opening a window wouldn't fix. There were a few sparse furnishings in the living room, and he expected to find the rest of the house in a similar state. A couch with old cushions sat near a coffee table. No television or music player of any kind, and no lamp shade.

  The curtains were drawn in every room, but all the doors were open everywhere, including up the stairs as far as he could see to his left. Thankfully, the material hanging over the windows was thin and enough light from the shining sun still bled through into the rooms. So he could see the detail he might need, he pulled a small torch from his jacket pocket and shone it at the floor in a path to the sofa.

  The carpet was yellowing and threadbare in several places, but traces of dirt from some kind of boot still lingered near the very edge of the sofa. Mycroft pulled an empty envelope and a small spatula from another pocket and scraped up some of the residue before sealing the packet and tucking it safely back. He could have his brother analyse the make-up of it and tell him where it had come from.

  A glance at the sofa let him know the occupants had put a plastic covering over it. There would be no evidence for him to find. Although he didn't expect anything in the kitchen to aid his search, he put his head through the doorway all the same and looked over the appliances.

  A fridge and freezer combo stood on the far wall. He knew it would be empty but he went over to it and checked anyway. On his way back to the living room he opened the oven and the few cupboards, but they were unused and dusty from neglect.

  He sighed wishing this sort of process was quicker but Mycroft knew he had to be thorough. After decades of sending his little brother to crime scenes he couldn't do a worse job.

  With a sigh, Mycroft padded up the carpeted stairs, using his torch to scan important locations as he went, such as the bannister and the walls at ankle height. Not even a scuff mark appeared beneath the bright light.

  Each of the three bedrooms contained a single or double bed frame with a clean, barely used mattress. None of them had a single stain or blemish, although he noticed the surfaces weren't perfectly even. They had been slept on, but just like the couch, the occupants had protected them from the transference of any dirt, sweat or substance.

  He took his time to look over the floor around each one, hoping to find a hair or flake of skin, but he could spot neither. The bathroom was equally as unhelpful. The shower looked like it had been hosed down and the faint smell of bleach lingered in the air. Whoever was in charge of these men, he had them being far more careful than terrorists of their type usually were.

  After two hours of combing the house for clues, Mycroft gave up and headed back to his car. Other than the small scraping of dirt, he'd found nothing. It made him feel a little better about the competence of his own men, as they'd reported a similar story, but it didn't solve his problem. Somehow, the terrorist cell was staying one step ahead of him.

  Once he was on the way back to his house, Mycroft thought over everything he knew and had done in response to the recent threat. He had under-cover operatives in Ukraine, Russia and South Korea, as well as several working on the case in London, but so far none of them had found anything useful. He knew if he sent his brother to one of the countries the information might be found immediately, but the British best weren't normally so ineffective. He also knew his brother disliked leaving London almost as much as Mycroft disliked being anywhere but the house or club.

  He sighed and knew he would have to do some more digging himself. At least until Sherlock snapped out of whatever notion he'd got himself into over Amelia. She wasn't ready to help with the sort of work he needed - that was something he knew even she would admit.

  By the time the car arrived at his house, grey clouds had pulled in and covered over the sun sufficiently to bring an early evening. It would rain, something that had happened surprisingly little for November in England.

  “Have this taken to my brother,” Mycroft said as he got out the car and gave the envelope to Daniels. “Be careful with the contents.”

  Daniels nodded and tucked it into his own pocket, ensuring it remained the same way up. It might take a day or two for Sherlock to get around to the experiment, and then another few days for him to bother passing the information on to Mycroft, but it was some progress.

  Once inside, Mycroft went straight to his study. He was late for his afternoon tea, but the usual tray with a teapot full of hot water was there. The biscuits weren't. He clamped his mouth shut over the desire to yell for some, knowing he had told his housekeeper not to bring them for a few weeks. Although his supernatural abilities gave him a younger man's metabolism, he still had to be careful with what he ate. If he wanted to keep to a healthy weight he needed to manage his diet.

  When he pulled open the nearest desk drawer, he noticed the thud as his spare mobile phone jerked against the edge. The light on the bottom flashed green to let him know it had a message. He frowned.

  Only Amelia Jones had the number, and it was quite a large coincidence for her to be contacting him today if his brother hadn't followed through on his threat and told her about his difficulties. As he grabbed the device, he started to think of all the ways he would punish Sherlock for the betrayal. When he managed to pull the text up on screen, the lines on his forehead deepened even further.

  Stage 2?

  Her question gave nothing away but impatience, and definitely didn't give him an indication of why she'd decided to message him now.

  Is your lack of patience the only reason
you messaged? I won't reward impatience.

  Mycroft pressed the send button before he thought that his message sounded angry, but he wouldn't apologise for it. If she chose to message him because of something Sherlock had said to her, it would only fuel the temper that already simmered. It didn't take long for her to respond. He flicked the screen on again, hoping she had a good answer for him.

  I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound impatient. I just noticed that it has been ten weeks since you last sent me a message. As always, I await your instructions.

  He exhaled and considered the reply. If Sherlock had prompted her, she'd have said. Lying to him wasn't something she'd risk when she was so eager to learn from him.

  After leaning back in his chair he thought over her request. Ten weeks was a long time to leave her without a lesson of some kind, but he'd had little time to think about it since their last communication. It would take little effort from him to begin the second stage of her teaching, and he knew just the person to start her off. He used his main phone to send instructions to one of his agents before typing a one-word reply and sending it to Amelia.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  Darkness surrounded Amelia when she opened her eyes, and the dull ache of her head soon let her know that it was still early. The combination of a message from Myron, her nerves at starting a brand new book tour, and the rain that had only stopped in the early hours of the morning, had prevented her from getting much sleep.

  With a groan, she glanced at the bedside clock. It was a few minutes before six, but she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Her mind already whirred through the many questions and worries she had.

  After rubbing the dust from her eyes, she turned off her alarm and wrapped herself in her favourite dressing gown. She padded through to the rest of the ground floor flat and her large open-plan kitchen, dining area and living room. Off to the far corner, the front door stood like a silent green sentinel in the ochre walls.