Master of Murder
Chapter 6
Loose Ends
"DFNTLY MI5, WIRLES, RNGE 200 MTRS"
Sherlock snapped his phone shut on the text message. "The devices on Penelope's computer were MI5," he told John.
"Military Intelligence?" John replied.
"Someone was very, very interested in my late cousin's activities. Penelope said on her video that there were things moving in and out of the Middle East. Perhaps there is some sort of terrorist connection. There are a number of things we need to do, but first let us take a look at the memory stick you found on the cat's collar."
John slid the stick into the USB port on his laptop and opened a list of files. "Looks like a spreadsheet and some image files," he said, clicking on the spreadsheet.
Rows and columns appeared on the screen. "Dates, descriptions, origins, destinations …it looks like a list of shipments." John scanned the description column, most of them cryptic numbers. "Mostly military hardware," he said, "a lot of anti-personnel stuff. Guns, rockets, gas grenades, body armour, even some vehicles. Everything you would need for a major offensive strike. But all of it is going to what looks like legitimate military destinations." He turned and looked at Sherlock. "From a military standpoint, I don't see anything out of order here."
Sherlock tapped his chin with his finger for a moment then said, "Take a look at the image files."
John opened the first image which was a scanned copy of a military requisition form. "A request for a lot of guns; L9A1's, P266's, L85A2's, et cetera. Pistols, grenade launchers, sniper rifles…signed by Mycroft Holmes." John flipped back to the spreadsheet. "Here it is; the date it was shipped, origin point, destination and so forth." He opened another image. "Osprey body armour, MK7 helmets, and a CVR(T) armoured personnel carrier; again with Mycroft's signature." He opened several more of the image files, all were variations on the same theme; military weapons and supplies, all requisitioned by Mycroft Holmes. "Nothing really strange here except that they were all requested by your brother," he said.
Sherlock placed his left hand under his right arm, cradled his chin with his right hand, turned on his heel, and began pacing the room. "This isn't Mycroft's usual area of concentration," he mused tapping his cheek with a finger. "He's usually more involved with internal affairs, threats to national security, not international things. Sending military weapons…guns, mortars, bombs overseas…" he mumbled. "What is he up to…and where has he gone?"
—Ɵ—
Molly stepped out of the cab in front of the shop. The purple awning advertised "Pawn Shop" in large white letters. She opened the door and a small bell attached to the door frame tinkled, alerting the shop owner he had a customer.
"Be right with you," a voice from behind a curtain announced. Molly looked around the small lobby. The walls and counters were covered with bric-a-brac, the detritus of years; German cuckoo clocks, ceramic figurines, laptop computers, cameras, knives. It was a hoarder's dream kingdom. "How can I help you?" said an older gent who appeared from behind the curtain. He wore thick horn rim glasses, white shirt, dark trousers, and braces; the perfect stereotype of a little old shopkeeper.
Molly smiled to herself at his appearance then pulled the manila card Sherlock had given her from her pocket. She cleared her throat before nervously saying "I'd like to claim this please," and placed the card on the counter in front of him. She had never been in a pawn shop; this was a totally new experience for her.
Picking up the card, the man examined the number then thumbed through a box of receipts he pulled from beneath the counter. Pulling out a receipt, he said "Ah, here it is; wait one moment while I get it…" and he disappeared behind the curtain again.
Molly could hear him in the back room rummaging through things, searching for whatever it was she was claiming and muttering to himself. After a couple of minutes the shopkeeper reappeared holding a large intricately carved wooden box. Setting it on the counter he said, "That will be twenty pounds, please," and started filling out a receipt for the item.
Molly fumbled in her purse for her wallet and withdrew the bills. Handing the money to the shopkeeper, he slid the box across the counter to her along with the receipt. Trying to act nonchalant about the entire transaction, Molly gathered up the box and receipt and turned to leave. "Have a nice day!" the shopkeeper said as she exited the shop.
—Ɵ—
Dark. Very dark. Mycroft slowly awoke and shook his head a bit to clear his thoughts. He could see the faint outline of a door and little else. He was sitting up in a chair but restrained somehow. His arms and legs were firmly bound. His mouth was covered with something that felt like gaffer's tape. He wiggled a bit to no avail. The sharp edges of the front of his seat dug into the back of his legs a bit. Where am I? What happened? he thought to himself. He tried to recall his last memory. The Diogenes Club. Getting in the limo. That was about it. Wait…the smell…there had been a strong offensive smell when he got in. He tried to identify what he had smelled. Chloroform? Ether? Something very aromatic and medicinal. Obviously he had been kidnapped. Who? Why? What did they want? He wiggled again but it was clear he wouldn't be able to get free.
After several minutes, the door opened and a man stepped into the room. He snapped a switch on the wall turning on an overhead lamp. The man wore a cheap brown suit and a garish green and yellow tie. His head was covered with a rubber mask of the queen. "The sleeper awakes," he said with a sarcastic tone of voice. "Have a nice nap?"
Mycroft wiggled again and shook his head violently. He tried to scream "What the bloody hell is going on?" but the gaffer's tape effectively muffled it into "Mmmft mm mffnf mmn mm mmng m."
The man spoke. "I wanted to kill you, but that's not going to happen just yet. We need you alive for a while longer." He walked behind Mycroft and tugged on his bonds to make sure everything was still secure. He came back around, bent over and put his masked face directly in front of Mycroft's peering deeply into his eyes. "Don't want you getting loose."
Mycroft jogged his head forward quickly, trying to head-butt his tormentor, but he pulled back quickly. "Oh my!" the man exclaimed with false surprise, "let's not get violent!" He chuckled at his comment and walked to the door. "I'll be back," he said in a painfully terrible Austrian accent, closing the door behind him.