The Devil's Chord

Chapter Seventeen

John eased down the winding country road and squinted as the sunlight reflected off the wet pavement. It nearly blinded him in its intensity. He halted at the stop sign and poked around in the compartments above him. One opened, revealing a package of chocolate biscuits. He laughed. Of course Mycroft would have stocked up. Where was the cake?

He flipped open the glove compartment and found a rounded leather case. Inside was a pair of black sunglasses. He slipped them on, relieved nothing untoward happened. He’d half expected them to self-destruct or display some sort of computer overlay.

He headed down the main road. “Now I just need to find the quickest way to Balthorne Safe Deposit Centre,” he muttered.

“Balthorne Safe Deposit Centre is located at 575 Finchley Road in London,” replied a female voice. “Your estimated arrival time is fifty-eight minutes and thirty-five seconds.”

He goggled at the car. It was talking to him.

“Please turn left at the next intersection.”

He complied. How intelligent was it? “Could you please turn on the radio?”

The speakers began to play a complex classical piece. Right. What had he been expecting from Mycroft, rap or dub step?

A little car looked as if it was going to attempt to cut him off, but thought better of it. John grinned. It was nice being respected on the road. And it was nice to finally be driving again. Unlike other vehicles, this one actually felt safe. Sherlock had said it was armored. If anyone owned a safe vehicle, it was Mycroft Holmes.

John relaxed further back in his seat. “Please change the station."

“Would you like me to cycle through all pre-programmed stations?”

“Yes, please." He turned onto the main highway.

The classical station shifted to a boring radio show.

“Next, please.”

There was some static and then nothing at all.

Wait. There was something.

It was the sound of dripping water.

What the bloody hell?

Something tugged at his memory, and his hands clenched on the steering wheel.

“Do you have video available?” John asked through gritted teeth.

“Video connecting.” The dashboard monitor lit up, revealing black and white footage of the living room and kitchen of their bloody flat.

The only sound coming through the speakers was 221B’s leaky kitchen faucet. It had been dripping for the past two weeks.

John had half a mind to run the vehicle off the road and straight into a tree. It would serve the spying bastard right.

Except then he’d be stuck.

“Call Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“Calling.”

His friend picked up on the third ring. “What?”

“Your bloody brother has got cameras monitoring our flat.”

“Of course he does.”

John’s mouth fell open. “You knew?”

“Yes. Every couple days I destroy them, and whenever we’re gone, he replaces them. It’s a game we play. Where are the latest ones?”

“The living room and the kitchen,” John said, slowing down as he approached a weaving lorry.

“Excellent. Now leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.”