The Devil's Chord

Chapter Twenty Six

John adjusted the ice pack, uncaring of the large wet spot forming on the front of his trousers. Pain relief trumped dignity any day.

"Why are we stopping?" Sherlock asked, glancing up from his phone.

Lestrade parked the car in front of a cheerful looking cafe. "It's called eating."

John peered out the window, face brightening. "Can you get me up a pastrami sandwich?"

"Sure."

"We're wasting time that could be spent questioning Neil Henley," Sherlock said.

The inspector removed his wallet and waved away John's handful of notes. "What's the hurry if Neil isn't our killer?"

"He's involved."

Lestrade let out a sigh and picked up his mobile. "Fine. I'll have Donovan start questioning him, so we'll have answers by the time we get back."

"No," Sherlock said. "I'll do it. Don't allow anyone else to speak to him."

John swallowed. The look in his friend's eyes was decidedly unfriendly.

Lestrade looked ready to protest.

"I'll sit in on the questioning," John said, trying to keep the peace.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. The two of you can watch from the viewing window while you stuff your faces. I require one on one time with Mr. Henley."

Lestrade caught John's eye, one brow raised. John nodded. With Sherlock in his current mood, it would be better to allow him to do as he pleased and only intervene if necessary.

Sherlock might be able to extract answers from Neil that no one else could.

***

Lestrade handed him a cup of coffee. John nodded his thanks. It was hot and black, just the way he liked it.

Only a few scattered crumbs remained where their sandwiches had been. The ache in his stomach had disappeared, leaving just the fading pain in his groin. Thank god no permanent damage had been done. Life wouldn't have been worth living.

For the past twenty minutes, Sherlock had sat motionless, his icy gaze fixed on their increasingly agitated prisoner. He refused to respond to any questions or comments from Neil. It was unnerving on this end. Having been the recipient of Sherlock's discomfiting regard before, John could sympathize.

Sherlock finally moved. He lifted a hand onto the metal table top, and drummed his fingers across it.

Neil jumped at the sharp sound.

"How long have you worked for Selby Jennings?"

"Just a year." Neil's eyes jiggered along with the movement of Sherlock's hand.

"Tell me about Stacy."

"She was my girlfriend."

"Why did she break your relationship off?"

Neil folded his arms across his chest. "She said I was smothering her, that I wanted too much, too soon. She left to stay with her mother in Dublin."

"When did she leave?"

"Five days ago."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Speaking of smothering, did you enjoy it?"

The man's eyes widened. "What?"

"Killing Rebecca Frost."

Neil flinched.

Sherlock leaned forward. "Suffocation is an unpleasant way to die. A quick, vicious strangling would have been kinder. You could have simply crushed her windpipe. It only takes ten pounds of pressure. Instead, you drew the process out. Was it more fun that way?"