CHAPTER ONE

My Life is an Open Book


I had only just slipped out of my wet mackintosh and was settling myself comfortably before the fire when Holmes suddenly demanded to see my smartphone.

Try your inside, left-hand breast pocket,” suggested my friend the instant I began patting myself down. I pulled it free and handed it across.

I see you favour the iPhone. Any particular reason for that?” he asked.

I rather think them stylish,” I ventured. “Aren’t they all much of a muchness?”

Holmes chuckled. “It is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it.”

“I dare say,” said I, unlacing my damp shoes and placing them near to the fire.

Holmes tapped briefly on the screen and then stretched back into his chair, a look of intense scrutiny on his face. He was silent for a long time. Finally he spoke.

“I see you had roast pork for luncheon on Sunday with your delightful new friend. A very handsome woman I must say.”

I felt blood rush to my cheeks. “Well,” I muttered. “How could you possibly know that?”

He continued. “Tut, tut, Doctor. You have not been to the gym, not once this week. But you have been a moderately frequent visitor to the Fox and Hounds.” Holmes stroked the screen and began to smile.

“Your mother’s maiden name is Brydon and she was born in London, as were you. Oh, I missed your birthday on the eighth. So sorry about that. I won’t embarrass you by mentioning your age.”

Holmes held up the iPhone for my inspection. “Here is a picture of your somewhat conventional Victorian semi-detached house with your rather garish red motor car parked on the drive.” He tapped the screen again and continued.

And here is a photograph of your practice in Queen Anne Street where you arrive punctually every morning bang on the stroke of nine, except last Thursday when you were nearly thirty minutes late.”

“I took my shoes in for repair. My lovely brogues. The heel had come off. But hang on, I didn’t take those photographs of my house nor my practice. How did you get them?”

“Google Earth,” Holmes explained. “And you had your shoes repaired at that new place near the station. I imagine they will be ready this Wednesday.”

“Stop, stop,” I declared. “This is positively unsettling. And how did you get into my ‘phone in the first place?”

“Elementary, my dear friend. I have seen you pick up and play with your device countless times, and each time when you do you tap the screen in a particular manner. From the movement of your fingers, I surmised that it was either 7-6-5-4 or, as I correctly deduced, 4-3-2-1.”

“And what about all the other things? Roast pork, for goodness sake. How?”

“I see you are a player of Pokemon Go,” said Holmes. “Do you know that it has full access to your movements and to your camera and, if you log in with your Google ID, it can access your contacts as well? And did you know that government agencies and certain criminal elements piggyback on the data in these amusements and use it to track their targets?”

“Well,” I muttered. “I haven’t played it for weeks.”

“But I did not need to access that,” said an amused Holmes. “I looked in your Instagram application and saw that you had taken several photographs both prior to and immediately after your Sunday repast.”

“And the gym and the pub?”

“Ah, yes,” said my friend. “You leave your Bluetooth connection on all of the time. You allow yourself to be geotagged. All I needed to do was look in your Google+ account – you were automatically logged in – and follow your movements on Google Maps in perfect detail.”

“The shoes?”

“Your Google search queries for a suitable cobbler and Google Maps again.”

“My mother’s maiden name? My date and place of birth?”

“Facebook.”

These shocking revelations had left me feeling both cold and numb. I edged my chair closer to the fire.

“No need to look so surprised,” laughed Holmes. “After all, you have chosen to carry around with you the finest surveillance apparatus ever devised. Surely, you know that every single thing you do is open to the closest inspection?”

“But if I have nothing to hide, then surely I have nothing to fear.” I nodded my chin decisively.

Holmes pulled himself from the chair and stretched for his own Android ‘phone. “Do you have any idea who coined that much-repeated phrase?” he asked.

“Not the foggiest.”

“Then I challenge you to a race. Who can find the original of that phrase in the fastest time.” He handed me back my iPhone.

Holmes nodded to indicate that the race was suddenly on. I fumbled and finally opened my Safari browser. I noticed Holmes put down his ‘phone and settle back contentedly in his chair before I had barely begun.

Moments later I was shocked by what I read. “Oh my goodness,” I declared. “I have just quoted Hitler’s propaganda chief, Joseph Goebbels. Well I never.”

“Close,” grinned Holmes. “But no coconut. As it happens, Herr Goebbels was evidently an admirer of that most excellent American novelist Upton Sinclair. Allow me to read to you from his The Profits of Religion: An Essay in Economic Interpretation, written in 1918 when young Joseph was a mere student and fawning over a local Jewish girl.”

Holmes stretch himself forward and quickly memorised the passage. He then looked me directly in the eyes. Not merely was my own mail opened, but the mail of all my relatives and friends—people residing in places as far apart as California and Florida. I recall the bland smile of a government official to whom I complained about this matter: ‘If you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear’.”

My friend was suddenly on his feet and looming above me. “What do you say to that, Doctor? Nothing new under the sun, eh? The powers-that-be have been spying upon the populace since the dawn of time. Only now you are making it child’s play for them,” Holmes sneered.

I ran my tongue across my pallet. My mouth was bone dry. “All right,” I chimed in. “I take your point.” I flopped back in my chair and looked up at Holmes.

But anyway it’s swings and roundabouts,” I expounded. “I give away a little information that’s hardly of any practical value – where I get my shoes repaired, for example – and I get access to the entire Internet, to so much. Our lives have been immeasurably improved. I consider that a fair trade off.”

“And the amusing cat videos,” quipped Holmes.

“No,” I protested. “Access to the greatest source of learning the world has ever known, to new friends and the free flow of thoughts and ideas among peoples. That sort of thing.”

Holmes raised an imperious eyebrow towards me. “Tea,” he suggested. “That’s what you need. Nothing like a nice cup of tea to soften a surprise. I’ll call for Mrs Hudson.”