Private Royals Page 4

  Pushing himself between the boards, Morgan eased into the shop and quickly moved five paces to his left, crouching into the deepest shadows. There he waited and listened for almost a minute. The only sounds were the Range Rover’s idling engine and the scurrying of mice.

  He turned on his flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness and played across the charred metal skeletons of beds and sofas. He saw nothing that put his senses on edge, so he got to his feet and slowly edged his way into what had been a display room. The torchlight shone on empty beer cans, the stubs of cigarettes and the general debris of the homeless. None of it was fresh. There was no odour to it.

  No odour to hide the smell that now hit Morgan like a fist.

  He was very familiar with it.

  It was the smell of death.

  CHAPTER 17

  MORGAN SPOKE INTO the mic on his collar. ‘Guys, come in through the front. Hooligan, bring all your tools. Peter?’

  ‘Yes, Jack?’

  ‘We have body bags in that van?’

  ‘We do,’ Knight answered. Morgan didn’t need to tell him to bring one in.

  Head-torch beams criss-crossing the furniture store as they walked, the trio came up beside Morgan, whose own Maglite beam was unflinching. Knight and the others followed its direction.

  The torch lit up the face of a young woman. She was dead, and there was no elegance or dignity in her posture.

  ‘I thought we were going to find Aaron Shaw,’ Knight said. ‘This must be the second hostage.’

  ‘I know her,’ Cook spoke up suddenly.

  The three men turned to her in surprise.

  ‘You do?’ Knight asked.

  ‘Her name’s Grace Beckit. She’s a society girl. She was a model, but mostly she was known for her partying.’

  ‘She was also a close friend of Abbie’s,’ Knight confirmed after a quick Internet search on his phone.

  Cook took a step closer to the body, her torchlight revealing a savage cut to Grace’s throat.

  ‘Christ. They butchered the poor girl.’

  ‘A butcher would show more humanity,’ Hooligan said, preparing his kit for sample-taking.

  Cook noticed the preparations. She turned to Morgan, who was stony-faced and silent. ‘I think it’s time we called in the police, Jack. We kept them out to preserve life, but this girl’s already gone. You’re investigators, not a SWAT team, and I think this case is going to need both.’

  Morgan thought for a moment.

  ‘It’s too late for Grace, Jane. Whatever happens next, Grace is gone, but as far as we know, Abbie is still alive. Keeping her that way is our priority, so we have to do as the kidnappers say and keep the police out of this.’

  ‘Someone needs to answer for this,’ Cook told him.

  ‘And they will,’ Morgan promised, his eyes ablaze in the darkness. ‘This doesn’t end when Abbie is safe, Jane. It ends when we find the bastard who did this, and he pays for what he’s done.’

  CHAPTER 18

  PRIVATE HQ DID not possess a gurney, so Grace’s covered body was carried into the building on a spinal board, Morgan and Knight acting as solemn pallbearers.

  As they walked through reception, Sadie Wilkinson, Abbie’s publicist – who had remained at Private awaiting Knight’s return – saw the body bag.

  ‘Abbie!’ she cried out.

  Cook caught her, the powerful soldier holding back the struggling woman.

  ‘It’s not Abbie,’ Cook said soothingly. Wilkinson’s wild eyes looked at her questioningly.

  Knight recalled seeing in the briefing Private’s intelligence section had put together on Abbie’s publicist that she also represented Grace Beckit. He gestured that he and Morgan should lay their burden down, and then he stepped towards the woman in Cook’s arms.

  ‘It’s not Abbie,’ he told her. ‘It’s Grace.’

  ‘No!’ Wilkinson cried, her body shaking. ‘No!’

  Knight stepped across, and with his arms firmly around the woman’s shoulders he took her from Cook’s hold.

  ‘I’ll handle this,’ he mouthed to Morgan, and led the woman away on her unsteady feet, the publicist near-paralysed from shock.

  ‘Didn’t look like there was any relief when she found out it wasn’t Abbie,’ Hooligan observed, and explained to Morgan and Cook that Wilkinson was the kidnapped girl’s publicist.

  ‘She’s probably Grace’s rep too,’ Morgan guessed.

  Having been directed there by Knight, two members of Private staff arrived and, with Hooligan, carried Grace’s body to where it could be kept in the lab’s cold storage facility.

  Left alone with Cook, Morgan shook his head, unhappy at the turn of events.

  ‘She shouldn’t have had to see that.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Cook assured him. ‘You couldn’t have known.’

  ‘I’m the head of Private, Jane. Everything that goes on in my company is ultimately on me.’

  With another shake of his head, Morgan realised he was talking to a prospective future employee, and not just a beautiful woman who was impressing him with her guts and vision.

  ‘You know what? It’s done,’ he said, regaining his composure. ‘We need to concentrate on Abbie. I’m going to call Flex, see if he’s come up with anything.’

  ‘I’ll go get us some coffee.’

  Left alone for the first time since the afternoon, Morgan took a few moments to clear his head. He took deep breaths and thought about the view from his home, the Pacific Ocean waves crashing over the rocks. Feeling centred, he dialled the number for Flex’s office.

  ‘All right, Jack?’ the muscled man answered the phone.

  ‘That depends on what you tell me,’ Morgan said, trying to sound light-hearted.

  ‘Then you’re buggered, mate, I’m afraid. No luck with anyone I’ve talked to so far.’

  ‘Someone must have employed Shaw,’ Morgan urged. ‘His last client was a private hire, as they served together, but there must be a trace of him elsewhere?’

  ‘There are a few companies who keep regular office hours, so I haven’t had a chance to call them. Could be they turn something up.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Flex.’

  ‘No problem, mate. Anything else I can help you with, before I go get some gonk?’

  ‘Gonk?’

  ‘Ha, sorry, mate. Army term for sleep. Got a big gym session in the morning. Got to rest sometime.’

  ‘Yeah, you could use some more time in the gym,’ Morgan joked. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Flex, but I have to ask it …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When you were making these calls, did you mention to anyone who was behind the questions?’

  ‘Of course not, Jack. OPSEC, mate,’ Flex answered, meaning operational security – a term common to both of the men’s services.

  ‘Thanks. I knew you wouldn’t, but the kidnapper somehow found out Private are working this,’ Morgan explained. ‘There’s a leak somewhere, so I had to ask. You know how it is.’

  ‘That I do, mate,’ Flex replied. ‘I’ll check in with you tomorrow.’

  Morgan hadn’t liked to ask a fellow security professional about a basic matter of information security – to a man of Flex’s experience, it could have been taken as deeply insulting – but Morgan was looking forward to his next phone call even less.

  ‘Your Grace?’ he said. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you.’

  ‘No,’ the Duke answered, sounding as if he’d aged a further ten years since earlier that evening. ‘No, Mr Morgan. Not while my daughter is still missing.’

  ‘We’ll get Abbie back to you safe, sir,’ Morgan promised, thinking about the savage wound to Grace’s throat.

  ‘I only hope you can, Mr Morgan,’ the Duke choked. ‘Getting the money is not … I don’t have that amount of money.’

  This wasn’t a surprise to Morgan. His operatives at the Duke’s residence had been keeping him apprised of the situation. Morgan had also dispatched Private’s experts in
insurance and financial matters to aid the Duke in raising the money, though all the risk would be borne by the Duke’s estate.

  ‘I had an idea,’ the Duke uttered cautiously.

  ‘Go ahead, sir.’

  ‘We could release the story to the media. People love Abbie. Surely they will come forward with donations to save her life?’

  Morgan dismissed the idea at once and proceeded to tell the Duke a rainbows-and-fairy-tales reason why Abbie’s story should be kept private. What he didn’t tell the terrified father was that a media campaign would likely scare the kidnapper into cutting his losses, and Abbie’s throat. With one, probably two deaths on his hands, the kidnapper was fully committed. If the Duke could not raise the ransom, then there were only two ways the abduction could end.

  Morgan would find Abbie in time, or the kidnapper would cut off her head.

  CHAPTER 19

  SEEING GRACE BECKIT’S corpse had shocked Sadie Wilkinson to a point of near collapse for the second time that night. Having sat her down and brought her water, Knight had decided he should take the publicist home.

  The drive to Wilkinson’s house had been quiet at first, the woman withdrawn into herself, her eyes wide with shock. Then Knight had remembered the publicist’s earlier comments about his exploits at the Olympic Games. Though a modest man, he was anxious to get her talking, and out of her own head.

  ‘So you saw what happened at the Olympics?’ he asked, and, slowly but surely, Wilkinson was pulled from her trance. By the time she opened the door to her stylishly decorated home, she was explaining in detail how she would have capitalised on Knight’s moment in the spotlight.

  ‘You really love your job,’ he told her.

  ‘I do,’ she agreed, seeming to be pained by her answer.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ he offered. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  Wilkinson shrugged and sat heavily on a sofa, her chin resting in the cradle of her hands.

  ‘Grace is dead,’ she stated simply.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ said Knight.

  ‘I’m not. I needed to.’

  Knight wasn’t sure what to say, but Wilkinson wasn’t finished in any case.

  ‘Life and death. It makes decisions easy, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it does. Or at least forces you to make decisions,’ he said, not enjoying the conversation, but knowing he should let the woman talk out her thoughts.

  He finished making the tea and moved to sit beside her, placing the cups on the glass table in front of them. With the keen eye of an investigator, Knight noticed the small grains of cocaine that Wilkinson had failed to clean from the table’s surface.

  ‘I don’t want tea,’ Wilkinson said after a moment of silence. ‘Sorry, Peter.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he told her with a friendly smile. ‘What can I get you?’ He hoped she wasn’t about to begin snorting lines in front of him.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said instead.

  ‘Well, is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, turning to face him. ‘I want you to fuck me.’

  Knight’s eyes widened. Looking into Wilkinson’s, he could see hers were ablaze – looking into death’s face had filled her with lust. He sat immobile, so she made the decision for him, grabbing his head with both hands and pulling him towards her, pressing her lips against his and forcing them apart with her tongue.

  ‘I can’t,’ Knight said, breaking away, his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s unprofessional.’

  Wilkinson stared at him. Looking into her eyes, he could see a woman caught between rage and sorrow.

  ‘Fuck you, then,’ she spat, before bursting into tears.

  He held her and she sobbed into his chest. She cried for a long time, Knight soothing her. As a single father of two children, and head of Private London, it wasn’t often that he enjoyed any kind of physical intimacy. Feeling Wilkinson pressed against him, Knight wondered if he needed the physical contact of another adult as much as she did.

  She lifted her red eyes to meet his.

  ‘I’m going to take a bath,’ she said.

  She got to her feet and left the room. Knight collected the cups of tea and threw their stone-cold contents into the sink. He felt terrible for the woman, whose relationship with Abbie and Grace obviously crossed the threshold from professional to friendship. With little idea of what else he could do to ease her suffering, he opened the kitchen’s fridge – perhaps bathed and with a hot meal inside of her, Wilkinson could find some rest before sunrise.

  Knight found a packet of chicken and the ingredients to make a stir fry. He looked around for a knife, but the long chopping blade was missing from the knife block. Assuming it must have been misplaced with the cutlery, he began to open drawers.

  The first gave him nothing.

  The second caused his brow to knit in surprise. Knight reached inside and took out a business card.

  It was the card of Michael ‘Flex’ Gibbon.

  CHAPTER 20

  KNIGHT TURNED THE card over in his hands, wondering for what reason a publicist would need the contact details of a man whose security company ran mercenary operations into Africa and the Middle East. It was quite possible that there was an innocent explanation, but with Abbie’s life in danger, Knight didn’t have the time to wait for it.

  He went to the bathroom.

  ‘Sadie?’ he called, knocking on the door. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  No reply came from within. Knight leaned closer, hearing the sound of running water. He looked again at the card in his hand, and then he remembered why he had found it.

  The missing knife.

  Knight let the card drop and reached for the door handle. It was locked.

  He took a step back then rammed the door with his shoulder, stumbling across the threshold as the timber splintered around the lock.

  Recovering his balance, he looked up and saw the blade beside Wilkinson.

  But she was no threat to him.

  She was no threat to anyone.

  Sadie Wilkinson was dead.

  CHAPTER 21

  NOT SINCE THE death of his beloved wife had the Duke of Aldershot felt so weary. The cancer that had taken his dear Elizabeth had been cruel and terrible, but at least he’d been able to comfort himself, however slightly, with the thought that it was a cruelty born of nature, and part of God’s holy plan. What was happening to his daughter, however, was of a malicious bearing that he could never comprehend.

  His thoughts turning inevitably to the ransom, the Duke looked at the sheaf of papers on his desk, left there by the specialists that Jack Morgan had dispatched from Private. The documents outlined strategies and detailed lenders who could possibly aid the Duke in raising the staggering ransom fee of £30 million.

  Thirty million. Even if he could raise it, the Duke knew the legacy of his family would end with the payment to the kidnapper. All of the properties and estates, built by generations of noble blood, lost at a stroke. Lost because of his daughter.

  She was not innocent in this, the Duke reminded himself. She had courted disaster. Invited it into her home. Abbie had every right to grieve for her mother, but she was a royal and had failed the test when it came to acting like one.

  No, she was not innocent.

  His bones aching from weariness and anxiety, the Duke crossed his mahogany-clad office, coming to stand in front of a framed photograph that held pride of place in the centre of the wall.

  It had been taken twenty-six years ago, and the Duke studied the lines of soldiers who stood and kneeled in ranks, many sporting moustaches, the younger Duke’s own nothing but a pathetic pencil line. It had been a dangerous time in Northern Ireland, and the Duke had revelled in the challenge. Standing beside him was Sergeant Aaron Shaw.

  The Duke swallowed. Shaw had always been his man – solid, unflappable. It grieved him that his sergeant had survived the Troubl
es in Ireland, only to die protecting his daughter. The bond between officer and NCO could never have been described as friendship, but there was a deep-rooted respect and understanding born from comradeship. They had relied upon one another, and so, on learning of Shaw’s very likely passing, the Duke had imagined that he would be saddened.

  He wasn’t. He was only angry. So many people had let him down.

  The Duke moved to his desk, his sagging body almost disappearing into the depths of the high-backed chair as he sat. He was exhausted. He was finished.

  Worse yet, his family was finished.

  He heard a commotion in the corridor. He knew who it would be. He had expected him to arrive sooner and for the endgame to be played out, for the man’s coming could only mean one thing – the Duke was doomed.

  And so was his daughter.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE DUKE’S OFFICE door opened so violently that it almost came off its hinges.

  Morgan was the cause, his handsome face darkened with a snarl as he stormed in with Knight and Cook behind him.

  The Duke’s grey face showed no sign of alarm as Morgan slammed a piece of paper onto the mahogany desk.

  ‘This is for you, Your Grace,’ he growled.

  The Duke looked from the note to Morgan. Then tears began to roll down his sallow cheeks.

  ‘I don’t want to read it,’ he choked.

  ‘Then I will,’ Morgan declared and snatched up the paper. ‘It’s pretty concise, because Sadie Wilkinson was in a hurry to take her own life.’

  A groan from the Duke confirmed that this had been his fear.

  ‘That’s right,’ Morgan told him. ‘Wilkinson is dead, and so is Grace Beckit. Now we know why.’

  As the eyes of Knight and Cook burned into the Duke, Morgan went on to read Wilkinson’s confession. Desperate to salvage Abbie’s image in the public eye, the Duke and Wilkinson had dreamed up the idea of a staged kidnapping. It had been Wilkinson’s suggestion that the young royal would have been released during the Trooping the Colour parade for maximum exposure, the contrast of a dishevelled and abused young woman against a strong and regimented military force a stroke of PR genius. Abbie had been ignorant of the plot, just as Wilkinson had been ignorant of the true danger of the stunt. She’d had no idea how Grace had become involved, but seeing her body had been too much for her. Wilkinson had not been able to live with the guilt.