Read Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller) Online

Authors: James Patterson

Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Suspense, #Crime Fiction, #Private Investigators, #Thrillers

Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller) (3 page)

BOOK: Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller)
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‘No time,’ Morgan said, taking the keys from Knight. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘OK. Where to?’

‘There was a bodyguard with Abbie, so we’re going to check out his place. We can find you a new wardrobe as and when,’ Morgan explained, then tossed her the Range Rover’s keys. ‘And you’re driving.’

With Morgan and Cook heading out into the relative calm of London’s Friday-night traffic, Knight waited for Hooligan to arrive in the van. Sensing that the night would be a long one, he made use of the moment of peace to call his children’s babysitter, who had luckily been booked to cover Knight for his cocktail evening with Morgan.

‘Been talkin’ to the little ’uns?’ Hooligan asked a few minutes later as he climbed from the transit van. ‘Always got a big grin on ya mug when ya do.’

‘When you have kids, you’ll understand, mate,’ Knight laughed.

The scruffy geek shook his head, affronted by the idea. ‘Can’t tie this body down to one bird, son. Be a crime.’

‘You’re a real giver, Hooligan.’

The men carried the boxes of evidence inside the building and into Hooligan’s state-of-the-art lab.

‘How long will it take to come back with results from the blood samples we took from the scene?’ Knight asked.

‘Could be an hour, could be never.’ Hooligan shrugged. ‘The Duke gave me a sample of his royal DNA, so if it’s his daughter, then we should know pretty sharpish.’

‘And the bodyguard? He seems like the most likely donor.’

‘He ex-military? See if your liaison can pull some strings and get his records. Either that or something with DNA from his place.’

‘The military keep DNA records?’ Knight asked.

‘Identifying body parts,’ Hooligan explained.

Knight promised he would do what he could, and left the London native to work his magic. Until the kidnappers called there was little Knight could do but try to build up as detailed a picture as possible of Abbie’s life. To that end, he invited a guest into the office.

‘Sadie Wilkinson,’ announced a hawk-faced woman in her mid-thirties as she walked into Private’s secure reception area.

‘Peter Knight.’

‘I know exactly who you are, Mr Knight. I watched the footage of you taking down Cronus at the Olympics closing ceremony.’

‘Oh.’

‘You know, with me and the right agent, we could have made you rich.’

‘Unfortunately, Mrs Wilkinson—’

‘Miss.’


Miss
Wilkinson. Unfortunately, I didn’t ask you in at this hour for my own benefit. I asked you because you’re Abbie Winchester’s publicist.’

‘That you did, and I must say I’m intrigued. So, why am I here?’

‘Abbie’s been kidnapped,’ Knight told her straight, instantly regretting his blunt approach – because Miss Wilkinson fell into his arms.

CHAPTER 9

AS THE RANGE
Rover crossed Tower Bridge to the southern bank of the Thames, Morgan’s phone began to vibrate.

‘HQ,’ he told Cook, then answered the call through the car’s Bluetooth connection.

‘Boss, it’s Hooligan. Got an unknown number calling the Duke’s line now. I’m patching you.’

Morgan looked over at Cook behind the wheel. There was no sign of apprehension there, her eyes on the traffic, hands resting lightly on the controls.

‘Hello?’ said the Duke, his voice edged with fear. The voice that answered him was cold and metallic – the kidnapper was using a filter.

‘Let’s keep this very simple, Duke. I have your daughter, and if you don’t want to see her head thrown in front of the cameras at Trooping the Colour, then I want thirty million by eleven a.m. tomorrow morning.’

‘Thirty million?’ the Duke gasped.

‘Or her head goes bouncing in front of the cameras, and everyone around the world will get to see it. Understand?’

‘I understand.’ The Duke paused a moment. ‘What about her bodyguard? What have you done with him?’ Morgan nodded in approval – he had instructed the Private men on the scene to ensure the Duke asked that question.

‘Operators aren’t my concern,’ the cold voice uttered. ‘Spoilt little daughters are. Eleven hundred hours, thirty million in notes, or her head.’

The line went dead.

‘Take us off conference,’ Morgan instructed. ‘Hooligan, you still with me?’

‘Yeah, just you and me, boss.’

‘Send me a recording of the call, will you?’

‘I’ll do it now.’

‘What did you get from that?’ Morgan asked Cook as he hung up the call and waited for the recording.

‘The kidnapper used “I”,’ Cook answered. ‘I think we’re dealing with one man.’

‘Why a man?’

‘Even with the filter on the voice, there was no way that was a woman.’

Morgan nodded his agreement. Moments later Hooligan delivered the recording of the call. Morgan opened the audio file and listened to the kidnapper’s chilling words over and over.

‘Something wrong?’ Cook asked, seeing Morgan’s eyes narrow and his shoulders tighten.

‘Change of plan,’ he told her, confirming that something
was
wrong. ‘We’re not going to the bodyguard’s place. I’ll have Peter send one of his guys there instead.’

‘OK. So where to for us?’

‘Horse Guards.’

CHAPTER 10

KNIGHT PUSHED OPEN
the door to Hooligan’s lab. ‘What did I miss?’

‘Oh, only the kidnapper calling. Where have you been?’

‘Don’t ask.’ Knight shook his head.

But the East Ender asked again anyway.

‘Abbie’s publicist came in to help me build background on her,’ said Knight. ‘She’d know the darker parts of Abbie’s life that her father wouldn’t.’

‘She would?’

‘Half of a publicist’s job is covering things up, or at least glossing them over,’ Knight explained.

‘Did she help?’

‘Not really. She fainted into my arms.’

Hooligan smiled. ‘You’re getting as bad as the boss.’

Knight ignored the comment. ‘What have we got on the bloods?’

‘Bad news for the bodyguard. Looks like the bulk of the blood is his. Matched his military records that Cook got for us. There must have been six or seven pints of it.’

‘He’d never survive that.’

‘Nope. I’m afraid the bodyguard’s brown bread.’

‘Anything turn up at his place?’ asked Knight.

‘Seemed to live a sanitary life. Some dirty gym clothes in the wash basket. No computer equipment that we could take a sneaky look at.’

‘What else have you got?’

‘A few strands of cotton in the blood pool,’ said Hooligan. ‘Look like they were cut with a serrated edge. Most likely a hunting knife.’

Knight looked at the slides Hooligan projected onto the wall, seeing the frayed fibres.

‘That much blood, the blade must have severed an artery.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Hooligan agreed. ‘But there was no arterial spray in the penthouse. A wound like that’s usually a wild hosepipe.’

‘Armpit?’ Knight suggested, remembering cases he’d seen from his time at the Old Bailey. ‘Stand up,’ he instructed Hooligan. ‘Now, say I’m coming at you with a blade and I go for your chest. What’s your natural instinct?’

‘I lift my arm to protect myself,’ Hooligan answered.

‘Exactly, and my blade goes into your armpit and hits the subclavian artery. Then, your natural reaction will be to bring your arm back down again, covering the wound and causing the blood to pool on the floor, rather than spurt all over the walls and furniture.’

‘That makes sense,’ Hooligan admitted.

‘You said the bulk of the blood is from the bodyguard,’ Knight said.

‘There was a second set of markers in one of my samples. Definitely from a different person,’ Hooligan explained.

‘Who?’

‘A female, and cross-checking it against her father’s sample, it’s not Abbie. Have we got a female kidnapper?’

Knight shook his head. ‘I think we’ve got a second hostage.’

CHAPTER 11

JACK MORGAN STOOD
alone on the Victoria Embankment of the River Thames. He was beneath the Royal Air Force memorial, the gilded eagle glinting in the sun as the last light of the balmy June evening finally died. The London Eye twinkled on the opposite bank.

‘Mr Morgan.’ Colonel De Villiers greeted him with the minimum courtesy his aristocratic upbringing would allow. ‘I trust you have a good reason to interrupt my preparations for tomorrow’s parade.’

‘The best reason, Colonel,’ Morgan replied, remaining civil for the sake of Abbie. ‘To save lives.’

‘Major Cook said as much on the phone, which is why I’m here.’

‘And I appreciate your time.’

‘I find most Americans to be direct, Mr Morgan. Would you be so good as to tell me what this is about?’

Morgan was happy to oblige, his manner calm. ‘Abbie Winchester has been kidnapped, and will be killed during tomorrow’s parade if a ransom is not paid.’

‘According to whom?’ De Villiers asked, dismissively.

‘Her kidnapper.’

‘Who is?’

‘We’re working on that,’ Morgan answered, holding the Colonel’s disdainful stare.

‘By “we”, I imagine you mean Private, otherwise I would be having this conversation with the police, as would be proper. However, I suppose it is the Duke’s money to throw away as he likes.’

‘Who you are talking to isn’t the important part, Colonel.’ Morgan spoke evenly, restraining the urge to shake the sneer from the man’s empty skull.

De Villiers smiled and looked out over the Thames as he answered, perhaps wishing he could throw the American into its waters. ‘Mr Morgan, I have worked closely with the royal family for the past two years. Abbie Winchester is a drunken slut and an embarrassment. No doubt this whole ploy is some kind of attention-grabbing exercise of hers to get into the tabloids. I shan’t be a party to it.’

‘There was blood at the scene, Colonel,’ Morgan revealed. ‘Enough to suggest the person it came from is dead.’

He expected the revelation to hit home, hard. Instead, De Villiers merely shrugged.

‘Then perhaps she finally pissed off the wrong drug dealer or fucked the wrong brain-dead rock star,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t pretend to know what goes on inside that girl’s head, Mr Morgan, but I do know that it is no concern of mine – the security of the inner circle of the royal family is, and my focus is on tomorrow’s parade. Good evening, Mr Morgan. I have a final planning meeting to attend.’

‘You may want to revisit those plans, Colonel,’ Morgan told him, his patience at an end and his tone hardening.

‘Oh really, Mr Morgan? And why is that?’

Morgan thought of holding back the information, but the life of Abbie Winchester had to come before his dislike of De Villiers, and so he told the officer the reason why. ‘Because the man whose blood it is was from your own ranks.’

CHAPTER 12

REJOINING COOK IN
the Range Rover, Morgan instructed the soldier to follow the Thames along its northern bank. ‘Head towards the Tower of London.’

On the way, Cook asked, ‘You think this is all a smokescreen for a heist?’ referring to the precious Crown jewels held within the Tower’s walls.

Morgan shook his head. ‘No, but I like your lateral thinking. We’re going to see an acquaintance of mine. An ex-SAS guy known as Flex. Falklands and Desert Storm vet. You know him?’

‘Those guys stick to themselves.’

As they neared the Tower of London, Morgan told her, ‘Flex runs a private security firm now.’ He pointed Cook in the direction she should drive.

‘So he’s your business rival?’

‘Not really. Cases like Abbie, people come to Private. If someone wants mercenaries for Africa, or an escort into Syria, they go to Flex.’

‘And it’s all above board?’

‘You tell me.’ Morgan smiled, eyeing the half-dozen Bentleys and Aston Martins in the security firm’s underground garage.

‘He buys British, at least,’ Cook offered as they walked towards reception. ‘Won’t he be back at home at this time?’ she asked, glancing at her watch. It was coming up to midnight.

‘He lives here. Hates to commute, and he has people in every time zone.’

‘Why would someone want to live in their office?’

‘You’ll see.’

And after a thorough security check, and a twenty-storey ride in a lift, Cook did. The office’s view was breathtaking: the building looked out over the iconic features of Tower Bridge, HMS
Belfast
and the Shard on the opposite side of the Thames.

The sight of Michael ‘Flex’ Gibbon was almost as impressive. Standing at five foot eight, Flex was a fifty-year-old muscle-bound mass who looked as if he’d been carved from granite.

‘Jack!’ he said, taking Morgan’s hand in his vice-like grip. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, looking at Cook.

‘Good to see you, Flex,’ said Morgan. ‘This is Major Jane Cook.’

‘Major?’ Flex asked, surprised. ‘You look more like a cop,’ he told her, taking in the trouser suit and causing Morgan to break into an ‘I told you so’ smile.

‘So, I imagine it’s business at this hour?’ the big man said.

‘It is.’ Morgan nodded. ‘Hope we didn’t wake you up.’

‘Not at all, mate. Just got off the phone to Nairobi. All going to shit down there – again. I took the kids on holiday there once. Can you believe that? Now look at it. Bloody savages, all of them, but they keep a man in business.’

‘Business is good?’

Flex shrugged his mountainous shoulders. ‘The glory days have gone, mate. Too many companies now, and too many ex-soldiers with war in their heads who can’t settle into working a civvie job. Everyone’s undercutting everyone. Times are tight, so I hope you’re not here for a loan.’

Morgan laughed. ‘It’s a personnel matter, actually.’

‘Oh? I’d be happy to subcontract guys to you, Jack. You know I only take on the best.’

Morgan shook his head. ‘I’m working a kidnapping,’ he explained, ‘and something the kidnapper said has me thinking he may have crossed your path at some point.’

‘Go on?’

‘He used the word “operator” in the ransom call to describe the bodyguard. That’s a term only someone in our circles would use.’

Flex nodded in agreement. ‘Private military contractors are usually known as operators, yeah, but still, I don’t see how that can really help you, Jack. There’s hundreds of thousands of guys working this kind of gig now, from all over the world.’

BOOK: Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller)
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