Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller)

by James Patterson

  The Duke said nothing, and seemed to shrink at the sight of the building in front of them.

  ‘It’s OK, sir. The sooner you take us inside, the sooner we can make sure your daughter’s safe.’

  Morgan wanted to reassure the Duke. But once they’d entered the building and gone into the penthouse apartment, he feared he may have spoken too soon.

  The room was awash with blood.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ Hooligan exclaimed before catching himself. ‘I’ll get to work on some samples then, shall I?’

  ‘Do it,’ Morgan agreed, then turned to Knight. ‘Peter. Elaine still at Scotland Yard?’ Elaine was the sister of Knight’s deceased wife, and was a well-respected inspector on London’s Metropolitan Police Force.

  ‘Want me to call it in?’

  ‘No police!’ the Duke said urgently, coming alive. ‘He’ll kill her!’ He pointed a shaking finger at the kitchen countertop.

  Morgan stepped carefully to it, and cast his eyes over the granite.

  A message had been scrawled in blood:

  ‘I HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER.’

  CHAPTER 5

  MORGAN AND KNIGHT stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the rows of moored boats beneath them, millions of pounds’ worth of pleasure craft sitting gently on the water.

  ‘He’s right about the police,’ Morgan sighed, leaning against the railing. ‘We bring them in, Abbie’s chances of making it out alive go down big time.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Knight mused. ‘But this isn’t Mexico, Jack. Nobody’s going to tip off the kidnappers.’

  ‘It’s not our call to make, Pete.’

  ‘This doesn’t hit me as a normal kidnapping though.’ Knight shook his head. ‘A royal gets taken the night before Trooping the Colour? Seems like more than a coincidence. But why not take a royal who’s more prominent? Abbie’s pretty distant to the throne.’

  ‘Did you see some of those photos inside?’ Morgan asked. Abbie’s apartment was full of frames of her on the arms of A-list celebrities. ‘She’s had the media attention to make her as known to the public as the inner circle of the royal family, but she only has a fraction of the security. Her dad says she has one bodyguard, and he’s not even with her twenty-four–seven.’

  ‘Kidnapping a royal the easy way,’ Knight summed up.

  The pair lapsed into silence, minds churning over the reasons why Abbie Winchester would be the target of a kidnap, and the solutions to retrieve her safely.

  ‘The Duke was explicit that he didn’t want the police involved,’ Knight thought aloud, ‘but Trooping the Colour is the army’s baby. We can keep them in the loop, in case this is all connected, without breaking our contract to him.’

  ‘A liaison.’ Morgan nodded, liking the idea, and then smiling as the candidate for the position became clear. ‘You know who I’m thinking of, don’t you?’

  Knight did. He flicked through the contacts in his phone and handed it over to Jack. ‘She can be the army’s eyes and ears, but if she wants to come work for us, then we don’t need to worry about her stepping on our toes.’

  Morgan nodded in agreement as he dialled the number and spoke into the phone. ‘This is Jack Morgan. Are you ready for your assessment?’

  CHAPTER 6

  THE DUKE SAT alone in the Range Rover’s back seat, gazing through the window at nothing. Up front, Morgan powered up a tablet as Knight drove them back across the city to Private HQ.

  ‘The office has sent us the packet on Abbie,’ Morgan said quietly to Knight. This was the initial dossier Private staff had compiled on the victim. A quick glance at the content told Morgan it was best he share the rest with Knight when they were not in the presence of the girl’s father, and so he read on in silence.

  Twenty-five-year-old Abbie Winchester was cousin to the popular future king of the United Kingdom, and had once been the model royal, heavily involved in charity work the world over. Then, three years ago, Abbie’s mother had died from breast cancer, and the daughter had quickly slid into the role of the party girl, pictured blitzed drunk from St Tropez to Dubai. The tabloids loved her in the way that they loved all train wrecks, and Abbie soon became synonymous with excess and hedonism, leaving a trail of rock- and sports-star lovers in her wake.

  Naturally, the charities with which Abbie had done so much good work had ditched her quickly to avoid tarnishing their own images. The royal family had been more discreet in their handling of matters but, slowly and surely, they had distanced themselves from the wayward young woman.

  Morgan asked the Duke if he and his family had been invited to the Trooping the Colour ceremony.

  ‘Yes,’ the Duke replied, turning to face him, his distraught mind still sharp enough to read the unspoken question in the American’s eyes. ‘They can’t keep us away from everything. That’s why I had gone to her apartment, to see that she was all ready for the morning.’

  ‘You said she had a bodyguard, sir?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Bodyguard and chaperone. He was supposed to be there tonight, to keep an eye on her. He’s been off a lot recently, some kind of virus that left him ghastly and weak, but he called my secretary this evening to check in, and to confirm that he would be with her.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Aaron Shaw. He served under me as troop sergeant. Household Cavalry.’

  ‘You were in the army?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘It’s expected. In my bloodline,’ the Duke answered with a shrug, finding some focus with the distraction of conversation. ‘Shaw’s a fine man. Never let me down, not once. He’d die for my family.’

  Morgan managed a weak smile. ‘I hope it won’t come to that, sir,’ he told the Duke.

  But remembering the amount of blood in the apartment, Jack knew that may have happened already.

  CHAPTER 7

  ABBIE OPENED HER eyes.

  She knew instantly that she was on a comedown. Her skull felt as if it were packed with candyfloss; her lips were dry and cracked. She pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping she might find some kind of fruit juice and vodka to take away the edge – her usual comedown cure.

  Instead, she found herself somewhere she didn’t recognise.

  There were four walls, but no windows or doors. The walls, ceiling and floor all seemed to be covered in the same swirling pattern. Abbie laughed, happy that she must still be tripping. The comedown could wait.

  She looked more closely at the content of her lucid dream. She was on a single bed with a thin mattress. It was the only furniture in the room, but on the floor was a collection of bottles, a tray of sandwiches and a silver plate. Abbie moved towards it and was glad to see that it was loaded with powder. She took a noseful, and the tang of it hit her in the back of the throat. She sank back onto the bed and noticed a black object on the swirling ceiling.

  As she drifted into the comfort of the ketamine, she had no idea that the black object was a camera.

  CHAPTER 8

  HAVING LEFT THE Duke at his central London residence under the watch of two Private employees, Knight pulled the Range Rover to a stop outside Private HQ. No sooner had they climbed out than Jane Cook appeared from within and strode purposefully towards them.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she told Morgan.

  ‘You’re not,’ he answered with a smile, taking in Cook’s trouser suit.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, and Morgan paused before answering – Cook looked fantastic, but he brought his mind back to the task at hand.

  ‘You look like a cop,’ he told her, then pointed to his own outfit of jeans and a dark hooded jacket.

  ‘Pays to not stand out,’ Knight added, knowing that Cook would turn heads regardless of what she wore.

  ‘I’ll go change,’ she said.

  ‘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 expl
ained, 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.’