Princess: A Private Novel

by James Patterson

  “Everything all right?” a police officer asked, seeing Knight’s melancholy.

  “All good,” he lied.

  “Look, doesn’t sound like there was any other choice,” the officer comforted the Private agent, empathizing with him. “I just finished interviewing your man in there, and he says that you saved his life.”

  “Still…”

  “No one said our jobs are easy.” The policeman shrugged. “He’s all yours if you want to talk to him.”

  Knight gave his thanks to the officer, took one last look at the ambulance and walked back into the house. He found Mayoor Patel in the kitchen, the tea in his hand almost sent spilling as he got to his feet quickly at the sight of Knight.

  “Mate, thank you so much, yeah.” Mayoor Patel spoke with an energized London accent. “You saved my life, mate. Listen. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, you’ve got it. Anything, yeah.”

  “Thanks. I’m Peter Knight.”

  “Mayoor Patel.”

  “Do you mind if I sit down with you, Mayoor?”

  “Course not. You want a tea? Or a beer? We could go out for a drink if you want, yeah? I owe you my life, mate.”

  “Tea will be good, thanks.”

  Knight watched as Patel quickly fussed over the brew and brought it to the table. “I’m all out of biscuits, mate,” Patel apologized, sitting down.

  “That’s OK. I just want to ask you a few things, if that’s OK?”

  “What, like questions?”

  Knight nodded, and a frown grew on Patel’s face. “I already spoke with the police.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Knight explained. “I was following Eliza when she attacked you. Anything you could help me learn about her would help.”

  “Oh… well, yeah. Happy to help.”

  “So how do you know each other?”

  “We work together, yeah. Sometimes, anyway. I’m at a hedge fund, and we have some mutual interests.”

  “Would one of those mutual interests be Sophie Edwards?” Knight asked, leaning back into his chair.

  For a moment Patel said nothing. Knight tried to decide if his wide eyes were a symptom of confusion, or fear.

  “Sophie?” the man managed after a moment.

  Knight nodded.

  “She’s my girlfriend,” Patel explained. “What’s she got to do with Eliza?”

  “They were at LSE together.”

  “So were a lot of the City,” he shrugged, referring to London’s financial sector.

  “That’s true. But Eliza came to your house with a knife and was screaming ‘where is she?’ Is she talking about Sophie?”

  “If you’re not police, I don’t have to talk to you, do I?”

  “You don’t. But I can ask them to come back in if you like?”

  Patel said nothing.

  “I saved your life, Mayoor,” Knight went on. “Why would I do that if I wasn’t on your side?”

  The man thought that over. “Listen, yeah. Soph is a free spirit. She comes when she wants, she goes when she wants. I don’t know where she is now, and I definitely have no fucking idea why that information is worth stabbing me for.”

  “When was the last time you heard from Sophie?”

  “Couple days ago.” Patel shrugged again. “Like I said, she’s a free spirit. Can I use the bathroom before we keep going with this? I’ve had two teas now and I was already close to pissing myself when she pulled that knife.”

  Knight’s eyes narrowed a little in suspicion.

  “It’s right there.” Patel pointed to a door adjoining the kitchen, and Knight was able to see that it was central to the house.

  “It’s your home.”

  Knight watched as the man opened the door, a quick look satisfying him that it was a small bathroom and nothing else.

  “Peter,” the policeman said, poking his head inside the kitchen. “We’re going to leave now if you don’t need us.”

  “All good.” Both men tried not to laugh as the sound of loose bowels emanated from the bathroom.

  “Can’t really blame him,” the officer said. “It was a big knife. See you soon, Peter.”

  Knight said his goodbyes. Looking for a distraction from the noises coming from the bathroom, he got to his feet and began to pace the kitchen. There were photos of Sophie Edwards and Mayoor Patel dotted about, some stuck to the fridge with magnets, others framed and placed on work surfaces.

  He noticed that one of the framed photos was turned facedown. He lifted it and saw a smiling Patel and Sophie standing beside a waterfall. The picture was so calm and idyllic that for a moment, Knight swore he could hear running water.

  And then he remembered Jack’s description of where Sophie’s body had been found.

  He turned toward the bathroom, but it was too late. The door was open and Mayoor Patel was a half-step away from him—and there was something in his hands.

  Then, for Knight, there was darkness.

  Chapter 43

  LIGHT BEGAN TO seep beneath struggling eyelids. It pained Peter Knight to open his eyes, but a voice in his head told him—screamed at him—to get up. He was alive, but he could still be in danger. He had to wake up, get up, and be ready to defend himself.

  He rolled onto his front and felt a mouthful of hot blood gush over his lips and onto the floor. With his eyes open, he could see that he had been knocked to the ground of Mayoor Patel’s kitchen, but of the man there was no sign. Two broken pieces of ceramic lay beside him—the toilet’s cistern lid that must have been Patel’s weapon—and Knight knew he was lucky to be alive.

  His head throbbing and mouth aching, he pushed himself up onto his knees, feeling his pockets. His phone was still there. The fact that Patel had left it suggested to Knight that he was out of his depth, acting on terrified instinct rather than cold-planned killing.

  Knight hit his speed dial.

  “Jack,” he croaked, wiping away blood with the back of his hand.

  “Peter, are you OK?”

  “Patel knocked me out,” Knight admitted, shame burning every inch of his skin. “I’m sorry, Jack. He got away.”

  “Why would he attack you?” Jack Morgan asked.

  Knight picked up the photograph of Sophie and Patel in front of the waterfall. “I think he killed Sophie. There was a photo of them together where you found her. It was turned facedown.”

  “He couldn’t look at it,” Morgan guessed. “But why keep it?”

  “Maybe because he didn’t want her friends to be suspicious if they came by?” Knight suggested. “Or he kept it because to hide the evidence would be an admission of his guilt he wasn’t willing to make, even to himself. He doesn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer, Jack. I think he killed Sophie, but I’m almost certain it was a crime of passion. When I saw him cornered by Eliza, there wasn’t an ounce of aggression in him. He was terrified.”

  “Don’t sleep on this guy, Peter. For all we know, he thought you were dead when he put you down. We need to find this bastard, and soon.”

  Knight knew the same, and began a frantic search of Patel’s home for clues. “Stay on the line while I take a look around,” he told Morgan.

  “Go to his office, or whatever he has that passes as one,” Morgan instructed. “Look for a passport. We need to know if he’s trying to jump the country.”

  Knight found the office at the top of the stairs. He began pulling out the drawers of Patel’s desk, dumping their contents out on the floor and searching through. “No sign of a passport.”

  “Check his closet,” Morgan suggested, and Knight ran to the bedroom, flinging open a door to a walk-in wardrobe—there was a large section of clothes missing in a chunk from the railing, and more on the floor.

  “He grabbed a load of clothes in a hurry,” Knight informed Morgan. “He’s not coming back. Can we stop him at the airports?”

  “Not a chance. He’s only a suspect to us, not to the law. Either we stop him, Peter, or no one does.”

 
; There was silence on the line as both men contemplated that likely and sickening possibility.

  It was Knight who broke it.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  Chapter 44

  JACK MORGAN PACED outside the school with the phone held to his ear. The line had been silent for almost five minutes while Knight carried out his plan. Morgan thought it was a long shot at best and was readying himself for the news that Knight had come up empty-handed from his inglorious task—Knight had emptied the contents of Patel’s trash on the pavement and was rummaging through it for clues. Knight’s reasoning was that Sophie’s death had occurred within days and that the bins were full. They probably hadn’t been emptied since it happened. Knight didn’t expect he’d find evidence of a murder in such a place, but there might be a suggestion as to the destination Patel could be looking to escape to.

  “I’ve got it!” Knight shouted victoriously down the line. “I’ve got something, Jack!”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a torn-up letter. I found all three pieces. It’s thanking Patel for opening a safety deposit box at a bank in Staines.”

  “Staines?” the American asked.

  “It’s close to Heathrow!”

  Morgan understood the implications at once—a safety deposit box opened within days of the murder of Sophie Edwards, a few minutes from one of the world’s busiest airports.

  “How long to get there from where you are?” Morgan asked, feeling his pulse quicken.

  “No more than ninety minutes,” Knight replied. “He’s got at least an hour’s head start on us, Jack.”

  “OK, send me the address and I’ll head there too… And Peter, contact your sister-in-law at the Met. Beg her, lie to her, do whatever, but we need surveillance at every train station within a three-mile radius of that bank, and the bank itself.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Knight promised. “Why three miles?”

  “Patel hasn’t planned any of this well, but he may be smart enough to not get off at the nearest station.”

  “But what if he gets a cab, or a bus?” Knight asked.

  “There’s nothing we can do about that. I’m sending Cook to your location. She’s too far out to make it to the bank ahead of us, but she can secure Patel’s place ready for the police investigation.”

  “OK, Jack. I’m running to the nearest station now. I’ll lose signal on the Tube, so I guess I’ll see you there.”

  Morgan hung up and walked back inside the school. He found De Villiers waiting for him by the entrance.

  “Trouble?” the Colonel guessed.

  “Not for long,” Morgan replied. “I need to use the Princess’s helicopter.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Morgan shook his head. “It’s totally possible, Colonel. And it’s going to happen.”

  “It is?” De Villiers snorted.

  “It is.” Morgan smiled. “Or you can explain to the Princess why Sophie’s killer escaped.”

  Chapter 45

  MAYOOR PATEL ENTERED the bank less than ten minutes after Jack Morgan had ended his call with Peter Knight. He was inside for twenty minutes more, during which time he collected his passport and money that he had deposited there should he be forced into fleeing the country. That eventuality was now a reality, and Patel had surprised himself at the level of calm he had shown since it had become apparent that London could no longer be his home.

  It hadn’t begun that way. When the private investigator had questioned him regarding Sophie’s whereabouts, it was all Patel could do not to lose control of his bowels right there and then at the kitchen table. Having locked himself in the bathroom, he had been afforded some moments to think, and the answer to his problem had been both obvious and terrifying: he had to kill the investigator, and escape.

  That was easier said than done. Patel had had no weapon and he was certainly no fighter. It was only after a thorough search of the bathroom that he’d settled upon the cistern’s ceramic lid, and even then Patel had almost scuffed the plan, his sweaty hands barely able to hold the shiny porcelain.

  But then he had thought of the alternative to carrying through his attack: prison. Mayoor Patel was self-aware enough to know that he was not a hard man, nor could he ever become one. Prison for him would be a series of beatings and rapes. He knew that he would kill himself before his first year was served. The only way to avoid that fate was to kill one more person.

  He had been crying when he swung the ceramic at Knight’s head. They were tears of fear, anger and frustration. When Knight had crumpled to the floor, Patel had laughed in relief. The man was unconscious, but alive! He would not have the investigator’s blood on his hands, and that was part of the reason he felt so calm. The other was that he knew he could not be stopped. By the time the investigator regained consciousness, it would be too late. Patel would be on his way. His first stop would be India, where any man could lose himself and buy a new identity. Then perhaps the Maldives. God knows he needed a place where his mind and soul could recover.

  With the thought of white sandy beaches and clear blue ocean in mind, Patel did not pay much attention to the man who dropped his credit card as he walked toward the bank’s ATM and crouched to pick it up. In fact, the first time he really became aware of the figure was when that man sprang forward from his kneeling position and barreled into him, picking up Patel in a double-leg takedown and driving him into the pavement.

  “Help!” Patel shouted as he was rolled onto his front and his arms were pulled up sharply behind his back. “I’m being robbed! Help me!”

  And help did come. It came from a tall man who ran across the street, his gaunt face drawn into a grim expression.

  But Patel’s stomach dropped when his attacker turned to address the tall man.

  “Good of you to join me, De Villiers,” the attacker said.

  “Is this him, Jack?” De Villiers asked.

  “It is,” said the man pinning Patel to the ground.

  De Villiers waved and two men came running to join them.

  “Arrest this man for the assault of Peter Knight.”

  Chapter 46

  ALL WAS QUIET in interview room number four of the Staines police station. Mayoor Patel sat on one side of the cheap metal table, Jack Morgan on the other. In the room’s corner stood the stern-faced police officer who had placed Patel under arrest.

  “I’m charged with assault?” Patel addressed the officer, who only nodded back. “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else,” the officer confirmed.

  “Then I think I want my—”

  Morgan’s fist slammed onto the table to cut off Patel’s request for a lawyer, the violence sending the Londoner shooting back in his seat.

  “Before that, I have a few things for you to consider.”

  Patel swallowed what seemed to be a football in his throat. Morgan’s face was a blank mask, but his eyes burned into Patel’s like dry ice.

  “Who are you?” the arrested man finally managed.

  “My name is Jack Morgan. I’m a private investigator.”

  “You’re here because I hit your friend,” Patel mumbled.

  “I’m here because you killed Sophie Edwards,” Morgan corrected him. “And I need to know why.”

  Patel’s eyes widened and he quickly looked to the officer in the corner of the room, then back to Morgan, but said nothing.

  “You see, Mayoor, you’re in here because you were arrested for the assault of Peter Knight, my colleague. Nothing else. There are no other witnesses, so if Peter drops his charges against you you’ll be a free man. Free to go. Free to walk the streets, where bad things can happen.”

  “You’re threatening me,” Patel managed, beginning to sweat.

  “I’m just telling you how things are out there.” Morgan shrugged. “Bad things happen to good people.” He smiled. “And really bad things happen to bad people.”

  “What do you want?” Patel almost whimpered.

  “What
happened to Sophie?” Morgan asked, his voice as calm as a dead sea. “You’ll be charged with her murder, Patel, but prison can be a safe place with the right people looking out for you. Or prison can be a very, very unsafe place.”

  It was too much for Patel. He was an intelligent man, and he could see he was out of choices. He burst into tears.

  “What… what happens if I tell you?” he muttered between sobs.

  “That’s up to the system, not me,” Morgan told him. “The truth is all I want. Tell me what happened, Mayoor. Take the easy way out of this, and talk.”

  “I’ll talk,” Patel promised.

  And he did.

  He told Morgan how he had met Sophie, the life and soul of the party. He told him how he had fallen for her, and the pair had begun to see each other outside of house parties and clubs. The rules of their relationship were looser than most, but it was London in 2018, and Mayoor Patel enjoyed his own freedoms.

  “I didn’t have a problem sharing her physically,” the man admitted. “It’s just sex, yeah? But when I thought she was seeing someone else. When I thought it was emotional…”

  “You got jealous?”

  Patel had, and had begun to trail Sophie, eventually leading him to Sir Tony Lightwood and the Mistral hotel.

  “Soph told me that it was strictly business. The truth is, the fact that she was an escort hurt me a lot less than if she was in love with someone else.”

  “But you needed to make sure?” Morgan pushed. “You needed to know she was loyal only to you.”

  “The blackmail was my idea,” Patel admitted, his head hanging on his chest. “I didn’t need the money, I just needed to know she would do it for me. That she was mine where it mattered,” he said, touching his heart, “and no one else’s.”

  “But she wasn’t, was she?”

  For a moment there was only the sound of crying. Then Patel looked into Morgan’s face, tears thick in his red eyes.

  “A fucking princess, yeah?” He shook his head. “At first I thought Soph was a genius. How much would they pay to cover that up? But then she… she…”