James Patterson - Private London

All I managed to do, however, was chase away my wife, my family, my friends.

Like I say, it’s a familiar story, not one I’m proud of. Not one I beat myself up over, either.

Look closely at who most of the homeless in London are, or at those who are languishing in prisons when they should be in hospitals. Military men and women who had given more than they were asked in service to their country and got short shrift for change.

I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t end up freezing to death on a West End backstreet while the civilians walked by with their gazes averted. Eventually I came to terms with things. I realised I was carrying the guilt like a lame man who’d been cured hanging on to a walking stick that he no longer needed. But it wasn’t my guilt to carry and so I tossed it down and started living again. I went back into work. I turned my life around.

But not in time to save my marriage.

On cue, like the devil you speak of, my ex-wife turned the corner of the corridor at that moment and walked towards us.

My hand flew guiltily away from Alison’s. Stupid, I know, but it was a knee-jerk reaction and I could see that Kirsty had noticed it. Some emotion was playing in her eyes – was it a frown or was it a smile? I couldn’t tell. Maybe that was the problem. I never could tell with Kirsty. Never sure whether she was going to slap me or kiss me. Or both.

But I had a notion of what the look in her eye was that Friday evening. It looked a lot like sympathy.

‘Alison,’ she said simply.

‘Kirsty.’

Kirsty looked at me, hesitating for a moment, and I felt a chill dancing over my heart. Someone walking on my grave.

‘I’ve got some bad news, Dan,’ she said.

It was dark outside now.

I leaned against the cool brick wall of the hospital and took a couple of breaths. Alison was inside, trying to find a coffee machine, and Kirsty had left to pursue her own investigations.

I was still taking in what she had told me but couldn’t make the connection. After what I had seen earlier that evening I refused to make a connection.

Someone had taken Hannah Shapiro, we knew that much. We didn’t know if she was the primary target. Whether she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I needed to know what the motive was and I needed to know soon, because one thing I did know for certain – the longer it went on without her being found the worse it would be for her. Statistics wouldn’t lie in this case.

I pulled out my phone and hit speed-dial. After a few rings I heard the smooth, unmistakably West Coast accent I had been expecting.

‘Jack Morgan.’

‘Jack,’ I said. ‘We’ve got a major problem.’

‘What is it, Dan?’

‘Hannah – she’s been abducted. Just outside the university campus. A group of hooded men. Unmarked van.’

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then: ‘When did it happen?’

His voice was as tight, as serious, as I’d ever heard it.

‘An hour or so ago.’

‘Have you heard anything?’

‘No ransom demand as yet.’

‘Maybe they’re not after money.’

I didn’t respond. I knew all too well that young women were abducted for all kinds of reasons. By no means all of them financial. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the memory of what I had seen in the lock-up at King’s Cross. Failed.

‘I want you to drop everything else, Dan! Everything. That girl is your only priority, you hear me?’

‘You don’t have to tell me, Jack. The people who took her also put my god-daughter in intensive care.’

‘I’ll be getting on a plane as soon as the FBI let me loose. Meanwhile Private worldwide is at your entire disposal. You need anything – anything at all – you let us know.’

‘I appreciate it.’

‘Just get the girl home safe, Dan. Money isn’t an issue.’

‘You think it’s a kidnapping?’

There was another pause on the end of the line and I could hear the frustration in Jack’s voice. ‘There are things you need to know about Hannah Shapiro,’ he said. ‘It all goes back to 9 April 2003.’

Some minutes later I hung up. I looked down and opened the hand clenched tight around my car key. The metal had cut into my flesh. I held the wound to my mouth and tasted the iron in it.

Like I said. Someone was going to pay.

Part Three

I live in a small apartment in Soho, on the third floor of an old building on Dean Street.

I have a lounge, a bedroom, a small kitchen that I rarely use and a bathroom. I had the front window double-glazed shortly after I moved in and the place is snug. I have a small television and a digital internet radio.

Dean Street is one of my favourite places in the world. Home to The Crown and Two Chairmen, the Groucho Club and the best bar in the western hemisphere – The French House – even if it does sell beer only by the half-pint and you have to steer well clear at lunchtime when it’s packed with media types and tourists.

But at half-six in the morning the pubs are closed tighter than a drum. The little Italian cafe round the corner was open early, though. I bought an espresso to go, which I sipped as I walked across town to the office.

I was short of the recommended eight hours of shut-eye – by about seven hours, I reckoned – and the sharp, bitter jolt of the caffeine was kicking in fine. Normally, before going into work, I’d have gone to the gym I used just off Piccadilly Circus near the Cafe Royal. But Chloe was still unconscious in intensive care, Hannah Shapiro was still missing and we still didn’t have a clue why she had been taken.

Jack Morgan had been straight in touch with Hannah’s father, Harlan Shapiro, who was getting on this evening’s flight to London.

Her abductors had made no contact. We didn’t know if Hannah’s cover had been blown or if a ransom demand was imminent. Given what Kirsty had told me last evening I very much hoped that was the case. If she hadn’t been taken for money… I shook the thought away, dropped my empty espresso cup in a litter bin outside a newsagent’s and picked up my pace. The clock was ticking and we didn’t have a minute to waste.

Ten minutes later I sprinted up the stairs to my office. I never take the elevator if I can help it. I don’t like elevators.

Lucy, my PA, flashed her cut-glass smile as me as I punched in the security code and stepped through to the open-plan reception office. She was blonde, beautiful and had a top-drawer accent to go with the smile.

‘Morning, Lucy. Everyone in yet?’

She shook her head. ‘Dr Lee is on her way in but Sponge won’t be coming in today. The rest are in the conference room.’

‘What do you mean, he won’t be coming in?’ If my tone was a tad sharp I didn’t apologise for it

‘It’s his mother.’

Vladimir Kopchek, or ‘Sponge’ as he was known because of his ability to soak up every bit of information and retain it, was our computer and technical support expert. He defected to the west before glasnost. He’s in his fifties now and has a mind sharper than an ex-wife’s tongue. His mother back in Russia had fallen ill and he was awaiting the results of tests. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘They don’t give her very long. Maybe three months. He’s booked himself on the first flight over.’

I nodded, resigned. I couldn’t blame the guy, but he was going to be hard to replace.

Wendy Lee came through the door, carrying a paper sack. ‘I got you coffee,’ she said.

We walked into the conference room. About twenty foot by eighteen. A long walnut table running to the wall opposite the door. Flush with the end of the table and rising up the wall some ten foot by eight was a state-of-the-art LED television screen. Fractions of an inch thick.