James Patterson - Private London

‘Okay, he may have decided to carry an organ-donor card. I doubt it very much.’ She shrugged. ‘But he definitely didn’t write that!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he never called himself Colin – he absolutely hated the name. It’s his real name but he always used his second name: Paul. He only ever used Colin on official documentation because he had to.’

Kirsty nodded.

‘You don’t seem surprised,’ said the dead man’s sister.

‘I’m not, Miss Harris,’ said the dark-haired detective. ‘I think your brother was murdered.’

Walking into the Turk’s Head Tavern in Tufnell Park with a gun in your pocket is seriously not a good idea.

But I did it anyway.

The conversation didn’t exactly stop when Sam and I stepped through the pub’s door. But it was pretty damn close.

The Turk’s Head was just one of many buildings owned by Ronnie Allen. And every Saturday night the man himself was usually in attendance, playing poker or dealing with business. Not the sort of business the revenue men got a cut of.

Sure enough, that night Allen was at his usual table at the back of the bar. I knew it was his usual table because I had done some business with him before. That is to say Private had. He’d bought a dog-racing track two years ago and had totally refurbished it. He had hired us to overhaul and update all the security. A lot of money changes hands at a dog track, millions of pounds over the year, and there are people in the world stupid enough, seemingly, to try stealing from the man. Brad Dexter had been in charge of the project and we had never had any complaints from Ronnie Allen. He even paid his bill.

Like I said, there were very few people stupid enough to cross him but here Sam and I were, about to beard the lion in his den.

We walked towards his table and a couple of very large men in regulation goon suits stood up and glared at us.

‘Bottle of Corona for me, and…’ I looked across at Sam.

‘Mineral water for me,’ he said. ‘Ice, no slice.’

‘You’re going to need a straw to drink it through the face cast, motherfucker!’ said the first goon.

‘It’s okay, Ralph – this man is known to me,’ said Ronnie Allen.

Ralph, for God’s sake. Seems even meatball-headed thugs had designer names now.

Ronnie Allen was sitting with Brendan Ferres. Another dark-suited man with an extremely glamorous blonde was sitting opposite them. I didn’t know the other man. He was in his late forties, with sleek silver hair, and was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t know his companion either but she looked like she had been poured into her cream-white dress and was nearly spilling out of it.

Ronnie Allen himself was a small man, five seven at a push, with cropped grey hair and amused eyes. Apparently they stayed amused even if one of his associates was taking a baseball bat to someone’s knees, or a blowtorch to their bare feet.

I flashed a smile at the blonde woman. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening,’ I said.

‘Spit it out, Carter. I’m in a business meeting,’ said Allen.

‘Hannah Shapiro,’ I said simply.

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She was kidnapped last night.’

He shook his head, genuinely puzzled as far as I could tell. ‘The fuck has that got to do with me?’

I pointed a finger at Brendan Ferres. ‘Little Boy Blue here was seen at the premises shortly before she was taken.’

Allen looked over at Ferres who shrugged. It was like a bison rolling its shoulders. His cold, piggy eyes weren’t amused. They were full of hate. I managed to stop my knees from knocking as he glared at me.

‘I ain’t got a clue what he’s on about, Ronnie,’ he said.

‘Chancellors University. Yesterday afternoon. I take it you weren’t there getting a thesis marked.’

He ignored me and turned to his employer. ‘How about I just bounce these bozos out and teach them some manners?’

‘How about you just answer the question?’ Allen replied rhetorically.

‘What, I have to answer to some pansy-assed window peeper now, do I?’

‘No, Brendan. You answer to me.’

He said it quietly but Ferres got the point. He shrugged

‘Okay. It’s just business. One of the guys there at the college… we have dealings with him. I don’t know the first flying fuck about some cooze being kidnapped.’

Allen turned to me and flashed me a quick smile. ‘That answer your questions, gentlemen?’ he asked without a hint of irony.

I nodded. I didn’t get the sense he was lying.

‘That’s good, Mister Allen,’ I replied, showing him the respect he expected. ‘But if I find out King Kong Junior here had any hand in it, I will come back and put him in the ground,’ I said, showing a little less respect.

Brendan Ferres would have leapt up but Allen put a quiet hand on his knee and he stayed put. If looks could kill I’d certainly have been dead by then. I returned his look, letting him know I meant every word.

‘You let this man come into your place of business and talk this way?’

It was the silver-haired man speaking. He had an American accent – the East Coast, if I was any judge. Italian-American at that. His suit was hand-cut and he wore a watch on his wrist that I reckoned cost more than the Jaguar my mate Gary Webster had squirrelled away in his lock-up. The theme tune of The Godfather played in my head and I deduced he probably wasn’t here as a food critic for the Washington Post.

‘Someone took a baseball bat to my god-daughter’s head when the girl was taken,’ I said by way of explanation.

‘Family is very important,’ said Ronnie Allen.

The American guy nodded in agreement.

‘I’m telling you, Ronnie. This has got nothing to do with us,’ said Ferres.

Allen gestured at me, shrugging and holding his hands a little wider apart. ‘I’m sorry we can’t help you.’

‘You going to give me the name of your contact at Chancellors?’ I asked Ferres. He snorted in reply.

‘Not prudent business practice – I am sure you can understand why,’ said Ronnie Allen smoothly. The sort of smoothness a razor blade has.

I could have threatened him with taking what I had to the police, but I couldn’t see the point. What I had was bupkis, after all. The square root of sweet Fanny Adams. Nada.

I gave Ferres a final pointed look instead. Letting him know we weren’t done. He looked straight back at me – and If I’m perfectly honest I didn’t see his knees knocking either. I nodded to Sam and we walked out. I kept my shoulders straight despite the feeling that someone had just painted a bullseye on my back.

As I walked through the pub doors and out into the street beyond I considered making the same one-fingered backwards gesture that Alison Chambers had made to me yesterday.

I resisted the urge.

It was quiet in the hospital.

But somehow it was still full of sound. Machines in the background. Monitoring equipment beating out a steady rhythm. Life going on. Footfalls in distant corridors. Snoring.

I opened the door to the intensive-care room and walked in. The woman sitting on the chair at the head of the bed looked up at me and smiled. She was pleased to see me, at least. The smile made me feel good for a moment, but only for that instant. The sight of my unconscious god-daughter kind of took the fun out of it for me.

‘Mister Carter,’ the woman said.

‘It’s Dan, please, Professor Weston,’ I replied.

‘In which case you had better call me Annabelle.’

She smiled again but I couldn’t smile back. The young woman lying on the bed deserved my entire focus. And Annabelle could prove to be too much of a distraction. Maybe when things got back on an even keel I could try the full Dan Carter charm offensive on her. But for now I had to be all about business. Strictly professional. No time for romance.