Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

“The crime scene needs preserving,” Morgan insisted, pulling tight his laces.

Lewis put her hand out of the window and into the pouring rain. “The crime scene is bollocksed, and the local bobbies will be here in well under an hour.”

“We should stick together, Jack,” Cook ventured again.

It was her eyes more than her words that convinced Morgan. It had nothing to do with tactics, he admitted to himself, and everything to do with not wanting her to be out of his sight.

“OK,” he conceded. “Find us a new route out of here, Jane, just in case there’s another surprise on the route that we came in on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The Princess hired us to find Sophie,” Morgan said, grim-faced. “We need to be the ones to tell her what happened to her.”

Cook nodded solemnly. “And then what?”

It was a moment before Morgan answered. He was prying something out from the shattered windshield with his fingers. “And then,” he told Cook, holding up the dull shape of a flattened bullet, “then we find the connection to two bodies. We find Eliza Lightwood.”

Peter Knight stood in his office, hands on his head, his eyes burning into a map of the United Kingdom that he had taped to the office wall. Brightly colored pins had been jabbed into various towns and villages with Post-it notes attached. These were places with known connections to Eliza Lightwood — grandparents, cousins, ex-boyfriends, favorite getaway locations. Hooligan had laughed out loud at Knight’s low-tech methods, but Knight was a man who liked something tangible to work with, and in front of him was the map of what his Private employees had been able to piece together through Eliza’s records, social media and character profiling.

She could be anywhere , he thought, staring at the array of pins that stretched across the map.

But she was not.

“Peter,” a familiar voice said at the door, with a gentle knock.

Knight turned. His hands dropped from his head. His jaw dropped to the floor.

“Eliza,” he gasped.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me. I went to the coast to think,” she explained, taking the chair Knight offered her.

“You went to the coast?” he gently pushed.

“Just to drive, and think. There’s been so much bloody noise since my dad died. Some of it of my own creation, but then there’s his businesses, bloody lawyers, relatives who want a handout. He’s not even in his grave and they’re after his money.”

“That must be hard.”

“It is hard. I just needed a break from it. I just wanted to drive and listen to music. No phone. No arseholes trying to call me. Present company excepted, of course.” She gave a weak smile.

“There were some things I needed to talk with you about.” He spoke gently, finding himself convinced by Eliza’s words and manner. “Do you know a woman by the name of Sophie Edwards?”

A look of bewilderment passed over her face. “I know a Sophie Edwards,” she explained. “But I imagine there would be more than a few people by that name in London.”

“This Sophie was at LSE with you.”

“Then yes. Why are you asking?”

“Actually,” Knight smiled, anxious that Eliza was becoming too defensive, “it’s for another case Private is working. I saw your name on her class records.”

“Oh.” Eliza relaxed a little. “Small world, isn’t it? But yes, we were in the same class at LSE. We kept in touch, but we aren’t particularly close.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“The weekend before last. She came to one of my bigger dinner parties with her boyfriend.”

“She has a boyfriend?” Knight asked, hiding his surprise.

“Sort of. I don’t know how serious they are exactly, but it’s London. His name’s Mayoor Patel; he’s a hedge fund manager that I work with pretty often. Great guy. Very funny.”

“Does he come to all of your dinner parties?”

It was a moment before Eliza replied. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because he brings Sophie,” she admitted, breaking her gaze from Peter.

“And Sophie had a thing for your father?” Knight guessed, seeing his torpedo strike.

“Two types of people go to LSE, Peter. Those who want to make money, and those who want to take it.”

“And which one was Sophie?”

Eliza smiled, but there was no happiness in it. Only malice and resentment. “She looked at my dad like he was a five-star meal ticket. Why are you asking me all this, Peter? And don’t bullshit me about other investigations. I’m not stupid, so spit it out.”

Private’s agent met her wild stare. “I think Sophie Edwards was the one blackmailing your father.”

The state of the battered and shot-up Range Rover drew stares from the two plain-clothed guards at Llwynywermod’s gate, the two men emerging from a four-by-four of their own and into the rain. “Are you all right?” they asked their colleague Lewis.

“I’m good,” she beamed. “Got one of them through a passenger window.”

“You ally bastard,” one of the guards grinned. Jane Cook recognized the army slang for “cool.”

“We need to see the Princess,” Lewis followed up. “Like, now .”

“She’s not here, mate.” The evident soldier shook his head. “Chopper took her out earlier. Got an event on in London.”

“Opening a school, I think it was,” his partner added.

“Shit,” Lewis sighed.

Jack Morgan was not so deflated — Princess Caroline wasn’t the only one with access to helicopters, and on Morgan’s instructions, Private dispatched one to Wales.

“Go on up,” one of the armed men told Lewis. “And enjoy your paperwork.”

“Piss off.” She laughed as Morgan put the vehicle into gear, and they wound their way up to the royal residence.

“He’s right though.” The police officer shook her head. “If you survive a shooting they just try and drown you in paperwork instead. I’d better get inside and put in an after-action report. I’m afraid I’ll be no use to you now, either.”

“What do you mean?” Morgan asked.

“I mean I’ve got to hand in my weapon once I report this shooting. Then I’ll be placed on leave, pending the results of the investigation.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the American gasped.

“That’s ridiculous!” Cook exclaimed from the back seat.

Lewis shrugged her shoulders. “Well, there it is. I got to do what I always wanted to do. Now I’ve got to take it in the arse from the desk jockeys.” She gathered her few possessions from the Range Rover and made to leave. “I enjoyed working with you guys.”

Morgan smiled. He knew that sentiment was a lie, at least for the most part, but there was nothing like the shared danger of being shot at to bring a team together.

“Thank you, Lewis.” Cook put out her hand. “Without you we’d be dead.”

“We would,” Morgan agreed. “You ever need anything, you call me.”

“We’ll see each other again,” Lewis promised. “In court, probably.”

“Goodbye, Lewis.” Morgan watched the brave woman he’d once suspected as his would-be assassin walk through the rain and into the residence.

“I got to like her,” Cook admitted. “Some balls on her.”

“Brass ones,” Morgan agreed.

“So we’ll go back to London?” she asked.

There was a second’s delay before Morgan replied, “I will.” He saw the slightest slump in Cook’s shoulders, unable to hide her disappointment.

“Lewis is right,” he explained. “There’s going to be a paperwork circus after today. I’ve sent for our legal team, but until they get here, I need you to hold the fort. Make sure the transition to the police goes smoothly.”