Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

“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.

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.”

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.