‘When you have kids, you’ll understand, mate,’ Knight laughed.
The scruffy geek shook his head, affronted by the idea. ‘Can’t tie this body down to one bird, son. Be a crime.’
‘You’re a real giver, Hooligan.’
The men carried the boxes of evidence inside the building and into Hooligan’s state-of-the-art lab.
‘How long will it take to come back with results from the blood samples we took from the scene?’ Knight asked.
‘Could be an hour, could be never.’ Hooligan shrugged. ‘The Duke gave me a sample of his royal DNA, so if it’s his daughter, then we should know pretty sharpish.’
‘And the bodyguard? He seems like the most likely donor.’
‘He ex-military? See if your liaison can pull some strings and get his records. Either that or something with DNA from his place.’
‘The military keep DNA records?’ Knight asked.
‘Identifying body parts,’ Hooligan explained.
Knight promised he would do what he could, and left the London native to work his magic. Until the kidnappers called there was little Knight could do but try to build up as detailed a picture as possible of Abbie’s life. To that end, he invited a guest into the office.
‘Sadie Wilkinson,’ announced a hawk-faced woman in her mid-thirties as she walked into Private’s secure reception area.
‘Peter Knight.’
‘I know exactly who you are, Mr Knight. I watched the footage of you taking down Cronus at the Olympics closing ceremony.’
‘Oh.’
‘You know, with me and the right agent, we could have made you rich.’
‘Unfortunately, Mrs Wilkinson—’
‘Miss.’
‘Miss Wilkinson. Unfortunately, I didn’t ask you in at this hour for my own benefit. I asked you because you’re Abbie Winchester’s publicist.’
‘That you did, and I must say I’m intrigued. So, why am I here?’
‘Abbie’s been kidnapped,’ Knight told her straight, instantly regretting his blunt approach — because Miss Wilkinson fell into his arms.
Chapter 9
As the Range Rover crossed Tower Bridge to the southern bank of the Thames, Morgan’s phone began to vibrate.
‘HQ,’ he told Cook, then answered the call through the car’s Bluetooth connection.
‘Boss, it’s Hooligan. Got an unknown number calling the Duke’s line now. I’m patching you.’
Morgan looked over at Cook behind the wheel. There was no sign of apprehension there, her eyes on the traffic, hands resting lightly on the controls.
‘Hello?’ said the Duke, his voice edged with fear. The voice that answered him was cold and metallic — the kidnapper was using a filter.
‘Let’s keep this very simple, Duke. I have your daughter, and if you don’t want to see her head thrown in front of the cameras at Trooping the Colour, then I want thirty million by eleven a.m. tomorrow morning.’
‘Thirty million?’ the Duke gasped.
‘Or her head goes bouncing in front of the cameras, and everyone around the world will get to see it. Understand?’
‘I understand.’ The Duke paused a moment. ‘What about her bodyguard? What have you done with him?’ Morgan nodded in approval — he had instructed the Private men on the scene to ensure the Duke asked that question.
‘Operators aren’t my concern,’ the cold voice uttered. ‘Spoilt little daughters are. Eleven hundred hours, thirty million in notes, or her head.’
The line went dead.
‘Take us off conference,’ Morgan instructed. ‘Hooligan, you still with me?’
‘Yeah, just you and me, boss.’
‘Send me a recording of the call, will you?’
‘I’ll do it now.’
‘What did you get from that?’ Morgan asked Cook as he hung up the call and waited for the recording.
‘The kidnapper used “I”,’ Cook answered. ‘I think we’re dealing with one man.’
‘Why a man?’
‘Even with the filter on the voice, there was no way that was a woman.’
Morgan nodded his agreement. Moments later Hooligan delivered the recording of the call. Morgan opened the audio file and listened to the kidnapper’s chilling words over and over.
‘Something wrong?’ Cook asked, seeing Morgan’s eyes narrow and his shoulders tighten.
‘Change of plan,’ he told her, confirming that something was wrong. ‘We’re not going to the bodyguard’s place. I’ll have Peter send one of his guys there instead.’
‘OK. So where to for us?’
‘Horse Guards.’
Chapter 10
Knight pushed open the door to Hooligan’s lab. ‘What did I miss?’
‘Oh, only the kidnapper calling. Where have you been?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Knight shook his head.
But the East Ender asked again anyway.
‘Abbie’s publicist came in to help me build background on her,’ said Knight. ‘She’d know the darker parts of Abbie’s life that her father wouldn’t.’
‘She would?’
‘Half of a publicist’s job is covering things up, or at least glossing them over,’ Knight explained.
‘Did she help?’
‘Not really. She fainted into my arms.’
Hooligan smiled. ‘You’re getting as bad as the boss.’
Knight ignored the comment. ‘What have we got on the bloods?’
‘Bad news for the bodyguard. Looks like the bulk of the blood is his. Matched his military records that Cook got for us. There must have been six or seven pints of it.’
‘He’d never survive that.’
‘Nope. I’m afraid the bodyguard’s brown bread.’
‘Anything turn up at his place?’ asked Knight.
‘Seemed to live a sanitary life. Some dirty gym clothes in the wash basket. No computer equipment that we could take a sneaky look at.’
‘What else have you got?’
‘A few strands of cotton in the blood pool,’ said Hooligan. ‘Look like they were cut with a serrated edge. Most likely a hunting knife.’
Knight looked at the slides Hooligan projected onto the wall, seeing the frayed fibres.
‘That much blood, the blade must have severed an artery.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Hooligan agreed. ‘But there was no arterial spray in the penthouse. A wound like that’s usually a wild hosepipe.’
‘Armpit?’ Knight suggested, remembering cases he’d seen from his time at the Old Bailey. ‘Stand up,’ he instructed Hooligan. ‘Now, say I’m coming at you with a blade and I go for your chest. What’s your natural instinct?’
‘I lift my arm to protect myself,’ Hooligan answered.
‘Exactly, and my blade goes into your armpit and hits the subclavian artery. Then, your natural reaction will be to bring your arm back down again, covering the wound and causing the blood to pool on the floor, rather than spurt all over the walls and furniture.’
‘That makes sense,’ Hooligan admitted.
‘You said the bulk of the blood is from the bodyguard,’ Knight said.
‘There was a second set of markers in one of my samples. Definitely from a different person,’ Hooligan explained.
‘Who?’
‘A female, and cross-checking it against her father’s sample, it’s not Abbie. Have we got a female kidnapper?’
Knight shook his head. ‘I think we’ve got a second hostage.’
Chapter 11
Jack Morgan stood alone on the Victoria Embankment of the River Thames. He was beneath the Royal Air Force memorial, the gilded eagle glinting in the sun as the last light of the balmy June evening finally died. The London Eye twinkled on the opposite bank.