Part One
THE FURIES
Chapter 1
Thursday, 26 July 2012: 9:24 a.m.
IT WAS MAD-DOG hot for London. Peter Knight’s shirt and jacket were drenched with sweat as he sprinted north on Chesham Street past the Diplomat Hotel and skidded around the corner towards Lyall Mews in the heart of Belgravia, one of the most expensive areas of real estate in the world.
Don’t let it be true, Knight screamed internally as he entered the Mews. Dear God, don’t let it be true.
Then he saw a pack of newspaper jackals gathering at the yellow tape of a Metropolitan Police barricade that blocked the road in front of a cream-coloured Georgian town house. Knight lurched to a stop, feeling as though he was going to retch up the eggs and bacon he’d had for breakfast.
What would he ever tell Amanda?
Before Knight could compose his thoughts or quieten his stomach, his mobile rang and he snatched it from his pocket without looking at the caller ID.
‘Knight,’ he managed to choke. ‘That you, Jack?’
‘No, Peter, it’s Nancy,’ a woman with an Irish brogue replied. ‘Isabel has come down sick.’
‘What?’ Knight groaned. ‘No – I just left the house an hour ago.’
‘She’s running a temperature,’ his full-time nanny insisted. ‘I just took it.’
‘How high?’
‘One hundred. She’s complaining about her stomach, too.’
‘Lukey?’
‘He seems fine,’ Nancy said. ‘But—’
‘Give them both a cool bath, and call me back if Isabel’s temp hits one oh one,’ Knight said. He snapped shut the phone, swallowed back the bile burning at the base of his throat.
A wiry man about six foot tall, with an appealing face and light brown hair, Knight had once been a special investigator assigned to the Old Bailey, England’s Central Criminal Court. Two years ago, however, he had joined the London office of Private International at twice the pay and prestige. Private has been called the Pinkerton Agency of the twenty-first century, with premises in every major city in the world, its offices staffed by top-notch forensics scientists, security specialists, and investigators such as Knight.
Compartmentalise, he told himself. Be professional. But this felt like the last straw breaking his back. Knight had already endured too much grief and loss, both personally and professionally. Just the week before, his boss, Dan Carter, and three of his other colleagues had perished in a plane crash over the North Sea that was still under investigation. Could he live with another death?
Pushing that question and his daughter’s sudden illness to one side, Knight forced himself to hurry on through the sweltering heat towards the police barrier, giving the newspaper crowd a wide berth, and in so doing spotted Billy Casper, a Scotland Yard inspector he’d known for fifteen years.
He went straight to Casper, a blockish, pock-faced man who scowled the second he saw Knight. ‘Private’s got no business in this, Peter.’
‘If that’s Sir Denton Marshall dead in there, then Private does have business in this, and I do too,’ Knight shot back forcefully. ‘Personal business, Billy. Is it Marshall?’
Casper said nothing.
‘Is it?’ Knight demanded.
Finally the inspector nodded, but he wasn’t happy about it, and asked suspiciously, ‘How are you and Private involved?’
Knight stood there a moment, feeling stunned by the news, and wondering again how the hell he was going to tell Amanda. Then he shook off the despair, and said, ‘London Olympic Organising Committee is Private London’s client. Which makes Marshall Private’s client.’
‘And you?’ Casper demanded. ‘What’s your personal stake in this? You a friend of his or something?’
‘Much more than a friend. He was engaged to my mother.’
Casper’s hard expression softened a bit and he chewed at his lip before saying, ‘I’ll see if I can get you in. Elaine will want to talk to you.’
Knight felt suddenly as if invisible forces were conspiring against him.
‘Elaine got this case?’ he said, wanting to punch some thing. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Dead serious, Peter,’ Casper said. ‘Lucky, lucky you.’