“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.”
Chapter 44
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.
“How long to get there from where you are?” Morgan asked, feeling his pulse quicken.
“No more than ninety minutes,” Knight replied. “He’s got at least an hour’s head start on us, Jack.”
“OK, send me the address and I’ll head there too… And Peter, contact your sister-in-law at the Met. Beg her, lie to her, do whatever, but we need surveillance at every train station within a three-mile radius of that bank, and the bank itself.”
“I’ll do my best,” Knight promised. “Why three miles?”
“Patel hasn’t planned any of this well, but he may be smart enough to not get off at the nearest station.”
“But what if he gets a cab, or a bus?” Knight asked.
“There’s nothing we can do about that. I’m sending Cook to your location. She’s too far out to make it to the bank ahead of us, but she can secure Patel’s place ready for the police investigation.”
“OK, Jack. I’m running to the nearest station now. I’ll lose signal on the Tube, so I guess I’ll see you there.”
Morgan hung up and walked back inside the school. He found De Villiers waiting for him by the entrance.
“Trouble?” the Colonel guessed.
“Not for long,” Morgan replied. “I need to use the Princess’s helicopter.”
“That’s impossible.”
Morgan shook his head. “It’s totally possible, Colonel. And it’s going to happen.”
“It is?” De Villiers snorted.
“It is.” Morgan smiled. “Or you can explain to the Princess why Sophie’s killer escaped.”
Chapter 45
MAYOOR PATEL ENTERED the bank less than ten minutes after Jack Morgan had ended his call with Peter Knight. He was inside for twenty minutes more, during which time he collected his passport and money that he had deposited there should he be forced into fleeing the country. That eventuality was now a reality, and Patel had surprised himself at the level of calm he had shown since it had become apparent that London could no longer be his home.
It hadn’t begun that way. When the private investigator had questioned him regarding Sophie’s whereabouts, it was all Patel could do not to lose control of his bowels right there and then at the kitchen table. Having locked himself in the bathroom, he had been afforded some moments to think, and the answer to his problem had been both obvious and terrifying: he had to kill the investigator, and escape.
That was easier said than done. Patel had had no weapon and he was certainly no fighter. It was only after a thorough search of the bathroom that he’d settled upon the cistern’s ceramic lid, and even then Patel had almost scuffed the plan, his sweaty hands barely able to hold the shiny porcelain.
But then he had thought of the alternative to carrying through his attack: prison. Mayoor Patel was self-aware enough to know that he was not a hard man, nor could he ever become one. Prison for him would be a series of beatings and rapes. He knew that he would kill himself before his first year was served. The only way to avoid that fate was to kill one more person.
He had been crying when he swung the ceramic at Knight’s head. They were tears of fear, anger and frustration. When Knight had crumpled to the floor, Patel had laughed in relief. The man was unconscious, but alive! He would not have the investigator’s blood on his hands, and that was part of the reason he felt so calm. The other was that he knew he could not be stopped. By the time the investigator regained consciousness, it would be too late. Patel would be on his way. His first stop would be India, where any man could lose himself and buy a new identity. Then perhaps the Maldives. God knows he needed a place where his mind and soul could recover.
With the thought of white sandy beaches and clear blue ocean in mind, Patel did not pay much attention to the man who dropped his credit card as he walked toward the bank’s ATM and crouched to pick it up. In fact, the first time he really became aware of the figure was when that man sprang forward from his kneeling position and barreled into him, picking up Patel in a double-leg takedown and driving him into the pavement.
“Help!” Patel shouted as he was rolled onto his front and his arms were pulled up sharply behind his back. “I’m being robbed! Help me!”
And help did come. It came from a tall man who ran across the street, his gaunt face drawn into a grim expression.
But Patel’s stomach dropped when his attacker turned to address the tall man.
“Good of you to join me, De Villiers,” the attacker said.
“Is this him, Jack?” De Villiers asked.
“It is,” said the man pinning Patel to the ground.
De Villiers waved and two men came running to join them.
“Arrest this man for the assault of Peter Knight.”
Chapter 46
ALL WAS QUIET in interview room number four of the Staines police station. Mayoor Patel sat on one side of the cheap metal table, Jack Morgan on the other. In the room’s corner stood the stern-faced police officer who had placed Patel under arrest.
“I’m charged with assault?” Patel addressed the officer, who only nodded back. “Nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” the officer confirmed.
“Then I think I want my—”
Morgan’s fist slammed onto the table to cut off Patel’s request for a lawyer, the violence sending the Londoner shooting back in his seat.
“Before that, I have a few things for you to consider.”
Patel swallowed what seemed to be a football in his throat. Morgan’s face was a blank mask, but his eyes burned into Patel’s like dry ice.
“Who are you?” the arrested man finally managed.
“My name is Jack Morgan. I’m a private investigator.”
“You’re here because I hit your friend,” Patel mumbled.
“I’m here because you killed Sophie Edwards,” Morgan corrected him. “And I need to know why.”
Patel’s eyes widened and he quickly looked to the officer in the corner of the room, then back to Morgan, but said nothing.
“You see, Mayoor, you’re in here because you were arrested for the assault of Peter Knight, my colleague. Nothing else. There are no other witnesses, so if Peter drops his charges against you you’ll be a free man. Free to go. Free to walk the streets, where bad things can happen.”
“You’re threatening me,” Patel managed, beginning to sweat.
“I’m just telling you how things are out there.” Morgan shrugged. “Bad things happen to good people.” He smiled. “And really bad things happen to bad people.”