Morgan glanced at Cook and smiled. “It has its charms.”
Cook let the compliment hang in the air before pulling a tablet from a packed rucksack that held a few changes of clothes, wash-kit, and all manner of items that ranged from torches to bolt-cutters. Cook had learned in the army that she should always be ready to deploy on short notice, and this pre-packed kit had been waiting patiently in her Private London office for an occasion such as this.
“Did you bring sandwiches?” Morgan teased.
Cook rummaged in the rucksack and pulled out a packet of freeze-dried rations.
“Close enough?”
Morgan laughed and waved the food away. “Never again.” He smiled, thinking back on his military days. “Did the background come through on Sophie?”
Cook gave a curt nod. She was all business now—the woman who had risen to become a major in the British Army, earning an OBE for her leadership in Afghanistan. “Sophie Bethan Edwards, born on the third of December ’89 in Brecon, Wales.”
She went on to describe how Sophie had been raised in a middle-class family, and how she had excelled in school, winning a scholarship to the London School of Economics. No sign yet of the mistakes that Princess Caroline had alluded to.
“What did the Princess’s protection team send us on her?” Morgan asked—he had pushed De Villiers further for information.
“Not a lot that’s helpful.” Cook shook her head. “The Princess met Sophie at a closed-doors party in London. They became friends quickly, but due to Sophie’s reputation as a party girl, their friendship was kept behind closed doors as much as possible.”
Morgan thought on that for a moment. Looking out of the window, he saw that the helicopter was approaching the wide mouth of the Severn Estuary. They would soon be in Wales.
“What do you know about these ‘closed-door’ parties?” the American asked Cook, the former officer having spent many years in London.
“You only go if you’re invited, and the only people giving out the invitations are celebrities, sports stars, movers and shakers, or in our case, a member of the royal family.”
“And who gave you your invitation?” Morgan asked with a wry grin.
“That’s not in the briefing,” Cook warned. “But what I will say is anything goes at these places. I’m not saying it’s one of Caligula’s orgies, but they’re private for a reason. I saw more than a few well-known celebrities and sports personalities with white noses.”
“So Sophie met the Princess there. I wonder who else she met,” Morgan said, speculating on who in such circles could wish harm against her. “Anything in the file about a boyfriend, or exes?”
Cook shook her head. “Aside from saying that the girl likes a party, there’s nothing really in here. Maybe this is as straightforward as Knight’s suicide, and the girl skipped town?”
“No,” Morgan said with certainty. “People don’t go missing without a reason.”
Chapter 8
“YOU WANT COFFEE?” Peter Knight asked Hooligan, looking up from the pathologist’s report into Sir Tony Lightwood’s death spread before them.
“Soon as the boss shows up you get stars and stripes in your eyes!” the East Ender laughed. “I’ll take a tea, like a true Brit.”
Knight got to his feet and crossed a lab that was filled with the most cutting-edge technology that money could buy, before stopping in front of a battered kettle that was probably older than he was—some designs just couldn’t be improved upon.
He was about to pick up the finished brews when there was a knock on the lab’s door.
“You must be Perkins,” Knight said to the squat man in the doorway. He gestured for him to come inside.
“I am,” the man confirmed, shaking hands and making his introductions to both Private agents.
Knight had been expecting the new arrival. Perkins worked for De Villiers in a similar role to Hooligan. He would act as a liaison between the Colonel’s team and Private.
“You military or police?” Knight enquired.
“Neither. I was in the navy, back in the day, but I’m a civvie contractor now.” He turned to Hooligan. “West Ham fan, are you?”
“What gave it away?” Hooligan smiled, looking down at his West Ham shirt, steam rising from the West Ham mug in his hand.
“Not sure we can work together then, mate.” Perkins smiled slyly. “I’m a Lion.”
“I’ll have no Millwall supporter in my lab!” Hooligan barked.
The two men laughed and launched into passionate speeches about why their chosen club was the greatest, and why the other should be consigned to football’s toilet bowl.
Knight gave a sigh, knowing he would be flying solo until they ran out of steam. Hooligan was a hard-working prodigy—two university degrees before the age of nineteen was proof of that—but he was also Hooligan, and nothing was more important to him than his beloved Hammers.
And so, while Perkins reminded Hooligan of Millwall’s 7–1 defeat of West Ham back in 1903, Knight looked once more at the pathologist’s conclusion as to Sir Tony’s cause of death: strangulation caused by a rope tied around his neck. No signs of struggle or foul play. Verdict: suicide.
Having read the path and police reports front to back, conducted exhaustive interviews with family, friends and business associates, and having worked over the scene of death himself, Knight found himself at the same conclusion.
It was suicide.
He pushed himself away from the desk and onto his feet. Beside him, the two football fanatics stepped down from their clubs’ soapboxes.
“You all right, Peter?” Hooligan asked.
Knight gave a brave smile. He didn’t look forward to what was to come. He could give the results of his investigation over the phone or via an email, but that wasn’t his style. “Sir Tony’s daughter doesn’t live far from here,” he explained. “I’m going to go and see her, and let her know that her father took his own life.”
Chapter 9
KNIGHT SAT ACROSS a pristine marbled table from a young woman. Her name was Eliza Lightwood, and following Knight’s conclusion that her father had taken his own life, she had said nothing. Instead, she stared with intelligent eyes at a point beyond Knight. There was not a tear or an emotion in sight, but he could sense the calculation that was taking place inside the impressive woman’s mind.
And she was impressive. Knight remained still, but his own eyes took in the setting for their silence. The huge penthouse was modern in design, sleek and minimal in its furnishings. On their first meeting three days ago, Eliza had explained that she hadn’t taken a penny of her father’s money since graduating from university. The paper trail of that education sat proudly on the walls, an abundance of achievements from London’s prestigious colleges and financial institutions. Twenty-seven-year-old Eliza Lightwood was an investment banker, and even in that cut-throat industry she was proud to be known by her colleagues as a “killer.”
Knight could see why. If she was this composed in the days following her father’s death, how cool must she be when handling hedge funds?
“I’m about to offend you,” Eliza said suddenly, almost startling him, “because I don’t think you’ve come to the right conclusion, Mr. Knight. I know you’re a pro—that’s why I came to you—but… my father wouldn’t kill himself. He just wouldn’t.”
For a moment Knight said nothing. He wondered if this would be the point where the dam holding back Eliza’s emotions would burst, but there was nothing. Just the face of a woman who had the utmost certainty in her words.
“You’re going to tell me that everyone feels that way,” Eliza pre-empted. “I understand that. If I say that this is different, you’ll tell me that they all say that, too.”