‘Abbie!’ she cried out.
Cook caught her, the powerful soldier holding back the struggling woman.
‘It’s not Abbie,’ Cook said soothingly. Wilkinson’s wild eyes looked at her questioningly.
Knight recalled seeing in the briefing Private’s intelligence section had put together on Abbie’s publicist that she also represented Grace Beckit. He gestured that he and Morgan should lay their burden down, and then he stepped towards the woman in Cook’s arms.
‘It’s not Abbie,’ he told her. ‘It’s Grace.’
‘No!’ Wilkinson cried, her body shaking. ‘No!’
Knight stepped across, and with his arms firmly around the woman’s shoulders he took her from Cook’s hold.
‘I’ll handle this,’ he mouthed to Morgan, and led the woman away on her unsteady feet, the publicist near-paralysed from shock.
‘Didn’t look like there was any relief when she found out it wasn’t Abbie,’ Hooligan observed, and explained to Morgan and Cook that Wilkinson was the kidnapped girl’s publicist.
‘She’s probably Grace’s rep too,’ Morgan guessed.
Having been directed there by Knight, two members of Private staff arrived and, with Hooligan, carried Grace’s body to where it could be kept in the lab’s cold storage facility.
Left alone with Cook, Morgan shook his head, unhappy at the turn of events.
‘She shouldn’t have had to see that.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Cook assured him. ‘You couldn’t have known.’
‘I’m the head of Private, Jane. Everything that goes on in my company is ultimately on me.’
With another shake of his head, Morgan realised he was talking to a prospective future employee, and not just a beautiful woman who was impressing him with her guts and vision.
‘You know what? It’s done,’ he said, regaining his composure. ‘We need to concentrate on Abbie. I’m going to call Flex, see if he’s come up with anything.’
‘I’ll go get us some coffee.’
Left alone for the first time since the afternoon, Morgan took a few moments to clear his head. He took deep breaths and thought about the view from his home, the Pacific Ocean waves crashing over the rocks. Feeling centred, he dialled the number for Flex’s office.
‘All right, Jack?’ the muscled man answered the phone.
‘That depends on what you tell me,’ Morgan said, trying to sound light-hearted.
‘Then you’re buggered, mate, I’m afraid. No luck with anyone I’ve talked to so far.’
‘Someone must have employed Shaw,’ Morgan urged. ‘His last client was a private hire, as they served together, but there must be a trace of him elsewhere?’
‘There are a few companies who keep regular office hours, so I haven’t had a chance to call them. Could be they turn something up.’
‘Great. Thanks, Flex.’
‘No problem, mate. Anything else I can help you with, before I go get some gonk?’
‘Gonk?’
‘Ha, sorry, mate. Army term for sleep. Got a big gym session in the morning. Got to rest sometime.’
‘Yeah, you could use some more time in the gym,’ Morgan joked. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Flex, but I have to ask it…’
‘Go on.’
‘When you were making these calls, did you mention to anyone who was behind the questions?’
‘Of course not, Jack. OPSEC, mate,’ Flex answered, meaning operational security — a term common to both of the men’s services.
‘Thanks. I knew you wouldn’t, but the kidnapper somehow found out Private are working this,’ Morgan explained. ‘There’s a leak somewhere, so I had to ask. You know how it is.’
‘That I do, mate,’ Flex replied. ‘I’ll check in with you tomorrow.’
Morgan hadn’t liked to ask a fellow security professional about a basic matter of information security — to a man of Flex’s experience, it could have been taken as deeply insulting — but Morgan was looking forward to his next phone call even less.
‘Your Grace?’ he said. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘No,’ the Duke answered, sounding as if he’d aged a further ten years since earlier that evening. ‘No, Mr Morgan. Not while my daughter is still missing.’
‘We’ll get Abbie back to you safe, sir,’ Morgan promised, thinking about the savage wound to Grace’s throat.
‘I only hope you can, Mr Morgan,’ the Duke choked. ‘Getting the money is not… I don’t have that amount of money.’
This wasn’t a surprise to Morgan. His operatives at the Duke’s residence had been keeping him apprised of the situation. Morgan had also dispatched Private’s experts in insurance and financial matters to aid the Duke in raising the money, though all the risk would be borne by the Duke’s estate.
‘I had an idea,’ the Duke uttered cautiously.
‘Go ahead, sir.’
‘We could release the story to the media. People love Abbie. Surely they will come forward with donations to save her life?’
Morgan dismissed the idea at once and proceeded to tell the Duke a rainbows-and-fairy-tales reason why Abbie’s story should be kept private. What he didn’t tell the terrified father was that a media campaign would likely scare the kidnapper into cutting his losses, and Abbie’s throat. With one, probably two deaths on his hands, the kidnapper was fully committed. If the Duke could not raise the ransom, then there were only two ways the abduction could end.
Morgan would find Abbie in time, or the kidnapper would cut off her head.
Chapter 19
Seeing Grace Beckit’s corpse had shocked Sadie Wilkinson to a point of near collapse for the second time that night. Having sat her down and brought her water, Knight had decided he should take the publicist home.
The drive to Wilkinson’s house had been quiet at first, the woman withdrawn into herself, her eyes wide with shock. Then Knight had remembered the publicist’s earlier comments about his exploits at the Olympic Games. Though a modest man, he was anxious to get her talking, and out of her own head.
‘So you saw what happened at the Olympics?’ he asked, and, slowly but surely, Wilkinson was pulled from her trance. By the time she opened the door to her stylishly decorated home, she was explaining in detail how she would have capitalised on Knight’s moment in the spotlight.
‘You really love your job,’ he told her.
‘I do,’ she agreed, seeming to be pained by her answer.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ he offered. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Wilkinson shrugged and sat heavily on a sofa, her chin resting in the cradle of her hands.
‘Grace is dead,’ she stated simply.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ said Knight.
‘I’m not. I needed to.’
Knight wasn’t sure what to say, but Wilkinson wasn’t finished in any case.
‘Life and death. It makes decisions easy, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does. Or at least forces you to make decisions,’ he said, not enjoying the conversation, but knowing he should let the woman talk out her thoughts.
He finished making the tea and moved to sit beside her, placing the cups on the glass table in front of them. With the keen eye of an investigator, Knight noticed the small grains of cocaine that Wilkinson had failed to clean from the table’s surface.
‘I don’t want tea,’ Wilkinson said after a moment of silence. ‘Sorry, Peter.’
‘That’s OK,’ he told her with a friendly smile. ‘What can I get you?’ He hoped she wasn’t about to begin snorting lines in front of him.
‘Nothing,’ she said instead.
‘Well, is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, turning to face him. ‘I want you to fuck me.’