Private Games (30 page)

‘Get out of my way, little man,’ Knight said in a tone so threatening that his mother’s assistant stood aside without further protest.

Knight opened the door of his mother’s studio without knocking. Amanda was hunched over her design table, cutting fabric. A dozen or more original new creations hung on mannequins around the room.

His mother looked up icily. ‘Haven’t I made it abundantly clear that I wish to be left alone, Peter?’

Walking towards her, Knight said, ‘Mother—’

But she cut him off: ‘Leave me alone, Peter. What in God’s name are you doing here? It’s your children’s birthday. You should be with them.’

It was the final straw. Knight felt dizzy and then blacked out.

KAREN POPE HURRIED THROUGH
the drizzling rain and the dimming light towards Knight’s house in Chelsea. She’d been tipped off by the
Sun’s
police reporter that something big was going on at the Private investigator’s home, and she’d gone there immediately, dialling Knight’s number constantly on the way.

But Pope kept getting an odd beeping noise and then a voice saying that his number was ‘experiencing network difficulties’. She could see the police barrier ahead and …

‘Oi, Peter call you in too, then?’ Hooligan asked, trotting up beside her. His eyes were red and his breath smelled of cigarettes, garlic and beer. ‘I came from the bloody gold-medal game. I missed the winning goal!’

‘Missed it for what?’ she demanded. ‘Why are the police here?’

He told her and Pope felt like crying. ‘Why? Why his kids?’

It was the same thing she asked Pottersfield when they got inside.

‘Peter believes that it’s a diversionary tactic,’ the inspector said.

Hooligan could not hide the slight slur in his voice, saying, ‘Maybe. I mean this Marta was here for the past fortnight, right?’

‘Give or take, I think,’ Pope said.

‘Right, so I’m asking myself why?’ Hooligan replied. ‘And I’m thinking Cronus sends her in as a spy. He can’t get someone inside Scotland Yard, but he can get this Marta inside Private, right?’

‘So?’ Pottersfield said, squinting.

‘Where are Peter’s computers? His phones?’

‘He’s got his mobile with him,’ Pottersfield said. ‘House phone is in the kitchen. I saw the computer upstairs in his room.’

Twenty minutes later, Hooligan found Pottersfield and Pope talking with Billy Casper. ‘Thought you’d want to see this, inspector,’ he said, holding up two small evidence bags. ‘Picked up the bug on the phone and the keystroke recorders on the DSL cable. I’m betting his mobile’s bugged as well. Maybe more.’

‘Call him,’ Pottersfield said.

‘I tried,’ Hooligan said. ‘And texted him. I’m getting no answer, other than something about network difficulties.’

DARKNESS WAS FALLING
outside Amanda’s studio. Knight’s mobile lay on the coffee table. He sat on the couch, looking at the phone, his brain feeling scalded and his stomach emptier than it had ever been.

Why hadn’t they called?

His mother sat beside him, saying, ‘It’s more than anyone as good as you should have to bear, but you can’t give up hope, Peter.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Boss said emphatically. ‘Those two barbarians of yours are fighters. You have to be as well.’

But Knight felt as beaten as he had while holding his newborns and watching his wife’s body rushed to the ambulance. ‘It’s their birthday,’ he said softly. ‘They were expecting what any three-year-old expects. Cake and ice cream and …’

Amanda reached out and stroked her son’s hair. It was such a rare and unexpected gesture that Knight looked at her with a feeble smile on his face. ‘I know how horrid life’s been for you lately, Mother, but I wanted to thank you for caring about them. The only presents they got to open were from you.’

She looked surprised. ‘Is that so? I didn’t think they’d get there so soon.’

‘I took them over,’ Boss said. ‘I thought they should be there.’

Knight said, ‘Thank you, Boss. They loved them. And I must say, Amanda, that putting the pictures of Kate in the locket was one of the kindest and most thoughtful things you’ve ever done.’

His mother, normally stoic, got tears in her eyes. ‘Boss and I worried because they weren’t toys.’

‘No, no, they loved them,’ Knight insisted. ‘Luke was wearing that watch as if it was a gold medal. And the necklace fits Isabel perfectly. I don’t think she’ll ever take it off.’

Amanda blinked several times, and then glanced at Boss before asking, ‘You think they’re wearing them now, Peter? The watch and the necklace?’

‘I would assume so,’ Knight replied. ‘I didn’t see them in the house.’

Amanda looked at Boss who was grinning. ‘Did you activate them?’

Boss replied: ‘Even before I registered the warranties!’

‘What are you two talking about?’ Knight said.

‘Didn’t you look at the boxes they came in, Peter?’ Amanda cried. ‘The necklace and watch were manufactured by Trace Angels, a company I’ve invested in. There are tiny GPS transmitters embedded in the jewellery so that parents can track their children!’

KNIGHT BOLTED OUT
the door of his mother’s house, watching two tiny heart-shaped icons pulsing and moving slowly on a map on the screen of his iPhone.

According to the map, Luke and Isabel were less than two miles away! That realisation had caused Knight to run from his mother’s without a moment’s hesitation, going out into the street to find a cab and to see why his phone was having trouble connecting inside.

Knight punched in Elaine Pottersfield’s number again, and got nothing but a message about network problems. He was about to turn and rush back into Amanda’s home when he saw a taxi coming.

He hailed it, and jumped inside. ‘Lancaster Gate Tube station,’ he said.

‘Yah, mon,’ the driver said. ‘Hey, it’s you!’

Knight did a double take, realising it was the same driver who’d chased the taxi that had tried to run him and Lancer down.

‘Cronus has my kids.’

‘De crazy guy who blew up Mundaho?’ the Jamaican cried.

‘Go like hell, man,’ Knight said.

They roared north-west towards Brompton Road while Knight tried Pottersfield’s number again. It did not go through, but he’d no sooner ended the attempt than the iPhone buzzed, alerting him to a text.

It was from Hooligan and read:
‘AT YOUR HOUSE. YOUR COMPUTER AND PHONE BUGGED. ASSUME YOUR MOBILE BUGGED
2.
MAYBE TRACEABLE. CALL.’

Traceable? Knight thought. They’ve been tracking
me
?

‘Pull over,’ he yelled.

‘But your kids, mon!’ the taxi driver said.

‘Pull over,’ Knight said, forcing himself to calm down. He glanced at the beating hearts on his screen. They’d gone into an address on Porchester Terrace.

‘Do you have a mobile?’

‘My old lady’s phone died this morning,’ the driver said, stopping at the kerb. ‘I gave her mine to use while hers be fixed.’

‘Son of a …’ Knight said. He looked at the screen one last time and memorised the address where the twins were being held.

Then he handed the phone to the driver along with two fifty-pound notes. ‘Listen carefully, mate. I’m going to leave this phone with you, and you’re going to drive it out to Heathrow.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t argue,’ Knight said, now scribbling on a business card. ‘Drive it to Heathrow and then circle back to this address in Chelsea. You’ll see police there. Ask for Inspector Pottersfield or Hooligan Crawford – he’s with Private. Give them the phone. There’ll be a reward in it for you.’

‘What about your kids, mon?’

But Knight was already gone, running across Brompton Road towards Montpelier Street, heading north towards Hyde Park, thinking that the last thing he wanted was to have police arrive in force, surround the place, and force Marta’s hand – or Cronus’s hand, for that matter. It could cost Luke and Isabel their lives and Knight could not survive that. He’d scout the place out, and then find a phone to alert Elaine, Jack, Hooligan, Pope, and everyone else in London.

Knight was gasping for air by the time he reached the trail that paralleled the west shore of The Serpentine. His lungs were on fire when he left the park ten minutes later and crossed Bayswater Road, across from Lancaster Gate Tube station.

He went west along Bayswater Road, passed a crowd of revellers at the Swan Pub still celebrating England’s’ come-from-behind victory over Brazil, and finally took a right onto Porchester Terrace. The address he sought was on the west side of the street towards Fulton Mews.

Knight stayed on the east pavement, moving methodically north until he’d got as close to the address as he dared in case the street was being monitored. He desperately wished he’d had his binoculars with him, but could see that the white apartment building had balconies on every floor and iron bars on the ground-floor windows.

There were identical apartment buildings on either side of the building Knight was targeting. Every window in the building was dark except for a light that glowed from French doors leading to the balcony of a flat on the north-east corner of the third floor. Was this where Marta was holding his children?

Rain began to fall again, hard enough for Knight to decide he would not look out of place if he put up the hood on his raincoat and walked past the building on the east side of the street.

Were Isabel and Luke inside? Cronus? Was this their hideout? Knight walked past, taking what he hoped would look like casual glances at the doorway, wondering if he should risk crossing to the other side for a closer look before he went to one of the hotels over on Inverness Terrace to call Elaine.

Then he noticed how close that balcony was to the balcony immediately to the north, which was attached to a wholly separate building. It appeared to Knight that anyone would almost certainly be able to see from that balcony on the adjacent building into the apartment where he thought Luke and Isabel might be being held.

Hell, you could probably jump from one balcony to the other.

Knight slowed and studied the facades of the apartment buildings, trying to figure out how to climb up there. But then lights went on behind the French windows of the adjacent balcony. Someone was home there.

Instantly a plan hatched in Knight’s mind. He’d ring their bell, explain what was going on, and ask to use their phone to call Pottersfield and to access the balcony for surveillance purposes. But then he thought to go to the rear of the two buildings to see if any other lights were on. It took him three minutes. No other lights. He returned to Porchester Terrace just as a woman came out through the front door of the apartment building he wished to enter.

Knight bolted past her, smiled at her as if they were old friends, bounded up the steps, and caught the security door before it could shut. Even better. He’d go straight up and knock at the door of the flat on the south-east corner of the third floor. When they saw his Private badge they were sure to let him in.

He ran up the two flights of stairs and came out into a centre hallway that smelled of frying sausages. The third floor was divided into four separate flats. Knight went to the southeast-facing flat, number 3B, heard a television inside, and knocked sharply before holding up his Private badge and ID to the peephole.

He heard footsteps approach and then a pause before locks were thrown and the apartment door opened to reveal a puzzled Michael Lancer who said, ‘Knight? What are you doing here?’

LANCER WORE A
tracksuit and looked as though he had not shaved in days. And his eyes were sunken and hollow as if he’d slept little since being fired from his position with the London Organising Committee.

‘
You
live here, Mike?’ Knight asked incredulously.

‘Past ten years,’ Lancer replied. ‘What’s going on?’

Puzzled now, Knight said. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Uh, sure,’ Lancer said, standing aside. ‘Place is a mess, but … why are you here?’

Knight walked down a hallway into a well-appointed living area. Beer bottles and old Chinese takeaway containers littered the coffee table. The southern wall was exposed brick. Pressed against it was an open armoire that held a television tuned to the BBC’s wrap-up of the last full day of Olympic competition. Beside it was a desk and on top of it a glowing laptop computer. A blue cable came out from the side of the computer and was plugged into a wall socket.

Seeing that cable, it all suddenly seemed to make some sense to Knight.

‘What do you know about your neighbours on the other side of that wall?’ he asked, spotting the French window that led out onto the balcony.

‘You mean in the other building?’ Lancer asked, puzzled.