Private Royals

Chapter 38

‘See anyone follow us?’ Morgan asked. Cook shook her head. ‘OK. Pull over,’ he instructed.

She took the Range Rover to the kerb.

‘What about Knight?’ she asked.

‘We’ll find him,’ Morgan promised. He opened up the rucksack he’d taken from Waldron’s truck and peered inside.

‘What’s in it?’ she asked.

‘A disposal kit,’ he answered. ‘Hacksaw. Plastic sheeting. A hammer.’

‘Jesus.’ Cook shook her head. ‘You find anything on his body?’

‘Nothing. No wallet. No ID.’

‘Maybe the other kidnapper cleaned up. Took them with them.’

‘Maybe,’ Morgan allowed. ‘But I didn’t really expect to find anything. He was Recon. He’d know to go out into the field sterile.’

‘That may be,’ Cook thought aloud, ‘but you don’t get into Trooping the Colour without a ticket and ID.’

‘I don’t think he was going,’ Morgan explained. ‘The way he was dressed — scruffy jeans and a T-shirt — he would have drawn attention at the event.’

‘Then why say that? Why make those threats about Abbie?’

‘Misdirection. Trooping the Colour had been the Duke and Wilkinson’s plan. They would have been able to get Abbie in and release her. But you and I saw how tight the security was to get in there. Why would real kidnappers risk it?’

‘To prove a point?’

‘This was about money, not politics.’

‘God, you’re right,’ Cook realised, crestfallen. ‘Then the other kidnapper could be taking Peter and Abbie anywhere. Our only hope is that Waldron’s partner tries one more time to make the demand.’

‘He won’t.’ Morgan shook his head. ‘They were quick to kill before, just to prove a point. He won’t have any second thoughts about doing it now to clean up. I mean they killed the bodyguard before they’d even…’ He fell silent, his eyes growing wide.

‘What?’ Cook asked, looking at Morgan.

‘We’ve been working on assumptions, Jane,’ he told her. ‘We assumed the threat to kill Abbie and make it public at the parade was real. That was wrong. What else have we assumed?’

Cook had no answer.

Morgan hit speed dial. ‘Hooligan. Bring up the dead bodyguard’s records.’

‘Done,’ came the Londoner’s swift reply.

‘Was he medically trained?’ Morgan asked, his fingers tightly gripping the phone.

‘Sergeant Aaron Shaw was a qualified team medic for every one of his operational tours, boss.’

Morgan looked to Cook, the scent of prey thick in his nostrils.

The Major almost gasped as she came to the same conclusion. ‘Shaw knew how to draw blood,’ she whispered.

Morgan nodded. ‘Abbie was taken by her own bodyguard.’