Private Games

Chapter 13

AS THE TAXI pulled up in front of a sterile-looking skyscraper deep in the City of London, the UK’s main financial district, Peter Knight could still hear his mother sobbing. The only other time he’d ever seen her cry like that had been over his father’s body after the accident.

Amanda had collapsed into her son’s arms after learning of her fiancé’s death. Knight had felt the racking depths of her despair, and had understood them all too well. She’d been stabbed in the soul. Knight wouldn’t have wished that sensation on anyone, least of all his own mother, and he held her through the worst of the mental and emotional haemorrhaging, reliving his own raw memories of loss.

Gary Boss had come into her office finally, and had nearly wept himself when he’d seen Amanda’s abject sorrow. A few minutes later, Knight received a text from Jack Morgan telling him to come directly to Private London’s office because the Sun had hired the firm to analyse a letter from someone who claimed to be Marshall’s killer. Boss said he would take over Amanda’s care.

‘No, I should stay,’ Knight had replied, feeling horribly guilty about leaving. ‘Jack would understand. I’ll call him.’

‘No!’ Amanda said angrily. ‘I want you to go to work, Peter. I want you to do what you do best. I want you to find the sick bastard who did this to Denton. I want him put in chains. I want him burned alive.’

As Knight took a lift to the top floors of the sky scraper, his thoughts were dominated by his mother’s command, and despite the steady ache in his side he felt himself becoming obsessed. It was always like this with Knight when he was on a big case – obsessed, possessed – but, with his mother’s involvement, this particular investigation felt more like a crusade: no matter what happened, no matter the obstacles, no matter the time needed, Knight vowed to nail Denton Marshall’s killer.

The lift door opened into a reception area, a hyper-modern room containing some works of art that depicted milestones in the history of espionage, forensics and cryptography. Though the London office itself was seriously understaffed at the moment due to the recent tragic loss of personnel, the lobby bustled with Private International agents from all over the world, here to pick up their Olympic security passes and assignments.

Knight circled the mob, recognising only a few people, before heading for a tinted bulletproof glass wall, passing on his way a model of the Trojan horse and a bust of Sir Francis Bacon. He looked into a retina scan while touching his right index finger to a print reader. A section of the wall hissed open to reveal a scruffy freckle-faced, carrot-haired man with a scraggly beard and wearing cargo jeans, a West Ham United football jersey, and black slippers.

Knight smiled. ‘G’day, Hooligan.’

‘What the fuck, Peter?’ Jeremy ‘Hooligan’ Crawford said, eyeing Knight’s clothes. ‘Been having sex with an orangutan, have you?’

In the wake of Wendy Lee’s death in the plane crash, Hooligan was now the chief science, technology, and forensics officer at Private London. Early thirties, caustic, fiercely independent, and unabashedly foul-mouthed, he was also insanely smart.

Born and raised in Hackney Wick, one of London’s tougher neighbourhoods, the son of parents who’d never finished secondary school, by the age of nineteen Hooligan had nevertheless obtained degrees in maths and biology from Cambridge. By twenty, he had earned his third degree in forensics and criminal science from Staffordshire University and had been hired by MI5, where he worked for eight years before coming to work at Private at twice the government salary.

Hooligan was also a rabid football fan with a season ticket to West Ham United’s matches. Despite his remarkable intelligence, as a youngster he’d been known to get out of control watching the club’s big games, at which point his brothers and sisters had given him his nickname. While many would not boast of such a moniker, he wore it proudly.

‘I scuffled with the bonnet and roof of a cab and lived to tell the tale,’ Knight told Hooligan. ‘The letter from the killer here yet?’

The science officer brushed past him. ‘She’s bringing it up.’

Knight pivoted to look back through the crowd of agents towards the lift whose door was opening again. Sun reporter Karen Pope came out, clutching a large manila envelope to her chest. Hooligan went to her. She seemed taken aback at his scruffy appearance, and shook his hand tentatively. He led her back into the hallway and introduced Knight to her.

Pope instantly turned guarded and studied the investigator with suspicion, especially his torn and filthy coat. ‘My editors want this to be done discreetly and quickly, with no more eyes than are necessary. As far as the Sun is concerned, that means you and you alone, Mr Crawford.’

‘Call me Hooligan, eh?’

Knight had instantly found Pope both abrasive and defensive, but maybe it was because he felt as though his entire left side had been beaten with boat oars and had gone through the emotional wringer of his mother’s collapse.

He said, ‘I’m working the Marshall murder on behalf of the firm – and on behalf of my mother.’

‘Your mother?’ Pope said.

Knight explained, but Pope still seemed unsure.

Running out of patience, Knight said, ‘Have you considered that I just might know something about this case that you don’t? I don’t recall your byline. Do you work the city desk? The crime beat?’