Private Games

Chapter 16

AS HE FINISHED reading the letter a second time, Knight felt more upset, more anxious than before. Thinking of the letter in the light of what had been done to Marshall, Cronus came across as a madman – albeit a rational one – who made Knight’s skin crawl.

Making it worse, the creepy flute melody would not leave Knight’s thoughts. What kind of mind would produce that music and that letter? How did Cronus make it work together to produce such a sense of imminent threat and violation?

Or was Knight too close to the case to feel any other way?

He got a camera and began shooting close-ups of the letter and the supporting documents. Jack came over. ‘What do you think, Peter?’

‘There’s a good chance that one of the Furies, as he calls them, tried to run Lancer down this afternoon,’ Knight replied. ‘A woman was driving that cab.’

‘What?’ Pope exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’

‘I just did,’ Knight said. ‘But don’t quote me.’

Hooligan suddenly brayed, ‘Big mistake!’

They all turned. He was holding something up with a pair of tweezers.

‘What’ve you got?’ Jack asked.

‘Hair,’ Hooligan said in triumph. ‘It was in the glue on the envelope flap.’

‘DNA, right?’ Pope asked, excited. ‘You can match it.’

‘Gonna try, eh?’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Day or so for a full recombinant analysis.’

Pope shook her head. ‘You can’t have it for that long. My editor was specific. We had to turn it all over to Scotland Yard before we publish.’

‘He’ll take a sample and leave them the rest,’ Jack promised.

Knight headed towards the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Pope demanded.

Knight paused, not sure of what to tell her. Then he gave her the truth. ‘I’m guessing that first sentence is written in ancient Greek so I’m going to pay a call on that bloke James Daring – you know, the fellow who has that show Secrets of the Past on Sky – see if he can decipher it for me.’

‘I’ve seen him,’ Pope snorted. ‘Nattering boob thinks he’s Indiana Jones.’

Hooligan shot back, ‘That “nattering boob”, as you call him, holds doctorates in anthropology and archaeology from Oxford and is the bloody curator of Greek Antiquities at a famous museum.’ The science officer looked at Knight. ‘Daring will know what that says, Peter, and I’ll wager he’ll have something to say about Cronus and the Furies too. Good call.’

Through the glass plate of her hood Knight could see the reporter twist her lips, as if she was tasting something tart. ‘And then?’ Pope asked at last.

‘Guilder, I suppose.’

‘His partner?’ Pope cried. ‘I’m coming with you!’

‘Not likely,’ Knight said. ‘I work alone.’

‘I’m the client,’ she insisted, looking at Jack. ‘I can trot along, right?’

Jack hesitated, and in that hesitation Knight saw the weight of concern carried by the owner of Private International. He’d lost five of his top agents in a suspicious plane crash. All had been integral players overseeing Private’s role in security at the Olympics. And now Marshall’s murder and this lunatic Cronus.

Knight knew he was going to regret it but he said, ‘No need for you to be on the spot, Jack. I’ll change my rules this once. She can trot along.’

‘Thanks, Peter,’ the American said, with a tired smile. ‘I owe you once again.’