Private Princess

Chapter 45

Mayoor Patel entered the bank less than ten minutes after Jack Morgan had ended his call with Peter Knight. He was inside for twenty minutes more, during which time he collected his passport and money that he had deposited there should he be forced into fleeing the country. That eventuality was now a reality, and Patel had surprised himself at the level of calm he had shown since it had become apparent that London could no longer be his home.

It hadn’t begun that way. When the private investigator had questioned him regarding Sophie’s whereabouts, it was all Patel could do not to lose control of his bowels right there and then at the kitchen table. Having locked himself in the bathroom, he had been afforded some moments to think, and the answer to his problem had been both obvious and terrifying: he had to kill the investigator, and escape.

That was easier said than done. Patel had had no weapon and he was certainly no fighter. It was only after a thorough search of the bathroom that he’d settled upon the cistern’s ceramic lid, and even then Patel had almost scuffed the plan, his sweaty hands barely able to hold the shiny porcelain.

But then he had thought of the alternative to carrying through his attack: prison. Mayoor Patel was self-aware enough to know that he was not a hard man, nor could he ever become one. Prison for him would be a series of beatings and rapes. He knew that he would kill himself before his first year was served. The only way to avoid that fate was to kill one more person.

He had been crying when he swung the ceramic at Knight’s head. They were tears of fear, anger and frustration. When Knight had crumpled to the floor, Patel had laughed in relief. The man was unconscious, but alive! He would not have the investigator’s blood on his hands, and that was part of the reason he felt so calm. The other was that he knew he could not be stopped. By the time the investigator regained consciousness, it would be too late. Patel would be on his way. His first stop would be India, where any man could lose himself and buy a new identity. Then perhaps the Maldives. God knows he needed a place where his mind and soul could recover.

With the thought of white sandy beaches and clear blue ocean in mind, Patel did not pay much attention to the man who dropped his credit card as he walked toward the bank’s ATM and crouched to pick it up. In fact, the first time he really became aware of the figure was when that man sprang forward from his kneeling position and barreled into him, picking up Patel in a double-leg takedown and driving him into the pavement.

“Help!” Patel shouted as he was rolled onto his front and his arms were pulled up sharply behind his back. “I’m being robbed! Help me!”

And help did come. It came from a tall man who ran across the street, his gaunt face drawn into a grim expression.

But Patel’s stomach dropped when his attacker turned to address the tall man.

“Good of you to join me, De Villiers,” the attacker said.

“Is this him, Jack?” De Villiers asked.

“It is,” said the man pinning Patel to the ground.

De Villiers waved and two men came running to join them.

“Arrest this man for the assault of Peter Knight.”