Private Games (Private 3)

Lancer shook his head. ‘That means I saw him only two hours before his death. He was leaving the party at Tate Britain with …’

He stopped and looked at Knight in sad reappraisal.

‘Probably with my mother,’ Knight said. ‘They were engaged.’

‘Yes, I knew that you and she are related,’ Lancer said. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Peter. Does Amanda know?’

‘I’m on my way to tell her right now.’

‘You poor bastard,’ Lancer said. Then he looked off towards the police barrier. ‘Are those reporters there?’

‘A whole pack of them, and getting bigger,’ Knight said.

Lancer shook his head bitterly. ‘With all due loving respect to Denton, this is all we need with the opening ceremony tomorrow night. They’ll blast the lurid details all over the bloody world.’

‘Nothing you can do to stop that,’ Knight said. ‘But I might think about upping security on all members of the organising committee.’

Lancer made a puffing noise, and then nodded. ‘You’re right. I’d best catch a cab back to the office. Marcus is going to want to hear this in person.’

Marcus Morris, a politician who had stood down at the last election, was now chairman of the London Organising Committee.

‘My mother as well,’ Knight said and together they headed on towards Chesham Street where they thought there’d be more taxis.

Indeed, they’d just reached Chesham Street when a black cab appeared from the south across from the Diplomat Hotel. At the same time, farther away and from the north, a red cab came down the near lane. Knight hailed it.

Lancer signalled the taxi in the northbound lane, saying, ‘Give my condolences to your mother, and tell Jack I’ll be in touch sometime later today.’

Jack Morgan was the American owner of Private International. He’d been in town since the plane carrying five members of the London office had gone down in the North Sea with no survivors.

Lancer stepped off the kerb, and set off in a confident stride heading diagonally across the street while the red cab came closer.

But then, to Knight’s horror, he heard the growl of an engine and the squeal of tyres.

The black cab was accelerating, heading right at the LOCOG member.

Chapter 7

KNIGHT REACTED ON instinct. He leaped into the street and knocked Lancer from the cab’s path.

In the next instant, Knight sensed the black cab’s bumper less than a metre away and tried to jump in the air to avoid being hit. His feet left the ground but could not propel him out of the cab’s path. The bumper and radiator grille struck the side of his left knee and lower leg and drove on through.

The blow spun Knight into the air. His shoulders, chest and hip smashed down on the vehicle’s bonnet and his face was jammed against the windscreen. He glimpsed a split-second image of the driver. Scarf. Sunglasses. A woman?

Knight was hurled up and over the cab’s roof as if he were no more than a stuffed doll. He hit the road hard on his left side, knocking the wind out of him, and for a moment he was aware only of the sight of the black cab speeding away, the smell of car exhaust, and the blood pounding in his temples.

Then he thought: A bloody miracle, but nothing feels broken.

The red taxi screeched towards Knight and he panicked, thinking he’d be run over after all.

But it skidded into a U-turn before stopping. The driver, an old Rasta wearing a green and gold knitted cap over his dreadlocks threw open his door and jumped out.

‘Don’t move, Knight!’ Lancer yelled, running up to him. ‘You’re hurt!’

‘I’m okay,’ Knight croaked. ‘Follow that cab, Mike.’

Lancer hesitated, but Knight said, ‘She’s getting away!’

Lancer grabbed Knight under the arms and hoisted him into the back of the red cab. ‘Follow it!’ Lancer roared at the driver.