Private Games (Private 3)

There was a long silence on the phone that prompted Knight to say, ‘Mother?’

‘I’m here,’ Amanda said, sounding as composed as she’d been since she’d learned of Marshall’s death. ‘Let me look into it.’

‘No,’ he protested. ‘You’re not …’

‘It will give me something to do besides work,’ she insisted. ‘I need something to do that’s outside myself and the company, Peter, or I think I’ll turn mad, or to drink, or to sleeping pills and I can’t stand the thought of any of those options.’

Chapter 31

AT THAT SAME moment, inside the British Museum, upstairs in the reception hall outside his new exhibit about the ancient Olympics, Dr James Daring felt like dancing to his good fortune as he roamed triumphantly among the crowd of London’s high and mighty gathered to see his work.

It has been a good night. No, a great night!

Indeed, the museum curator had received high praise from the critics who’d come to see the installation. They’d called it audacious and convincing, a reinterpretation of the ancient Olympics that managed to comment in a completely relevant way about the state of the modern Games.

Even better, several impressed patrons had told him that they wanted to sponsor and buy advertising on Secrets of the Past.

What did that dead arsehole Sir Denton Marshall know? Daring thought caustically. Absolutely nothing.

Feeling vindicated, basking in the glow of a job well done, a job that had gone better than according to plan, Daring went to the bar and ordered another vodka Martini to celebrate his exhibit – and more.

Much more.

Indeed, after getting the cocktail – and fretting sympathetically yet again with one of the Museum’s big bene factors about Marshall’s shocking and horrible passing – Daring eagerly cast his attention about the reception.

Where was she?

The television star looked until he spotted a delightfully feline woman. Her hair was ginger-coloured and swept above her pale shoulders, which were bared in a stunning grey cocktail dress that highlighted her crazy emerald eyes. Daring had a thing for redheads with sparkling green eyes.

She did rather look like his sister in several respects, the curator thought. The way she tilted her head when she was amused, like now, as she held a long-stemmed champagne glass and flirted with a man much older than her. He looked familiar. Who was he?

No matter, Daring thought, looking again at Petra. She was saucy, audacious, a freak. The curator felt a thrill go through him. Look at her handling that man, making what were obviously scripted moves seem effortless in their spontaneity. Saucy. Audacious. Freak.

Petra seemed to hear his thoughts.

She turned from her conversation, spotted Daring across the crowd, and flashed him an expression so filled with hunger and promise that he shuddered as if in anticipation of great pleasure. After letting her gaze linger on him for a moment longer, Petra batted her eyelids and returned her attention to the other man. She put her hand on his chest, laughed again, and then excused herself.

Petra angled her way towards Daring, never once looking at him. She got another drink and moved back to the dessert table, where Daring joined her, trying to seem interested in the crème brûlée.

‘He’s drunk and taking a taxi home,’ Petra murmured in a soft Eastern European accent as she used tongs to dig through a pile of kiwi fruit. ‘I think it’s time we left too, don’t you? Lover?’

Daring glanced at her. A freak with green eyes! The television star flushed with excitement and whispered, ‘Absolutely. Let’s say our goodbyes and go.’

‘Not together, silly goose,’ Petra cautioned as she plucked two fruit slices onto her plate. ‘We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, now, do we?’

‘No, no, of course not,’ Daring whispered back, feeling wonderfully illicit and deceitful. ‘I’ll wait for you down the street, near Bloomsbury Square.’

Chapter 32

JUST AFTER NINE that evening, not long after Karen Pope’s article appeared on the Sun’s website, London radio stations began to pick up the story, focusing on the Cronus angle and rebroadcasting the flute music.

By ten, shortly after Knight had read the twins a story, changed Luke’s nappy, and tucked them both into bed, the BBC was whipped into a frenzy, reporting on the allegations about Sir Denton Marshall and the Olympic site-selection process, as well as Guilder’s dying confession that it had all been his swindle.

Knight cleaned and vacuumed talcum powder until eleven, and then poured himself a beer and a whisky, swallowed more pain medication, and crawled into bed. Jack Morgan called, distraught over Joe Mascolo’s death, and insisted on Knight describing in detail the gunfight that had unfolded at One Aldwych.

‘He was fearless,’ Knight said. ‘Went right after the shooter.’

‘That was Joe Mascolo all the way,’ Jack said sadly. ‘One of Brooklyn’s finest before I hired him away to run protection for us in New York. He only got here a couple of days ago.’