“They were at LSE together.”
“So were a lot of the City,” he shrugged, referring to London’s financial sector.
“That’s true. But Eliza came to your house with a knife and was screaming ‘where is she?’ Is she talking about Sophie?”
“If you’re not police, I don’t have to talk to you, do I?”
“You don’t. But I can ask them to come back in if you like?”
Patel said nothing.
“I saved your life, Mayoor,” Knight went on. “Why would I do that if I wasn’t on your side?”
The man thought that over. “Listen, yeah. Soph is a free spirit. She comes when she wants, she goes when she wants. I don’t know where she is now, and I definitely have no fucking idea why that information is worth stabbing me for.”
“When was the last time you heard from Sophie?”
“Couple days ago.” Patel shrugged again. “Like I said, she’s a free spirit. Can I use the bathroom before we keep going with this? I’ve had two teas now and I was already close to pissing myself when she pulled that knife.”
Knight’s eyes narrowed a little in suspicion.
“It’s right there.” Patel pointed to a door adjoining the kitchen, and Knight was able to see that it was central to the house.
“It’s your home.”
Knight watched as the man opened the door, a quick look satisfying him that it was a small bathroom and nothing else.
“Peter,” the policeman said, poking his head inside the kitchen. “We’re going to leave now if you don’t need us.”
“All good.” Both men tried not to laugh as the sound of loose bowels emanated from the bathroom.
“Can’t really blame him,” the officer said. “It was a big knife. See you soon, Peter.”
Knight said his goodbyes. Looking for a distraction from the noises coming from the bathroom, he got to his feet and began to pace the kitchen. There were photos of Sophie Edwards and Mayoor Patel dotted about, some stuck to the fridge with magnets, others framed and placed on work surfaces.
He noticed that one of the framed photos was turned facedown. He lifted it and saw a smiling Patel and Sophie standing beside a waterfall. The picture was so calm and idyllic that for a moment, Knight swore he could hear running water.
And then he remembered Jack’s description of where Sophie’s body had been found.
He turned toward the bathroom, but it was too late. The door was open and Mayoor Patel was a half-step away from him—and there was something in his hands.
Then, for Knight, there was darkness.
Chapter 43
LIGHT BEGAN TO seep beneath struggling eyelids. It pained Peter Knight to open his eyes, but a voice in his head told him—screamed at him—to get up. He was alive, but he could still be in danger. He had to wake up, get up, and be ready to defend himself.
He rolled onto his front and felt a mouthful of hot blood gush over his lips and onto the floor. With his eyes open, he could see that he had been knocked to the ground of Mayoor Patel’s kitchen, but of the man there was no sign. Two broken pieces of ceramic lay beside him—the toilet’s cistern lid that must have been Patel’s weapon—and Knight knew he was lucky to be alive.
His head throbbing and mouth aching, he pushed himself up onto his knees, feeling his pockets. His phone was still there. The fact that Patel had left it suggested to Knight that he was out of his depth, acting on terrified instinct rather than cold-planned killing.
Knight hit his speed dial.
“Jack,” he croaked, wiping away blood with the back of his hand.
“Peter, are you OK?”
“Patel knocked me out,” Knight admitted, shame burning every inch of his skin. “I’m sorry, Jack. He got away.”