Private London (Private 4)

‘Jews don’t eat shellfish,’ she explained.

‘I knew that, and very wise.’ I nodded. ‘Can play merry hell with the gastric juices.’ I winced as the plane was buffeted again.

‘If it lives in the sea it needs fins and scales to be kosher. But I don’t care – I love lobster.’

‘Not Orthodox, then?’

She looked at me again. ‘I’m not sure what I am any more. I didn’t make bat mitzvah, even.’

A sadness seemed to fill her eyes again. I looked down and saw that she was still holding my hand.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the turbulence cleared. She smiled up at me, but the sadness in her eyes didn’t go away.

‘So, you’re going to take care of me in England?’ Hannah said, letting go of my hand.

I couldn’t be sure but I thought I detected an amused quirk in the set of her mouth as she asked the question.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take care of you.’

Part Two

Chapter 12

Present day: London, England

LONDON IS THE greatest city in the world and don’t let anyone tell you different.

It is in May, at least. When the sun is shining.

I was standing by the panoramic window of my office, looking out over New Oxford Street.

Private has grown into a worldwide private detective agency. We have offices in Los Angeles, New York, Rome, Dublin – and right here in London, of course. We are expanding all the time. We are the biggest and we are the best. Our clients range from rock legends and movie stars to government departments. From a wife suspicious of her philandering husband to the Metropolitan Police itself.

One of our biggest clients was the woman I was watching from my office window as she walked across the street.

Alison Chambers, chief ‘Rainmaker’ from the law firm occupying the four storeys below us – Chambers, Chambers and Mason – hips swaying as if she knew she was being watched. Of course she was being watched! Alison Chambers drew glances like a foxglove draws bees.

She pushed the button on her key to open the car locks and then held her right hand facing back above her head and extended her middle finger. I grinned. She was having dinner with me later. It was her idea of a joke. I liked that about her. Always the tease.

I looked over at the framed original film poster of Bogart and Bacall in The Big Sleep hanging on the wall by the window. As ever, Bogey seemed to be judging me. I couldn’t see Bacall ever flipping him the bird. The print was a gift from an ex-wife who, I guess, thought she was pretty funny. I’m a private detective, after all. But that’s where the similarity ends. The difference between Dan Carter and the man in the hat is that I just have my wits to live on. I’m an Englishman – we’re not licensed to carry a gun!

I had just finished a video conference with Jack Morgan. He was a material witness in a big case just coming to trial in Los Angeles. A Supreme Court judge charged with the murder of her lesbian lover. And so he would be off the radar for a while. The case was drawing more attention than the OJ Simpson trial, and, even if he could have done, Jack would never have walked away from the free publicity.

He couldn’t walk away, though. The judge was a friend of his, and the men in black suits had slapped a subpoena on Jack. Putting him in a hotel with a couple of FBI agents babysitting him. Monday morning he’d be in court or he’d be in jail for contempt of it.

But Private London had nothing that needed his attention. We’d had a good month, settled a couple of long-running corporate cases and had plenty more business lined up on the books. Nothing that needed drastic action. For once – once in a blue moon – Dan Carter had a work-free weekend lined up. And I intended to make the most of it.

That guy leaning out from the prow of the Titanic probably felt just the same kind of optimism I was feeling. I’d never seen the film but I’m guessing it didn’t work out too well for him, either.

The phone on my desk rang. I picked it up.

‘Dan, it’s Wendy Lee. I’ve got a problem.’

Chapter 13

Chancellors University London

A HALF-MILE ACROSS London from the offices of Private, heading south and east. A barman in his late twenties called Ryan pushed a tray of shot glasses filled with tequila towards a red-f