Private London (Private 4)

‘You’ll let me know??

?

I nodded gratefully but I had no intention of involving him any more than I already had.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to go and ask him. Let him know if the girl is harmed in any way whatsoever … that there will be consequences.’

‘If he’s got her, that is. I can’t see that. Like I say, it’s not his style.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘If he’s got her.’

‘Brendan Ferres is a mountain gorilla in a suit. He doesn’t do anything unless Ronnie Allen tells him to.’

‘I know.’

‘And he’s engaged to his daughter.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, he is. And little Becky Allen is the apple of her father’s eye.’

He was being a little sarcastic. Rebecca Allen was thirty-two years old, five foot ten tall and built like Kirstie Alley at her curvy best. There was nothing little about her – including her sexual appetites if the rumours about her fiancé were not exaggerated. And Gary was quite right – her father treated her like an absolute princess.

‘That I did know,’ I agreed.

‘So be careful. Could turn nasty. Face is everything to a man like Ferres.’

‘Still got to ask the question.’

‘Yeah.’

I hefted the bag. ‘And I appreciate the assist.’

‘You got it. You taking Sam with you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘See if you can persuade him to carry, then.’

I smiled regretfully. ‘Never going to happen.’

Chapter 56

DI KIRSTY WEBB was wishing she had simply switched off her mobile phone and taken the weekend off.

The drive out of London heading west into the boondocks had been a nightmare, with traffic clogging up Western Avenue and the air-conditioning unit on her car packing up. The first truly hot day of the year and that was when it decided to go on the blink! She had kept the windows open for a while but anyone who has been stuck in traffic in London knows it’s not an ideal solution for long.

When she had broken clear of the M25 the roads had cleared, though, and she made better progress. But all in all she couldn’t help feeling it was bound to be a bit of a wild-goose chase.

The old market town of Aylesbury is only some forty-five miles north and west of London, but on a good day it could still take an hour and a half to get there. Kirsty would have taken the A41 route but roadworks on the North Circular would have made the journey even more unbearable.

Nice to get out of London, though, she thought, goose chase or not, as she drove into the large car park of Stoke Mandeville hospital and switched off the car radio.

A female DI from the local force was waiting to meet her as she headed into reception. A formidable-looking woman in her late thirties but with steel-grey already dominating her hair.

‘Natalie James,’ she said, holding out her hand.