Private Royals (Private 12.50)

‘So he’s your business rival?’

‘Not really. Cases like Abbie, people come to Private. If someone wants mercenaries for Africa, or an escort into Syria, they go to Flex.’

‘And it’s all above board?’

‘You tell me.’ Morgan smiled, eyeing the half-dozen Bentleys and Aston Martins in the security firm’s underground garage.

‘He buys British, at least,’ Cook offered as they walked towards reception. ‘Won’t he be back at home at this time?’ she asked, glancing at her watch. It was coming up to midnight.

‘He lives here. Hates to commute, and he has people in every time zone.’

‘Why would someone want to live in their office?’

‘You’ll see.’

And after a thorough security check, and a twenty-storey ride in a lift, Cook did. The office’s view was breathtaking: the building looked out over the iconic features of Tower Bridge, HMS Belfast and the Shard on the opposite side of the Thames.

The sight of Michael ‘Flex’ Gibbon was almost as impressive. Standing at five foot eight, Flex was a fifty-year-old muscle-bound mass who looked as if he’d been carved from granite.

‘Jack!’ he said, taking Morgan’s hand in his vice-like grip. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, looking at Cook.

‘Good to see you, Flex,’ said Morgan. ‘This is Major Jane Cook.’

‘Major?’ Flex asked, surprised. ‘You look more like a cop,’ he told her, taking in the trouser suit and causing Morgan to break into an ‘I told you so’ smile.

‘So, I imagine it’s business at this hour?’ the big man said.

‘It is.’ Morgan nodded. ‘Hope we didn’t wake you up.’

‘Not at all, mate. Just got off the phone to Nairobi. All going to shit down there – again. I took the kids on holiday there once. Can you believe that? Now look at it. Bloody savages, all of them, but they keep a man in business.’

‘Business is good?’

Flex shrugged his mountainous shoulders. ‘The glory days have gone, mate. Too many companies now, and too many ex-soldiers with war in their heads who can’t settle into working a civvie job. Everyone’s undercutting everyone. Times are tight, so I hope you’re not here for a loan.’

Morgan laughed. ‘It’s a personnel matter, actually.’

‘Oh? I’d be happy to subcontract guys to you, Jack. You know I only take on the best.’

Morgan shook his head. ‘I’m working a kidnapping,’ he explained, ‘and something the kidnapper said has me thinking he may have crossed your path at some point.’

‘Go on?’

‘He used the word “operator” in the ransom call to describe the bodyguard. That’s a term only someone in our circles would use.’

Flex nodded in agreement. ‘Private military contractors are usually known as operators, yeah, but still, I don’t see how that can really help you, Jack. There’s hundreds of thousands of guys working this kind of gig now, from all over the world.’

‘But how many of them crossed paths with our victim’s bodyguard?’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Flex said, puzzled.

‘He’s dead.’

‘Oh.’ Flex was no stranger to death. ‘He won’t be much use then.’

‘His name was Aaron Shaw, and it looks as if the killer was able to get close to him. There were no signs of forced entry at the site, so we’re working on the theory that he was probably a friend, or at least trusted. We need to know more about Shaw. Did he have a clique? Regular work partners?’

‘One moment,’ Flex told them and left the room.