Private Royals (Private 12.50)

CHAPTER 17

MORGAN SPOKE INTO the mic on his collar. ‘Guys, come in through the front. Hooligan, bring all your tools. Peter?’

‘Yes, Jack?’

‘We have body bags in that van?’

‘We do,’ Knight answered. Morgan didn’t need to tell him to bring one in.

Head-torch beams criss-crossing the furniture store as they walked, the trio came up beside Morgan, whose own Maglite beam was unflinching. Knight and the others followed its direction.

The torch lit up the face of a young woman. She was dead, and there was no elegance or dignity in her posture.

‘I thought we were going to find Aaron Shaw,’ Knight said. ‘This must be the second hostage.’

‘I know her,’ Cook spoke up suddenly.

The three men turned to her in surprise.

‘You do?’ Knight asked.

‘Her name’s Grace Beckit. She’s a society girl. She was a model, but mostly she was known for her partying.’

‘She was also a close friend of Abbie’s,’ Knight confirmed after a quick Internet search on his phone.

Cook took a step closer to the body, her torchlight revealing a savage cut to Grace’s throat.

‘Christ. They butchered the poor girl.’

‘A butcher would show more humanity,’ Hooligan said, preparing his kit for sample-taking.

Cook noticed the preparations. She turned to Morgan, who was stony-faced and silent. ‘I think it’s time we called in the police, Jack. We kept them out to preserve life, but this girl’s already gone. You’re investigators, not a SWAT team, and I think this case is going to need both.’

Morgan thought for a moment.

‘It’s too late for Grace, Jane. Whatever happens next, Grace is gone, but as far as we know, Abbie is still alive. Keeping her that way is our priority, so we have to do as the kidnappers say and keep the police out of this.’

‘Someone needs to answer for this,’ Cook told him.

‘And they will,’ Morgan promised, his eyes ablaze in the darkness. ‘This doesn’t end when Abbie is safe, Jane. It ends when we find the bastard who did this, and he pays for what he’s done.’

CHAPTER 18

PRIVATE HQ DID not possess a gurney, so Grace’s covered body was carried into the building on a spinal board, Morgan and Knight acting as solemn pallbearers.

As they walked through reception, Sadie Wilkinson, Abbie’s publicist – who had remained at Private awaiting Knight’s return – saw the body bag.

‘Abbie!’ she cried out.

Cook caught her, the powerful soldier holding back the struggling woman.

‘It’s not Abbie,’ Cook said soothingly. Wilkinson’s wild eyes looked at her questioningly.

Knight recalled seeing in the briefing Private’s intelligence section had put together on Abbie’s publicist that she also represented Grace Beckit. He gestured that he and Morgan should lay their burden down, and then he stepped towards the woman in Cook’s arms.

‘It’s not Abbie,’ he told her. ‘It’s Grace.’

‘No!’ Wilkinson cried, her body shaking. ‘No!’