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‘No,’ the Duke answered, sounding as if he’d aged a further ten years since earlier that evening. ‘No, Mr Morgan. Not while my daughter is still missing.’
‘We’ll get Abbie back to you safe, sir,’ Morgan promised, thinking about the savage wound to Grace’s throat.
‘I only hope you can, Mr Morgan,’ the Duke choked. ‘Getting the money is not … I don’t have that amount of money.’
This wasn’t a surprise to Morgan. His operatives at the Duke’s residence had been keeping him apprised of the situation. Morgan had also dispatched Private’s experts in
insurance and financial matters to aid the Duke in raising the money, though all the risk would be borne by the Duke’s estate.
‘I had an idea,’ the Duke uttered cautiously.
‘Go ahead, sir.’
‘We could release the story to the media. People love Abbie. Surely they will come forward with donations to save her life?’
Morgan dismissed the idea at once and proceeded to tell the Duke a rainbows-and-fairy-tales reason why Abbie’s story should be kept private. What he didn’t tell the terrified father was that a media campaign would likely scare the kidnapper into cutting his losses, and Abbie’s throat. With one, probably two deaths on his hands, the kidnapper was fully committed. If the Duke could not raise the ransom, then there were only two ways the abduction could end.
Morgan would find Abbie in time, or the kidnapper would cut off her head.
CHAPTER 19
SEEING GRACE BECKIT’S corpse had shocked Sadie Wilkinson to a point of near collapse for the second time that night. Having sat her down and brought her water, Knight had decided he should take the publicist home.
The drive to Wilkinson’s house had been quiet at first, the woman withdrawn into herself, her eyes wide with shock. Then Knight had remembered the publicist’s earlier comments about his exploits at the Olympic Games. Though a modest man, he was anxious to get her talking, and out of her own head.
‘So you saw what happened at the Olympics?’ he asked, and, slowly but surely, Wilkinson was pulled from her trance. By the time she opened the door to her stylishly decorated home, she was explaining in detail how she would have capitalised on Knight’s moment in the spotlight.
‘You really love your job,’ he told her.
‘I do,’ she agreed, seeming to be pained by her answer.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ he offered. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Wilkinson shrugged and sat heavily on a sofa, her chin resting in the cradle of her hands.
‘Grace is dead,’ she stated simply.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ said Knight.
‘I’m not. I needed to.’
Knight wasn’t sure what to say, but Wilkinson wasn’t finished in any case.
‘Life and death. It makes decisions easy, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does. Or at least forces you to make decisions,’ he said, not enjoying the conversation, but knowing he should let the woman talk out her thoughts.
He finished making the tea and moved to sit beside her, placing the cups on the glass table in front of them. With the keen eye of an investigator, Knight noticed the small grains of cocaine that Wilkinson had failed to clean from the table’s surface.
‘I don’t want tea,’ Wilkinson said after a moment of silence. ‘Sorry, Peter.’
‘That’s OK,’ he told her with a friendly smile. ‘What can I get you?’ He hoped she wasn’t about to begin snorting lines in front of him.
‘Nothing,’ she said instead.
‘Well, is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, turning to face him. ‘I want you to fuck me.’
