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‘It’s not our call to make, Pete.’
‘This doesn’t hit me as a normal kidnapping though.’ Knight shook his head. ‘A royal gets taken the night before Trooping the Colour? Seems like more than a coincidence. But why not take a royal who’s more prominent? Abbie’s pretty distant to the throne.’
‘Did you see some of those photos inside?’ Morgan asked. Abbie’s apartment was full of frames of her on the arms of A-list celebrities. ‘She’s had the media attention to make her as known to the public as the inner circle of the royal family, but she only has a fraction of the security. Her dad says she has one bodyguard, and he’s not even with her twenty-four–seven.’
‘Kidnapping a royal the easy way,’ Knight summed up.
The pair lapsed into silence, minds churning over the reasons why Abbie Winchester would be the target of a kidnap, and the solutions to retrieve her safely.
‘The Duke was explicit that he didn’t want the police involved,’ Knight thought aloud, ‘but Trooping the Colour is the army’s baby. We can keep them in the loop, in case this is all connected, without breaking our contract to him.’
‘A liaison.’ Morgan nodded, liking the idea, and then smiling as the candidate for the position became clear. ‘You know who I’m thinking of, don’t you?’
Knight did. He flicked through the contacts in his phone and handed it over to Jack. ‘She can be the army’s eyes and ears, but if she wants to come work for us, then we don’t need to worry about her stepping on our toes.’
Morgan nodded in agreement as he dialled the number and spoke into the phone. ‘This is Jack Morgan. Are you ready for your assessment?’
CHAPTER 6
THE DUKE SAT alone in the Range Rover’s back seat, gazing through the window at nothing. Up front, Morgan powered up a tablet as Knight drove them back across the city to Private HQ.
‘The office has sent us the packet on Abbie,’ Morgan said quietly to Knight. This was the initial dossier Private staff had compiled on the victim. A quick glance at the content told Morgan it was best he share the rest with Knight when they were not in the presence of the girl’s father, and so he read on in silence.
Twenty-five-year-old Abbie Winchester was cousin to the popular future king of the United Kingdom, and had once been the model royal, heavily involved in charity work the world over. Then, three years ago, Abbie’s mother had died from breast cancer, and the daughter had quickly slid into the role of the party girl, pictured blitzed drunk from St Tropez to Dubai. The tabloids loved her in the way that they loved all train wrecks, and Abbie soon became synonymous with excess and hedonism, leaving a trail of rock- and sports-star lovers in her wake.
Naturally, the charities with which Abbie had done so much good work had ditched her quickly to avoid tarnishing their own images. The royal family had been more discreet in their handling of matters but, slowly and surely, they had distanced themselves from the wayward young woman.
Morgan asked the Duke if he and his family had been invited to the Trooping the Colour ceremony.
‘Yes,’ the Duke replied, turning to face him, his distraught mind still sharp enough to read the unspoken question in the American’s eyes. ‘They can’t keep us away from everything. That’s why I had gone to her apartment, to see that she was all ready for the morning.’
‘You said she had a bodyguard, sir?’ Morgan asked.
‘Bodyguard and chaperone. He was supposed to be there tonight, to keep an eye on her. He’s been off a lot recently, some kind of virus that left him ghastly and weak, but he called my secretary this evening to check in, and to confirm that he would be with her.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Aaron Shaw. He served under me as troop sergeant. Household Cavalry.’
‘You were in the army?’ Morgan asked.
‘It’s expected. In my bloodline,’ the Duke answered with a shrug, finding some focus with the distraction of conversation. ‘Shaw’s a fine man. Never let me down, not once. He’d die for my family.’
Morgan managed a weak smile. ‘I hope it won’t come to that, sir,’ he told the Duke.
But remembering the amount of blood in the apartment, Jack knew that may have happened already.
CHAPTER 7
ABBIE OPENED HER eyes.
She knew instantly that she was on a comedown. Her skull felt as if it were packed with candyfloss; her lips were dry and cracked. She pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping she might find some kind of fruit juice and vodka to take away the edge – her usual comedown cure.
Instead, she found herself somewhere she didn’t recognise.
There were four walls, but no windows or doors. The walls, ceiling and floor all seemed to be covered in the same swirling pattern. Abbie laughed, happy that she must still be tripping. The comedown could wait.
She looked more closely at the content of her lucid dream. She was on a single bed with a thin mattress. It was the only furniture in the room, but on the floor was a collection of bottles, a tray of sandwiches and a silver plate. Abbie moved towards it and was glad to see that it was loaded with powder. She took a noseful, and the tang of it hit her in the back of the throat. She sank back onto the bed and noticed a black object on the swirling ceiling.
