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And so, while Perkins reminded Hooligan of Millwall’s 7–1 defeat of West Ham back in 1903, Knight looked once more at the pathologist’s conclusion as to Sir Tony’s cause of death: strangulation caused by a rope tied around his neck. No signs of struggle or foul play. Verdict: suicide.
Having read the path and police reports front to back, conducted exhaustive interviews with family, friends and business associates, and having worked over the scene of death himself, Knight found himself at the same conclusion.
It was suicide.
He pushed himself away from the desk and onto his feet. Beside him, the two football fanatics stepped down from their clubs’ soapboxes.
“You all right, Peter?” Hooligan asked.
Knight gave a brave smile. He didn’t look forward to what was to come. He could give the results of his investigation over the phone or via an email, but that wasn’t his style. “Sir Tony’s daughter doesn’t live far from here,” he explained. “I’m going to go and see her, and let her know that her father took his own life.”
Chapter 9
KNIGHT SAT ACROSS a pristine marbled table from a young woman. Her name was Eliza Lightwood, and following Knight’s conclusion that her father had taken his own life, she had said nothing. Instead, she stared with intelligent eyes at a point beyond Knight. There was not a tear or an emotion in sight, but he could sense the calculation that was taking place inside the impressive woman’s mind.
And she was impressive. Knight remained still, but his own eyes took in the setting for their silence. The huge penthouse was modern in design, sleek and minimal in its furnishings. On their first meeting three days ago, Eliza had explained that she hadn’t taken a penny of her father’s money since graduating from university. The paper trail of that education sat proudly on the walls, an abundance of achievements from London’s prestigious colleges and financial institutions. Twenty-seven-year-old Eliza Lightwood was an investment banker, and even in that cut-throat industry she was proud to be known by her colleagues as a “killer.”
Knight could see why. If she was this composed in the days following her father’s death, how cool must she be when handling hedge funds?
“I’m about to offend you,” Eliza said suddenly, almost startling him, “because I don’t think you’ve come to the right conclusion, Mr. Knight. I know you’re a pro—that’s why I came to you—but… my father wouldn’t kill himself. He just wouldn’t.”
For a moment Knight said nothing. He wondered if this would be the point where the dam holding back Eliza’s emotions would burst, but there was nothing. Just the face of a woman who had the utmost certainty in her words.
“You’re going to tell me that everyone feels that way,” Eliza pre-empted. “I understand that. If I say that this is different, you’ll tell me that they all say that, too.”
There was no hostility in the words, only a cool understanding of human nature and the desire to believe that one’s loved ones were not so unhappy as to wish to take their own lives. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for the families, wondering if they could have done something. Stopped it. Have you ever lost someone close to you, Peter?”
“My wife,” Knight said solemnly, picturing the face of his true love and mother of his two children.
“My mother died of cancer.” Eliza sighed. “My father was always a huge supporter of cancer research and charities for people suffering the disease.”
“As are you,” Knight noted, paying the woman her dues for her incredibly generous donations.
“You looked into me?” She almost smiled.
“I look into everyone. That’s why you brought us in. And I’m sorry to say, Eliza, that your father killed himself.”
Slowly, as if breaking the news to a child that Santa is a myth, Eliza explained why Knight was wrong. “You know, this is the first Sunday in months that he hasn’t spent here. He was as much my friend as my dad. We’d always have guests over—sometimes a lot—and we would laugh so much. If Dad drank too much wine, he’d stay over, and we’d watch Blackadder together. He even has—had—his own room here. That was how close we were, Peter. I’d know if he was planning suicide.”
“He had a room here?” Knight asked, interested, and a little chastened for not having known earlier. Never assume, he cautioned himself.
“You want to look at it?” Eliza guessed. “I haven’t touched it since he was last here.”
Knight followed her through the apartment.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she told him, opening the door.
Knight stepped inside. Unlike the rest of the modern apartment, the bedroom reflected Sir Tony’s style, gaudy and opulent—this truly was his room.
He set to work as he had done in the Eaton Square home, covering every inch, looking for clues or evidence that would set off an alarm in his investigative mind.
He was back on his hands and knees when he found it.
Taped beneath the bed was a USB thumb drive.
Chapter 10
IT WAS EVENING by the time Jack Morgan and Jane Cook had landed at Cardiff airport, collected their four-by-four rental and driven to the small town of Sophie’s childhood. Brecon nestled amongst the spectacular scenery of the Brecon Beacons mountain range, and Morgan marveled at the beauty.
