Free Private Games by James Patterson Page B

Private London,’ I say, and then push across the coffee table a photograph that I found on the Internet. In it Knight stands, drink in hand, beside his mother at the launch of her most recent fashion line.
    Teagan considers the photograph and then nods. ‘That’s him. I got a good look when his face smashed against my windscreen.’
    Marta frowns, picks up the photograph, studies it, and then trains her dark agate eyes on me. ‘He was with Guilder too, just now, in the bar, before I shot. I’m sure of it. He shot at me after I killed the one guarding Guilder too.’
    I raise an eyebrow. Private? Knight? They’ve almost foiled my plans twice today. Is that fate, coincidence, or a warning?
    ‘He’s dangerous,’ says Marta, always the most perceptive of the three, the one whose strategic thoughts are most likely to mirror my own.
    ‘I agree,’ I say, before glancing at the clock on the wall and looking at her ginger-haired sister, still primping in front of the mirror. ‘It’s time to leave for the reception, Petra. I’ll see you there later. Remember the plan.’
    ‘I’m not stupid, Cronus,’ Petra says, glaring at me with eyes turned emerald green by contact lenses bought just for this occasion.
    ‘Hardly,’ I reply evenly. ‘But you have a tendency to be impetuous, to ad lib, and your task tonight demands disciplined adherence to details.’
    ‘I know what I have to do,’ she says coldly, and leaves.
    Marta’s gaze has not left me. ‘What about Knight?’ she asks, proving once again that relentlessness is another of her more endearing qualities.
    I reply, ‘Your next tasks are not until tomorrow evening. In the meantime, I’d like you both to look into Mr Knight.’
    ‘What are we looking for?’ Teagan asks, setting her empty glass on the table.
    ‘His weaknesses, sister. His vulnerabilities. Anything we can exploit.’

Chapter 28
    IT WAS ALMOST eight by the time Knight reached home, a restored red-brick town house that his mother had bought for him several years before. He was as exhausted and sore as he’d ever been after a day at work: run over, shot at, forced to destroy his mother’s dreams, not to mention being grilled three times by the formidable Inspector Elaine Pottersfield.
    The Metropolitan Police inspector had not been happy when she arrived at One Aldwych. Not only were there two corpses as a result of the shoot-out, she’d heard through the grapevine that the
Sun
had received a letter from Marshall’s killer and was incensed to learn that Private’s forensics lab had had the chance to analyse the material before Scotland Yard.
    ‘I should be arresting you for obstruction!’ she’d shouted.
    Knight held up his hands. ‘That decision was made by our client, Karen Pope of the
Sun
.’
    ‘Who is where?’
    Knight looked around. Pope had gone. ‘She was on deadline. I know they plan on turning over all evidence after they go to press.’
    ‘You allowed a material witness to leave the scene of a crime?’
    ‘I work for Private, not the court any more. And I can’t control Pope. She has her own mind.’
    The Scotland Yard inspector responded by fixing Knight with a glare. ‘Seems as if I’ve heard that excuse before from you, Peter – with deadly consequences.’
    Knight flushed and his throat felt heated. ‘We’re not having this conversation again. You should be asking about Guilder and Mascolo.’
    Pottersfield fumed, and then said, ‘Spill it. All of it.’
    Knight spilled all of it: their meetings with Daring and Farrell as well as a blow-by-blow account of what had happened in the Lobby Bar.
    When he finished, the inspector said, ‘You believe Guilder’s confession?’
    ‘Do dying men lie?’ Knight had replied.
    As he climbed the steps to his front door, Knight considered Guilder’s confession again. Then he thought of Daring and Farrell. Were they part of these killings?
    Who was to say that Daring wasn’t some kind of nut behind the scenes, bent on