“One hundred. She’s complaining about her stomach too.”
“Lukey?”
“He seems fine,” she said. “But…”
“Give them both a cool bath, and call me back if Isabel’s temp hits 101,” Knight said. He snapped the phone shut, swallowing the bile burning at the back of his throat.
A wiry man about six-foot with an appealing face and light-brown hair, Knight had once been a special prosecutorial investigator assigned to the Old Bailey courthouse. Two years ago, however, he had joined the London office of Private Worldwide at twice the pay and prestige. Private had been called the Pinkerton Agency of the twenty-first century, with offices in every major city in the world staffed by top-notch forensics scientists, security specialists, and investigators such as Knight.
Compartmentalize, he told himself. Be professional. But this felt like the straw breaking his back. Knight had already endured too much grief and loss in his personal life. Just the week before, his boss, Dan Carter, and four of his colleagues had perished in a plane crash over the North Sea that was still under investigation. Could he live with another death?
Pushing that question and his daughter’s illness to one side, Knight forced himself to hurry through the sweltering heat toward the police barrier, giving the Fleet Street crowd a wide berth, and in so doing spotted Billy Casper, a Scotland Yard captain he’d known for fifteen years.
He went straight to Casper, a blockish, pock-faced man who scowled the second he saw Knight. “Private’s got no business in this, Peter.”
“If that’s Sir Denton Marshall dead in there, then Private does have business in this, and I do too,” Knight shot back forcefully. “Personal business, Billy. Is it Sir Denton?”
Casper said nothing.
“Is it?” Knight demanded.
Finally the captain nodded, but he wasn’t happy about it, and he asked suspiciously, “How are you and Private involved?”
Knight stood there a moment, feeling lambasted by the news, and wondering again how the hell he was going to tell Amanda. Then he shook off the despair and said, “London Olympic Organizing Committee is Private London’s client. Which makes Sir Denton Private’s client.”
“And you?” Casper demanded. “What’s your personal stake in this? You a friend of his or something?”
“Much more than a friend. He was engaged to my mother.”
Casper’s hard expression softened a bit, and he chewed at his lip before saying, “I’ll see if I can get you in. Elaine will want to talk to you.”
Knight felt suddenly as if invisible forces were conspiring against him.
“Elaine caught this case?” he said, wanting to punch something. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious, Peter,” Casper said. “Lucky, lucky you.”
SUPERVISING INSPECTOR ELAINE Pottersfield was one of the finest detectives working for the London Metropolitan Police, a twenty-year veteran of the force with a prickly, know-it-all style that got results. Pottersfield had solved more murders in the past two years than any other inspector at Scotland Yard. She was also the only person Knight knew who openly despised his presence.
An attractive woman in her forties, the supervising inspector always put Knight in mind of a borzoi dog, with large round eyes, an aquiline face, and silver hair that cascaded about her shoulders. When he entered Sir Denton Marshall’s kitchen, Pottersfield eyed him down her sharp nose, looking ready to bite at him if she got the chance.
“Peter,” she said coldly.
“Elaine,” Knight said.
“Not exactly my idea to let you into the crime scene.”
“No, I imagine not,” replied Knight, fighting to control his emotions, which were heating by the second. Pottersfield always seemed to have that effect on him. “But here we are. What can you tell me?”
The Scotland Yard supervising inspector did not reply for several moments, grew disgusted, and finally said, “The maid found him, or what’s left of him anyway, an hour ago out in the garden.”
Flashing on Sir Denton, the learned and funny man he’d come to know and admire over the past two years, Knight felt his legs go wobbly, and he had to put his vinyl-gloved hand on the counter. “What’s left of him?” he repeated.
Pottersfield grimly gestured at the open French door.
Knight absolutely did not want to go out into the garden. He wanted to remember Sir Denton as he was the last time he’d seen him, two weeks before, with his shock of startling white hair, scrubbed pink skin, and easy, infectious laugh.
“I understand if you’d rather not,” Pottersfield said. “Captain Casper said your mother was engaged to Sir Denton. When did that happen?”