Private London - James Patterson [55]
‘Yeah, so what’s your point?’ I had to shout again. Hundreds of the protesters had produced those vuvuzela horns from last year’s World Cup and were blasting away behind the perspex wall that the police had formed.
‘It wasn’t whoever took the girl who phoned us, was it?’
‘No.’
‘So who else knew?’
‘No one.’
‘Just you, Dan. You and your team of superheroes.’ Kirsty did practically spit the last couple of words out. I took in what she was saying but she spelled it out for me anyway.
‘Someone’s rotten on your team, Dan. Someone set you up.’
Chapter 67
HARLAN SHAPIRO WASN’T much to look at.
But then, what are multibillionaires supposed to look like? He was a small, quiet man. Dustin Hoffman’s shy cousin, perhaps.
He had been angry, naturally, when I explained what had happened at Parliament Square but hadn’t gone ballistic, which surprised me a little. One thing all billionaires have in common – they’re used to getting their own way.
Del Rio was exactly as I remembered him, though: hard as nails and a man of few words. But when he spoke people listened, or they did if they knew what was good for them.
I hadn’t told Harlan what Kirsty had said to me but I outlined it to Del Rio who was with me in my office drinking black coffee. Their flight had been delayed and hadn’t landed until just after ten o’clock. About the same time the blacked-up Morris dancers had disappeared into the crowds. You would have thought their distinctive costumes would have made them easy to spot. But by the time the chaos had been brought under control they had long gone.
I held a hand to my cheek, remembering the slap Kirsty had given me. Maybe she cared after all.
Del Rio put his cup down. ‘Your ex-wife reckons we’ve got a rotten apple in Private?’ he said.
‘It makes sense.’
‘You got any theories?’
‘No, and I can’t see the point in the play. What do they get out of it?’
‘How many people here knew about the drop?’
‘We took a big team out there, covering all the exits.’
‘So it could have been pretty much anybody in your outfit?’
I nodded. ‘Or Stateside,’ I said.
‘How do you figure?’
I opened a desk drawer and flipped a picture of the dark-suited American who’d been with Brendan Ferres and Ronnie Allen at his pub last night.
‘I kept thinking this has nothing to do with the original kidnapping. Nothing to do with America. But now I don’t know.’ I tapped on the photo. ‘Do you know this guy?’
Del Rio tilted his chin slightly and worked his jaw muscles as he looked at the picture. ‘Wiseguy, name of Sally Manzino. East Coast. Importer and exporter.’
‘I take it we’re not talking coffee beans.’
‘He’s on the payroll of the Noccia family. Not the mobile-phone people. Sally Manzino is their East Coast connection. Private has had dealings with the family before. What’s the connection?’
‘This man’ – I pointed to a photo of Brendan Ferres – ‘was seen entering the university where Hannah was studying, a couple of hours before she was abducted. He works for a piece of work called Ronnie Allen.’
‘I’ve heard the name.’
‘He denies any connection with the kidnapping.’
‘You buy it?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not his usual line and if he knew what Harlan Shapiro was worth, then if he had taken the girl he’d be asking for a lot more than a million pounds’ worth of pretty stones.’
‘It’s not exactly chump change, but I take your point. So what’s his story?’
‘Snake Ferres reckons he was making a delivery.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Yeah. Tertiary-educational institutions in our country are not exactly immune from drug abuse. And in the main the students at Chancellors come from money. They can afford the good stuff.’
‘And Ronnie Allen can provide it?’
‘He certainly can.’
‘I’ll speak to Jack. Check them out.’
‘If Noccia is involved in the kidnapping, is he likely to say so?’
‘Depends how you ask the question,’ Del Rio said.
He had a point. I finished my own coffee and