Private London - James Patterson [9]
I aged five years in the next five seconds, though, when the 787 hit an air pocket. It might be called a Dreamliner but air pockets are my worst nightmare. The state-of-the-art plane dropped like a stone. I felt a small hand holding my own and looked across to see my young charge watching me, concerned.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Statistically you have a lot more chance being killed crossing the road than you do flying.’
Whoever comes up with these sayings should be taken away and shot, if you ask me.
‘I know that,’ she said. ‘But you looked like you were just about to have a heart attack.’
Hannah was trying to put a brave face on things, I could tell that. I forced the corners of my own mouth to form a smile. ‘Indigestion,’ I said. ‘I should have turned down that lobster sandwich. I never do well with crustacean-based food at altitude.’
‘I’m Jewish,’ she said.
I obviously looked puzzled.
‘Jews don’t eat shellfish,’ she explained.
‘I knew that, and very wise.’ I nodded. ‘Can play merry hell with the gastric juices.’ I winced as the plane was buffeted again.
‘If it lives in the sea it needs fins and scales to be kosher. But I don’t care – I love lobster.’
‘Not Orthodox, then?’
She looked at me again. ‘I’m not sure what I am any more. I didn’t make bat mitzvah, even.’
A sadness seemed to fill her eyes again. I looked down and saw that she was still holding my hand.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the turbulence cleared. She smiled up at me, but the sadness in her eyes didn’t go away.
‘So, you’re going to take care of me in England?’ Hannah said, letting go of my hand.
I couldn’t be sure but I thought I detected an amused quirk in the set of her mouth as she asked the question.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take care of you.’
Part Two
Chapter 12
Present day: London, England
LONDON IS THE greatest city in the world and don’t let anyone tell you different.
It is in May, at least. When the sun is shining.
I was standing by the panoramic window of my office, looking out over New Oxford Street.
Private has grown into a worldwide private detective agency. We have offices in Los Angeles, New York, Rome, Dublin – and right here in London, of course. We are expanding all the time. We are the biggest and we are the best. Our clients range from rock legends and movie stars to government departments. From a wife suspicious of her philandering husband to the Metropolitan Police itself.
One of our biggest clients was the woman I was watching from my office window as she walked across the street.
Alison Chambers, chief ‘Rainmaker’ from the law firm occupying the four storeys below us – Chambers, Chambers and Mason – hips swaying as if she knew she was being watched. Of course she was being watched! Alison Chambers drew glances like a foxglove draws bees.
She pushed the button on her key to open the car locks and then held her right hand facing back above her head and extended her middle finger. I grinned. She was having dinner with me later. It was her idea of a joke. I liked that about her. Always the tease.
I looked over at the framed original film poster of Bogart and Bacall in The Big Sleep hanging on the wall by the window. As ever, Bogey seemed to be judging me. I couldn’t see Bacall ever flipping him the bird. The print was a gift from an ex-wife who, I guess, thought she was pretty funny. I’m a private detective, after all. But that’s where the similarity ends. The difference between Dan Carter and the man in the hat is that I just have my wits to live on. I’m an Englishman – we’re not licensed to carry a gun!
I had just finished a video conference with Jack Morgan. He was a material witness in a big case just coming to trial in Los Angeles. A Supreme Court judge charged with the murder of her lesbian lover. And so he would be off the radar for a while. The case was drawing more attention than the OJ Simpson trial, and, even if he could have done, Jack would never have walked away from the free publicity.
He couldn’t walk away, though. The