Jack Morgan 02 - Private London Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 judge was a friend of his, and the men in black suits had slapped a subpoena on Jack. Putting him in a hotel with a couple of FBI agents babysitting him. Monday morning he’d be in court or he’d be in jail for contempt of it.
    But Private London had nothing that needed his attention. We’d had a good month, settled a couple of long-running corporate cases and had plenty more business lined up on the books. Nothing that needed drastic action. For once – once in a blue moon – Dan Carter had a work-free weekend lined up. And I intended to make the most of it.
    That guy leaning out from the prow of the Titanic probably felt just the same kind of optimism I was feeling. I’d never seen the film but I’m guessing it didn’t work out too well for him, either.
    The phone on my desk rang. I picked it up.
    ‘Dan, it’s Wendy Lee. I’ve got a problem.’

Chapter 13
    Chancellors University London
    A HALF-MILE ACROSS London from the offices of Private, heading south and east. A barman in his late twenties called Ryan pushed a tray of shot glasses filled with tequila towards a red-faced pair of students.
    They carried them to a nearby table and handed them round to a group of equally flushed young men. They were all wearing the university rugby colours and were chasing pints with slammers. One of them dropped his glass into his pint of lager and shouted: ‘Depth charge!’
    Contempt was too mild a word for what the barman thought of them. He was a postgraduate student who had worked two jobs while getting his first degree and was still left with a mountain of debt. This lot of braying jackasses wouldn’t know a day’s work, or debt, if it bit them on their privileged arses. He looked across at a pretty dark-haired woman who was standing further along the bar. Sometimes he hated his job. Sometimes he liked it.
    Chloe Wilson didn’t even notice the barman looking at her. She was feeling hot.
    And not in a sexy manner, but in a sweaty, giddy kind of way. The three of them had come out all heels, squeals and ready to partay! At least, that had been the plan. Her two friends, Laura Skelton and Hannah Durrant, had been knocking back the vodka and Red Bulls since six o’clock like they were going out of fashion. And why not? They were all twenty-something-year-old students in the heart of the fine city of London on a Friday evening in spring – what the hell else were they supposed to be doing? But Chloe had held back on the booze. She had to. Someone had to keep a clear head. London could be a dangerous place, after all. Even on campus.
    Chancellors University London, also known as CUL or Chancellors, was spread throughout the capital – as were most London-based colleges. But CUL dated way back to the sixteenth century. It had been founded by Henry VIII’s Chancellor – Cardinal Wolsey. It had a central block or two of ancient residential buildings and lecture halls in a warren of inner connecting squares and passages. In the sixteenth century it had been a theological school set to rival Magdalen College at Oxford University.
    Nowadays it had a