‘Dangers are faced in London in an engaging, characterful debut’ Sunday Times, ‘A ROUSING PAGE-TURNER Pick of the Week WITH ONE FAULT: IT ENDS’ Kirkus Reviews Best Children’s Books of 2014 ‘Perfectly combines comedy and crime-solving’ Daily Mail ‘A teeth-gnashing thriller’ Kirkus Reviews ‘A truly ground-breaking ZRUNRIGHWHFWLYHÀFWLRQ fused together with a dosage of high-octane mystery and heaps ‘Full of suspense, intrigue and of suspense’ humour this is a modern day classic detective mystery‘ First News Guardian Best New Children’s Books, Summer 2014 ‘YOUNG FANS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES WILL BE HAPPY TO SEE THIS’ THE BOOKBAG ‘The perfect case’ Sunday Express, Best Children’s Novels Summer 2014 i 9781408867631 Knightley and Son K-9 (131i) - reissue - final pass.indd i 23/09/2015 10:42:48 By Rohan Gavin Knightley & Son Knightley & Son: K-9 Knightley & Son: 3 of a Kind Find out more at: www.knightleyandson.com ii 9781408867631 Knightley and Son K-9 (131i) - reissue - final pass.indd ii 23/09/2015 10:42:49 9781408867631 Knightley and Son K-9 (131i) - reissue - final pass.indd ii 23/09/2015 10:42:49 v B loomsbury Publishing, London, Oxford, New York, New Delhi and Sydney First published in Great Britain in January 2016 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London WC 1B 3 DP B loomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc www.bloomsbury.com www.knightleyandson.com Copyright © Rohan Gavin 2016 T he moral rights of the author have been asserted A ll rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced or t ransmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying o r otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4088 6008 3 T ypeset by Refi neCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk vi PPROLOGUEROLOGUE THE GAME BEGINS P rivate detect ive Alan Knightley looked perfectly ordin ary, apart from the excess ive display of tweed, the thou sand- yard stare and the fact that he was talking to himself. ‘I read you,’ he whispered into a tiny micro phone that exten ded from under the brim of his hat by his left side burn, relayi ng the message to his junior partner. Moments later, Knightley received a response through an equally tiny speaker in his ear canal. He listened care fully, before reply i ng, ‘Copy that. Target’s on the move.’ Knightley moved stealth i ly out of the café on Baker Street and tipped his hat in the direc tion of the neigh- bour ing town house, number 221b – once home to another great detect ive. Then he walked down the busy thoro ugh fare towards the even busier Marylebone Road, where the rain gave way to sunshine. 1 A head of him was another middle- aged man, of medium height and medium build, with short-c lipped dark hair, dark glasses, dark suit and a dark trench coat. The man walked with a strangely eccent ric confi d ence, drawing no atten tion, despite the occa sional twitch of his shoulder, which Knightley knew all too well as part of the pattern of nerves and impulses that made up his arch nemesis: Morton Underwood. For Underwood was the head of the shadowy crime organ isa tion, the Combination; a villain who had appar e ntly died under the wheels of a train in the London Underground, only to return from the dead when forensics connected him to known crime boss (and suspec ted were wolf), the now deceased, Barabas King. U nderwood turned the corner, heading east on Marylebone Road, moving at a fair pace, although Knightley was certain the man didn’t know he was being followed. Passing a row of plate glass windows, Knightley used the refl ec tion to scan the surround ing pedes t ri ans, but none of them appeared to notice him. The bystanders all stared ahead and the London traffi c crawled along indif fer e ntly. So it appeared the intel li gence that Knightley had received was correct. The subject was alone, unguarded – at least for now – and carry i ng out a private and personal errand. 2 I n fact, this was some thing of a personal errand for Knightley too – for the man in his sights was once a close family friend, a college pal who had even played godfather to Knightley’s beloved son Darkus. B ut that was before Underwood’s descent into dark- ness and crimin al ity. It was Underwood’s hypnotic powers that had placed Knightley into a four- year coma, result ing in the loss of many of his detect ive faculties; and it was Underwood who was – inad vert ently – the reason for young Darkus’s unlikely rise to fame with the birth of the detect ive agency Knightley & Son. Although the fate of that agency was now hanging in the balance . After their last case, the Knightleys were in crisis, and the sinis ter Combination had contin ued to cast a vast crim i nal net across London, Europe and perhaps the entire globe. J ust as predicted, after fi ve minutes, Underwood turned right on to Harley Street, home to some of the country’s most eminent doctors. Knightley carried on past the inters ec tion (to ensure he wasn’t being followed) then took the next right, accel er at ing to a jog as he looped around the elegant blocks – all packed with consult ing rooms speciali sing in everything from terminal disease to hair regrowth. Knightley found himself approachi ng Harley Street from another angle. Sure enough, Underwood’s polished brogues marched 3 into view at a set of traffi c lights, and Knightley ducked behind a doorway to avoid detec tion. The villain crossed the road, his shoulder fl i nch i ng as an SUV passed him a little too fast for his liking. Knightley emerged from his vantage point and tailed him at a discreet distance. U nderwood arrived at a tall, stone- fronted build ing with a column of brass inter coms by the heavy front door. He checked the time on a pocket watch attached to his waist coat, then exten ded a gloved fi nger and pressed the top button. After a few seconds, the door buzzed open and Underwood stepped inside and out of sight. ‘The fox is in the hole,’ Knightley said into his mic. ‘Over to you.’ U nderwood entered the doctor’s waiting room without remov ing his dark glasses. He chose a corner chair and examined the other patients through his tinted lenses: a Middle Eastern couple; a white man in his thirties wearing red trousers; and in a far corner a younger girl with blonde pigtails and painful- looking dental braces, her head in earphones, her face buried in a smart phone. Underwood made no expres sion and stared ahead at a gilt-edged mirror hanging on the opposite wall. A minute later, a young recep tion i st entered the room and asked quietly: ‘Mr Jones?’ 4 U nderwood forced a smile, adjus ted his dark glasses and followed her out of the room. The other patients didn’t look up from their busi ness. Except for the young blonde girl who pock eted her smart phone, shrugged on a ruck sack and walked out into the corridor. ‘Excusth me?’ she lisped through her braces at the recep tion ist. ‘Isth there a loo around?’ ‘Next fl oor up,’ the recep tion i st answered. At the other end of the corridor, Underwood entered the lift and prodded a button. The door closed and the cables whirred to life. ‘Thankths,’ replied the girl and started up the stairs. Reaching a landing, the girl took out her smart phone and began fever ishly tapping a series of commands with one hand, while remov ing the dental braces and the pigtails with the other, then slip ping them into a pocket. ‘ Knightley, are you in posi tion?’ she whispered into the mic on her earphones. ‘Ten- four, Tilly. I’ve gained access through the base- ment. I’m on my way.’ ‘Well, don’t hang about. I’m over rid ing the lift car now.’ Tilly Palmer tapped her smart phone screen again and an activ ity ball spun, sending the signal. She might be Darkus Knightley’s errant step sister, and some what lacking in grace, but she made up for it in guile and savvy. 5 I nside the ascend ing lift, Underwood watched the numbers illu min ate one by one, until the fl oor jolted a bit, causing him to look down. A moment later, the doors opened on to what he believed was the fourth fl o o r. He walked past the usual potted trop ical plant to the door with the famil iar brass plate, bearing the words: Dr Verbosa – Royal College of Speech Therapy . U nderwood knocked once and turned the handle to let himself in. ‘Come!’ the doctor answered from a high- backed leather chair, which had been rotated to face the London skyline – conceali ng his identit y. U nderwood squin ted under his glasses. The doctor appeared to be tending to a window box, but Underwood could have sworn there wasn’t usually a window box there. The wide mirror on the wall to his right was new too. ‘I – I apolo gise for m- missing our last appoint ment,’ Underwood explained with his trade mark stutter.