The Lost Princess Read online

  The Lost Princess

  The Balcom Dynasty Book Three

  Richard Dee

  All rights reserved.

  Published in 2019 by 4Star Scifi

  4Star Scifi, Brixham, Devon, England

  www.richarddeescifi.co.uk/4Star

  Copyright © Richard Dee 2018

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  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

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  Cover by It’s a wrap

  Author Photograph by Tim Kendall.

  For everyone who asked

  Chapter One

  Dalyster

  The man huddled in the doorway attracted little attention. People sleeping rough were a common enough sight in the city; it was just one of the many extreme contrasts on the planet that, in theory, had everything. There were people who earned enough in a day to keep a family in comfort for all their lives no more than ten feet away from every filled doorway or tent pitched on rough ground. Yet here they were, covered in rags or cardboard, anonymous, the shadows hiding their faces. The rejects and those left behind by a society that they were no part of.

  This particular one was like the rest, wrapped in a sleeping bag, the lower part of which was in the bright light of the street lamps. Only his torso and face were in darkness. The visible part of the bag was stained with grease and dirt, the fabric was army surplus, the camouflage pattern worn and patched. Nobody noticed anymore, the police had nowhere to move him and all his peers, and no interest, just so long as they kept quiet they were left alone. Most of the passers-by ignored them; apart from the occasionally thrown coin, they were invisible.

  The bag’s occupant appeared to be asleep, but if you had got closer you would have seen that he was very much awake; he scanned the street and the building opposite his vantage point. Inside his bag was a video recorder, its lens poking through a hole at the end of the bag. He was alert to the people around him, aware of his fragile anonymity, his friend had already been arrested and his presence here was unwanted. Any moment he expected discovery and all that would go with it. He scanned for uniforms and those that looked suspicious.

  Across the road, the scene could not have been more of a contrast. Behind a fence with metal gates and two burly guards, was a brightly lit entrance to a large building with darkened windows. There was no sign to announce it, but this was the Doppel Club.

  It was one of the less well-known clubs on Dalyster. An obscure planet, it had a reputation for corrupt officials and illicit pleasure, provided you had the funds. The club was situated in a prosperous district, for some at least. Gleaming steel and glass buildings towered above the street, busy with expensive vehicles. If you had the cash, and the contacts, you knew where Doppel was, if you had neither, then it was just another building.

  The man in the sleeping bag was Miles Goram, a journalist on a stakeout. His disguise had seemed like a good idea two days ago, he had not anticipated the length of his wait.

  He had slept in snatches during the day when the club was quiet, and had food and drink secreted around his position. He had also brought with him one of the appliances that camping goods stores sold as a somewhat optimistically titled, ‘comfort solution’. This, the second evening of his wait, had been quiet, the club was not too busy. Despite his fear of capture, he was dozing off when it happened.

  Three unmarked cars arrived silently at the entrance and a group of suited men and women entered the club, pushing past the short queue of eager people waiting their turn to be allowed in. When one of the door staff tried to stop them, ID cards were waved and they backed away. Two of the suits remained outside, they started taking the names of the people waiting in line. Several of those at the back saw what was happening and slipped away.

  Miles sat up straight, his fatigue was suddenly forgotten. At last, Igor’s agent had managed to pay off the police who were blocking a proper investigation. The resistance that he had found, when he had suggested that the victim of a kidnapping was inside the club, was hard to believe.

  “That club has very important owners,” the policeman he had spoken to had said. As if that meant that there could be no criminal activities taking place inside it. Or, more likely, it meant that the payment was in. Miles had only been on Dalyster a few days, it had been long enough to see for himself how things worked.

  “There’s nothing we can do, especially for an off-worlder.” The clear implication was that he should keep his nose out. Which, given the nature of his quest, he just couldn’t do.

  The establishment had tried to avoid doing anything to upset the Delegate. From his investigations, Miles knew that his ownership of the club was a well-kept secret. In the end, the people he had got on his side had made it impossible to ignore. Once it had been suggested that Layla Balcom was a hostage in the club and her father had heard, he had decided the rumours were true. Resistance was futile, Igor with a bee in his bonnet was not to be ignored or swayed by the lack of facts. Not only that, he was a bigger fish than the Delegate. Because of his influence, and no doubt a lot of his money, the police had acted.

  Miles had risked a call, from a public box, after his first visit to the club. He used the number that had been given before they had left Centra. It was supposed to be for emergency use. As far as he was concerned, the lack of interest from the police made it one. When he reported what had happened, the response had been simple and to the point. “Keep watch. Leave it with me.” The suits must have been police; bought off for more than the person trying to keep things quiet could afford.

  On his way back to the hotel from making the call, a taxi driver, who he had met the day before, stopped him. The police had moved swiftly alright, not against the club but against them. According to the driver, they had arrested his cameraman and were waiting for him. With the driver's help, he decided to hide and try to finish the job himself. He had disappeared from official view and regrouped before his solitary stakeout.

  Now they would see, this was the moment of truth. Miles still wasn’t convinced that she was in there. It was obvious to him that, against his better judgement, he had been railroaded into action. He wasn’t even sure if the girl was the most important thing. As he had found, Igor had a score to settle. The trouble was, you couldn’t argue with Igor Balcom when he had made his mind up. All you could say was that the real owner of the club, the Delegate from Dalyster to the Federal Council, would have some explaining to do. Particularly as he was fond of his image as a family man.

  Miles started taking pictures of the developing situation. Ten minutes later, two ambulances pulled up, then a coach with blacked windows and an evidence van. Quickly the area was cleared; a forest of blue tape was wound around the entrance. ‘Crime Scene’ it announced in large yellow letters. Nobody spotted Miles, huddled in his corner, as a cordon of plastic bollards was set up.

  After another hour, the suits emerged, Miles kept taking pictures as the Delegate was led between two of them. A folded coat was draped over the handcuffs holding his wrists tog
ether, as if that could hide his guilt. No doubt he would say that he was just visiting, there for a quiet drink after work. Miles had been involved in raids like this before and could hear the excuses in his head. More men appeared, cuffed together in a line. Miles took pictures as fast as he could. As far as he could tell, Flynt was not among them.

  Then the female suits appeared, leading several young women. No more than girls, they blinked at the lights, teetering on high-heeled shoes. They were wrapped in blankets, probably the most they had worn in weeks. They all looked tired, skinny and frightened. Miles clicked away as each face came into focus. He saw Cyn, one of the sources of his information, where was the one he was waiting for?

  The women were herded onto the coach. Doors slammed and they all drove away. The street was empty for a moment, then people started to wander past in both directions. Only the tape and a solitary policeman remained. Anyone who approached him was moved on.

  Miles felt sick; there had been no sign of the one girl that was the reason for the raid. He shook his head, was she still inside? Had she escaped? For a moment he hoped that she had been found and taken out of a back entrance, or perhaps she was still receiving attention from the medics.

  But, judging by what Miles had just seen, it looked like he had been right, the rumours were incorrect and she wasn’t there.

  Now there would be retribution. In all likelihood, his head would be the one on the line. Igor had convinced himself that this was where she had been taken. Despite a lack of evidence, he had sent Miles on his mission. He had probably paid a lot of money to get to this point. He would hardly back down now and admit that he had got it all wrong. So now, as well as explaining why he had wasted police time and upset a senior politician he would have to tell the richest man in the sector, one who had always been good to him, that his hopes had come to nothing. It was even possible that Igor would end up siding with the Delegate, who he had previously hated. It had all been for nothing.

  He shrank back further into the shadows and his filthy sleeping bag; let them do their worst then. He would stay put for a while, then make his way to the port, where his return ticket had been left for him. Hopefully, his cameraman had been released from custody and was already on his way home. In three days, he would be back on Centra and the blame game could begin. The bigger problems were that the news would be there before him, and more importantly, everyone would have forgotten his misgivings. They would simply know that he had failed. Layla Balcom was still missing.

  As he made himself more comfortable, Miles wondered how it had all gone so wrong, how could the last few weeks have been any worse for him?

  Chapter Two

  Centra, three weeks before

  “Well, that was a waste of time. Thanks, Miles.”

  Brian Hopkins threw his camera bag down on the desk in front of me and slumped into a chair. The newsroom was noisy with chatter and the continual feed from our rivals’ channels, nobody else could have heard his remark.

  “What’s up, Brian? Layla Balcom give you the run-around, did she?” I asked, smiling to myself. Layla was a seasoned celebrity, she enjoyed playing games with hard-working paparazzi like us. And Brian, for all his genius as a cameraman, was old school. What he knew about modern celebrities and their antics in the world of flash feeds and trends was gleaned from his daughters, who were about my age.

  “She wasn’t there,” Brian said. He changed his tone, speaking in a passable version of my voice. “Just a simple job, Brian, get pictures of Layla Balcom at the Prestige Fashion awards, and make sure you get at least one good shot of her bending over!”

  I threw an empty paper coffee cup at his head. “I never said that. I said to get a few pictures of her clothes for Gaynor.”

  “What was he getting for me?” Gaynor Rice, the assistant editor of Getaway, had come over to the desk. “You’re the Balcom expert, Miles, how come you weren’t with Brian?”

  “I’m doing this piece on the organised crime in the Jigsaw Islands,” I replied. “Just like you told me to. I thought that Brian could cover it on his own, it was an easy job, just a few pictures from the press pound. You know that no one ever gets close enough to Layla to get an interview.”

  “Except she never showed,” Brian said. “All day I stood there, watching the bloody models mincing up and down. Looking at the rich and famous clapping their little hearts out at the rubbish they were only just wearing. Fixing my gaze on Donna bloody Markes in her chair in the front row.” He paused for breath.

  “Nice words,” said Gaynor. “Perhaps you should be a journalist, not a photographer, perhaps you could have Miles’ job?”

  I hoped she was joking, you never knew with Gaynor. We were an item, unofficially of course. The rest of the staff at Getaway would have had a field day if they had known I was involved with the boss. Somehow, we had managed to keep it secret, largely by pretending to dislike each other in public.

  “What do you mean, she never showed?” I asked. “She’s always there at these awards; she presents one on behalf of her old man. he might wind us up, but she’d never upset him by forgetting.” I looked through the flash-feed. “Here we are, the day before yesterday. She said, ‘looking forward to the Prestige Fashion awards, who’s won this year? I know, but I’m not telling’.”

  “Yeah well…” Brian screwed his face up. “Like I said, it was Igor’s new squeeze, that Donna Markes who did the honours. She arrived late, and she looked like she hated every minute of it. I took plenty of photos of that.”

  “But we can’t use them, Brian,” Gaynor said. “Igor would go crazy if we showed his new love interest looking anything less than perfect. If he finds out you’ve even kept the pictures, he’ll do his nut.”

  She thought for a while. “Layla always shows when she says, it’s not like her. And there’s been nothing on her feed to say she was ill or double booked. When did anyone actually see her in the flesh?”

  That was easy, I had been there. “Six days ago," I said. "She arrived back from a skiing holiday on Galthon. I was at the port, along with a whole load of other people. She made sure that we all saw her, her hair was purple, her eyes were vivid yellow, like an owl’s.”

  Gaynor smiled, Layla’s hair and eye colour changes were legendary. Mind you, Gaynor’s hair was orange today. It was all done with a specially formulated shampoo and a fancy box of electronics in your pocket, a simple idea that had made someone very wealthy.

  “And nobody has seen her since? I smell a story here. Miles, how much have you still got to do on that crime piece?”

  “Just about done, Gaynor,” I said. “There’s definitely something going on, it’s well organised too, my sources reckon the big boss isn’t local. It’s someone off-world.”

  She made a decision. “Right, well you can dump it now. Send me everything you have, I’ll take a look at it myself. I’ve got a feeling that there’s more here than just Layla missing a fashion show. Here’s a new job for you. Find Layla Balcom, find out why she wasn’t there today, go back through everything since she got back from Galthon, see what she’s been up to. But do it quietly, and make sure that you find her before anyone else does.”

  “Everyone else at the show was talking about it,” Brian added. “You can bet they’ll all be having the same conversation.” They both wandered off, talking about the pictures Brian had taken.

  I sat at my desk and thought; I didn’t share Gaynor’s view that there was a story in her no-show. Layla Balcom wouldn’t be missing for too long, she was the most recognisable woman in the sector.

  To keep everyone’s attention, she changed her hair colour every few days, favouring different shades of red, from pink to purple. Mixed with coloured contact lenses in matching or contrasting colours it often made my personal favourite, red hair and green eyes. Whatever combination she chose, it made her unmissable. Together with her height; she towered over most people, even without heels, with them she was always the tallest person in any gathering.


  I would have a look, make a few calls. I’d probably find that she had been suffering from a headache or too much complimentary fizz. Still, it was a change from reporting on organised crime. I hadn’t wanted that job, Gaynor had insisted, we had argued publicly. There were too many hard men who disliked talking to reporters for my liking. Too many unspoken threats, I was happier with celebrity clothes horses, they might get angry, threaten to scratch my eyes out but however much I upset them, they were never going to cut my fingers off with rusty pliers.

  I had spent the last few years writing about Layla but had never met her, never even been close enough for her to do more than shout at me to go away. Anyway, I was a journalist, she wouldn’t have talked to me. The profession, in general, hadn’t really treated her well, she was fair game in the circulation wars of magazines like Getaway and she knew it.

  But that hadn’t stopped me from being nice to her. I had carefully cultivated a network of people who knew her vaguely enough to let things slip. I avoided the worst rumours, while I tried to paint a more sympathetic picture of her life. Other mags printed kiss and tell stories, ‘who she was with and what they got up to’ pieces but I kept it clean and professional. I never wrote anything that would embarrass her and although I might have stretched it a bit sometimes, I never lied to get sales.

  One of her friends confided in me that she respected the way I behaved. She fed me bits and pieces of non-attributable gossip when she saw that I could be trusted. I was pretty sure that Layla had sanctioned them, it meant that I had a ready source of advance notice about her. That made it all worthwhile. I was always ahead of the game, it made me money but also made me unpopular with some of my rivals. I also heard that Igor Balcom, her father and head of the biggest company in the sector, wasn’t after my blood like he was with some.