The Boathouse

by R. J. Harries

  “No,” Archer said.

  “You can always frame it for posterity if you don’t want to cash it.” He said it mockingly and chortled openly in disgust.

  “Who uses cheques these days? Wire it like everyone else. I’ll write down my account number, give me the pen.”

  Archer wrote the name, sort code and account number for Londinium Lux Limited on the back of the cheque. Sinclair called for a laptop and one of his assistants appeared within seconds. He sat down with the laptop and a small code machine from his bank and transferred the money himself.

  “There, it’s done.”

  “Thanks. Look, we’ve traced the calls back to London, but we need you to stay on the call a bit longer. Try and ask them some more questions about Becky. Ask to speak to her again, get into a conversation with them, anything just make them stay on the line.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “If you can keep them on the line, we can trace the call. Find them, and we find Becky. So give it your best shot, okay?”

  “Understood.”

  “Ransom calls follow a pattern. There will be another call and that’s the one you need to nail for us. My team is working on it. They know what they’re doing. Trust us. We’ll find them, but I need more information.”

  Archer was distracted as he read an incoming text from Zoe.

  Jones returned to the penthouse after visiting the café and signalled to Archer with a thumbs up sign that he was ready to go but stayed out in the entrance hall away from his boss. Archer told Sinclair where he was going and followed Jones out to the waiting lift.

  “Are you going to tell me what the sisters were talking about in the car?”

  “No.”

  “Does Sinclair know you occasionally moonlight for cash in his car?”

  The colour instantly drained from Jones’s face.

  “I’ll tell you, after we’ve spoken to the concierge. Just don’t ever mention the moonlighting thing again. I’ll show you where her sister lives, but you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone else what she said.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Archer entered the hotel through the revolving doorway. The dark-haired concierge was leaving the desk, walking swiftly towards the rear entrance. Archer sped past reception and called after him near the lift lobby.

  “Hey, hold on.”

  He turned around and frowned when he recognised him.

  “Oh, it’s you – look, I’m on my break.”

  “Can I ask you some questions?”

  “Sure, but my memory is not so good, huh.” He smiled confidently and licked his lips. Archer flashed his wallet and told him to follow. They went out the rear entrance where it was quiet and stood in an empty hotel parking bay. Archer gave him two hundred pounds and heard all he knew in less than two minutes.

  Archer walked around the outside of the hotel and got back into the waiting car at the main entrance. Jones pulled away and gently nudged the car back onto Park Lane. They were heading towards South Kensington to Louise Palmer’s house.

  “So what did he have to say?” Jones asked.

  “Not a lot.”

  “Nothing?”

  “He was given the job by phone and paid six hundred in cash upon delivering the bag to a waiting taxi. Supposed to be going to Heathrow to catch up with Mr Jefferson.”

  “Was it a black cab?”

  “He thinks it was a regular black cab driver with a cockney accent who gave him an envelope. He didn’t take down the number.”

  As they drove along part of the earlier street circuit, Jones pointed to his left and said: “Her sister’s office is down there. She lives a short walk away.”

  Louise Palmer’s travel company was located amongst the designer clothes shops of Sloane Street. A good location for wealthy passing trade.

  The black Mercedes cruised quietly down Gloucester Road before slowing down at Launceston Place. They inched carefully through a narrow wisteria-covered stone archway onto the cobbles of Kenance Mews. The sister’s house was a pretty mews cottage painted off-white with pale blue shutters and woodwork. Very Provençal.

  They stopped twenty yards away. The lights were on and the curtains closed. Jones told him that she always left the lights on timer and the house was alarmed.

  “Tell me about the conversation on the way to the airport. I think it’s important. Just what was it Becky said to Louise?”

  “Mrs Sinclair was upset about something. Her sister said they would talk about it when she came back. In the meantime she should pamper herself and shop.”

  “What was she upset about?”

  “She said that she wanted to get her own doctor. She didn’t want to use Mr Sinclair’s private clinic doctors any more.”

  “What else?”

  “Mrs Palmer was in a really bad mood because she’d left her mobile phone in her office so she had to buy a new one in the airport.”

  A moving shadow was visible on the cream-coloured curtains upstairs. It was obvious that someone was inside the house, moving around. Jones and Archer looked at each other and Archer opened his door.

  “Let’s go and find out who’s in the house while she’s away.”

  They left the car a few houses down from Louise’s and walked up to the front door. Jones rang the bell and they waited.

  No answer. They waited patiently for a minute before ringing the bell again. Still nothing. Then another minute before ringing it again and knocking on the door hard. A woman’s voice shouted: “Hold on.”

  Someone stomped rapidly down the stairs, rattled the chain and unlocked the door. A tired-looking woman with short orange hair, tight faded jeans and an even tighter white T-shirt recognised Jones immediately. She was the regular cleaner working late.

  “What do you want?”

  “Is Mrs Palmer in?” Jones said.

  “No. She’s away on business.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “Next week, I have to go.”

  She slammed the door in their faces.

  “Polish,” Jones said as they walked back to the car. Jones started the engine but didn’t drive off. He just sat there as if he wanted to get something off his chest.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” “What else did they talk about?” He saw Jones wince. He was clearly uncomfortable. Archer stayed silent until he spoke.

  “The Sinclairs use a private clinic in Switzerland, and Becky is not happy about it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It has cryogenic facilities for a start.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not comfortable talking like this.”

  “You have my word that it won’t go any further. It could help us find her, so tell me all you know.”

  “Mr Sinclair hates children.”

  “Okay, some people do.”

  “He has stem cells at the clinic for cloning replacement body parts.”

  Archer raised his eyebrows and Jones winced awkwardly. Was this guy for real? It all sounded a bit too far-fetched, but Sinclair was a control freak. And immortality was the ultimate control. The world was full of nutters and unfortunately Sinclair had more than enough money to live out his wildest fantasies.

  “Is that what they were talking about in the car?”

  “Not exactly. You see … You see, Mrs Sinclair is afraid of falling pregnant.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what Mr Sinclair might do to her.”

  “What’s she afraid of?”

  “She told her sister she was late and she thought she was pregnant.”

  “Thought?”

  “She did the test and she wasn’t pregnant, but she was scared and wanted to talk to the doctor about her contraception.”

  “Did she tell Sinclair?”

  “No, she told the doctor and he told Mr Sinclair.”

  “So she wants to find a new doctor?”

  “She’s going to register with her sister’s
doctor next week.”

  “What did Sinclair say to her after he found out?”

  “He called her a stupid fucking airhead and punched her in the stomach.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sinclair was not in the living room when Archer returned to the penthouse. Best was at the desk manning the phone while Adams played with a silver pen. He was sitting at the table and dexterously twirled the pen around the fingers of his right hand, keeping it moving and passing it between his fingers like a magician at a children’s party. The room was quiet apart from the female newsreader talking on the large screen, but the volume was down low. The lighting was soft, coming only from table lamps. Archer was irritated in seconds by Adams’ mindless pen trick and waited for Sinclair outside on the terrace.

  The air was chill and the park looked like a black hole preventing any light from escaping. Archer stared into the darkness and felt it drawing him in, until a stool scraped the floor nearby and startled him. Haywood was at the far end of the terrace, sitting smoking a cigarette. Archer acknowledged him with a deferential nod of the head and stayed at the railing looking down at the eight lanes of traffic below. He wondered if the kidnappers were watching the penthouse. Through a spotting scope inside a hotel room with a direct line of sight, like on the Bayswater Road. A police car siren was getting louder. When it passed it was deafening. Archer wondered how long it had been since the siren makers had gone out of control with the concept of letting people know the cavalry was coming. There was nothing wrong with the old blues-and-twos; with the traditional two-tone horn so quintessentially British and still used in some places, but not here.

  His mobile phone vibrated in his right trouser pocket.

  “Hey,” Zoe said.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  He walked away from Haywood’s earshot to the opposite end of the terrace and noticed that it turned the corner towards the master bedroom. He could see an outdoor sofa and a discreet hot tub partially hidden behind a topiary screen, but couldn’t imagine Sinclair and Becky soaking together with champagne and candles.

  “I’m sending you some more information. You need to check it out.”

  “What have you got?”

  “No luck with the bike. But there are too many people close to him who’ve been killed or gone missing. It looks like he hired Oakland Security five years ago, but it’s a cleverly masked contract with layers of offshore companies. There’s also a link to a firm in Virginia.”

  “I’ll read the files back at my place.”

  “Be careful. There’s a long list of arson attacks on buildings just before he buys them and people who won’t sell conveniently committing suicide. Oh yeah, and his old fiancée before he got married to Becky died in a car crash and her brother is convinced that it wasn’t an accident. But nothing ever sticks.”

  “Where’s the brother?”

  “He’s a hot-shot lawyer in the City.”

  “Get me his number.”

  “No problem – you okay?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Someone has to.”

  “All right then.”

  “Work is piling up, so pull your finger out and come back safe.”

  “Thanks, Zoe.”

  Archer sat on a stool keeping his distance from Haywood. He needed some space to think. There was definitely an insider involved, but who was it?

  Peter Sinclair entered the living room in fresh clothes. His hair was still damp and his face was flushed pink. He had replaced his suit with grey flannel trousers and a grey ribbed roll top beneath a navy blazer. Archer thought he was grey to the heart.

  Best moved from the desk to the sofa and continued watching the news channel. Archer observed them from the terrace. He could see Best lusting after the newsreader like a mindless pervert. Secretly undressing her. His darting eyes and tongue way too obvious.

  Sinclair sat back at the desk, bolt upright like a proud sentry guarding something important. He placed his hands in front of him on the desk and clasped them loosely. Left over right. Archer had already noticed he was a lefty when he signed the cheque.

  Archer walked in front of Best without acknowledging him and went straight up to the desk to talk to Sinclair. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds.

  “You should get some rest.”

  “I’m waiting for the next call. I want her back here where she belongs.”

  “They won’t call you again tonight. You may as well try and get some rest.”

  “They may call, and if they do, I’ll be here. Remember I’m paying you to find the kidnappers, not to babysit me.”

  “Okay, your call. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Fucking lightweight,” Sinclair muttered sharply and looked away.

  *

  Archer left the penthouse quietly, walked home via Hyde Park Corner underpass and along the Old Brompton Road to Walton Street. He immediately changed into his running kit to crank up the endorphins and pound the endless maze of late-night streets. His mind was far too active, and he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. He needed to clear his thoughts and get into his rhythm. His subconscious often solved problems when he let it work without any clutter.

  A car engine started up as he began his run. He glimpsed a navy Ford Focus across the street pulling away slowly. He ran through Chelsea towards Battersea Bridge. The car was still tailing him by about a hundred yards when he reached the cooler air by the river, so he changed course, doubled back and took a narrow passageway off Cheyne Walk and made a dog-legged detour before getting back onto Chelsea Embankment and crossing Albert Bridge. The navy Ford tail had gone.

  He ran back towards Chelsea over Battersea Bridge, feeling as if the past was catching him like a dark cloud he couldn’t shake off. He ran faster and felt a chill on the back of his neck that made him shiver. He sprinted along Cheyne Walk, but no matter how fast he ran, he knew he could never escape the past, even if he couldn’t remember fourteen years of it.

  *

  As he turned the corner into Walton Street, he saw the navy car was parked across the street from his house. He tapped the passenger window and the driver shouted, “Get in.”

  Archer opened the passenger door and poked his head inside, as the driver thrust his warrant card at him. “DS Lambert, have a seat, Mr Archer.”

  Lambert wore a black leather jacket, flat cap and East End accent via West Ham, Barking or Dagenham. The inside of the car was dark and stank of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The big man spilled out from the seat in all directions and greeted Archer with a glare and worn-out grimace on a pumped-up pumpkin of a pock-marked face.

  “How can I help you, Detective Sergeant?”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about last Wednesday evening. Where were you between six and ten?”

  “Is this a formal interview, DS Lambert?”

  “Don’t be a dumb fuck.”

  “I can see you’re from Southwark CID, and I definitely did not make it south of the river last week. So I think we’re done here.”

  “Watch it, Archer. We both know you were in Ruislip. And you’re in deep shit. You’re under surveillance. Now get out.”

  Archer stopped himself from responding, got out and slammed the door as the car sped off. Proper police surveillance didn’t come with a health warning. This was a cheap tactic: by a dirty cop paid to intimidate him by whoever was responsible for last night’s nasty encounter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next morning at quarter to eight, without breakfast or coffee, Archer headed off to South Kensington tube station, compiling and evaluating theories. He topped up his Oyster card with sixty pounds and took the Piccadilly line three stops east to Green Park. The forty-year-old tube train was hot and packed full of miserable looking commuters still half asleep. Some builders and outdoor manual workers were dotted around the carriage, but the majority appeared to be from offices and shops. Wearing the drab uniforms of their chosen professions, they
all blended into a dullish grey mixture of vocational blandness.

  The world’s first underground was still running without proper air-conditioning on most of its routes, including the busy Piccadilly Line. Even in the autumn and winter it was uncomfortably hot at times. Especially when people squeezed themselves into the rush hour crowds, only to end up crushed inside the carriage, as they invaded each other’s personal spaces, like helpless animals heading off to slaughter. Men and women pressed up against each other. Perverts copping a feel of the past as they rubbed bodies with younger, fitter women way out of their league. The discomfort was tolerated, but the mood was simmering between unpleasant and hostile.

  The air in the claustrophobic carriage felt stale and heavy. After only three stops he was glad to get out. On the platform the air was still stuffy and recycled but the odd blast of cooler air from the tunnel gave him hope of getting enough oxygen to avoid suffocation. As he travelled up the escalator the air became thinner, cooler and fresher. Back out on the street the exhaust-tinged environment felt fresh like sea air in his oxygen starved lungs as he sucked it down deep and instantly felt better.

  He crossed Piccadilly and strolled purposefully through random throngs of commuters towards Berkeley Square. He had discarded his usual office attire of Diesel jeans, Oxford shirt, cotton jacket and Chelsea boots for a more robust outfit. Darker jeans, rugged walking boots, long-sleeved polo shirt and his favourite black leather jacket. He stopped and sat on a wooden bench on his way through Berkeley Square. The case needed a break as his theories were about as stale as the tube train he’d just suffocated inside. Sinclair wasn’t ruled out of the mix just yet, but it was far too elaborate a scheme for a bored husband to be bumping off his gold-digging wife. Becky was still a suspect, with a trusted accomplice in her sister, who might not be away on business after all. Both untraceable without their phones, but it was a complicated and dangerous way to leave a powerful husband, and less lucrative than finding a good divorce lawyer, so highly unlikely. The insider angle was still the key to catching the kidnappers. There had to be an insider and they were teamed up with an enemy or an opportunist, mainly motivated by ransom money. But he was still only skimming the surface. He needed much more information before he could run his powerful digital tracking and profiling models. Coffee, bacon and eggs required urgently.