The Boathouse

by R. J. Harries

  “Excellent. That’s exactly what we needed. I’m going to help find him.”

  “They don’t need your help, Archer. You’ve been worse than useless so far.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk. Unlike you I can’t sit around all day doing nothing.”

  “Anytime you feel up for it, Archer. I’ll be ready for you. Anytime you want.”

  “No point, you grunts are far too slow. You wouldn’t even see me coming.”

  Archer left the penthouse in a hurry, not sure if he could make it back to Docklands in time to save Hunter. He’d wondered all along if Sinclair was surreptitiously using other resources to find people. Now he had confirmation that he was. He called Forsyth from the lift, but her phone was engaged.

  Archer exited the lift on the ground floor and tried to call Forsyth again, but her phone was still engaged. As he left the building he could see that she was still parked right outside the rear entrance and was still on the phone talking about one of her cases.

  Archer got back in the car and interrupted her call by pressing the red button.

  “Call them back. We have to go. NOW.”

  Forsyth started the engine.

  “Where?”

  “Back to the Hunter’s. Sinclair’s men are on their way to get him.”

  “What?”

  She floored the accelerator and raced up Park Street into a long gap in traffic that had been created between red lights.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Whoever Hunter just called told Sinclair. The goon squad are on their way to that bar to ask around. We need to get him out of there before they find him.”

  Archer tried to call Hunter en route, but the phone was engaged.

  Forsyth drove as fast as the heavy traffic would allow. Archer grabbed the door and seat at one point as they accelerated around a sharp corner.

  “Don’t worry, I’m an advanced driver. I’ve got a racetrack licence. The works.”

  “Good for you,” he said, bracing himself and exhaling after another near miss.

  They came to an abrupt halt outside the entrance to Hunter’s building. None of Sinclair’s cars were there and none of his goons were anywhere in sight.

  They took the lift straight back up to the top floor. As they exited the lift to get to apartment 12A Archer looked down at the car park and saw Sinclair’s men arriving in a shiny black Land Rover Discovery, stopping right next to Forsyth’s pale blue Merc.

  Forsyth knocked sharply on the door and shouted for Samantha to open up. A shocked-looking Stuart Hunter opened the door. Archer and Forsyth walked in and sailed straight past him without being asked and he shut the door with his mouth still open. He turned around and followed them into the living area where his wife sat talking to a friend on the phone.

  “What’s going on?” Hunter asked angrily.

  “Sinclair’s men are coming for you.”

  “What? I hope you’re bloody well joking.”

  “I’m not bloody well joking. They’re right outside.”

  The blood drained instantly from his face.

  “How is that possible?”

  “You made a call to a contractor from a bar and whoever you called told Sinclair where to find you.”

  “But I didn’t tell him my location. I was just about to wire him some money.”

  “Never mind all that, they figured that part out for themselves. They’re outside right now. We need you and your wife to hide and your housekeeper will have to act as a cover. I’ll try and fob them off.”

  “Shit, we’re like sitting bloody ducks.”

  Hunter’s orange tan had gone pale.

  “Quick, go, take Sarah, I’ll prep the housekeeper.” He turned to Madeleine. “You need to pretend the Hunters have just gone away for the winter season.”

  The knock on the door startled everyone inside the flat. Archer looked through the peephole and saw Haywood.

  “They’re here, go and hide, now,” Archer whispered.

  “Like where, under the bed?” Forsyth replied.

  “Just go downstairs.”

  “Follow me,” Hunter said, as he led the way down.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Archer gave the terrified-looking housekeeper some last words of encouragement. He told her to breathe deeply, relax her tense body and leave all the talking to him. She stared at him silently and looked like she was on the verge of tears.

  “If they ask you a direct question, just respond in French. Make out you don’t understand English very well.” She nodded silently, clearly petrified.

  The knock at the door was much harder this time and Haywood shouted aggressively.

  “Hunter, answer the door before we bash it down. We know you’re in there.”

  Archer opened the door.

  Haywood, Best and Adams stared back at him, with perplexed and angry expressions.

  “What are you doing here, Archer?” Haywood snarled aggressively and pushed Archer backwards.

  “Clarke told me what happened. Looks like I’m just better at finding people than you are.”

  “Where’s Hunter?”

  “He’s not here. They’ve just gone travelling and won’t be back before Easter. The housekeeper’s here alone. She doesn’t know where they’ve gone.”

  “Who are you?”

  “She only speaks French.”

  “Stay out of our way, Archer.”

  “They’re not here, dipshit.”

  “Back off, motherfucker, we’re going to tear this place apart.”

  “I’ve just looked. There’s nobody here.”

  “Yeah, well perhaps we’re better at searching apartments than you are.”

  “You’re wasting time. Typical grunts.”

  “We need to take her with us. Make sure she doesn’t warn Hunter.”

  “No point. He has cameras everywhere, look.” He pointed the cameras out. “So he’ll know already. He won’t come back here again, so don’t do anything stupid. You’ll just get the police and media involved when her boyfriend calls her later from Paris. That won’t go down well with your boss or the kidnappers, now will it?”

  “Stay out of our way, Archer. We’ll take great pleasure in restraining you.”

  “Be my guest. I’m fascinated to see what shit-for-brains looks like in action.”

  The goons ignored him and started to search the apartment roughly, leaving a trail of devastation like a tornado had just blown through it. Haywood went downstairs first, followed by Best. Adams wasn’t satisfied until all the contents of all the cupboards upstairs were smashed and emptied out onto the floor.

  Archer heard Haywood shout to Best. He went down to see what they were doing. Haywood had found a cupboard with a padlock on the outside. They prised it off with an old Cavalry sword that was hanging on the wall. The cupboard was full of old dusty files which Haywood threw onto the floor in a fit of rage.

  “I told you. They’ve gone away for the winter.”

  After checking every room and cupboard, under every bed, and turning the apartment completely upside down, Haywood, Best and Adams left. Annoyed and irritated, they looked sheepishly worried about reporting the bad news back to Sinclair.

  Archer watched them all get in the Land Rover with their heads down, but waited for them to drive away before he went down the stairs and shouted.

  “Okay, they’ve gone.”

  As in many high-end apartments there was a compact space that had been planned as a panic room. The hidden door was in the dressing room, behind Stuart Hunter’s conservative suits. These now lay strewn over the floor. The door looked like every other panel in the dressing room.

  “You need to move,” Archer said.

  “No way, I’m staying put this time. I’ve got an arsenal down here and a team of mercenaries on their way.”

  “Suit yourself. We’re out of here.”

  “Let me give you a lift home,” Forsyth said with a cheeky smile.

  “A simple lift, or anot
her episode of Top Gear?”

  “Speed limit and stopping at red lights. How does that sound?”

  “Appetising. Let’s go to my place and get something to eat.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Forsyth parked her car opposite Archer’s white stucco house on Walton Street, SW3. He opened the gloss black front door and waited while she fetched her laptop from the boot, changed her jacket to a brown leather one and grabbed a pair of jeans from a suitcase before she closed the soft top and followed him. As she passed the threshold he looked up and down the street. There was no sign of DS Lambert’s navy Ford Focus.

  A lot had happened since they’d first met at the Mandarin. There was plenty to think about. Archer welcomed her to his house and locked them in with two deadlocks and the perimeter alarm before setting all external cameras on record.

  “How about steak and salad?”

  “Sounds good.” She smiled and followed him through the modern open-plan living space towards the ultra-modern kitchen at the back where she placed her things on the island.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  “Not a crummy bedsit in Acton after all. Shall we work on here?”

  “Sure. Drink?”

  “Some still water would be good. Thanks.”

  “Help yourself over there.” Archer gestured towards the glass-fronted sub-zero fridge with plenty of bottled water stacked neatly on a shelf. Forsyth removed two half-litre bottles of Evian, placed one on the island for Archer, unscrewed the other and drank half of it.

  They set their identical Apple laptops up on the island. Forsyth asked where the bathroom was and came back in a pair of faded old jeans. She still looked good in jeans, but it was a lot less distracting than before.

  They started going over the facts as they currently knew them. Archer listed the relevant points and displayed them via a wireless connection on the large plasma screen on the wall. He quickly developed a timeline, but nothing obvious jumped out, so while they were thinking he got a huge marbled claret steak out of the fridge and seasoned it with pepper and paprika.

  “Twenty-eight-day dry-aged Aberdeen Angus,” he smiled with pride. “Organic. We’ll share it.”

  He asked her to select a bottle of wine from the kitchen cellar, which was really just a tall fridge with two glass doors, one side for red and one set at a cooler temperature for white. She gravitated towards the reds. “Hey, there’s some good stuff in here. Pétrus, no less. You clearly like your wine,” she said.

  Forsyth chose a ripe but still fruity Côtes du Rhône Villages Reserve from Les Dauphins. He gave her a Waiter’s Friend corkscrew from the drawer. She swiftly uncorked it and poured out two equal measures into heavy lead crystal goblets.

  “Good choice,” he said.

  He chopped some organic cucumber, sultan’s jewel tomatoes, kalamata olives, jalapeño peppers, red onion and romaine lettuce. Added extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar and tossed it all in a teak serving bowl with large wooden spoons. He fried the thick steak on a griddle pan until medium-well and let it rest for five minutes. Dijon mustard was the only condiment placed on the island.

  “Henckels steak knives and white linen napkins. How domesticated.”

  “Look, it’s still juicy and tender, but no blood, exactly as promised,” he beamed.

  “Wow, Sean. It’s amazing, cheers,” she said, as they chinked glasses. “Taking Sinclair down won’t be easy. Even if Hunter sings.”

  “I know, plus we still need to find Becky. If we do, maybe we can get her to help us.”

  “I hope we’re not getting out of our depth here. It’s getting complicated.”

  “We can get help taking Sinclair down. Time is running out for Becky, though. Less than forty-eight hours until the kidnappers’ deadline. If we don’t find her, or if Sinclair doesn’t pay up, they said they’ll kill her. The bomb threat’s just a hoax.”

  “I don’t want to even think about that. It can’t be real, can it?”

  “It doesn’t make sense. This is about ransom money or revenge, not bombs.”

  “We’d better get some rest tonight. The next two days will be hard going.”

  Archer’s mobile phone rang and he reached for his pocket.

  It was Zoe de la Croix.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “There’s no record of Becky’s sister flying from Heathrow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I just checked the airlines and immigration databases.”

  “Okay, see if you can find her. Damn it, she could be that burned body they found in South London. Find the DNA report on her teeth. And keep an eye on the flat in Marylebone with a local camera.”

  “I’m doing that already, all night if I have to. I’ll call you if anyone goes back in there, and I’ll keep searching for the sister. I must be missing something somewhere. Her mobile is still in her office and it’s closed for business. Empty. But there has to be a way to find her.”

  He put the phone back in his pocket. Forsyth looked at him inquisitively.

  “What’s up?”

  “That was Zoe. Louise Palmer never left the country.”

  “Really? Well that’s not good news. It makes no sense at all.”

  “There are numerous angles now. She could be in on it or she could be being blackmailed, threatened, coerced, even kidnapped herself. Or she could be dead, but whichever way, she’s our number one lead right now.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing yet, Zoe’s still working on it.”

  “Whether she’s in on it or not, it’s not good news, is it?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Archer noticed how the mood in the kitchen had turned sombre. They both looked pensively up at the screen. Archer updated it and then put some music on his digital hi-fi system to help soothe their spirits. Clapton played the blues effortlessly in the background, bending the blue notes on his Stratocaster with melancholic passion and feeling. It fitted the moment perfectly.

  “That was a great supper thanks,” she said and smiled at him affectionately.

  “Least I could do.”

  “Fancy a short break? I’m getting tired.”

  “Let’s go and sit in the living room. Coffee?”

  “Sure. I’ll bring the rest of the wine as well.”

  Archer made two black coffees and they wandered into the living area holding their wine and coffee. It was a large open space with artwork on the walls.

  Archer sat on the leather sofa, but Forsyth walked around the room admiring the paintings. Somehow she completely ignored the large insightful vinyl record collection and gravitated towards a bright painting of cypress trees and swirling clouds in Provence.

  “Great artwork, I really like it. Are they copies of Van Goghs?”

  “Yes, oil on canvas – hand-made copies.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “I had them done in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.”

  “I love Provence. I’d like to live there one day.”

  “Yes, it’s perfect.” Archer’s mind wandered.

  “I’d love to live in a vineyard or in a villa close to the Rhône. I definitely want my own place down there one day, to cook and paint – that’s my dream.”

  They finished walking around the room and sat on the sofa facing another large flat screen with lots of DVDs beneath it, mostly action and crime-related movies and his two favourite TV series: Justified and Dexter.

  Forsyth raised her glass of red wine and they chinked glasses again.

  “To finding Becky.” They both took a sip of wine. “I feel a bit guilty enjoying myself like this while she’s in danger,” she said softly and bowed her head.

  “We did everything we could today, the best we could. Now we’re temporarily out of leads to chase down and we need to get some rest. Zoe will find something eventually and when she does we need to be ready to go. Like firemen.”

  “You’re
right, but it still feels wrong to relax like this.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up too much, there’s still enough time – we’ll find her before the deadline. We always find something.”

  Archer could smell her now that she was closer. She smelled like fresh cotton in spring. She took her boots off and crossed one perfectly pedicured foot over another.

  “Tell me about Zoe.”

  She flicked her hair and smiled flirtatiously. Her eyes were sparkling in the light, her smile disarming, her radiance captivating. She fascinated him.

  “Tell me what you think first.”

  “Striking, strong and intelligent.”

  “We go back a long way. She’s a really good friend. Hold on.”

  Archer’s phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. The caller ID showed that it was from a tenaciously impatient caller with a reputation for being a cruel control freak.

  “It’s Sinclair, he’s relentless. I’d better see what he wants.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Archer braced himself to talk to the man his gut was telling him ran the Boathouse.

  “Where are you?” Sinclair asked.

  “Back at my place.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working your case.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s not Hunter then?”

  “No it’s not.”

  “I thought it was him too. What happens now?” “We’re exploring other avenues; other associates of yours.”

  “Like who?”

  “There’s a long list. I’m sure you’re familiar with all the names.”

  “Business is business. Some people take it personally. I don’t know why.”

  “It takes all sorts.” Archer winced at having to be polite to him.

  “Well they’re either brave or stupid. Whoever kidnapped her will regret it, whatever happens. I’m sure you’re aware by now that if anything happens to her it will end badly. The reckless idiots that have done this to me must know what’s coming to them.”