The Boathouse

by R. J. Harries

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Archer and Forsyth skipped breakfast, checked out of the hotel and got into the car. Forsyth started the engine, dropped the soft top under the pale blue sky, wiped the dew off the shaded windscreen with one quick pass of the wipers and put the heater on.

  The autumn sun warmed Archer’s face as they drove down the meandering driveway. The gravel popped and crunched beneath the tyres and the birds sang in the trees. It felt more like spring than autumn.

  Forsyth wore a red quilted gilet with jeans, boots and a red scarf. She looked as if she’d lived in the country all her life. Archer was still in his navy jeans and leather jacket. He was determined to get Becky to a safe place before Sinclair could find her.

  Archer’s phone went off loudly.

  “Have you seen the news?” Zoe said, on speaker.

  “No. What’s happened?”

  Forsyth stopped the car abruptly with a scrunch of gravel and a cloud of dust.

  “Julian Cavendish and a woman were found dead in a hotel suite in the City.”

  “What?” Archer felt like he’d been punched in the chest.

  “A cleaner found them and took photos with her phone. She’s been sacked, but there are graphic pictures all over the Net. He was with a high-class escort. The pictures make it look like a cocaine and auto-erotic sex party gone wrong. They both suffocated to death.”

  “Are you saying it was an accident from sexual misadventure?”

  “No accident, I’m afraid, because the Hunters are dead too. That’s the big news story on all the main TV channels.”

  “What?”

  “Their French housekeeper’s dead too.”

  “How?”

  “Burglars. They stole sculptures and paintings. Shot them all in their beds in the middle of the night while they were sleeping. And somebody has posted pictures on the Net.”

  “It has to be Sinclair.”

  “He’s on the warpath. Be careful.”

  “We’re on our way to see Becky now.”

  He hung up.

  “Poor Julian,” said Forsyth. “Hunter deserved it, but Julian was a lovely man, he was like an older version of Prince Harry.”

  “If we hadn’t found Hunter, he wouldn’t have made the call that killed him.”

  “It’s not our fault he’s dead. We’re not responsible for Sinclair’s actions.”

  “But why did he kill him? And all those innocent women.”

  “He never liked him, but something must have triggered it.”

  “It must be me. But how? I haven’t been followed, my phone is clean.”

  Archer opened Forsyth’s iPad and looked for the email from Zoe. He clicked on the links to see the websites.

  “Pictures like this should never be allowed on these sites,” he said.

  The Hunters were shot in the head at close range while still in bed. The naked housekeeper Madeleine was spread-eagled on her back on top of the bed. Probably raped before half her face was blown off.

  The bodies of Julian Cavendish and the young courtesan from lunchtime on Thursday were lying on top of their hotel bed with clear plastic bags over their heads.

  Archer saw Forsyth’s back straighten and her face tighten. She was a tough ex-copper, so she would be used to seeing images of violence, but clearly she was still human. Archer had also seen too much bloodshed. He was able to deal with death and even killing people if he felt it was deserved, but he could not accept innocent victims being tortured and then being murdered in cold blood. Whoever was responsible deserved the same fate.

  Forsyth accelerated aggressively through the hotel gateway, her wing mirrors brushing leaves off hedges as she raced through the narrow lanes.

  “Taking him down will be a lot harder now, without Hunter’s help,” she said.

  “Let’s get to Becky first. Then we’ll take Sinclair down, don’t you worry.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Forsyth nearly crashed into the hedge as she skidded to a standstill leaving two lines of rubber behind them on the narrow tarmac lane. She slowly edged off the lane and inched up the recess towards the wrought-iron gate, nudging it softly with the Merc’s bumper. Through it Archer could see the sisters and the hoody unloading cardboard boxes from the Transporter van and taking them into the house. Forsyth blasted the horn for a few seconds, causing three heads to turn around sharply.

  Louise Palmer said something to the others and then walked straight towards the gate. She was Amazonian in stature and looked like the natural leader of the group. As she got nearer, Archer could see from her frown that she was really pissed off.

  “I’ll make the introductions. This could be tricky,” Forsyth said, getting out of the car.

  Louise stopped twenty yards away. She stood with her legs apart and her hands on her hips. “What do you want?” she shouted.

  “Open the gate. We need to talk.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Private investigators. You’re in deep shit unless you open up.”

  “I don’t think so somehow. The gate stays closed, so fuck off.”

  “You’ll need a new gate, then. I’ve just turned the airbags off.”

  “Right, I’m calling the police.” She turned around and started to walk away.

  “I don’t think you’ll do that, Mrs Palmer. Peter Sinclair didn’t call the police. He’s coming after you himself.”

  Louise froze on the spot. She was visibly shaking as she turned back round, all colour drained from her face. She looked like an aggressive middle-aged Goth.

  “Shit, shit, shit. Why are you here?”

  “We want to help you.”

  “Why? I don’t even know you.”

  “Sinclair’s on the warpath. He’s close to finding you.”

  “Hold on.”

  She hurried over to Becky and they spoke for a minute with lots of head-shaking, posturing and arm-waving. Then Louise pointed the remote control at the electric gate and it opened slowly. Forsyth got back inside the car. The hoody gazed at her coolly, wearing large headphones, but continued to unload the van. The sisters stood with folded arms and watched the Merc drive up to them and park in front of the barn. Their faces looked suspicious. Their body language guarded. They looked set to bluff it out now and stared silently as the unwelcome visitors got out of the car.

  “Morning,” Forsyth said in a friendly tone.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Louise said harshly, glaring back at her.

  Forsyth smiled and extended her hand. Archer did the same. They were both refused.

  “What the hell do you two fucking shitheads want?” Louise said.

  “Can we go inside?” Archer said, gesturing towards the back door of the cottage.

  “No. If you’ve got something to say, say it here,” Becky said.

  “Your husband’s looking for you. It won’t take him much longer. He’s already killed Julian Cavendish and Stuart Hunter. Basically you’re next.”

  This time their faces completely crumpled.

  “You’d better come in then,” Becky gestured for them to follow her.

  At close quarters Becky was as beautiful as her portrait, but Louise was a hard-looking forty-something with sharp features smothered in too much make-up. Her figure was cosmetically enhanced and her hair dyed jet black. Her pale skin looked tired. As they entered the cottage Archer thought she looked better in softer lighting, but the daylight had already exposed her attempts to look younger and the black bags under her eyes were still puffy.

  The country farmhouse kitchen was larger than Archer had thought, with a wood-fuelled Aga and long wooden table in the middle with bench seats either side. Becky poured fresh coffee into four Portmeirion mugs and threw four teaspoons on the table. There were no takers. The foursome sat awkwardly around the kitchen table with folded arms.

  “He’s a psychopath,” Becky said, staring wildly at her steaming mug. Her eyes danced angrily, then glazed over as her rage broke and she l
ooked frightened.

  “He’s nasty. Total control freak. Everything always has to be his way. He threatens to kill me if I don’t do exactly what he wants. It’s horrible.” She stared harshly at Archer.

  “Did you really think you could get away from him?”

  “He was planning to kill me. He’s got a younger woman lined up and he wants me out of the way so he can marry her.”

  “Why not get a divorce?”

  “You obviously don’t know him,” Louise interjected bitterly, glaring at Archer.

  “What about the Ukrainians? What’s their involvement?”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “We saw the Ukrainians being paid off yesterday. What was that for?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Louise blurted as her face flushed red.

  “You’re not trying to take Sinclair out, are you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous – don’t you know anything?”

  The sisters looked at each other nervously. “Anyone that tried to take him out wouldn’t last a week. That’s why he’s so cocky.”

  “So what were the Ukrainians doing here?”

  “All right, if you must know: Louise has a Ukrainian friend; she borrowed some money from him to keep her business going through the recession. We paid him back with interest.”

  “Who planned the kidnapping and ransom drops?”

  “We did.”

  “What? All of it?”

  “Every last detail. We couldn’t kill him so we had to run. We wanted to start a new life down under. My sister and her two children in Sydney, me in Auckland. It’s as far away as you can get and Peter has no interests down there.”

  “Why did you take so much money from him?”

  “Shows how little you know. It’s gonna take a lot to change identities and not get found. We had to make it look realistic. If we asked for too little he’d be sceptical and figure it out. It seemed more convincing this way.”

  “So you executed all the ransom drops yourselves?”

  “Yep.”

  “No help from professionals? No Ukrainians?”

  “Nope.”

  “How long did it take you to prepare for it?”

  “Six months.”

  “Why rent this place? Why are you here and not in Australia?”

  “We’re waiting for my niece to finish college in Cheltenham. That’s why we rented this cottage. It’s close to her school. We thought nobody would ever find us here.”

  “But look how easily we found you. If we can do it, then he’ll know other people who can. Didn’t you think he’d come after you?”

  “The Ukrainians are going to make it look like I’m dead. It’s all planned and paid for. Then Peter can move on and forget about me and my family,” Becky said, looking worried.

  “What? When?”

  “Next week. It will stop him from looking for me or thinking that Louise is involved. He’ll think it was a real kidnapping, that it was all about the ransom money.”

  Archer didn’t believe all he was hearing. He looked at Forsyth and could tell from her frown that she wasn’t buying it either. The sisters had planned parts of the operation well but they’d also grossly underestimated Peter Sinclair.

  Archer’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket.

  “Shit. It’s him.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Archer stared at his phone and let it ring six times before he answered. His voicemail kicked in after eight rings and he knew how persistent Sinclair could be. He held his hand up, signalling to the others to stop talking.

  “Yes,” Archer said, sternly.

  “Haven’t you found her yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “I have people near Oxford that can back you up. Where exactly are you?”

  “It wasn’t her. We haven’t found her yet. We’re on the move, still looking.”

  “My patience has finally run out with you, Archer.” Sinclair’s tone was grim.

  “There’s still time.”

  “What good will that do? We’re done.” Sinclair hung up.

  Archer put the phone back in his pocket. It was a huge relief that his civilised relationship with Sinclair was finally over. He knew that their next encounter would be very different.

  “We need to get away from here. He has men near Oxford. They could be here in under an hour.” Archer stood up from the kitchen table.

  “Where do we go?”

  “We all need to ditch our SIM cards and go. I know somewhere that’s safe. Pack your essentials and be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes? But that’s not enough time.”

  “Leave all the boxes, just bring some clothes. Follow us in your car. Put the van back in the barn, we need to shut this place down and leave. NOW.”

  The hoody swaggered into the kitchen. Headphones skewed around his neck. Cigarette hanging from his lip. Gun tucked into his jeans. Eyes glazed over.

  “You old fuds are all shit-scared of him,” he said, then leaned back and grabbed his gun, pointing it at the floor. “I’m not. I’m gonna kill the fucker.”

  Louise stood up and gently took the gun from his hand. “No you won’t, darling, just go put the van back in the barn and get the Lexus out. Lock all the outbuildings. We’re leaving. Hurry up.”

  He looked at her for a moment then lowered his head. As he closed the door behind him her mobile phone rang. She stared at it vacantly. Then her jaw dropped and her bottom lip fell.

  “It’s coming up as ‘Peter’s Private Number’,” Louise said.

  “What?” Becky said.

  “He’s calling my new mobile.” The blood drained from the sisters’ faces.

  “What the fuck? How did he get this number? It’s a bloody brand-new phone and I haven’t used it to call him yet.”

  Louise Palmer stared at her mobile. It rang on until it went to voicemail. Two seconds later it rang again. She stared at it with her mouth open and let it go to voicemail again.

  “Why’s he calling me?”

  A text message arrived with an old car horn sound.

  Answer the next call if you ever want to see your daughter again.

  Louise started to shake. First her hands, then her arms and finally her body. Her breathing became shallow and more rapid. She strained as if she was struggling to stay on her feet. She looked like she was starting to hyperventilate.

  “Oh my God. He’s got Amanda,” she said.

  She dropped the phone. It landed on the table and spun around face up. They stared at it as it lit up and rang again. They could all see on the screen that it was another call from Peter’s private number. Louise braced herself, took a long deep breath and managed to control her breathing enough to pick up the phone and answer it. She pressed speaker with both of her hands still shaking.

  “Morning, Louise,” he said, as if they were old friends about to enjoy a pleasant chat. “I thought that last text message might get your full attention.”

  “What have you done with Amanda?” She was breathless.

  “I’ve taken her as an insurance policy.”

  “You’d better not touch her, you bastard. Where is she?”

  “Shut up and put Becky on the phone.”

  “What are you talking about? She’s not with me. I’m on a business trip, you must know that. Where’s Becky?”

  “Don’t lie to me, you stupid slag.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that. Where’s Amanda?”

  “Shut the fuck up, you skank. I realise this must be a bit of a shock, but I’ve outplayed your pathetic little game. I figured out your little scam, you know. I’ve made moves so far ahead of you that your head would spin. Who did you think you were dealing with?”

  “What are you talking about? Where’s my daughter?”

  “Listen very carefully, Louise. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.”

  “Leave Amanda alone and tell me where she is.”

  “Shut up
, woman, for crying out loud. I’ll give you ten minutes to think straight, get over the shock of what’s happening to you and then I’ll call you back. Becky had better answer the phone, otherwise Amanda dies.”

  “You dare touch her. I’ll kill you.”

  “No, Louise, you won’t. You’ve made a huge mistake doing this to me. Now I have Amanda, but I can only guarantee her safety if you do exactly as I say. Make sure that Becky answers the phone. Understood?”

  “Don’t you hurt her, you fucking bastard.”

  “If you talk to the police, she dies. If Becky fails to answer the call, she dies. If you don’t do exactly as I tell you, she dies. Recognise these words, Louise?”

  “Leave her alone.”

  “Becky answers the phone in ten minutes or Amanda dies.” The phone went dead.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The mood around the kitchen table bombed as they all realised that Sinclair held the upper hand. Archer paced around the kitchen table with his head bowed down in deep thought. The sisters had no real choice. They had to do whatever Sinclair said, to save Amanda. He stopped and looked directly at Louise.

  “I don’t understand. How did he know I was involved?” Louise was still shaking.

  Becky awkwardly put her arm around her sister to console her, then quickly pulled it away and looked nervous. It looked like they had been arguing about something.

  Archer started to pace around the table again with Forsyth staring at him. He stopped and stared back as if he were questioning her loyalty, but immediately felt stupid. He’d been the one who had told Sinclair about Louise. Was that all it had taken for Sinclair to figure it all out? Or was there someone else keeping him informed?

  “I’ll have to answer it. I’ll have to speak to him,” Becky said, and her eyes gave away her fear. “What if he hurts Amanda?”

  “He’ll want you to go back with him,” Archer said, looking directly at Becky.

  “I’ll have to do what he says. There’s no alternative.”

  “No, there’s not.”

  “Do as he says, agree to his terms. We’ll have to figure out a way to get you out after the exchange.”