The Boathouse (10 page)

Archer walked through the park to Hyde Park Corner tube station. He'd spotted Best, who was hopping behind trees, by pretending to look up at a passing police helicopter, using his peripheral vision to confirm that he was being tailed. His private field training never failed him in situations like this. Always head off in the opposite direction first. Everyone knows it and it sounds simple, but he hadn't had much practice lately.

Archer used his Oyster card to get through the turnstile without missing a beat. Best would probably need to buy a ticket and then go east instead of west. Job done.

Archer felt the warm wind rush down the platform and heard the rumble of an approaching train from inside the tunnel. The rails sang like an old Space Invaders game and then snapped like steel whips being cracked by an invisible tunnel monster in a low budget horror movie. The rumble grew louder, and he felt the vibration rise up through him from the platform as the air whooshed past and the train entered the station.

Archer often had to control dark thoughts at times like this. He wasn't really suicidal; it was only in certain situations he felt an urge from deep inside that he did not fully understand. He put it down to the trauma of his past. He had learned over time to control his demons, but he was still wary of them. He told his legs not to move. His feet were planted firmly on the platform six feet from the edge. Heights and approaching trains sometimes made him feel an urge to jump and end it all right there and then. No more past. Game over. He'd stopped base jumping and walking close to cliffs when he was twenty.

With his legs cast in concrete, forbidden to move, his mind played tricks on him. Would the electric shock from the rails do it first or the mechanical impact of the train as it sliced and diced through flesh and bone like a massive meat mincer? He felt the adrenalin kicking into his system as his mind and body fought to survive. Two more seconds and he would be safe. Safe from his dark side.

Archer knew there would be no mercy or sympathy from any commuters if the train was held and delayed. They wouldn't care about the loss of his life. Just the inconvenience of a half-hour delay to their journey. “Bloody jumpers.” He'd cursed them many times himself.

The tube driver passed by, looking up at the ceiling of his cab, chewing gum, completely bored. Archer felt a surge of relief. Safe until some other day.

Archer boarded the tired-looking westbound tube to Rayners Lane. He got off one stop later at Knightsbridge. The train and the escalators were dead quiet. A few shoppers and tourists. He waited at the pedestrian crossing outside the station, looking up at One Hyde Park, and crossed the road that had been part of the ransom drop circuit around the park. He walked from the tube station exit towards the red brick and stone majesty of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

He hurried past the doorman in his red coat and top hat, up the worn stone steps and through the pillared archway and tall doors leading into the lobby. Cavendish was not there so he found a quiet red leather armchair with a good view of the entrance and reception desk and waited for him to arrive.

Sinclair called him on his mobile phone, but he let it go to voicemail and switched it on silent. Well-heeled businessmen and well-dressed shoppers came and went in all directions as the lunch crowds assembled for liquid refreshment. The aperitifs flowed like storm water going down the drain in a monsoon.

Cavendish entered the hotel lobby with an air of confidence and arrogance befitting a successful managing partner in a major law firm. The pin-striped lawyer glanced around, spotted Archer and smiled, but before he could get to him a junior member of the hotel management had recognised him and politely asked him if he was lunching there today.

Cavendish shook hands with the man and gestured to his waiting guest. Archer heard him explain that he required a table for four, but only two would stay after aperitifs for lunch. Archer got up and shook Cavendish's hand. The dark-haired junior manager asked them to follow him and led them briskly towards the high-ceilinged dining room at the rear of the hotel, overlooking the park.

Cavendish had a prime table, next to one of the tall crystal-clear windows. They sat down as half a dozen Blues and Royals passed by, providing a chorus of clattering horseshoes. Beyond them the familiar sights of Rotten Row and the colourful oak trees around the Serpentine, where Archer had been walking with Best less than fifteen minutes ago.

Cavendish looked immaculate with his silver silk tie and matching handkerchief ruffled flamboyantly in his breast pocket. He gesticulated a lot as he ordered sparkling bottled water and a good bottle of white Burgundy on ice.

Archer politely declined.

“Sarah Forsyth, my favourite investigator, should be here any minute,” Cavendish said with gusto and a smile.

“Thanks for doing this. Will she talk candidly?”

“I've asked her to share everything she found out with you.”

“That's good of you. Thanks. What's she like?”

“Fearless.”

“Is this her?”

An attractive woman in her early thirties wearing a dark business suit and carrying a laptop-sized briefcase walked towards them. She smiled confidently at them both. She was tall, slim and tanned. Wide-set brown eyes, pert nose and a generous lower lip that shimmered with lip gloss. Archer's first impression was that she wore too much make-up for a business meeting and revealed too much of her cleavage and thighs. Pouting more like a glamour model than a businesswoman, she seemed too overstated to be real.

“Oh no, she's my client, and my lunch appointment in fact,” he said with delight as he clearly savoured the view of her young slinky body moving towards him.

He made polite introductions and his client seemed happy with his choice of wine. The wine waiter performed a brief uncorking ritual and theatrically poured two good-sized glasses. The lawyer and his client looked into each other's eyes, chinked their glasses and smiled at each other with an aura of over-familiarity. They clearly knew each other well. Archer doubted that she was a corporate client, but kept silent on the matter.

The sunlight from the window poured over her shoulders, bronzing her dark hair at the edges, which picked up the small bronze flecks in her brown eyes. While they sipped wine and glanced admiringly at each other, lingering a little longer than they should have, Archer noticed an athletic blonde woman in her late thirties or early forties approach the table with long strides and a scornful look on her face.

“Ah there she is, looking radiant as usual.” Cavendish stood up and welcomed his third and most serious-looking guest.

“My dear Sarah, so good of you to come and meet us at such short notice. I'd like to introduce you to Sean Archer.”

Sarah Forsyth stood confidently at the table and shook hands, keeping good eye contact with Archer throughout the introductions. Despite her unfriendly glower she was smart and well presented. A classy woman with sparkling blue eyes, milky skin and bouncing blonde hair which made her appear to be fresh out of the salon. Wearing figure-hugging clothes and brown leather boots, she clearly spent a lot of time in the gym. Her skintight beige trousers, white lacy blouse and embroidered silver paisley jacket attracted attention from around the room. Cavendish's client pursed her lips as if she was sucking on a ridiculously sharp lemon.

“Please sit down. Would you like a drink?” Cavendish asked enthusiastically.

“No thanks. I have to get straight back to the office.”

“But I thought you could spare some time to talk with Mr Archer.”

“I can give him an hour, but he'll have to come back to my office.”

“There you are, Mr Archer, she's all yours.” Cavendish beamed with satisfaction.

Archer excused himself. He briefly shook hands with Cavendish and followed Sarah Forsyth, who was already hightailing it out towards the lobby. Cavendish was oblivious now to everyone except his hot young lunch date, who had regained her wide glossy smile.

By the time Archer caught up with Forsyth outside the main entrance she was on her mobile phone having a heated discussion, telling off one of her employees for taking liberties and too much time off.

“Don't give me all that crap again. You need to work eight hours a day and that means work, as in productive and helpful for me. Not surfing the internet, painting your nails or texting your stupid friends all day. You're on notice, Hannah. Take this as your final warning.” She ended the call and put her phone away in her bag. She was feisty and forthright and Archer felt like he could do business with her.

They crossed the busy road opposite Harvey Nichols and walked back to her office, which she explained was further down Sloane Street on the right-hand side. Her strides were long and fast and Archer found himself trailing her by a few paces. He was drawn by her hypnotic movement and impressively sculpted body. Long muscular legs and a perfect rear end that looked close to bursting through the seams of her beige trousers, which must have been sprayed on.

Archer scolded himself for being distracted by her appearance and sped up to walk alongside her and talk. As he drew level with her shoulder he felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. When he saw it was Sinclair he put it back and let it go to voicemail – again.

“My client can wait. You have my full and undivided attention.”

“Don't try your pretty-boy looks and charms on me, Archer. I'm married.”

They turned right and entered a smart retro-looking office building with a funky reception area washed in purple and violet mood lighting. Ancient relics housed in modern museum-style glass cases. Oversized and ornate silver rococo furniture. The décor was more nightclub avant-garde than Knightsbridge old guard. Archer preferred his understated office with whitewashed brick walls just down the road in South Kensington. What sort of clients came to a place like this anyway? They had to be foreigners with new money.

They bypassed the anorexic receptionists without acknowledgement and took the glass lift to the second floor. He followed her across a glass-floored walkway to an open atrium balcony area where boutique-style offices on several floors jutted out at each other, dripping with garishly modern designer trappings.

“What is this place?”

“Various independent lifestyle services for discerning clients, all under one roof, for people willing and able to pay the premium,” she answered sharply.

“Are you a divorce specialist or what?” Tabloid paparazzi came to mind.

“Don't be silly.” She frowned dismissively.

They entered her office, walked past the empty reception and meeting room to the back office. She went straight to sit behind her messy desk. There were piles of papers all around the keyboard and monitor. His eyes drifted around the cluttered room, searching out clues to get an initial read on his new associate. Messy, disorganised and swamped with work. There was a stark contrast between the aesthetics of her office and the rest of the building.

“You'd like my business partner, she'd have you organised in no time.”

“My dumbass personal assistant is still at lunch. I need to find a new one.”

She sat down and looked at Archer. Her frown deepened as she saw a stack of bills.

Behind her were several framed photographs, all with a sporting theme. She looked much happier in them. Show jumping, polo, climbing a glacier, skiing and sailing.

“Take a seat.”

“Thanks.”

“So what can I do you for, Mr Archer?”

“I'm not sure what Cavendish told you, but I'm looking for a man called Stuart Hunter.”

“Ah, yes. Cavendish also told me that you're working for Peter Sinclair. So what's your relationship with him?”

“Terse at best. I met him for the first time this week.”

She studied his face carefully as if looking for signs that he was being truthful.

“Are you working for him or not?”

“I'm investigating his background.”

Forsyth glared back at him in disbelief and shook her head.

“But you're still working for him though, aren't you?”

“I work for myself. I'm looking for someone for him, yes. He's my client.”

“I'm not helping you if it's going to help that old bastard do anything.”

“Cavendish said you'd investigated him. I understood you'd level with me.”

“Is that right. Well there's just one question burning a hole through my head right now, and it's the oldest question there is.”

“What's that?”

“What's in it for me?” She folded her arms aggressively. “Tell me why on earth I should help you to help him.”

“Hang on a minute. You agreed to meet. You knew it was about Sinclair. I'll pay you by the hour if that's what you want.”

“I'm not some cheap tart, Mr Archer, I don't work for peasants or for peanuts.”

“How much do you want?”

“I worked that case for months, it's worth a lot more than an hour's pay, I can tell you. Even at my top rate for rich listers, it's just not good enough. I want at least ten grand for it – the rent on this place alone is five grand a month.”

“What? Cavendish never told me you were a ruthless charlatan.”

Forsyth leaned back in her chair and smiled unashamedly. “Didn't he.”

She looked him up and down like a rinser in a gin palace looking for her next wealthy companion to drain dry.

“Are you single?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“Just curious.” She smiled provocatively. “Are you?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

What happened to the married woman, who just told him not to charm her?

“What do you mean, you suppose so? Either you are or you aren't.”

“It's complicated.”

“Don't be an idiot, it's perfectly simple.”

She glared back at him. Holding onto the silence like a tool. Her eyes were beautiful. Her understated lip gloss shone. The ridges of her lips concertinaed to perfection.

“All right then, ten grand it is, send the bill to my office.” He threw his card down on top of a ruffled pile of papers on her desk. She smiled at him and nodded confidently.

“I want ten grand upfront.”

“Give me your account and sort code and I'll have it wired later today.”

“All right then, let's get on with it. There's a man called Stuart Hunter. He knows everything there is to know about Peter Sinclair, but he's gone off the radar. I met him once, and his wife twice. I taped him talking about a man called Nick Carnell. I'll look for the tapes, you can buy a copy later.”

Archer winced.

“Carnell was Sinclair's assassin until Sinclair had him killed because he knew too much. He killed people that wouldn't sell their property to Sinclair. He may also have set some buildings on fire that killed people in their sleep. Sinclair has bought a few burned-out buildings in his time. A bit too convenient if you ask me. But there's no proof.”

Sinclair has killed people who know too much and Becky knows too much. If she gets through this kidnapping ordeal, she could end up in a worse one, Archer realised.

“What did Hunter do for Sinclair?”

“He owned a security business and properties. Sinclair stitched him up and took over the properties, then sold the security business to an associate, leaving Hunter with the crumbs. Hunter went after Sinclair with a lawsuit until he was scared off. Now he's either in hiding or he's dead. If he's alive he has a serious grudge against Sinclair and knows how to get certain things done, if you know what I mean.”

“I need to find Hunter, in order to find someone else.”

“I won't help you find Hunter just for Sinclair to bump him off. Not that I liked him, but I liked his wife and I don't want her getting hurt.”

“It's nothing like that.”

“Who are you looking for?”

“His wife.”

“Hunter's wife?”

“No, Sinclair's wife.”

“What's happened?”

“Look, it's a sensitive issue. I need to find her, and fast. Can you help me with some background information?”

“Sinclair's seriously bad news. He's trouble. Are you sure you're not getting in over your head?”

Archer took offence at the question, but consciously tried not to show it. He hadn't expected her to be so difficult to deal with. It felt like they were sparring partners warming up for a formal cross-examination in court.

“I'm not really sure about anything at the moment,” he replied levelly.

“What was your first impression of him?”

“Not good.”

“So why help him?” The real reason was off-limits.

“His wife needs help. Look, I don't like him any more than you do, but I want to help his wife stay alive.” He couldn't tell her about the Boathouse.

“Why? She's better off away from him. Has she run away? Can't say I blame her.”

“She's in serious trouble.”

Forsyth stared at him before shifting forward in her chair. She placed her elbows on the cluttered desk and rested her head gently on top of her slender and perfectly manicured hands. She smiled and her face looked warmer. No wedding or engagement rings, but a tennis bracelet worth a packet.

“All right then. I'll tell you all about Peter Sinclair.”

She explained details of the car crash that killed Jane Cavendish and her driver. The subsequent inquest which blamed the driver for going too fast after drinking alcohol. The dead witness who believed the driver's drink had been spiked and that they had been chased by another car. She explained that she had a unique file on Sinclair thicker than a phone book.

Archer listened as Forsyth bombarded him with information about Sinclair and his associates. During her lengthy appraisal, the man himself tried to call Archer again. It all went to voicemail. She continued to summarise months of solid investigation work. The convenient suicide of Jane's first husband which had allowed Sinclair to move in and offer his support. And the post mortem. She'd been pregnant with Sinclair's child when she died.

Her account was almost identical to what Cavendish had told him earlier, except that it was made all the more chilling when viewed in conjunction with the suicide of Sinclair's pregnant girlfriend Christina several years before.

“Tell me about Becky Sinclair,” she asked.

Archer studied Forsyth's face. She looked cautiously concerned, but sounded precise and calm. He would need her help to find Hunter. That was all. He had to tell her something. But how much would be enough to get her to help him?

“She's been kidnapped,” he said, taking a risky punt.

Silence.

“Sinclair has many enemies. Do you think you can find her?”

“I'm trying to, but time is running out.”

“Are you sure he hasn't bumped her off himself already?”

“He can't be that good an actor.” Archer started to doubt himself. “Can he?”

“What's your plan, Archer?”

“It really depends on you. I want you to help me find Hunter and then her.”