The Boathouse (12 page)

Sinclair sat hunched at the desk staring into space as the tears streamed down his face. Jones fetched a square box of tissues and placed them on the desk before he picked up the mobile phone and gave it back to his boss.

Sinclair clasped both the phone and Jones's hand. He stared at him and thanked him, dried his eyes, blew his nose and sat up straight, trying to regain some composure, but the desperate look on his face gave him away.

Archer walked back up to the desk and looked him straight in the eye.

“Who was that?” he said.

“My lawyer – says the police have just found the burned body of a thirty-something-year-old woman dumped in a disused warehouse in South London. It could be her.”

“It could be anyone,” Archer said.

“It's her. She's dead. And I look like a bloody fool.”

He looked more embarrassed or ashamed than grief-stricken.

“You don't know it's her. She could still be alive.”

“What are the odds?”

“Fifty per cent or better.”

The resolve drained out of him. His face went pale. “I look like a bloody fool.”

Archer was certain he was more concerned about himself, his loss of respect, being shamed. Becky would always come off second best until she was dead.

“I'm done. Just find out who took her. Then leave the rest to me.”

Archer left him looking up at her portrait and went out onto the terrace to make a private call to Sarah Forsyth. Sinclair disgusted him. The man was genuinely upset about the kidnappers getting one over on him. He was moved to shed tears for himself and his reputation. But his logic was that of a psychopath. Archer felt certain he would blame Becky for getting herself kidnapped. Without her, there would be no kidnappers. Archer couldn't trust him, not even as a client. He was a selfish man. A master manipulator and a control freak. It was difficult to be civil, but his personal investigation demanded it. For Alex.

His mind flashed back to the day Alex had been killed. The pain he had felt at seeing her dead body on the steel gurney and the emptiness which had soon turned to guilt for not stopping her. He carried it around with him, even now as he continued to dial the same engaged number over and over on his mobile. Sinclair wasn't showing realistic signs of grief. He was feeling something else. Not grief like Archer, but a selfish fear of not being in control, compounded by being made to look foolish in front of his peers. A killer combination. Finally the phone started ringing and a female voice answered.

“Sarah, it's Sean Archer.”

“Hi Sean. I was just about to call you. I've managed to re-schedule my diary. You've got me for a few days. I'll drive over to your office in Walton Street now, shall I?”

“Can you come and pick me up first?”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“Sinclair's place. Park Lane.”

“I know it. I'll meet you at the back entrance on Park Street, give me say fifteen minutes. I also have some old case files you'll need to see.”

“Can you send them to the email address on my card?”

“No problem. I'll do that first and then pick you up.”

Archer returned to the living room as the phone rang. Sinclair stared at it for several rings before he pressed the speaker button and answered sharply: “Sinclair.”

Sinclair stood ramrod straight next to the desk and stared at Becky's portrait. Archer stood opposite him and listened carefully to the voice-modulated call from the kidnappers.

“One final payment before it's all over and you can have her back.”

“Where's my wife?”

“Your wife is still alive and she'll live if you do exactly as we say.”

“I want to speak to her, put her on now.”

“Not today, I'm afraid. She's in another building.”

“How do I know she's still alive, how do I know you haven't murdered her already?”

“Do exactly as we say and you'll get her back on Saturday night.”

“So what do you want this time?”

“Twenty million dollars wired to an offshore account and then we're done.”

“Are you insane?” Sinclair scoffed. “I've paid you more than enough already. You know what, you can damn well keep her. I've had enough of you and I've had more than enough of her. I think I've paid you enough already. I'm coming after you.”

Archer looked at him harshly and shook his head, then signalled to play along by nodding and rolling his right hand around in circles.

“Twenty million dollars. Or else you'll regret it.”

“What do you mean?” Unable to hide the angry edge from his gravelly voice.

“If you pay us, then she'll be released out onto the street with a cab fare, unharmed. Nobody will ever know what happened to you or her. Your reputation will remain intact. If you fail, and you don't pay the last ransom, then your reputation will be in tatters. Her defiled body will be found and you'll be made to look like the old fool you are. Her tortured body will make you physically sick, but that's nothing. We've also planted explosives in one of your trophy buildings.”

“What? Where?”

“Central London – obviously. If you don't pay us, then you'll lose a trophy wife and a trophy building and a lot of innocent people will die.” Archer pressed the mute button, and said, “Agree – play along.” Then unmuted it.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Check your work email account. The instructions are all there. You have until eight p.m. on Saturday night to pay up otherwise she's a dead woman. You'll be publicly humiliated. Your reputation destroyed.”

The call went dead. Sinclair looked at Archer and pointed his finger at him.

“You have two days to find them, Archer. They'll kill her at eight p.m. on Saturday night. And blow up one of my buildings. You'd better find them before then.”

“This kind of call is highly unusual. They're preparing to run. Probably abroad. Are you going to pay the ransom or what?”

“It's a lot of money. I honestly don't know. I'll have to think about it. We've got until eight p.m. on Saturday to decide. Just make sure I don't have to.”

“We'll do everything we can,” Archer said as his mobile phone vibrated.

“Two days, Archer. Saturday night is just over forty-eight hours away. You need to get your fucking act together. You'd better buck up – fast.”

It was Zoe calling from the office. “Okay, okay, I'll find them, don't worry, now if you'll excuse me, I have to take this call.” Archer walked out to the terrace and answered his phone.

“Hey, what's happening?”

“Breaking news,” Zoe said, excitedly.

Archer bit down on his bottom lip in anticipation of Zoe's latest findings; hoping for some information that would lead him to the kidnappers before it was too late. They badly needed a break. He was starting to feel unnerved by Sinclair's attitude, desperate even. Forty-eight hours was nothing, even if they had a lead. Sinclair was rapidly going cold on paying the latest ransom demand and saving Becky. He seemed to be more concerned about protecting his property portfolio and exacting revenge, as if he'd already come to terms with losing her. Sinclair was only interested in himself. Archer knew he was being used, but still hadn't worked out exactly what Sinclair was using him for. But he was also using Sinclair.

“I just upgraded the tracker on Sinclair's phone line and it worked. We've got the kidnappers' phone number and address.”

“Where are they?”

“It's a serviced flat in Marylebone. I'm texting you the address right now. They've just rung off and it's less than ten minutes' drive away from you, so get going.”

“Great work, Zoe. Stay on the line.”

Archer walked back into the living room, picked the Magnum up off the desk and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

“We've got a fresh lead. I need this.”

Archer was gone before Sinclair could ask him any questions.

He returned to his phone call with Zoe as he waited for the lift doors to open.

“I need you to find out when the police identify a burned body at a warehouse in South London in case it's Becky.”

The lift doors opened slowly and Archer got in.

“Okay, already onto it.”

“And look out for any emails coming in from Sarah Forsyth. Use whatever you can to find the current whereabouts of Stuart Hunter. He's gone off the grid.”

“Okay, the emails are already in. Hey and listen, this bomb threat – if you don't find them soon you need to make Sinclair pay.”

“They're bluffing.”

“But what if they're not? Could you live with that?”

“No pressure then.”

“Just be careful.”

“Don't worry.”

“But you haven't got your gun.”

Archer had already rung off. He walked out of the building and looked up and down Park Street. A pale blue convertible Mercedes E350 with the top down flashed its powerful xenon headlights at him as it approached. Sarah Forsyth pulled up to the kerb with a radiant smile, gleaming white teeth and a husky voice.

“Get in, handsome. I'm all yours until Sunday night.”

Archer smiled. “Change of plan. Marylebone High Street. Put your foot down.”

“All right, I'm game – let's see if we can get there in under five. Who's there?”

“The kidnappers.”

They headed north on Park Street towards Oxford Street and Gloucester Place. Archer entered the postcode into the satnav system and the map on the screen displayed an upside down L-shaped gap closing between them as the purple route indicator got shorter and the red flashing dots moved closer together. Five minutes after the call had ended Forsyth was driving like a maniac towards the caller's address, weaving through traffic and ignoring the traffic lights. Two red light cameras and one speeding camera flashed as they drove past. Forsyth smiled and winked confidently as if she did it all the time. Archer could feel his adrenalin kicking in. They were about to confront the kidnappers red-handed.

Forsyth's Merc stopped outside the red brick mansion block less than twelve minutes after the ransom call had ended. She parked on double yellow lines and pulled out a small blue flashing light on a curly lead from behind her seat, placed it on the dashboard and plugged it into the cigarette-lighter socket. She then placed a red and white metal sign on the dashboard next to it. It had a red cross and said “Doctor on Call”. Archer was impressed with her resourcefulness and composure under pressure.

They got out and peered through the glass either side of the shiny black front door. There was no porter or receptionist inside so they pressed the entryphone buttons for every flat and responded affirmatively as a pizza delivery company to the first respondent, on the fifth floor, who dutifully buzzed them in.

Zoe's text stated that the kidnappers' flat was on the first floor, so they quietly took the staircase, while the lift remained empty on the ground floor.

A sign showing the flat numbers on the first floor pointed them towards the left. Flat number six was the last door at the end of the hall on the right.

“What fake IDs have you got with you?” Archer whispered.

“Doctor and Crown Prosecution Service.”

“I've got a Customs badge. Let's pretend to go in as bailiffs collecting a debt.”

“Okay, but what if they're armed?”

Archer took out the Magnum and replaced the clip before he knocked on the door and pressed his ear against it. He couldn't hear anything.

“Mr Smith, are you there?” he said. Smith being the first name to enter his head.

No response.

“Customs and Excise, Mr Smith. Open up, we've got this place surrounded.”

Archer banged the door harder. Still no response.

He put his ear to the door again and listened. No sound at all.

“There's nobody in there,” he said, frowning. “I don't understand.”

“Let's break in then.”

“Okay. I'll kick the door down.”

“Hold on, cowboy.”

Forsyth rummaged through her handbag and found a professional lock pick set. She held up two thin pieces of metal with hooked ends and smirked.

“Girl Scout,” she said, proudly.

“Don't you mean Girl Guide?”

“Whatever.”

She frowned at Archer and fiddled with the lock for a few seconds and pushed the door inwards. It opened to its full width, revealing the kidnappers' eerily silent apartment. They tiptoed quietly inside the dimly lit hall, Magnum first.

They moved cautiously from room to room. The flat was still and empty. The transparent cream curtains were drawn, but it was light enough to see. It was a basic space with cheap modern furniture neatly arranged. The walls were a stark shade of white with nothing hanging on them and there was not a sign of dust anywhere, as if all the surfaces had recently been cleaned. A strong smell of bleach lingered in the air along with stale cigarette smoke – the distinctive aroma of unfiltered Gauloises. It reminded Archer of a serial killer he had found by geographical and retail profiles and two purchases on a store loyalty card.

No one was inside and there was no sign that anyone had stayed there overnight. The beds were made and the sheets were clean. They opened wardrobes and drawers, but there were no personal effects to be found. It was an empty flat with no comfort or luxury.

“We must have just missed them – what if they come back?” she said.

“Hopefully they will.”

“What if they have guns?”

“They will.”

Forsyth followed Archer into the second bedroom.

“Here's the luggage from the drops,” Archer whispered and pointed.

He searched the cases and canvas bags from the ransom drops, all neatly arranged on top of the flimsy-looking double bed with no headboard.

“All empty.”

“The kidnappers must have used the flat to transfer the money into different bags.”

Forsyth searched through the luggage more thoroughly, unzipping compartments, and found two pairs of chrome-plated handcuffs with keys. They smelled of bleach, as if they had been cleaned recently. She looked under the beds and behind the furniture. They did the same in the lounge. She put her hand down the side of a corduroy armchair and pulled out a pack of Trojans and a shiny bullet. “It's custom made – it's got a cross and a J.M.J. inscription on it: Jesus Mary and Joseph. A silver bullet for stupid vampire aficionados. We may be able to track them down with this bullet, but it will take more than two days, that's for sure.”

“Keep hold of it. Let's check out the kitchen.”

There was no food in the kitchen cupboards. Forsyth lifted a blue and white tea towel to reveal two closed laptops lying side by side on a small white breakfast bar. Both were plugged into the mains sockets on the wall and both were turned on. One was plugged into the telephone outlet in the wall. The other had a custom-made wireless communications device sticking out of it. Archer looked for booby traps but they were clean. He lifted up each laptop and looked underneath. There was a silver confederate flag sticker with a shop address on each chassis. “These two laptops are the best chance we've got.”

“Why's that?”

“Both custom built and bought locally from a computer shop on the high street.”

“How do you know that?”

“Look.” He showed her one of the stickers.

“You think they made all the calls remotely?”

“Definitely.”

“Shall we take these computers with us?”

“No. Zoe will be watching the flat and listening.”

“So what now?”

“Let's try the building manager downstairs first, then the computer shop.”

“Somehow I don't think they paid with credit cards. Not their own anyway.”

The small sign on the door next to the lift on the ground floor said “Management”. Zoe had texted that the flats were serviced short-term lets mostly for tourists, but affordable enough for some longer-term visitors who needed to stay in London for a week or more and wanted facilities to cook their own food. Archer knocked on the door and someone shouted back instantly.

“Hang on a minute!” And then muttered loudly, “It's like Clapham bleeding Junction round here. There's no peace for the wicked any more, is there, Kitty?”

Someone inside was hastily bashing pots and heavy-handedly clanking dishes around.

The door opened to reveal a short rotund man in his mid-sixties. He weighed at least twenty stone and looked like a walking Toby jug with oversized ears, sagging jowls of flesh either side of bloodshot eyes, small round nose and purple lips.

Holding half a pasty in his left hand with brown sauce slowly dripping onto the black and white tiled floor, he scratched his bald head, licked his lips and smiled.

“How can I help you, guv'nor?” he said in an East End accent.

“We're with Customs and the CPS.”

They both flashed their fake badges at him, long enough to look the part, but not long enough for him to scrutinise them in detail.

“We need to speak with the people staying in Flat Six.”

“Is that right,” he said, slightly out of breath. “I haven't seen him around all that much lately. He was back and forth with luggage for a while, laundry probably. Then he took it all away in different bags, which was a bit odd, but he hasn't been in today.”

“Does he stay here?”

“Like I said, I don't think he's stayed here for a few days. He's had a few different women in and out of here though, quite good lookers too, short skirts and tight tops like models, but top shelf ones if you know what I mean.” Toby Jug chuckled.

His voice reminded Archer of Ray Winstone, but his body and face didn't fit the voice.

“How long is the place rented for?”

“He took it two weeks ago and paid in cash for four weeks.”

“Who is he?”

“He told me his name was Gerald Grosvenor.” Toby Jug screeched with childish laughter. “He paid cash, in advance like, plus a tip, lovely jubbly. I think he's a bit of a young toff playing about with fast women – expensive ladies of the night, if you know what I mean.”

“What does he look like?”

“Nice-looking kid in his early twenties, a bit too skinny like, but no trouble.”

“Does he wear a hoody?”

“All the time, yeah, with the hood up mostly. They all do that now though, don't they.”

“Any forwarding address?”

“He used a Mayfair address, which I thought was a bit odd – Grosvenor House, he said, on Park Lane no less. Do you want me to find it for you?” He chuckled to himself and bit another large chunk out of his diminishing pasty.

“Don't bother. Was there anything else, anything strange about him?”

“Like what?” Toby Jug scratched his nose.

“Anything that stood out, you know, any distinguishing features?”

“Well as nice as he was, I thought I saw a glimpse of a gun one time, but not really sure. Bit scary that. I thought what's a nice kid like that doing with a gun.”

“You'd better keep your distance from him in future. Thanks for the information.”

They left Toby Jug to waddle off back into his office.

“How did you know who the kid was?” Forsyth asked impatiently.

“He fits the same description as the one picking up the ransom drops, but there could be several of them, a bloody gang of armed hoodies.”

They left the car parked with its blue lights flashing on double yellow lines and walked towards the high street. Archer looked up and down it and noted the change in the street numbers to get his bearings on the shop's address.

“It's this way.”

“But the kidnappers might come back any minute to clean out the flat.”

“We can't hang around here all day on the off chance. Follow me, it can't be far.”

They dodged the crowds of shoppers and glammed-up mothers with pushchairs.

“It's all coffee shops and hair salons for yummy mummies round here.”

“There it is look.”

“Where?”

“Across the road over there.”

“Which one?”

“The Phreak Brothers' Computer Shop.”