The Boathouse (17 page)

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.”

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.”

Archer sensed that Sinclair was getting himself worked up again. He cringed at the idea that Sinclair had the ability to back up his death threats.

“Go to bed and get some rest. We've got another tough day ahead of us tomorrow. Don't sit by the phone all night, there's no point. They won't ring again.”

“Don't tell me what to do, Archer. We've only got two more days before they vanish into thin air and make me look like a bloody fool.”

“At least we've got two days.”

“Find them, Archer.”

“I'll do my best.”

“You need to up your game, big time, you don't want to make a complete Horlicks out of it, otherwise your days are numbered too. Just remember that.”

“I'd better get back to work then.”

He had to find a way to take Sinclair down. Find Becky first, then find the Boathouse and Alex's killer, and then deal with Peter Sinclair.

Forsyth strolled back to the kitchen, shut her laptop down and put it back in its cinnamon-coloured soft leather case. She shared the rest of the wine out equally between the two glasses and handed one back over the island. They sat down on the kitchen stools with the lights dimmed.

“You didn't tell him about Louise, did you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you think the sisters might be in on it somehow?”

“I did think so initially, yes. I thought that Becky might be running away from him. Who would blame her? But this whole thing is far too elaborate, and the sisters are too soft to do all this on their own. It's got to be someone fearless or powerful enough to take on Sinclair and his goons. I don't think it's just one person we're up against.”

“So who do you think the insider is then – Louise?”

“It could be her.”

“How would that work?”

“Well she's either in on it or she's being forced to do it.”

“Or she's dead.”

“Why would she be in on it though? It doesn't make sense,” he said.

“No, she's not exactly short of money. She's got a lucrative business, I pass it every day. It's busy and she lives in Kensington. She's got to be worth a few million?”

“Her financial records show that her business is turning a healthy profit and her house alone is worth over two million, even in this climate – she can't be in money trouble.”

“Okay, so let's say she's not in it for the money. And it's not jealousy as the sisters seem to spend a lot of time together. So she's either being forced to do it for some reason or she's been taken captive by the same kidnappers.”

“Okay, let's say that they've taken her.”

“But how and when?”

“Becky and her driver took her out to Heathrow for her business trip. She was last seen by them land-side at Heathrow Airport. We've checked Jones the driver out. Ex-soldier. Moonlights. Infatuated with Becky, but his digital footprint proves it's not him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Never mind, but we're really good at it. And we know that she never made it air-side at Heathrow.”

“So she was taken at the airport by the kidnappers.”

“This has to have been planned ahead, but that doesn't explain how they knew about the money and the diamonds before they took her.”

“Perhaps she was blackmailed or leveraged somehow.”

“Hmm. Perhaps. We need to find out if she's involved, and, if she is, exactly how she's involved. That's how we'll find them. We'll sit with Zoe and search the Net first thing in the morning. Louise is still our best lead.”

Archer sent an email to Zoe asking her to focus on the sister's digital footprint and to dig deep into her money trails. He closed his laptop down and switched the plasma screen off.

“We need to get some rest. The next two days will be tough.”

“I'd better call a taxi. I've had too much wine to drive.”

“You can stay here if you like. The spare room is comfortable.”

“Oh, okay, thanks. Can I borrow a T-shirt to sleep in?” She smiled warmly and slowly looked him up and down suggestively.

“Sure, the spare room's that one over there.” He pointed up the stairs. “Take a look. I'll get a fresh T-shirt.”

Archer fetched a clean shirt and towel. She was admiring a full-size copy of Van Gogh's Sunflowers in a heavy wooden frame in the guest bedroom.

“That's just like the one in the National Gallery, isn't it?”

“Yes it is, here you go.” Alex had bought it for him. He loved the picture, but recently felt sad whenever he saw it, so he had moved it into the spare room.

“Thanks.”

Forsyth hugged him and kissed him softly on the cheek.

“Sleep well,” he said, feeling uncomfortable with her intimate nature.

“You don't have to go so soon. Not on my account anyway.”

“Sorry?” He'd only met her at lunchtime. That was less than twelve hours ago.

“You can stay with me tonight, if you like.”

She started to unbutton her blouse, revealing her firm cleavage.

“I'm sorry, Sarah. I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression.”

“Look, we're both grown-ups. We're both single. I'm nearly divorced, you seem lonely. Nobody needs to know about it. I won't tell anyone if you don't.”

“I can't, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm, er … goodnight, Sarah.”

He left her casually undressing without showing the slightest hint of embarrassment. He went to his room with mixed feelings. He thought about her as he brushed his teeth and washed his face. Part of him wanted to go back.

He lay on top of the king-size bed in his boxer shorts. He always had problems getting to sleep without running or alcohol. He ran regularly to stop himself from being an alcoholic. He thought about his close encounter with Sarah Forsyth. She was attractive and intelligent. But her forward approach had taken him by surprise and left him unsettled.

He closed his eyes and went over the case. Sinclair. The Boathouse. He switched the light off. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was haunted by dark thoughts of Alex.

The image of her pale dead body flashed vividly inside his head. He had identified her only two hours after she had been shot at close range. He was going to ask her to move in with him; in their favourite bistro in Kensington later that evening.

The morgue had been cold and smelled of formaldehyde and bleach. The lifeless body on the steel gurney familiar, but also different. She'd looked the same, but her soul had gone. She used to wear her heart on her sleeve, but her pale body looked empty, as if she had left it behind. Her skin had lost its lustre. It looked waxy. Almost transparent. There were small holes in her head and chest. It was hard to believe he had spoken to her only three hours earlier. She was always so full of life. But her life was over. They should have been celebrating their future together, not facing the abrupt ending of it. The sheer grief had pulled him down into the ground stronger than gravity ever could. His knees had gone weak as it started to sink in. Time shifted gears into a vivid slow motion. The sterile walls oscillated in and out with each breath as the light faded into a narrowing tunnel and everywhere turned pink with a high-pitched sound. He had nearly blacked out, but had caught himself as he was falling towards her body on the gurney. He'd looked at her remains and realised that grief was the price we paid for love. But he could not accept that he would never see her smile again. Never hear her voice talking to him or feel her touching him with her soft hands. He would never be able to make her feel happy ever again. He'd felt completely empty inside, except for the overwhelming pain of loss. He had felt weak and lightheaded, until a surge of anger welled up inside him like an erupting volcano. Then he'd felt completely driven by the powerful internal force of revenge.

It had been a brutal murder by a professional hit man. Alex must have seen her killer coming. But had she recognised him or was he masked? Had she felt any pain? Did she know why anyone would want to kill her? He could never make it right, but he had vowed to himself, in that moment, that he would find and kill the people responsible.

His dark thoughts often kept him going, but they also kept him lying awake at night. Had Sinclair given the order to kill her?

He needed to run, to keep his mind away from his demons and the painful memories.

Wide awake now, he jumped off the bed and decided to go for a reassuring late-night run along the cool banks of the river to Westminster Bridge and back.