The Boathouse (19 page)

Twenty minutes later a man and a woman entered the High Street estate agents. There were two men sitting at their desks chatting casually in their matching navy pinstriped suits and no other customers inside. One agent was in his early forties with his feet up on the desk, the other in his late twenties, leaning back as far as he could in his chair. Both had thick dark hair gelled into random spikes of chaos and ridiculously large knots tied in their garish cyan and magenta company ties. It was exactly like Zoe had said, they were definitely at the “Barrow Boy” end of the spectrum.

The woman went up to the older estate agent, who threw his feet off the desk and leaned forward, smiling at her cockily. She wore a pale blue scarf over a dark wig with large Jackie Onassis-style sunglasses. She had unusually puffy cheeks like a chipmunk. The agent looked her up and down, visibly lusting after her taut body and undressing her from her brown leather jacket and skintight jeans.

“Morning, darling. You a celebrity or what?”

The man with her quietly closed the front door, pushed the deadlock button firmly until it clicked, turned the “Open” sign to “Closed” and casually closed the blinds. He was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and large sunglasses. He appeared chubby under his black leather jacket and also had unusually puffy cheeks. The younger agent slapped the desk, stood up and snarled at him aggressively.

“Hey pal, what the fuck you on?”

Archer and Forsyth simultaneously pulled guns from their jacket pockets and pointed them straight at the barrow boys. The young one sat back down as both faces drained to pale.

“Leave the computers open. Give us all the keys to the filing cabinets and tell us if we need any passwords to search the computers.”

“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” the older agent rasped.

“Don't you worry about who we are. Get up and move it. Over there.”

The men were ushered to the back office, which had a table and four chairs for taking coffee and lunch breaks.

“Hands behind your backs. Quick.”

Archer tied their hands together with grey duct tape.

“You just made a huge mistake, you mugs. Wait till you see the next customer.”

“Shut it.” Archer stuck rectangles of duct tape over their mouths, then taped their arms and bodies to the chairs. Forsyth went through the filing cabinets, and Archer started on the databases, looking for anything on Louise Palmer.

“Here's the company name she used for the flat,” Forsyth said.

As she was pulling out the documents, the front door handle rattled and someone shouted loudly, “Open up!”

Forsyth walked to the window and looked through the blinds to see who was there.

“It's the local bobby in uniform,” she whispered.

“Get rid of him.”

She walked to the door and peered at him through a narrow slit in the blinds so that he couldn't see her face.

“Sorry, officer, but we're closed today,” she shouted through the door.

“But I've got an appointment at ten.”

“Come back tomorrow. No viewings today, they've all been cancelled.”

“But I'm supposed to see some houses in Cowley.”

“We're being audited, spot check from head office. Sorry for the inconvenience. Come back tomorrow.”

“What about this afternoon?” he persisted.

“After four then, we may have finished the audit by then.”

The fat-faced policeman waddled off, scratching his chin. Forsyth returned to rummaging through the packed filing cabinet while Archer tapped away at the computer.

“Here's the flat, back on the market. Shell company details, payment records and what have we got here then? You beauty, here it is. We've got them. Six months fully paid up on a thatched picture-postcard cottage with ample security in the Cotswolds.”

“Take the address down and let's get out of here.”

They took photos of the address using their smartphone cameras, leaving the agents taped up and the front door locked. Forsyth put the documents back, closed the filing cabinet and opened the back door into a narrow lane. “Come on, Sean, let's go.”

She stepped outside and stopped. Archer ran into her back.

“What's up?”

“Clever old Dixon of Dock Green. He's rumbled us.”

“Just run for it. He's a puffer.”

Plod had looped round the back and was coming up the lane fifty metres behind them shouting “Stop!” and calling for back-up on his radio. Archer looked behind. They'd gained another fifty metres, so they took a corner and ran by three turnings before taking a fourth. The flatfoot was nowhere in sight. Archer knew his way around the lanes and back streets. He led Forsyth through a maze of alleyways, college quads and back entrances until they stopped at a rubbish bin in a dark corner of a Christ Church quadrangle and removed their hasty but effective disguises. With their jackets turned inside out and slung casually over their shoulders they strolled back through Corpus Christi and Oriel.

When they got back to the car park the Merc was clamped. A yellow triangle of metal was padlocked to a metal frame around the front passenger-side wheel and a ticket stuck on the windscreen. Forsyth calmly yanked the ticket off and opened the boot. She rummaged around and took out a heavy bolt cropper. Archer stood open-mouthed as she deftly snipped the padlock bolt and casually removed the wheel clamp. “I get clamped all the time in Knightsbridge,” she said, as if it was an everyday occurrence.

Two burly men in greasy navy overalls appeared and walked briskly towards the car, scowling at Forsyth as she walked around to the boot. Archer rolled his eyes at her and got in the car. “Come on, let's go. Ignore those idiots.”

“Don't touch that. You have to pay us first,” said one of the clampers.

“Sod off, we're only twenty minutes late.”

“We'll impound your car for that; you've just made a huge mistake, darling.”

“Who do you two grease monkeys work for?”

“We work for ourselves. We're private contractors, clampers to you, right, and you owe us money or you're nicked.”

“Pair of thugs, more like it. Now bugger off.”

Forsyth put the bolt croppers back in the boot and opened her door to get in the car. One of the unshaven clampers slammed it shut and pushed her back against the car. “You're not going anywhere until you pay us, Lady Muck.”

He folded his hairy arms and stood in front of her, baring his yellow teeth. He weighed somewhere over eighteen stone, but Forsyth didn't turn a hair. She even looked like she was enjoying the confrontation. Archer decided to see if she could handle it on her own. If she started to get out of her depth, then he'd intervene.

The clamper looked down at Forsyth. “Look, lady, just be a sweetie and pay up.”

“No.”

“Right, hand me the fucking keys or you'll get a slap.”

Forsyth glanced over at his colleague then looked the alpha clamper in the eye.

“You really shouldn't threaten people like that.”

“Oh yeah, what you gonna do – get your tits out?”

“What did you say?”

“You 'eard me, you stupid slag. Now pay up before this gets messy.”

“I think we'll have a bit of messy first, wanker.”

Forsyth kicked him fast and hard in the crotch with the toe of her right boot. He bent forward and yelled loudly. She swiftly turned to her left and kicked sideways and downwards on top of his knee with the outer sole of her right foot. His leg snapped backwards at the knee joint, cracking like a branch being ripped off a tree. The big man fell to the ground instantly and wriggled around screaming, as his smaller partner bolted.

Forsyth ignored the injured clamper rolling around at her feet and got back in the car as casually as if she had just been out buying a newspaper. Archer decided not to comment on her brutally efficient self-defence skills and composure under pressure. He swiftly set the satnav destination for the country cottage. They drove smoothly and steadily along the gently undulating A40 to Burford and then followed the quieter A424 to Stow on the Wold, sticking strictly to the speed limits. The radio station played softly in the background, but the pensive passengers remained quiet, even during the daily pop quiz. Archer tried to make sense of what was happening, but he was not an impartial observer.

“Why has Louise Palmer rented a cottage in the Cotswolds for six months under the disguise of an anonymous offshore shell company?” he said finally, breaking the long silence with only five miles left to go.

“Maybe she's being forced to do it.”

“Who's really behind it then?”

“Or, maybe she's in on it.”

“To pull something off like this there has to be a team.”

“So who are they?” Forsyth took her eyes off the road to look at Archer.

“Ukrainian muscle from her oligarch friend? They do all the dirty work, or they could be business partners.”

“It doesn't make sense to me. She's a successful businesswoman in her own right.”

“But is she? Perhaps she's in trouble. Perhaps she's in it for the money. Zoe thinks she's involved in offshore money transfers with the Ukrainian. Maybe she's cooking the books to look good in the economic downturn, or maybe the Ukrainians have some leverage over her. You know how ruthless they can be.”

Archer's phone rang. It was Sinclair.

“Hello,” he said abruptly.

“Where are you, Archer?”

“Oxford.”

“Haven't you found anything yet?” Unable to hide the angry edge to his voice.

“We're following up a lead right now.”

“Keep me posted. Time's running out, as is my bloody patience.”

“We'll call you.”

The drive to Stow on the Wold took them just over an hour. The satnav took them through narrow streets to the outskirts of the small peaceful village. The cottage was proudly set back on a ridge top, holding court above two to three acres of well-manicured land sprawling lazily around it. They stopped in a small unused picnic bay on a gradual hill, about ninety yards past the gated entrance. They turned the car around to face the cottage. Thick bushes between the lane and the lay-by hid the electric blue body of the car, but still allowed them a good vantage point from beneath the black soft top.

The honey-coloured stone cottage had been recently thatched with pale rushes stretching over a series of arches that swooped up smoothly around the small sash windows on the upper floor. The sash windows on the ground floor were larger, six over six panes, but the rooms were hidden from prying eyes by white blinds angled for privacy. The gravel drive swept up to a wide black and white Tudor barn on the left-hand side of the long picturesque cottage. The estate agent details showed that there were various smaller stone outbuildings behind it, including stables and a small paddock.

“Nice country retreat – wisteria, ivy, the works. Dare I ask what the plan is?” Forsyth turned her body to Archer and smiled at him warmly.

“Stake it out till we find out what's going on.”

“Great. I love stakeouts. I've got all the gear.” She leaned over and rested her upper body on his legs as she opened the glove box. There was a pair of Swarovski binoculars under piles of speeding tickets. He could feel her firm body resting on his lap. He couldn't believe she was unaware of what she was doing. She was either flirting again or teasing him.

“I'll take first watch.” She reached behind the passenger seat with her left hand and grabbed a Nikon single lens reflex digital camera with a two-hundred-millimetre zoom and a listening device. “I've got night vision, the works.”

Archer nodded and smiled. “You're well equipped. I'll give you that,” he said, then blushed with embarrassment as he realised the double meaning.

Forsyth laughed and said, “Well thanks for noticing.”

They settled in for the afternoon behind the tinted windows. For someone with such a messy office her car was kept in showroom condition, Archer reflected. The interior smelled new, like it had just been valeted. It was all black except for the aluminium trim, which meant it looked dark from the outside and they would not be seen spying on the cottage. The radio was still on, but the climate control had gone off with the engine. Archer lowered the electric window halfway and let the cool fresh air waft into the car. Memories of Alex drifted in with it, causing him to feel a pang of grief tinged with guilt. Not only because he was with an attractive woman he found fascinating, but remorseful because he hadn't stopped her investigating the Boathouse and she was dead. But she wouldn't have listened anyway. That's the way she was. Stubborn and independent. But now he was dragging someone else into this deadly pursuit. Someone he was starting to care about – after only twenty-four hours.

They sat watching the cottage for hours using Forsyth's powerful binoculars and zoom lens camera. Cooped up in a small space they managed to make it comfortable despite the lack of movement at the cottage and the lack of food in the car. They shared small bottles of Evian water and a small pot of extra minty chewing gum Forsyth had bought from the filling station. They had listened to the current affairs show and now the afternoon show was ending. The long wait had provided them with nothing. It seemed like they were wasting their time listening to the radio and playing an impromptu pop quiz.

“You won't get this one. What film soundtrack starts with
There She Goes
by the Boo Radleys and ends with The La's version?”

“
So I Married an Axe Murderer
.” She punched him on the arm and laughed.

“So tell me about all the parking tickets and speeding fines in the glove box. What's going on with all those?”

“Long story. And I've no idea why I'm telling you this, but I sometimes work for some shady characters and one of them paid me with this car. It's registered to one of his foreign companies. He foots the bill to keep it on the road and basically pays for everything except petrol. I don't have to worry about any tickets as he sorts them out. I don't know exactly how he does it, but apparently he has people in his pocket and connections all over the place. So there it is.”

“An ex-copper driving a free car from a connected gangster.”

“Hey,
Drivetime
's on. It's all requests Friday, let's make a request.”

“You won't get through, the show's started.”

“I've got through before, and I've had a confession read out.”

“What was it?”

“I think I've told you enough for one day.”

“Were you absolved?”

“Split decision.”

Archer laughed.

“It'll be getting dark soon. We can start snooping around the garden at least. We might see what's happening around the back. We need a clear view through a window, see what's on the inside.”

“And then we can get some food. We can't fight on empty stomachs. I say recon first, then food, then hit them at three-thirty a.m. when they're at their lowest ebb. Just like special ops.”

They each disappeared behind the hedge for two minutes, blaming too much water, and then waited until dusk to take a closer look. Archer led the way from the lay-by, but as they started to walk down the lane they saw bright headlights approaching.

They ducked into the hedgerow. The car stopped at the entrance. The gates started to open automatically and the SUV-shaped vehicle drove slowly up the gravel driveway and stopped in front of the barn.

“Looks like the new tenants have returned.” Archer looked through the binoculars and saw a white Lexus SUV. The electrically operated tailgate opened slowly, revealing a luggage compartment full of bulging shopping bags from Waitrose.

Forsyth was looking through her camera zoom lens. “That's the hoody.”

The hoody got out of the SUV and took the bags around the back. He then opened the barn door and parked the SUV inside. With the door open they could see a blue VW van and a silver motorbike parked inside.

“The hoody, the BMW trail bike and the blue Transporter van. This is it.”

As he closed the barn door a dark grey Porsche Cayenne drove up the drive at speed, stopping with a cloud of dust rising from the tyres. Two massive men got out dressed in dark suits. Forsyth saw a tattoo on the neck and hand of one.

“They could be the Ukrainians,” she whispered.

The hoody went out of sight while the two men stayed near their vehicle.

“This could be interesting,” Archer said, staring through the binoculars.

A minute later the hoody returned with a heavy-looking sports bag and dropped it on the gravel driveway in front of the men.

“He's paying the Ukrainians off,” Forsyth said, looking through the camera and taking pictures, including a close-up of the number plates. One of the men opened the sports bag and looked inside, but it was impossible to see the contents from the lane over sixty yards away. The two heavy suits got back in the Porsche Cayenne and reversed it out at speed, pulling a one-eighty-degree spin where the driveway widened. They accelerated away in a cloud of dust and the gates closed automatically behind them. Dusk had turned to darkness and the lights were on around the open parts of the grounds. Inside the house most of the rooms were lit.

“Time to climb over the wall and take a closer look.”

“Yeah, and see exactly how many people we're up against.”

Archer helped Forsyth up and over first. He sneaked a decent peak at her firm butt as she went over the wall and shook his head. She was incredible, but he needed to focus on the job. He chastised himself, then followed her over the wall. There were no obvious infra-red sensors and they stayed away from the visible security light sensors, keeping to the shadows, heading around the back and moving slowly to avoid crunching the fallen leaves.

They stopped behind one of the stone outbuildings thirty feet away. The wall was flanked by a tall bush that gave them cover for surveillance. They used the binoculars and camera to peer through the bush towards the rear windows. Most of the lights were on and the blinds were still open at the back. The listening device crackled like static interference. It was either broken or there was a jammer. They had eyes but not ears.

“The upstairs bathroom window's still open. There's a wall next to it. That looks like the best place to get inside.”

“There's the hoody, watching telly in the lounge downstairs.”

“There's someone else moving. Rear of the kitchen – hold on. There's two people in the kitchen.”

“Unpacking the provisions.”

“Two bloody women!”

“That one looks a bit like Louise from the side.”

“You're right. I think it's her. We need her to turn around.”

“Damn it. The hoody's closing the blinds in the living room.”

“So, we've two athletic-looking women with ponytails. One blonde and one dark-haired, both dressed casually in jeans and sweaters. And the infamous hoody.”

“They're preparing food. Look, one's chopping vegetables and the other's pouring two glasses of wine.”

They continued watching the two women prepare food but couldn't get a good enough look at their faces to identify Louise. The hoody appeared at the back door and started smoking. The women laid the kitchen table with three place settings and candles. More wine was poured and they continued to fuss about preparing their supper.

The hoody lit a second cigarette and both of the women turned around and spoke to him harshly. One of them came out. Forsyth took a picture. “The dark-haired one is definitely Louise Palmer.”

There was a small disagreement and the hoody walked away towards the barn. The brunette went back inside and the blonde woman came to the door and shouted at him to fetch some logs for the fire.

“Jesus Christ,” Archer said. “It's Becky!”

He struggled to keep his voice down.

“No way! Hang on, bloody hell. It definitely looks like her picture.”

Forsyth took a photo. Archer asked her to email the photos to Zoe for confirmation via facial recognition software. They stopped peering through the bushes and sat on the grass with their backs against the wall of the outbuilding, facing away from the cottage.

“What the hell are they doing here, Sean?”

“There
are
no kidnappers. It's all been a massive hoax.”

Archer stretched his neck and looked up at the starry sky then rested his head back against the brick wall.

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“I know. Unbelievable.”

Forsyth bent her legs and put her head on her knees. “Why on earth would they want to have Sinclair come after them?” She raised her head slowly and looked at Sean.

“I don't know.” He touched her hand and squeezed it gently. “They're conning Sinclair. This is going to get very messy. Come on, let's go.”

“Sinclair will go completely ballistic.”

“Let's get out of here. I need to think this through properly.”

They left the same way they came and walked swiftly to the car. As they got back inside and closed the doors a text message arrived from Zoe. The facial recognition software had positively identified the three faces as Louise Palmer, Christopher Palmer and Becky Sinclair.