The Boathouse (2 page)

Sean Archer's office was a convenient two-minute walk from his house and on the same meandering street in the heart of South Ken. He always felt comfortable walking down Walton Street, with its two- and three-storey stucco townhouses, boutiques and art galleries. It had that relaxed village feel to it, but was also upbeat, with wealthy Russians heading towards Knightsbridge and fashionable locals who always made out they were in the know.

He ordered two large Americanos in Le Bistrot opposite the office and stared out of the window at the white painted building where he worked. His office was above two bespoke sole traders; Morgan's Fine Art Gallery and Farnsworth Antiques.

Londinium Lux Limited comprised of Sean Archer and his business partner Zoe de la Croix, originally from Luxembourg and sacked by GCHQ as an intelligence analyst, caught utilising their powerful resources for personal use.

He used the front entrance and ran up the stairs two at a time without spilling any coffee through the flimsy plastic tops. The office space was open plan with two private meeting rooms. The parquet floor was honey-coloured oak and the walls white painted brick, covered with flat screens, framed posters of movies and old computer games he had developed called
Psycho Killer, Vigilante
and
Man Hunt
. Club chairs and leather sofas gave it a relaxed Manhattan-loft-meets-special-operations-centre feel.

It was unashamedly anti-corporate.

Zoe was an elegant brunette, dressed in a black skirt and white blouse. She was sitting upright at her work station, operating multiple screens, and frowning at images of the three investment bankers they'd been investigating for the past week, for a Dutchman who ran a dodgy hedge fund in Charles Street, Mayfair, but paid out on a good percentage. One of the screens showed them having breakfast in their favourite café in the Barbican. Archer had planted the tiny camera, microphone and transmitter there – inside a light fitting. Most hedge fund clients were after satellite imagery and analysis. This one wanted more.

“Morning, Zoe.” He placed her coffee next to her desk phone.

“Thanks.” She looked up at the scar above his eye. “How did you do that? Let me put some make-up on it.”

“It's nothing. Found anything useful yet?”

“It's coming. Take a croissant.”

She opened her red leather handbag, took out a large make-up brush and held it in front of her with an impatient look. “Come closer.” Archer obeyed and bent forward as she gently dusted around and over the butterfly stitch. “There.”

She gazed up at him and smiled as she played with her pearl necklace from Majorca. A material reminder of the only time they had been intimate together. She sighed and turned around to her computer, put the brush away and resumed working. Her red fingernails rattled across the keys at speed, alternating between two keyboards as the screens around her flashed up new images and information. Pictures, videos, satellite imagery from tracking their phones and confidential files stolen from various networks.

Archer was fascinated by her ability to hack into anything without getting caught. She'd learnt her lesson and was fearless with technology and completely comfortable with the unconventional techniques they used to solve cases. Despite being tall she always wore high heels, a lot of make-up, bright red lip gloss and designer clothes. The only framed picture on her desk was one of herself playing the cello at one of her burlesque shows. Archer always had to hide a smile when he stole a glance at it; he'd enjoyed her last public performance far more than he'd let on.

His iPhone rang out with a bell-like ring tone. The image of a chunky old man with wild grey hair and red-framed glasses, reading in his study, showed that it was his old family friend and Nobel Prize-winning psychologist, Professor Miles Davenport, OBE.

“I'll take this in the meeting room.”

Zoe paid no attention to him as she continued working the case in her animated style, which meant talking to herself and shouting at screens.

“Sean.”

“Miles, I was just going to call you. Fancy lunch?”

“It's not a social call, Sean. I've just recommended you for an assignment.”

“Your old pals at the Home Office lost someone again, have they?”

“No, it's a kidnapping case unfortunately, a friend's wife – he can't get the police or any of the well-known crisis management consultants involved. He asked me for help and I told him I knew just the man.”

“When was she taken?”

“Yesterday.”

“Who is it?”

“Peter Sinclair. He's in the chair again at my lodge.”

Sinclair was also fifteenth on the list that he'd been given last week. He was a highly secretive figure, surrounded by layers of security and lawyers making him almost impossible to reach without introduction.

“I'll think about it.”

“The poor fellow's desperate and needs expert help.”

Sean walked over to the window, rotated the white slats in the blinds and peered down at the narrow street. Directly below him was a large black Mercedes waiting outside on double yellow lines, a twin exhaust plume showing that its engine was running.

“He's also impatient.”

The black Mercedes S600L had dark tinted windows and a strong smell of high-quality leather. It reminded Archer of the old-fashioned shoe shop he used on Sloane Avenue. He put his seat belt on and stretched out comfortably in the back seat. The stiff-looking driver with the obligatory shaved head turned around, introduced himself as Jones, set off, and made a brief hands-free call.

“I'm on my way, sir, with Mr Archer on board.”

Jones had to be an ex-soldier. His tone was deferential so he was probably talking to the boss. If Sinclair was somehow linked to the people behind the Boathouse then this was a strange coincidence; either exceptional good luck, like winning the lottery, or he was being set up. And if it was some kind of elaborate trap, then Archer was on his own without backup. Nobody would know where he was, unless Zoe tracked his phone location, as she often did when he was alone in the field. He felt the shape of his iPhone in his right trouser pocket for comfort. As long as it was switched on it would leave a digital trail of his whereabouts.

They headed east down Walton Street, cruising calmly through heavy traffic on Old Brompton Road and Knightsbridge before entering a one-way street into Mayfair. Not another word was spoken until they stopped outside the back entrance of a mansion block on Park Lane between the Dorchester and Grosvenor House Hotels.

“Where are we going?” Archer asked.

“Mr Sinclair's penthouse,” Jones said.

They got out together and stood on the pavement outside Sinclair Mansions. A heavy-set man in a dark grey suit stepped out of the lobby, got into the car and drove it away. Another heavy bald-headed man held the door open as Jones escorted Archer into the building and pressed a button for the lift. The lobby was decorated neutrally, but soft lighting showcased glass cabinets of hand-painted china, two large oil paintings of old sailing ships and four white marble Grecian-style busts on square columns. It was like visiting a private museum reserved for wealthy patrons; an off-limits elitist's paradise.

“Have you worked for him long?” Archer asked, inside the lift.

“Long enough,” Jones said. Not giving anything away to a stranger, like a typical ex-soldier finally onto a good thing and afraid to lose it.

They got out on the ninth floor and Jones led the way straight ahead. A tall silver door opened automatically and a shining square plate next to it said: The Penthouse. It felt like entering a state apartment inside a palace and had to be worth at least fifty million.

Inside the entrance, minimalistic-looking spaces were visible beyond in various shades of grey. The apartment was a tall airy space with a white and grey marble floor. A long lobby lead to a square entrance hall where an expressionless woman dressed in black sat behind a rococo-style desk. To the left, a rectangular living room and terrace overlooked the park. The furniture was modern with table lamps providing soft lighting and comfortable-looking sofas. The artwork was also modern and the only feminine touches were occasional groups of family photographs in silver frames and prominent cut-glass vases of white lilies.

Four men were seated at a dining table at the far end of the room. Two wore dark grey suits and two were in dark jeans and black leather jackets. Hard-nosed bodyguards who exuded a ruthless military bearing just like the SAS. A lot of muscle for a property tycoon.

All four turned sharply to stare at Archer, then at a fifth man who was standing next to a desk by the window. This had to be Sinclair, an older man in a light grey suit, pink shirt and pale blue tie. He had short white hair and a white, elegantly trimmed beard that worked well with his sun-tan. He looked fit but distressed, still and straight, hands spread out on top of the desk as if he was about to keel over if he moved them. He was staring vacantly at the black triangular-shaped conference phone in front of him.

“This is Mr Archer,” Jones said.

No answer, just silence.

The man at the desk stared as if hypnotised by the phone. Then he turned round dramatically, clamped his eyes on Archer and walked straight towards him. He was blatant, checking Archer up and down, measuring him, judging him. When done, he extended his right hand and smiled.

“Peter Sinclair,” he said. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Archer.”

His accent was clipped public school, probably Oxbridge, but it also had a dramatic cadence, as if he had studied at RADA. Archer shook his hand. It was cold with a firm grip.

“Tell me why I should hire you,” Sinclair said.

“You shouldn't, you should call the police.”

“But why should I hire you and not some other consultant or investigator?”

“I think there must be some sort of misunderstanding. I came here on a personal recommendation. I don't do interviews or beauty parades, Mr Sinclair. I thought you wanted my help based on a direct referral from our mutual friend, Miles Davenport.”

“So what makes Davenport think you're so good?” “Maybe you should ask him.”

“How do you know him?”

“I've known him all my life. He knew my parents and grandparents.”

“Hmm. Can you expand on your association with him or your credentials for being the best person for this job?”

Sinclair was testing him. Expecting him to sell himself. This was a unique opportunity to see if Sinclair was connected to the Boathouse. Best to play it cool. Make him do the work.

“Not really, no. I don't mean to be rude, but like I said, I don't do interviews. You see, I'm selective too, so I think I'll pass.”

“Oh please, Mr Archer, have the courtesy to stay for a few more minutes so we can pick your brains a little.”

“Okay. But you really need a team of investigators.”

Sinclair looked deflated as he was clearly used to getting his own way.

“What are you then?”

“I'm a self-taught criminologist and software developer, more of a digital profiler and analyst than your typical private investigator.”

“Hmm. What happened there?” Sinclair pointed at the butterfly stitch.

“Triathlon. Fell off my bike.”

“What did Davenport tell you?”

“Your wife has been taken and you need help to get her back.”

“She was out shopping and failed to turn up at the hairdresser's for an appointment. Then a man called and asked for two million pounds in cash. If we call the police or any of the big kidnap and ransom consultants, they'll kill her, but if we do as they say, they'll release her in a few days, unharmed.”

“How much time have you got left to pay?”

“It's already been paid.”

Sinclair folded his arms and stared harshly into Archer's eyes. After a minute of silence, Sinclair's men started to shuffle uncomfortably in their seats until Sinclair smiled again and unfolded his arms.

“Davenport tells me that you're brilliant. Your profiling software is used all over the world and he also mentioned that you've consulted on major kidnap and ransom cases before. So tell me more about yourself, humour me, like you would any other wealthy client.”

“Like I said, I'm a boutique-style consultant, operating on word of mouth.”

“Who have you worked for that I would have heard of?”

“The Met, their kidnap unit, SOCA, the Home Office, Interpol, FBI.”

“I don't understand. Why do they hire you if your software's so bloody good?”

“Well, first we can customise the software, but there are lots of tools out there: forensic profiles, psychological profiles, digital profiles and huge data bases. It takes a long time to integrate profiles and cross-reference big data. They bring me in to speed things up.”

“Hmm, all right, you probably already know that I'm chairman of the Sinclair Group of companies. Property mostly.”

“I've heard of you.” Who hadn't? His obsession for privacy was well-publicised.

“So what do you advise, Mr Archer?”

“Call the police. Right now. I can call them for you if you like. I know some people at Scotland Yard. Their specialist kidnap unit is excellent.”

Sinclair looked away for the first time. He stood still and looked out over the park for a long time. Then he looked back at Archer and smiled, as if he wanted something.

“I'd like you to help me Mr Archer, not the police.” His tone condescending.

“I'm sorry about what's happened, Mr Sinclair, but you need serious help and serious resources. I'm just one consultant. You need a team.”

Sinclair turned and walked back to where he had started, back to the table and the telephones. He stood in the same place with his hands flat on the table again and stared at the triangular-shaped conference phone, as if willing it to ring.

“Have you got any idea who's behind this?” Archer asked.

“Why would you care?” Sinclair sounded petulant now, like a child not getting his way. He moved his hands from the top of the desk, walked over to Archer, and motioned at a stunning portrait on the wall.

“That's my wife.”

Archer looked at the portrait of a woman with blonde hair and green eyes. A classical beauty with prominent cheek bones and full cherry-red lips stretched into a radiant smile.

“Her name is Becky,” Sinclair said, puffing his chest out. The room was so quiet you could hear him sigh quietly.

All eyes in the room were on Sinclair.

“They promised to let her go unharmed if we met all their demands,” Sinclair said, his tone became harder. “But they haven't called back yet and I don't know what to do next.”

Sinclair walked away towards the window. Nobody else moved or made a sound.

“Do you think she's dead, Mr Archer?” Sinclair asked, with his back turned.