The Boathouse (20 page)

Forsyth confidently announced that she knew a good place to stay nearby and they drove in silence through narrow lanes with high hedgerows lit up by the powerful xenon headlights on full beam. They passed through the sleepy village of Slaughter and five minutes later they entered the private grounds of The Manor, where acres of landscaped gardens and rolling parkland boasted mature willows and oaks showcased by blue and green spotlights. The gravel driveway was highlighted by a series of low lamps and the hotel's weathered stone walls were washed with warm yellow lights. It looked like a rural oasis of five-star comfort.

They parked the car right in front of the hotel and entered the lobby where they were instantly welcomed by a blazing log fire and a smiling platinum blonde receptionist whose badge showed that she was from Estonia. Forsyth took charge of checking in at reception while Archer stood back and admired her sophistication and easy style amid the pleasant surroundings. She booked two luxury rooms on the first floor with four-poster beds and a table in the restaurant for dinner using her business charge card and a voucher, explaining that she would get double the points.

Looking extremely pleased with herself, she handed over his card key and he followed her upstairs to the first-floor bedrooms. She explained the maze-like layout and seemed to know her way around the place like a regular.

“Give me half an hour to freshen up.”

“Why so long?”

“That's not long, that's fast. I'll meet you down in the bar. Seeing as we've found Becky in one piece, I think champagne's in order.”

“Champagne, downstairs, half an hour.”

Their bedrooms were next to each other. Archer's room was large and classically furnished, decorated in a spectrum of soft pastel shades. The four-poster bed was well presented with a super-soft duvet and a cascade of puffed-up pillows, all in white linen.

Archer noticed a wide connecting door to Forsyth's room and wondered if it had been requested as part of an alpha female's tenacious seduction plan, or if it was merely a coincidence. She had an uncanny knack of disarming him like that.

He hadn't brought much with him. Just essential combat gear in a small rucksack. Fortunately, the well-stocked bathroom had more designer toiletries on offer than he needed, so he washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth and ruffled his hair with wet hands.

He debated a second shave and shower, but decided to leave it. The throwaway razor could stay sharp for tackling his dark stubble in the morning.

Five minutes down and twenty-five to go.

What was she doing?

He lifted his top, sprayed some complimentary deodorant under his arms and slapped some spicy cologne onto his cheeks.

She must be showering again.

He sat down and put the news channel on the television. Nothing interesting or serious so he switched it off during a mind-numbing story about two backbench politicians overheard complaining about inadequate entertainment expenses while dining in the Savoy Grill. The media was trying to sensationalise everything, even the weather. He just didn't get it.

He sat back in the armchair and thought about the kidnapping case.

What were these gold-digging sisters up to? It could be an elaborate escape plan, Becky running away from Sinclair because she felt in danger of being bumped off.

But how were the Ukrainians involved? Perhaps her sister was behind it all, motivated by the ransom money and using the Ukrainians as business partners or paid protection.

Or the Ukrainians could be the masterminds and the sisters are just going along with it for a share of the ransom money and an assisted escape plan from Sinclair.

They couldn't tell Sinclair the truth without causing bloodshed, but it wouldn't be too long before Sinclair found out. Damage limitation would be vital.

Archer needed to find out what was going on. He could tell Sinclair a version of the truth to enable Becky to get away and after that she was on her own. That's if she would even talk to him when he paid her a surprise visit in the morning.

He stared pensively out of the window into the floodlit grounds and the darkness beyond. His mind was drifting off into the past, a vivid memory of staying in a similar country hotel near Oxford with Alex, when the phone rang in his pocket. It was Sinclair. He let it go to voicemail and a text came whooshing through straightaway.

Where are you, Archer?

Oxford. Busy.

He pictured Sinclair's irritation and felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Sinclair was corrupt; like a contagious virus contaminating his immediate surroundings. He was also self-centred and dangerous. No wonder Becky had run away from him.

He wanted to help her get away, but he needed an exit strategy that included finding the Boathouse. If Hunter's evidence failed to put Sinclair away, then Archer would have to take him down alone. He couldn't tell Forsyth everything without putting her life in danger. But to find the Boathouse, and Alex's killer, he still needed to stay onside with Sinclair. That thought alone sent a shiver down his spine colder than a midwinter mistral, abruptly ending his relaxed reverie. He bolted out of the chair and headed straight downstairs for a stiff drink.

Archer sat on a high stool, alone at the hotel bar sipping a tall Hendrick's gin with tonic over ice garnished with a longways slice of cucumber. A bottle of pink Moët was chilling in a silver ice bucket on the bar next to his left arm. He had been there for twenty minutes watching well-dressed middle-aged couples come and go from the bar to the dining room.

Forsyth was now ten minutes late, which totalled forty minutes just to freshen up, and he felt a strange sense of unexpected excitement. He was nervous, but in a good way, like a sportsman enjoying the sensation of butterflies in his stomach just before the game starts. He hadn't dated properly since he'd met Alex over four years ago. He'd had a few drinks and casual dinners, but nothing serious. Tonight it felt like he was out on a proper date.

Forsyth had made her intentions perfectly clear last night. It was Friday night and he was waiting for an attractive intelligent female dinner companion. He thought of Alex and quickly chastised himself. What was he thinking? He wasn't ready to start dating and Forsyth was clearly going through a messy divorce. His excitement rapidly turned to guilt. These mixed feelings suddenly made him feel empty and uncomfortable.

He heard loud footsteps approaching the bar from behind. Confident strides on the wooden floorboards getting closer until he could smell her familiar fresh fragrance.

“Guess who?” she said and giggled. Even her laughter was intoxicating.

She hugged him like he was an old friend and kissed him softly on the cheek. Her lips kept contact with his face just a moment longer than a friendly kiss should. Her hair fell in her face as she sat down on the stool next to him and she brushed it away casually, showing her wrists and then playing with her hair and smiling: all positive signs of attraction.

“So what exactly are we celebrating?” he said.

“Finding Becky, of course. Now you've had time to think, what will you tell Sinclair?”

“We'll visit her in the morning and find out what the hell is going on first.”

“Well at least she's safe.”

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“We saw her – she was cooking supper with candles and wine, remember.”

“Safe for tonight perhaps, but how long has she got before Sinclair finds her?”

Archer nodded at the barman to open the champagne.

“How do you think he'll take it?”

“He'll kill all three of them. Then Hunter, and then he'll probably come after us.”

“Well let's just live for the moment then, shall we?” She touched his leg and smiled.

The barman popped the cork and poured two lively glasses of champagne. They raised their fizzing drinks to each other and simultaneously took their first sips.

“Here's to Becky staying alive and Sinclair going down.”

She looked relaxed and happy, but he struggled not to make comparisons with Alex. He wished she was still alive and that they were here together. He was still uncomfortable about dating anyone seriously, as if being attracted to Sarah more than just physically was somehow cheating on Alex. Sarah smiled back at him confidently and gently brushed his thigh with her hand as if they were already an established couple.

“Do you think the sisters masterminded the whole thing on their own?” she said.

Archer paused as he thought about telling her about the Boathouse.

“It's too well planned. The Ukrainians must be involved, otherwise why would they show up and get paid?”

“And Louise Palmer's son, Christopher, is the infamous hoody.”

“He's only twenty-one. Supposed to be on a gap year in South-East Asia.”

“But why such a complicated and dangerous hoax? There must be a good reason for it, but I don't get it. It probably all boils down to money in the end – it always does.”

“We'll find out tomorrow morning. I thought we were having the night off.”

Their table was set for a romantic candlelit dinner. The mood continued to be light and cheerful until Forsyth pressed him to tell her about his family. He tried to change the subject several times, but she kept on until he told her.

“I lost my parents when I was fourteen.”

“Oh I'm really sorry, Sean. What happened?”

He didn't want to tell her the truth and dodged explaining it by looking down at the table and using his old cover story. “There was a nasty accident. I try not to think about it. That's when I went to live with my grandparents in Flood Street.”

“Small world. We used to live around the corner from each other. Tell me about your grandparents?”

“My grandfather was a criminal prosecutor and my grandmother had a jewellery shop on Brompton Road. She was a real character.”

His smiled as he reminisced about his grandmother, who was the matriarch of the family, very protective. She'd had him trained in Krav Maga by ex-Mossad agents at age fifteen. He visualised the picture she'd taken of him with his parents, cycling along the Camel Trail in Cornwall, and he felt saddened by the fact that he couldn't remember them at all. It was painfully ironic that he could remember nothing before they died and absolutely everything ever since.

The waiter topped up their drinks and he was brought back to earth with another line of inquest.

“How come you're still single? You must have plenty of admirers.”

She smiled and flicked her hair. Her body language was clear. She was flirting with him outrageously and he liked it, except for the fact that it reminded him of Alex.

“My girlfriend, Alex, died fourteen months ago.”

Forsyth leaned forward, grabbed his hand and squeezed it compassionately.

“I'm so sorry, Sean. I wasn't thinking properly. It must be the champagne.”

“What did she do?”

“Journalist. Mostly human rights-related assignments in foreign conflicts. Always rushing off to hotspots like Iraq, Chechnya, Afghanistan, Somalia, Syria.”

“How did you meet her?”

She was relentless, but he could feel his stomach flutter at the thought of how he had met Alex. It was a great memory.

“We met at a Clapton concert. Both queuing for tickets outside the Albert Hall on the opening night; you know, for the standing area in the gallery.”

“I've done that a few times myself.” She smiled and looked receptive.

“Well, I was on a date, which didn't work out by the way, and this woman came up to me and said she couldn't go to the concert because her husband wasn't well and she had two stalls tickets in the second row to sell for cash. But I only had a tenner and my credit card, so this stranger, Alex, who was standing behind me, offered to pay for me. I asked her how she knew I'd pay her back and she said she just knew and gave me her number. The following day the
Evening Standard
said Clapton was slicker than Brylcreem.”

“That's a classic.”

“Tell me about your family,” he said before she could interrogate him any further.

She regaled him with humorous tales of her extended family and he was glad to be out of the firing line. The final course was cheese and biscuits accompanied by vintage port. They talked about London and their work, and found plenty of common ground to keep the conversation light and flowing. They had both grown up in Chelsea, but the six-year age gap had kept them moving around in different circles, despite knowing the same families, particularly around Flood Street in Chelsea and the Little Boltons in South Kensington. They had both spent summer evenings drinking with friends outside the Anglesea Arms in around the same timeframe. They decided that they must have passed close to each other on more than one occasion, but it had taken them over twenty years to actually meet.

To finish the meal off they ordered a large glass of cognac and coffee.

Despite covering some sensitive issues, Archer felt that the evening had turned out to be a pleasant one. They were similar in several ways. They both worked as independent consultants and investigators. They both enjoyed helping others solve problems and tried to promote social justice. And they both despised Peter Sinclair with a passion.

Archer found it hard to believe that she was older than him. She looked more early thirties than early forties. She had good genes and judging by her smooth skin she used rich moisturisers and enjoyed a healthy diet and lifestyle. She looked radiant.

Occasionally throughout dinner he had felt her leg casually brushing against his. Initially, he thought it was accidental. When the coffee arrived she started to rub her calf against his and smiled at him provocatively. She touched his hand and gazed into his eyes.

“I've really enjoyed working with you,” she said.

“Thanks for helping me out at short notice; somehow I knew you would.”

Her face lit up. She drew herself up to the table and leant in towards him, smiling broadly as if they had just shared a special moment.

“Did you notice we have connecting doors?” she asked.

“I'd better keep my door locked, just in case I get lucky,” he said, with a wink.

“I'd better keep mine unlocked, just in case I get lucky,” she said and smiled back at him, gently flicking her hair.

They finished off their coffees. She ordered the cheque and signed for it on her room number. He said goodnight to her outside his bedroom door. She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, keeping soft lip-gloss contact for several seconds.

“Goodnight,” she whispered in his ear, then turned and left him standing alone outside his door. He watched her go into her room and she shut the door without looking back.