The Boathouse (23 page)

The email with the link was from an anonymous remailer. A YouTube video popped up and Becky hit play. The fluffy sound of a home-made video recording started. It was taken from the passenger seat inside a moving car. The dark interior looked like a Range Rover. It was being driven down a motorway on the inside lane. The camera shifted awkwardly towards the back seat. A young girl with jet-black hair in a ponytail was blindfolded and handcuffed, the cuffs visible in front of her. She was crying, calling out for her mother, screaming from the bottom of her gut with pure fear as two men held her. Their handling was rough and insensitive, one muscular thug wedged in either side of her. They both wore black sub-zero balaclavas.

The front passenger was filming with one hand, the gun in the other hand pointed at her head. Initially he pressed the gun against her forehead, then lowered the barrel down her nose. He put the last three inches inside her mouth.

The sisters were shaking uncontrollably, hysterical, making guttural noises and crying. Amanda wriggled around as her body trembled. Her high-pitched screams caused the driver to lose concentration. The camera jumped and the cameraman turned round to see what was happening. They were overtaking two duelling lorries in the first two lanes and the faster lorry had started nudging over, forcing them to the right of the outside lane. The tyres thrummed over the ridged white line, which sounded like a thunderstorm on the hand-held video.

The engine revved higher as the car accelerated, overtook the lorries and got back on the inside lane. Archer saw a blue and white road sign. They were on the M5 heading south. The gunman turned back and put the gun back inside Amanda's mouth. She wept and started to scream as best she could. He withdrew the gun from her mouth and she managed to slow her breathing down. They gave her some water from a plastic bottle and a small pill and then gagged her with a white silk scarf. She breathed noisily through her nose and begged them to stop in a weak muffled voice.

The two men either side pulled her legs wide apart and held her firm. She tried to fight back and started to hit them with her two cuffed fists, but one of the men used his left hand to snatch her arms up over her head. The other ripped her blouse open, popping all the buttons and revealing her white lacy bra. She moved around in the seat, but they were far too strong and held her legs uncomfortably wide apart. They moved her body forward so that she was almost lying down. Her knees touched the back of the front seat headrests. The gunman reached up her short tartan skirt and ripped her small white knickers off in one violent movement before throwing them down on the floor. She squealed from deep down in her gut as the handgun was pushed inside her.

“How d'ya like that, ya snotty-nosed little bitch?” he said, in a Yorkshire accent.

She screamed harder, but the sound soon vanished as her voice faded into submission. Mascara-drenched tears streamed down her face like diluted ink from beneath the damp blindfold. The video stopped. The file instantly disappeared from the website.

Becky stared at the computer screen, unable to move. Louise picked up the laptop from the kitchen table and threw it hard against the wall. The screen broke away from the keyboard and the two parts crashed down onto the terracotta-tiled floor. The four of them stared at the broken pieces in silence.

The pale and frightened-looking sisters set off in their white Lexus SUV towards the motorway. Forsyth closed the soft top of the Merc and followed. They'd changed their SIM cards and stuck their old ones onto an eighteen-wheel lorry from Glasgow waiting next to them at the traffic lights. If the phones were being triangulated or tracked by Sinclair's people it would throw them off and waste time.

Archer had told the sisters to keep a mobile phone switched on inside the car so that he and Forsyth could also hear any calls and communicate with them. He had also given Becky a spare mobile and taped it inside her long leather boot.

The mood inside the Merc was sombre. Archer couldn't imagine how much worse it was for the sisters. Forsyth had turned the radio off. The open line on the mobile phone was being transmitted over sixteen speakers inside the car. It was mostly breathing, sobbing and sighing. They tracked the sisters on the dashboard screen using the satnav. They had links to their phones and the car tracker, in case any of the signals were lost. They stayed at least a mile behind the Lexus, all the way down the motorway towards Exeter. Their own phone was on mute so that the sisters couldn't hear them talk.

“I don't like those two freeloaders,” Forsyth said, tapping the steering wheel with her thumb in frustration. “They give hard-working women a bad name. They're a couple of selfish mercenary bitches. Some of us work really hard for a living to pay the bills and all that. Those two want it all and they don't want to work for it.”

“I don't trust them either. Something's wrong. There's got to be more to it. They're not telling us the whole story.”

“What are you thinking exactly?”

“I'm still trying to figure it out. But we can't leave them now.”

They listened patiently to the inside of the gloomy SUV up ahead. As they passed the turn off for Cribbs Causeway near Bristol they heard a mobile ring inside the SUV. Becky was driving as Louise was too distraught. They heard Louise answer it on speaker.

“Hello,” Louise said, her voice trembling.

“Where are you?” Sinclair said.

“We've just passed junction seventeen on the M5.”

“Are you two alone?”

“Yes.”

“When you get to Exeter just keep heading towards Poole.” Sinclair hung up.

Forsyth followed using the satnav along the south coast road until they heard Becky's phone ring again.

“Where are you now?” Sinclair said.

“On the A35 towards Poole.”

“Look for a hill with a single oak tree on top and a black Range Rover Vogue parked next to it. Then pull over and wait for a man to come to you.”

“Where's Amanda?”

“Just do as he says.” Sinclair hung up.

The single tree on top of the hill looked like an advertisement to attract people to the peace and quiet of the countryside. Forsyth maintained a safe distance behind the sisters' Lexus. They could hear them talking, their voices booming over the car's speaker system.

“Look, that's it there on the next hill,” Becky said.

“What if they have guns?” Louise said.

“We have to do whatever they say until Amanda's safe.”

“I should never have kept her in that stupid boarding school. It's all your fault.”

“We didn't know this would happen. We had a good plan.”

“I should never have listened to you. I knew something like this would happen.”

“I thought we were doing what was best for Amanda.”

“We could all be in Australia by now. Doing our own thing. Not cooped up together like this. She doesn't need an education with all the money we've got. This is unbelievable.”

Becky was crying. Louise shouted random insults and expletives at her as the Lexus parked up behind the black Range Rover on top of the hill near the solitary oak. Forsyth parked her car behind a copse of trees with a view of the hill through some branches. The Range Rover had a vantage point for miles. Archer watched both cars through the powerful binoculars and heard the sisters talking nervously and intermittently over the stereo.

“Do you think Amanda's in that Range Rover?” Forsyth said, turning towards Archer.

“I think so. There's a good chance it's come straight down from Cheltenham.”

Becky continued to cry. Louise continued to rant. It was all Becky's fault; she never wanted to see her again. After a long five minutes the Range Rover doors opened and two thick-set men wearing black balaclavas got out.

Archer watched through the binoculars and Forsyth through the long lens camera as the men climbed out of the black Range Rover. One from the front passenger side and one from the back driver's side. They walked towards the white Lexus, opened the back doors and looked around before they entered it and slammed the doors shut. The open phone line boomed loudly over the speakers inside the Merc.

“Follow our instructions and nobody gets hurt. Follow the Range Rover and don't do anything stupid,” Yorkshire said. Archer recognised the voice, the same one from the YouTube video. It was the alpha dog from Tuesday night's encounter in Chelsea. A link between Sinclair and the death threats.

“Where's my child?” Louise asked.

“Shut up. Search them,” Yorkshire boomed at his burly accomplice.

The door opened. Two phones were thrown out and the car's factory-installed GPS device was ripped out and dumped. Archer switched the link over to follow the only remaining tracker. The spare mobile phone taped inside Becky's boot.

“Looks like there's no exchange taking place,” Archer said.

“Not here anyway.” Forsyth looked at him knowingly.

“There won't be one.”

“Exactly.”

The black Range Rover drove off slowly, the white Lexus glued on its tail.

Forsyth followed at least a mile behind. The boot phone was still working as a covert tracking device. But for how much longer?

Archer replayed the Yorkshire accent over and over in his head. A shiver ran down the back of his neck. The cops from the railway bridge on Monday night, DS Lambert and the four mercenaries in the Audi S8 must all be connected to Sinclair and the Boathouse.

They headed east along the south coast towards Poole, past a private airfield, and then turned off the main road and headed south. The roads got progressively narrower and the hedgerows higher as they went further off the beaten track.

Archer pictured the large map of Britain on his touch screen at home and the red dot that signified a potential location near Poole.

“Look, they've stopped again. Pull over,” Archer said, tapping the satnav screen on the dashboard. Forsyth pulled over next to a five-bar gate. A herd of cows waited patiently to be milked. She dimmed the lights even though they were at least a mile behind the other cars.

“What's happening?” she said.

“Not sure.”

“Shit. We can't see them and we can't hear them.”

“Just keep watching the flashing red dot on the satnav.”

“They're not going to kill them and dump them out here, are they?”

“Hold on, look, it's moving off to the right. Off the road, onto that shaded area. What does it say on the map? Hold on. It's a private estate – old ruins and disused buildings.”

“How close are we to the sea?”

“Less than a mile from here, but the road doesn't exactly follow the coast.”

The red flashing dot moved towards the coast and finally stopped next to the sea. Archer took a breath. “Let's go. I think they've just reached the end of the line.”

The final destination was on the coast and near Poole. Archer's mouth went dry. The anticipation made his senses feel extra sharp. His heart rate increased, pumping adrenalin. This had to be the secret location of the Boathouse.

Forsyth drove slowly towards the private estate. She braked a few hundred yards from where Becky's tracker had stopped. There was a ten-foot high stone wall with shiny razor wire running along the top. Ahead was the outline of an old building with castellations. They moved forward slowly and saw it was an old stone gatehouse with ivy growing over it. A large stone plaque above the entrance archway was partially clear of ivy and said Tremont Hall. Archer had read about it. It was supposed to be a private old coastal estate in disrepair but the heavy black gates were electric and worked perfectly. Forsyth drove past it slowly, but they could not see anything inside.

She reverse parked the car into the woods, down a small dirt track opposite the estate, invisible from the road. Archer could see no obvious CCTVs in sight and no hint of any concealed security cameras. Forsyth opened the boot remotely and they both got out and walked around to the back of the car.

“I'm going to put some dark clothes on,” Forsyth said, then tied her hair in a ponytail.

Archer nodded, took his black beanie hat out of his jacket pocket, put it on and reached inside the boot for his combat rucksack.

They both changed quietly into their own versions of black combat gear as an owl hooted above them in the trees. Forsyth's clothes were fitted and stylish. Archer's functional. He rummaged in the small rucksack for his most trusted pistol. A black Beretta with a customised grip and a shaved hammer to stop it snagging. It was completely untraceable. Its reliability never failed. It gave him the level of confidence he demanded in unknown situations like this. Sinclair's Magnum was also inside the bag with the safety on.

“Want some camouflage paint?” he asked, blackening his face.

“Not good for the skin. I'll watch out for the cameras.” She adjusted her black Blade sunglasses and baseball cap, pulling the peak down, making sure it was on tight.

He put his leather jacket back on and slung a small bag across his shoulder. Underneath, he was in his full combat gear and more eager than ever to confront Sinclair.

They crossed the road and walked down the eastern perimeter wall, looking for the best place to get over.

“What about calling for backup?” Forsyth whispered.

“We don't have enough time. We have to go in now over the wall.”

Away from the road the trees became thicker and the bushes denser.

“Look,” Archer pointed up ahead. “There's an old log we can use to climb the wall.”

They manoeuvred the heavy old branch towards the wall and rested it against the masonry at an angle. They climbed up and got a foothold, enough to reach the top of the wall, where a cast-iron sign said Private Property. It was one of many fixed to the wall every fifty yards or so.

“Private Property. We know what that really means now,” Forsyth said.

“Shit, there's a car coming. Get down, quick.” Archer jumped off the log, grabbed Forsyth and pulled her down into a squat position next to him.

“It's slowing down. Must be going inside.”

They hid behind the bushes and heard the electric gates clank open. The black Audi S8 passed through the gatehouse into the estate. The windows were too dark to see who was inside. Despite the different numberplate, the sound of the twelve-cylinder engine gave it away. Archer knew it was the car from Tuesday night.

A text arrived from Zoe:

Just run GRID with GPS: Hunter was right!

Get out now! CIA torture facility!