The Boathouse (25 page)

“Code red alert. Repeat, code red alert. All guards report to the command centre immediately. We have an intruder between the primary and the secondary fence. Two guards are down. The intruder may be armed. All guards report to the command centre.”

“This intruder must be a real space cadet. There's over forty armed guards in here.”

“What an idiot.”

The guards ran through the steel door and up the ramp to the hangar compound, leaving the cell locked but the area unguarded. Archer knew the odds of escaping were against him. And decreasing as rapidly as the seconds ticking away on his Luminox watch.

Archer swiftly climbed down the vertical steel ladder and ran over to the cell holding Louise and Amanda. For a moment he simply stood still and stared through the thick glass wall. Two lifeless prisoners waiting to die on death row. Their bewildered look of hopelessness stared back at him, red raw rope burns visible around their necks. Their pale expressionless faces failed to acknowledge him. The life and soul had been completely drained out of them.

“Can you two walk?”

They stood up wearily and nodded. They looked cold and numb. He could tell they were still in shock. They could barely stand up. Amanda nearly passed out, but caught herself in time. At least they weren't hysterical, but they would be slower than normal.

“Stand back.”

Louise and Amanda shifted awkwardly to the back of the cell and Archer shot the lock off with his Beretta. The thick glass door slowly swung open.

“Follow me. We have to move fast, we haven't got much time left.” He spoke calmly, but fully aware that Sinclair's men could come back any second.

He led them back through the corridor. Back down the dimly lit tunnel towards the Boathouse and the waiting lifeboat. Their weak legs caused them to stumble and fall, but Archer kept picking them up and dragging them forward as they sobbed and choked. He fumbled in his bag and took out a small remote control device with four red buttons. He pressed the first button. No explosion would be heard from inside the tunnel. He just hoped it had worked. The diesel tank exploding would throw the guards off his tail for a short while, but he sensed it was only a fragile advantage. He needed to keep moving.

He pulled the lever, opened the heavy steel door and saw Forsyth waiting for him on the other side. She must have got down to the beach and climbed the abseil rope as planned.

“You got here then. Any problems?”

“My hair's a bit messy.”

“Look after these two. I'll get the boat ready.”

The two women were too weak to climb into the lifeboat. Archer and Forsyth had to lift them up into it one at a time. It wasted valuable seconds. Archer's injuries made him jolt with sharp bolts of pain. He rested on the stern for a second. His tired muscles burned. Forsyth took them down below deck and strapped them into their seats.

“You sure this tub still works? It looks completely knackered to me,” Forsyth shouted from down below.

“We're about to find out. If it doesn't we'll call the coastguard.”

Archer looked down below. Louise and Amanda held onto each other. They looked terrified. Forsyth climbed into the navigator's chair and strapped herself to it. Archer jumped down off the stern and opened the Boathouse doors wide enough for the boat to get through. He stumbled around the portable tool chests as he prepared to launch. He closed the grey steel door that led back into the tunnel and wedged the door lever shut with a rusty but sturdy-looking steel bar and yanked the handle to check – it felt secure.

He climbed up the wooden ladder into the boat and strapped himself into the helm. He took aim and shot the red launch button on the wall with his Beretta to save time, but nothing happened. He shot it again. Still nothing. He cursed to himself under his breath. The automatic release mechanism didn't work.

“You're a shit shot, Archer.”

“I'll have to do it manually.”

The grey steel door to the tunnel started shaking. He could hear muffled clanking and shouting on the other side. Automatic weapons started firing at the door. The noise was deafening, but the bullets didn't penetrate the thick steel plate.

Archer pressed two more red buttons on the remote. The first sounded like a firework exploding in the distance. The second much louder, causing the tunnel door to shake. Then the main lights went out, leaving only a dim glow from the battery-powered emergency lights.

Archer unstrapped himself and jumped out of the boat. He looked around for something heavy to release the catch holding the lifeboat in place. A shadow appeared from the doorway leading back outside to the Land Rover.

“Hands up, Archer. You're meat.” It had a Yorkshire accent.

Archer was partially behind the boat. He ducked behind it and out of the line of fire, pulling out his Beretta.

“Don't be stupid, Archer. You're outnumbered, we're way out of your league. Don't you realise where you are? You should have listened. We told you to back off on Tuesday. We killed your pretty girlfriend, Alex. I got to know her and fucked her a few times before I killed her. She was always gagging for it.” The man's thin lips twitched before curling into an arrogant smile.

Archer quickly climbed onto the front of the boat. He saw a reflection on a shiny yellow oil drum. Someone was moving around the back of the boat. He stood up slowly, pointing his gun where he thought Yorkshire would be. As he gained height he could just see the top of somebody's head. If he didn't get the first shot right he was a dead man. He aimed instinctively, his body raised just enough to clear the cabin.

The bullet went in through Yorkshire's left ear. Blood sprayed instantly from the exit wound and splattered red arcs over the grey wall. Yorkshire's body slumped to the ground knocking over a small diesel jerry can. The can clanked hard against the concrete floor, spilling diesel towards six yellow oil drums.

Archer picked up a heavy sledgehammer leaning against a tool box and smashed the rusty steel hook holding the boat in position at the top of the slipway. He jumped back on the boat and held onto the rails as every muscle burned with the effort.

The lifeboat creaked and groaned loudly as it began to move. Archer searched the stern and found a box of flares. He fumbled around and took one out as the boat hit the slipway. He pulled the pin out and it lit up like a Roman candle.

He threw the flare back through the doorway at the diesel spill. The fuel vapour caught fire as the boat rapidly built up speed and glided noisily as it descended down the steep slipway and crashed into the raging sea. Louise and Amanda sobbed uncontrollably as the waves engulfed the boat in water. The boat popped back up and then rocked and rolled with the swell as the waves crashed over the deck.

Archer was drenched, but managed to get back to the helm and strap himself into the captain's seat. Forsyth was holding her head. She must have banged it when the boat hit the water. She was still holding on tight, but looked pale and worried.

Archer looked behind and saw the Boathouse engulfed in flames. He heard the familiar sound of automatic gunfire. A stream of bullets ripped into the front of the boat, tearing chunks out of the grey fibreglass nose. It bobbed around without propulsion like a dying duck about to be slaughtered.

The heavy rain and waves continued to bombard the windscreen, but the lightning had passed. The worst of the storm was over. He pressed the small red button which generated an electric starter motor, followed by a deep rumble as the twin Volvo diesel engines kicked in and spluttered to life first time. Finally some good luck.

“Thank God for that. I thought we were stuffed.” Her face was white.

“Hold tight. Let's see what this rust bucket can do.”

He pushed both throttles fully forward and grabbed the small wheel. The screw propellers generated enough thrust to make the boat stand up at forty degrees as they headed out towards open water, leaving a chevron-shaped wake of churned water behind them.

Archer looked back at the rocky bay. The guards had fled the growing flames. They stood behind the Land Rover, MP-5 machine guns pointed down at the ground. They had given up shooting. The boat was out of range for their automatic weapons. Archer prayed they didn't have any rocket launchers. He heard an explosion and hoped it wasn't a missile. He looked back at the Boathouse. It was a fireball, engulfing the Land Rover. One of the guards was on fire and jumped over the cliff as the Land Rover's diesel tank exploded and the flaming vehicle crashed down into the sea.

Archer kept cruising at full speed towards open water for two miles. Mindful that they might come after him with another boat. When the shore looked far enough away he reduced speed and cruised slowly towards the row of lights that he took to be Poole Harbour.

Forsyth went and explored below deck and found a couple of red blankets to wrap around Louise and Amanda's shoulders. She then did the same for Archer and herself at the helm. She also found a bottle of Martell brandy and poured some into four enamel mugs.

“Medicine,” she told the silent recipients.

Archer left the helm set on autopilot and checked that Louise and Amanda were unharmed. They finished their brandies and he told them to lie down on the bunks until they found a safe place to dock. He returned to the cockpit and checked the sonar and radar. They had clear depth, no sand banks nearby and no other vessels in the area. They headed towards Poole Harbour, but needed to dock somewhere quieter to avoid any unnecessary attention. They checked the local charts and headed for an old, disused jetty.

*

In less than an hour they were tied off alongside the derelict jetty, which was even quieter than Archer had hoped. There was no sign of anyone. No boats. No fishermen or late-night dog walkers. The lights of the town began half a mile down the road. They had both worn gloves so there was no need to clean up any fingerprints. They disembarked in the moonlight. It was the ideal place to abandon the damaged boat without being spotted. Without the bilge pumps working the bullet holes would scuttle it before sunrise.

Archer told Louise to book into a local hotel and get some proper rest, but she had regained enough energy to get her headstrong personality back. She said she was going to find a taxi which would take them to Oxford. From there she would hire another taxi to return to the cottage in Stow on the Wold. Archer offered her some money but she wouldn't accept it. She told him to leave her alone and stay out of her way. She said that she could charge anything she wanted to her business accounts with one simple phone call.

Louise and Amanda stumbled off towards the lights of Poole in matching orange tracksuits and white trainers without saying goodbye.

“Ungrateful bitch. Not a word of thanks,” Forsyth said.

“Let her go. She won't listen. She's heading for trouble. At least we don't have to babysit her now. She's not our problem any more.”

“What about Becky?”

“We still have to get her out.”

She touched his arm and looked him in the eye. “You're going back for her tonight?”

“I can do it alone. I don't want you getting hurt.”

“Bit late to tell me that. I'm not leaving you now. If anything bad happens to me don't feel guilty about it.”

“You don't have to come.”

“I know. Look, I may need your help one day.”

“Are you sure you know exactly where Sinclair's place is?”

“Of course. Come on, let's see if the ferry's still running, otherwise it's twenty-five miles to get around. What makes you so sure he'll be there?”

“He's taken Becky with him, but I don't think he would take her back to London. He'll take her somewhere quiet.”

“Like his house on Sandbanks.”

“Exactly.”

The storm had subsided into a breezy drizzle and the waves diminished into calmer wavelets. They caught the last ferry to Sandbanks with only two cars on board and a small group of foot passengers. The weary-looking couple attempted to blend into the background as some post-dinner revellers laughed and joked. But they stood out as their clothes were drenched and they were wounded. They told a concerned passenger that they had fallen while hiking and huddled together in the shadows, pretending to be on their way home.

Most nights around this time Archer was out pounding the streets alone next to the Thames trying to get tired enough to sleep. He had been running from his past as well as pursuing it for years. Tonight he had a strange feeling that somehow he was closer to unravelling it than ever before.

The ferry docked onto the Sandbanks peninsula with a soft bump after only four minutes. The two cars disembarked first and the other foot passengers headed off to the right. Forsyth struck out to the left away from the beach. The rain had stopped but the ground was still wet and the road was full of puddles.

“Property per square foot on here is more expensive than New York's Fifth Avenue.”

“How do you know that?”

“My husband nearly bought a place here but chose Jersey instead.”

“Tax benefits?”

“Exactly.”

The leaves rustled in the breeze. The lane was deserted. The houses were set back in large pristine gardens. Most houses were dark, but some still had lights on upstairs. Forsyth pointed towards the house at the end of the road. It was a mansion lit up like Las Vegas.

“You sure that's the one? It's not a beach house.”

“Of course I'm sure. He has a gin palace moored behind it.”

“Have you been here before then?”

“Sandbanks yes, but not to his house.”

“How do you know it's his?”

“I'm a detective. I've seen pictures. I know about his properties. Just like I know that his brother has an even bigger place on Star Island.”

“Star Island? Where's that?”

“Miami.”

They walked down the lane. The white stucco mansion had an ornate green-tiled roof and Georgian windows. Surrounded by manicured Italian gardens with clusters of cypress and palm trees, the house could have been plucked straight off the cliff top at Cap Ferrat. All that was missing was a cascade of terraces leading to the azure sparkle of the Mediterranean Sea.

They stopped at the perimeter wall and looked around, checking that no one else was about.

“Follow me down here to the water.”

They took a narrow, unlit path between two six-foot-high brick walls. Trees from properties on either side covered them from view. The moon was casting more light since the clouds had changed from black to grey. Its reflection on the water was visible at the end of the descending path.

Forsyth waded up to her knees to get around a galvanised metal security fence jutting out into the water. He followed her as she climbed onto a long pontoon that rose and fell with the tide. At the end was a ramp which moved with the pontoon up to a wooden jetty.

The fixed jetty led to the back of the property alongside two boat bays. They slowly climbed the steep wooden steps, timing the creaking of the timber with the clanking and groaning of the pontoon until they could see inside the grounds.

Archer noticed the nearest boat bay was empty, but the second boasted a sixty-foot luxury yacht with only the top deck visible. They climbed down into the empty bay and walked along another pontoon until they reached metal stairs at the end nearest the house.

He led the way up the stairs until he could see what was happening. Two men were talking against a whirring mechanical sound. They stood with their backs to him only twenty feet away beside a large swimming pool. The mechanical pool cover was being retracted to reveal a well-lit pool, with clouds of water vapour rising off it. Beyond the pool a man with white hair sat on the terrace smoking a cigar beside two large patio heaters.

Archer recognised him instantly. Peter Sinclair was as relaxed as a lord comfortably admiring his estate. One of the men at the pool moved away. Sinclair rose and walked towards the second man. He turned briefly to the side to watch the pool cover finish retracting. Archer recognised the man's profile from the penthouse. It was Clarke.

“The grounds are clear, sir. Haywood just checked them thoroughly.”

“Keep the front gate manned. I need to have absolute privacy for an hour or two. Then we have a long night ahead of us. I'll buzz you when I'm ready.”

“We'll be ready whenever you are, sir.”

Clarke walked towards the side of the house, through a white painted gate, disappearing from view. Sinclair puffed his cigar several times before he walked back to the terrace. He left the cigar smouldering in an ashtray on the terrace table, opened the French doors and entered the house.

Archer looked for cameras and security lights then gave a thumbs-up sign to Forsyth as soon as he spotted a secure way to get to the house. They left the yacht bay and took a long perimeter route amongst the trees and bushes until they reached the far side of the terrace, thirty feet from the French doors. Looking through the windows along the terrace they quietly manoeuvred towards the door. Sinclair had absent-mindedly left it ajar a few inches.

The topiary screens next to the glass doors provided cover, the patio heaters an unexpected but welcome heat. Inside the house Sinclair was talking to someone. A female voice replied – it was Becky.