The Boathouse (5 page)

They drove from the hotel via Berkeley Square, where Jones pointed out his boss's office. He waved at the doorman standing outside the Connaught, who looked like another ex-soldier, and then turned sharp left into Adams Row, stopping in front of Sinclair's double mews garage. They sat in the car with the engine running in the quiet cobbled lane near Grosvenor Square. Jones told him that the garage housed four of Sinclair's cars and had a four-bedroom serviced apartment above it which was used by his staff to stay overnight if required. Archer acted disinterested in the garage and flat, but noted all the information freely provided. There seemed to be no end to Sinclair's cash or ego.

“I need to know more about Becky Sinclair,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Personal details, discussions when you were in the car with her or places that you took her. I need to know about her private life, her friends and family.”

“Her sister Louise, Mrs Palmer, is her closest friend.”

“Where does she live?”

“Knightsbridge. It's not far but there's no point going there as she's away on a business trip.”

“How do you know?”

“I took her to the airport with Mrs Sinclair. We always take her to the airport.”

“When was that?”

“Sunday, the day before they took Mrs Sinclair.”

“When is she due back?”

“We're picking her up next week. The flight details are in the glove box.”

“What were they talking about before she left?”

“Nothing special.”

“Think harder, anything about where she was going the next day?”

“Well they were – no, I can't tell you, it was private. It's got nothing to do with what's happened anyway.”

Archer decided not to push Jones in case he clammed up. But he would come back to it even if it required some leverage.

“Can you show me where she lives and get me her mobile phone number after we go back to the hotel?”

“Okay. I'll do that, but first I'm going to get a snack in that café on the corner, then we'll go. I'll come and get you after you've told Mr Sinclair what just happened.”

“And try telling me everything you know. Just imagine what kind of job you'll have if we don't find her.”

Jones frowned nervously as Archer opened the passenger door and welcomed the blast of cool fresh air. He got out and started walking back towards the penthouse. He took out his phone and made a call.

“Hey.”

“Hey, hold on,” Zoe said. Then he heard a burst of rapid gun-fire.

“Where are you?”

“Hang on, I'm at the shooting range. My flat was turned over while I was at work so I'm venting and practising in case they return.”

“You okay?”

“I'm fine, I wasn't there, but you know how it is, it feels strange.”

“Did they take anything?”

“Only an old laptop with nothing interesting on it. Maybe some porn. Listen, there was a fat detective with a head like a bull looking for you just before I left the office. He said he would come back tomorrow. Had some questions for you but wouldn't leave his name.”

“Give him my number and I'll sort it out tomorrow. See if you can track the bike via the camera systems, but first get me some leverage on Steve Jones, Sinclair's driver, within the hour.”

“Okay, I'm nearly done here. I have to get back as the locksmith is coming.”

“So what else have you got for me?”

Archer noted the French-looking café on the corner, jay-walked across South Audley Street and headed towards the back of the Grosvenor House Hotel down Reeves Mews. A handy shortcut to Park Street and the rear entrance to Sinclair's penthouse.

“The Firm's old system traced the calls back to a provider within London's zero twenty exchange, but it's being bounced around again from there so I need more time. I need to borrow a better system. Tell him to stay on the phone a little bit longer, okay?”

“I'll tell him. Look, we really need to find her and fast. I need you focused on Peter and Becky Sinclair. There's something not right about this.”

The doorman at Sinclair's mansion block recognised Archer and bowed his shaved head as he opened the door for him. He rode the dedicated penthouse lift to the ninth floor, still agitated and aching from the Taser, thinking about what had just happened at the hotel. The drop-off was all over in a flash. Professionally planned and well executed.

Who are these people?

Sinclair's door opened automatically again. Archer gritted his teeth in anticipation of a frosty reception as he walked towards the living room. He hardly knew him, but he already hated Sinclair. The man was pathetic. But he had to play the game to see where it would lead. Sinclair was the first to spot him and pounced towards him like a hungry wild cat.

“What happened?”

The four guards stared coldly from the table.

“The drop-off was at the Hilton, just down the road, right under our noses. We followed their instructions to the letter, and now they've got the money and the diamonds.”

“Did you see anything, do you have any leads?”

“We're going back to talk to the concierge, he may know something.”

“Didn't you follow them?”

“We had to let the tyre down. A biker took the diamonds and the concierge took the money to the back entrance.”

“So you're telling me that they got away again and we've got nothing.”

Sinclair's face flushed and his body was shaking. The guards conveniently removed themselves from the living room.

“We may get a lead from the bike or the concierge. We were instructed to pump the tyre up and leave. No hanging around and no following, otherwise they would shoot her.”

“I need you to find her, Archer.”

“I know.”

“Is it about the money? Do you want me to pay you in advance, is that it?”

“It's not about the money.”

Sinclair breathed heavily as he walked back to his desk and opened the drawer underneath. He withdrew a large white chequebook and slapped it down hard on the desk. He sat down and slowly unscrewed the top off a silver fountain pen. The room was silent except for the sound of the gold nib scribbling across the smooth surface and the large paper rectangle being torn out.

He held it out, shaking it dramatically in front of him to dry.

“Here, take this, and then find her.”

“I'm not taking it, but I will find her.”

“It's a retainer for a hundred thousand pounds. Now take it.” Sinclair paused and then raised his voice again, “Take it, damn it. I just told you to take it, so do as I say.” His bottom lip trembled in anger.

“No,” Archer said.

“You can always frame it for posterity if you don't want to cash it.” He said it mockingly and chortled openly in disgust.

“Who uses cheques these days? Wire it like everyone else. I'll write down my account number, give me the pen.”

Archer wrote the name, sort code and account number for Londinium Lux Limited on the back of the cheque. Sinclair called for a laptop and one of his assistants appeared within seconds. He sat down with the laptop and a small code machine from his bank and transferred the money himself.

“There, it's done.”

“Thanks. Look, we've traced the calls back to London, but we need you to stay on the call a bit longer. Try and ask them some more questions about Becky. Ask to speak to her again, get into a conversation with them, anything just make them stay on the line.”

“I'll try.”

“If you can keep them on the line, we can trace the call. Find them, and we find Becky. So give it your best shot, okay?”

“Understood.”

“Ransom calls follow a pattern. There will be another call and that's the one you need to nail for us. My team is working on it. They know what they're doing. Trust us. We'll find them, but I need more information.”

Archer was distracted as he read an incoming text from Zoe.

Jones returned to the penthouse after visiting the café and signalled to Archer with a thumbs up sign that he was ready to go but stayed out in the entrance hall away from his boss. Archer told Sinclair where he was going and followed Jones out to the waiting lift.

“Are you going to tell me what the sisters were talking about in the car?”

“No.”

“Does Sinclair know you occasionally moonlight for cash in his car?”

The colour instantly drained from Jones's face.

“I'll tell you, after we've spoken to the concierge. Just don't ever mention the moonlighting thing again. I'll show you where her sister lives, but you have to promise me that you won't tell anyone else what she said.”

Archer entered the hotel through the revolving doorway. The dark-haired concierge was leaving the desk, walking swiftly towards the rear entrance. Archer sped past reception and called after him near the lift lobby.

“Hey, hold on.”

He turned around and frowned when he recognised him.

“Oh, it's you – look, I'm on my break.”

“Can I ask you some questions?”

“Sure, but my memory is not so good, huh.” He smiled confidently and licked his lips. Archer flashed his wallet and told him to follow. They went out the rear entrance where it was quiet and stood in an empty hotel parking bay. Archer gave him two hundred pounds and heard all he knew in less than two minutes.

Archer walked around the outside of the hotel and got back into the waiting car at the main entrance. Jones pulled away and gently nudged the car back onto Park Lane. They were heading towards South Kensington to Louise Palmer's house.

“So what did he have to say?” Jones asked.

“Not a lot.”

“Nothing?”

“He was given the job by phone and paid six hundred in cash upon delivering the bag to a waiting taxi. Supposed to be going to Heathrow to catch up with Mr Jefferson.”

“Was it a black cab?”

“He thinks it was a regular black cab driver with a cockney accent who gave him an envelope. He didn't take down the number.”

As they drove along part of the earlier street circuit, Jones pointed to his left and said: “Her sister's office is down there. She lives a short walk away.”

Louise Palmer's travel company was located amongst the designer clothes shops of Sloane Street. A good location for wealthy passing trade.

The black Mercedes cruised quietly down Gloucester Road before slowing down at Launceston Place. They inched carefully through a narrow wisteria-covered stone archway onto the cobbles of Kenance Mews. The sister's house was a pretty mews cottage painted off-white with pale blue shutters and woodwork. Very Provençal.

They stopped twenty yards away. The lights were on and the curtains closed. Jones told him that she always left the lights on timer and the house was alarmed.

“Tell me about the conversation on the way to the airport. I think it's important. Just what was it Becky said to Louise?”

“Mrs Sinclair was upset about something. Her sister said they would talk about it when she came back. In the meantime she should pamper herself and shop.”

“What was she upset about?”

“She said that she wanted to get her own doctor. She didn't want to use Mr Sinclair's private clinic doctors any more.”

“What else?”

“Mrs Palmer was in a really bad mood because she'd left her mobile phone in her office so she had to buy a new one in the airport.”

A moving shadow was visible on the cream-coloured curtains upstairs. It was obvious that someone was inside the house, moving around. Jones and Archer looked at each other and Archer opened his door.

“Let's go and find out who's in the house while she's away.”

They left the car a few houses down from Louise's and walked up to the front door. Jones rang the bell and they waited.

No answer. They waited patiently for a minute before ringing the bell again. Still nothing. Then another minute before ringing it again and knocking on the door hard. A woman's voice shouted: “Hold on.”

Someone stomped rapidly down the stairs, rattled the chain and unlocked the door. A tired-looking woman with short orange hair, tight faded jeans and an even tighter white T-shirt recognised Jones immediately. She was the regular cleaner working late.

“What do you want?”

“Is Mrs Palmer in?” Jones said.

“No. She's away on business.”

“Do you know when she'll be back?”

“Next week, I have to go.”

She slammed the door in their faces.

“Polish,” Jones said as they walked back to the car. Jones started the engine but didn't drive off. He just sat there as if he wanted to get something off his chest.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” “What else did they talk about?” He saw Jones wince. He was clearly uncomfortable. Archer stayed silent until he spoke.

“The Sinclairs use a private clinic in Switzerland, and Becky is not happy about it.”

“Why's that?”

“It has cryogenic facilities for a start.”

“Really?”

“I'm not comfortable talking like this.”

“You have my word that it won't go any further. It could help us find her, so tell me all you know.”

“Mr Sinclair hates children.”

“Okay, some people do.”

“He has stem cells at the clinic for cloning replacement body parts.”

Archer raised his eyebrows and Jones winced awkwardly. Was this guy for real? It all sounded a bit too far-fetched, but Sinclair was a control freak. And immortality was the ultimate control. The world was full of nutters and unfortunately Sinclair had more than enough money to live out his wildest fantasies.

“Is that what they were talking about in the car?”

“Not exactly. You see … You see, Mrs Sinclair is afraid of falling pregnant.”

“Why?”

“Because of what Mr Sinclair might do to her.”

“What's she afraid of?”

“She told her sister she was late and she thought she was pregnant.”

“Thought?”

“She did the test and she wasn't pregnant, but she was scared and wanted to talk to the doctor about her contraception.”

“Did she tell Sinclair?”

“No, she told the doctor and he told Mr Sinclair.”

“So she wants to find a new doctor?”

“She's going to register with her sister's doctor next week.”

“What did Sinclair say to her after he found out?”

“He called her a stupid fucking airhead and punched her in the stomach.”