The Boathouse (9 page)

Julian Cavendish stood up straight and walked over to the window. He gazed momentarily towards the Lloyd's Building across the street and then bowed his head pensively before he turned back round. Failing to hide the pain that was written all over his face.

“Jane was a name at Lloyd's,” he said with sentimental pride.

His voice started to crack and when his eyes watered he turned his back to Archer and wiped them with a white handkerchief. “She was a great underwriter, moved in good circles and then she married a wealthy businessman who unfortunately for her knew Peter Sinclair.”

Cavendish turned back round, walked over to the host area, grabbed the coffee pot and raised it, along with his neatly trimmed eyebrows.

“More coffee?”

“No thanks.” Typical lawyer, drinking strong coffee all day.

Cavendish poured himself another coffee, returned the pot and took a sip before sitting down at the table. He looked directly at Archer. His eyes were still moist.

“Jane met Sinclair several times at functions. It was obvious he was smitten by her. The next thing, wouldn't you know, within a matter of months, her husband was in financial trouble and as a result committed suicide, allowing Sinclair to swoop in and come to the rescue. The black knight masquerading as the white knight, as it were. He bought the flailing business and helped my sister avoid bankruptcy. And of course they soon became an item.”

“How long were they together?”

“A couple of years. They were engaged, she had planned a huge society wedding. She wanted children, but he didn't. She thought she could change him and fell pregnant a few months before the wedding, and then she was killed in a car crash.”

“So she told Sinclair about the baby and he was still opposed?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't she have an abortion?”

“She was against the idea. She decided she would leave him and have the child on her own.”

“But that's not proof that he killed her.”

“I'm not a fool, Mr Archer. I hired a private investigator and she found out all about Peter Sinclair and his nefarious private life. It seems that Jane was not the first to suffer his wrath, you see; he'd done it before with a girl called Christina.”

“What happened to her?” Archer sat forward on the edge of his seat. “And why did the police think they were accidents?”

“He always uses professionals. There was a high-speed chase, they were seen to be trying to escape from another car. The driver had been drugged, there was forensic evidence that he'd been drinking. He was over the legal limit.”

Archer thought it sounded too similar to the conspiracy theories surrounding Princess Diana's final hours in Paris. People in mourning trying to find answers. Was Cavendish just creating these theories to satisfy his grief or his morbid inquisitiveness? Was he looking to find the truth or to reinvent it?

“I'd like to meet your investigator.”

Cavendish stroked his chin and nodded. “Very well. I'll ask her if she'll meet with you.”

“Who is she?”

“An ex-detective. She's very thorough and a hard nut to crack.” Cavendish licked his top lip.

“Can she meet me now, today? Time is of the essence.”

“I'll call her and let you know.”

“Does she have any evidence?”

“Maybe. But it's best you speak to her face to face. She won't talk about it over the phone, but she owes me enough to meet you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I could have put a contract out on him, you know. I know people.”

Archer dismissed the idea with a smile.

Cavendish frowned and was silent. He looked awkward and uncomfortable.

He finally lowered his head. “I'm just not cut out for that sort of thing. I believe in the justice system, obviously. Fear of being caught and put in jail. I'm afraid of being killed, I suppose. I'm a bit of a coward really.” He dabbed his damp eyes with his handkerchief.

“Time's running out. For Becky, and maybe for Sinclair. It's time to act.”

“Leave it with me, Mr Archer. I'll call your mobile later this morning.”

Archer took the District Line to South Kensington and grabbed two Americanos from Le Bistrot on the way back to his Walton Street office. Zoe was sitting upright at her desk hard at work; wearing a black designer suit and high heels with her long dark hair flowing in waves.

“I thought the voice recordings from the ransom calls would have provided us with some leads by now,” Archer sighed and handed over her coffee.

“Thanks. The voice modulator was set up by an expert. No discernible background sounds, no way to untangle the voice or to get any kind of read or fix on it. These guys are pros. We need to trace the call or find clues somewhere else.” Zoe raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips accusingly at him before she put some music on over the main speakers.

“What are all these boxes for?”

“That's the FBI's latest smart board for sorting and presenting data. It's like a sheet of glass with 3D images you can hand swipe. There's also some voice control. They've asked us to make some improvements to the software. The techies are in tomorrow to set it up. I'm so excited,” she beamed with pride.

Archer nodded his head and smiled with approval.

“Great, just don't let it get in the way of the kidnapping case. Keep working the list of people close to Sinclair and drill down deep into the top ten.”

“Okay. Now get out of my way and do some work.”

“I'm going back to Sinclair's, see if I can find something useful, see if there's a connection with this private investigator, Sarah Forsyth.”

“Want me to find out about her?”

“Okay. Why not?”

He left Zoe listening to Muse playing loudly and cross-referencing facts on huge databases and profiles in order to rank the suspects on the multitude of screens around her. He walked to the Brompton Road and took a passing black cab to Park Lane, returning to the penthouse living room just before noon.

A formally dressed woman he had not seen before sat at the entrance hall desk looking at the bank of monitors. A cleaner in a grey tunic dusted and polished nearby. Adams and Best were sitting quietly in the living room watching the twenty-four hour news channel. Adams was manning the phone at the desk and Best was slouched against the arm of the sofa, slurping at his coffee and watching the young presenter like a lecherous sex addict. They each gave him a dismissive glare and then ignored him – charming.

“Where's Mr Sinclair?”

“He had to go to the office, he won't be gone long,” said Best.

Archer walked through the living area towards the kitchen.

“Does anyone want some water?”

No response. He was an outcast. Tolerated for the moment, but not made welcome.

Archer checked out the kitchen, which was immaculate like a minimalist show house kitchen from
Architectural Digest
. The rear hall was deserted. It was a prime opportunity to look around while it was quiet.

He used the rear staircase to avoid the living room, tiptoed upstairs and snooped around the guest bedrooms, but found nothing interesting. Sinclair's office door was closed, so he looked around to check if he was still alone. Opening the door quietly he entered the inner sanctum and sat at Sinclair's desk where his laptop was hibernating. There were no visible security cameras so he extracted the USB spike from his jacket pocket and placed it in one of the side ports. The blue lights on the spike flickered into action and Archer took in the room before he closed his eyes and tried to imagine how Sinclair felt when he was here alone.

“Can I help you?”

Best stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, staring at Archer leaning back in the boss's chair with his eyes still closed. Archer opened his eyes slowly and smiled as he nudged a copy of yesterday's
Financial Times
over the flashing stick.

“Please sit down.”

Best frowned and gave him a dirty look, but walked in and sat down anyway.

“Mr Sinclair doesn't like anyone coming in here without him. You'd better go back downstairs before he finds out.”

“What's he like?”

“He's all right. He's busy. He can seem a bit abrupt at times, but he's all right.”

“I couldn't work for him.”

“You are working for him.”

“He's my client, not my boss.”

“You don't think you're the only one he's hired to find her, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“He's probably talking to other investigators right now. He's probably hired bigger and better firms than yours. Proper firms, not one-trick-pony side shows,” Best sneered.

“So you don't just grunt then. Tell me, who do you think did it?”

“Look, we'd better get back downstairs. We're expecting another call.”

“There won't be many more ransom calls.”

“What about Mrs Sinclair?”

“There must be somebody on the inside. Who do you think it is?

“What?” Best folded his arms and tensed his face muscles. He looked uncomfortable.

“Has Sinclair fired anyone in the last six months?”

“Probably, he employs people all over the world.”

“But has anyone really close to him, like someone in his innermost circle, been fired or left recently? Do you know anyone with a massive grudge against him?”

“You think all this is over a grudge?”

“Sinclair's no saint. I assume he has enemies.”

“What? These people are after ransom money.”

“Tell me what you really think about him.”

“What's wrong with you?”

“Come on, man, I won't tell anyone.”

“I'm not comfortable talking like this.”

“Don't you want to help find Mrs Sinclair?”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay, good. Let's go and get some fresh air in the park, shall we?”

Best got up and turned. As he headed for the door, Archer yanked the spike out while the lights were still flashing, unsure if he had managed to download anything useful.

In less than five minutes Archer and Best were walking under gently rustling autumn trees in Hyde Park. The grass was bright green and a sea of sulphur, burnt orange and crimson leaves popped under the clear blue sky. Archer thought it was a hundred times better than any of the random paint splashes he'd seen in Cavendish's law office. Dried leaves and gravel crunched underfoot as they headed down the rolling footpath towards the Serpentine.

“It's just like New England in the fall, only better,” Archer said, casually trying to draw Best in like a devious salesman.

“It is nice this time of year,” Best answered awkwardly, as if he shouldn't be there.

“So who do you think the inside man is?”

“I don't know.”

Best looked away. He was avoiding eye contact on purpose. He was lying.

“It has to be someone who knows about Sinclair's access to cash and diamonds.”

“But he has hundreds of business associates.”

“And employees.”

“No chance, they'd be too afraid.”

“So who has the biggest grudge against him?”

“There could be several people that fit the bill, but what exactly are you looking for?”

“Just think about it. Who is the most likely person to do this?”

They continued to walk in silence along the northern edge of the Serpentine as Best gazed ahead with the occasional frown as if thinking too hard would hurt his head. Archer kept quiet. He knew that it would eventually force Best to speak up. They walked side by side on the gently winding path, watching the ducks, geese and swans scavenge for crumbs.

Despite the cool wind, the blue sky had attracted many visitors to the capital's largest park. Archer waited patiently for a response as the October sunshine warmed his face.

“Stuart Hunter has the biggest grudge. I suppose.”

“Who's he?”

“Old business associate.”

“Where is he now?”

“Nobody knows.”

They turned left and continued walking south over the road bridge towards the Serpentine Gallery.

“He sold his business and went into hiding,” Best said, his voice quivering nervously.

“But why does Hunter have a grudge?”

“Because he thinks he was shafted by Mr Sinclair.”

“Why?”

“Listen, Archer, I look after Mr Sinclair's safety, he doesn't come to me for business advice. If you want to know about Hunter, ask Mr Sinclair.”

“How come no one knows where he is?”

“Jesus, you're relentless. I told you the guy went into hiding.”

“Why?”

“He was afraid.”

“Of what?”

There was a sudden chill as a lone cloud passed in front of the sun like a giant ball of cotton wool, casting a wide shadow over the lake.

“I heard one of his associates was killed and that put the wind up him.”

“Who was killed?”

“Nick Carnell.”

“Who was he?”

“This conversation is over. It has nothing to do with finding Mrs Sinclair.” He glared at Archer. “This conversation never happened.” Even Sinclair's bodyguards seemed afraid of him.

As they approached a fork in the path near the small green cafeteria between Rotten Row and the Serpentine, Archer's mobile phone rang. They stopped walking and Archer turned his back on Best. The north wind picked up into a sudden gust that shook the trees around them like a chorus of paper tambourines.

It was Julian Cavendish.

Archer agreed to an urgent meeting, then turned back to face Best.

“I need to go back into the City for an hour. Where's the nearest tube?” He looked across the park at Wellington Arch. “That'll do it. I can take the Piccadilly Line to Holborn. I'll see you back at the penthouse later.”

“Oh right, okay then, I'll tell Mr Sinclair.” Best's tone was dejected. He stopped walking and watched Archer, unable to disguise a scornful gaze.

Archer took the gravel path that forked off to the right. He walked with long strides towards Rotten Row. Best started to amble slowly along the parallel path nearer the Serpentine and played with his phone.

Archer knew Best was uncomfortable about their conversation and that he would probably follow him. He also knew Best didn't like him. None of the guards trusted him. As far as the guards were concerned, Archer was just a temporary meddling outsider. Clarke and Haywood looked like they wanted to kill him. But he had an instinct that Best was psychologically the weakest and therefore the easiest to pump for information.

Hunter was a good lead.