“I’ll take this in the meeting room.”
Zoe paid no attention to him as she continued working the case in her animated style, which meant talking to herself and shouting at screens.
“Sean.”
“Miles, I was just going to call you. Fancy lunch?”
“It’s not a social call, Sean. I’ve just recommended you for an assignment.”
“Your old pals at the Home Office lost someone again, have they?”
“No, it’s a kidnapping case unfortunately, a friend’s wife – he can’t get the police or any of the well-known crisis management consultants involved. He asked me for help and I told him I knew just the man.”
“When was she taken?”
“Yesterday.”
“Who is it?”
“Peter Sinclair. He’s in the chair again at my lodge.”
Sinclair was also fifteenth on the list that he’d been given last week. He was a highly secretive figure, surrounded by layers of security and lawyers making him almost impossible to reach without introduction.
“I’ll think about it.”
“The poor fellow’s desperate and needs expert help.”
Sean walked over to the window, rotated the white slats in the blinds and peered down at the narrow street. Directly below him was a large black Mercedes waiting outside on double yellow lines, a twin exhaust plume showing that its engine was running.
“He’s also impatient.”
CHAPTER THREE
The black Mercedes S600L had dark tinted windows and a strong smell of high-quality leather. It reminded Archer of the old-fashioned shoe shop he used on Sloane Avenue. He put his seat belt on and stretched out comfortably in the back seat. The stiff-looking driver with the obligatory shaved head turned around, introduced himself as Jones, set off, and made a brief hands-free call.
“I’m on my way, sir, with Mr Archer on board.”
Jones had to be an ex-soldier. His tone was deferential so he was probably talking to the boss. If Sinclair was somehow linked to the people behind the Boathouse then this was a strange coincidence; either exceptional good luck, like winning the lottery, or he was being set up. And if it was some kind of elaborate trap, then Archer was on his own without backup. Nobody would know where he was, unless Zoe tracked his phone location, as she often did when he was alone in the field. He felt the shape of his iPhone in his right trouser pocket for comfort. As long as it was switched on it would leave a digital trail of his whereabouts.
They headed east down Walton Street, cruising calmly through heavy traffic on Old Brompton Road and Knightsbridge before entering a one-way street into Mayfair. Not another word was spoken until they stopped outside the back entrance of a mansion block on Park Lane between the Dorchester and Grosvenor House Hotels.
“Where are we going?” Archer asked.
“Mr Sinclair’s penthouse,” Jones said.
They got out together and stood on the pavement outside Sinclair Mansions. A heavy-set man in a dark grey suit stepped out of the lobby, got into the car and drove it away. Another heavy bald-headed man held the door open as Jones escorted Archer into the building and pressed a button for the lift. The lobby was decorated neutrally, but soft lighting showcased glass cabinets of hand-painted china, two large oil paintings of old sailing ships and four white marble Grecian-style busts on square columns. It was like visiting a private museum reserved for wealthy patrons; an off-limits elitist’s paradise.
“Have you worked for him long?” Archer asked, inside the lift.
“Long enough,” Jones said. Not giving anything away to a stranger, like a typical ex-soldier finally onto a good thing and afraid to lose it.
They got out on the ninth floor and Jones led the way straight ahead. A tall silver door opened automatically and a shining square plate next to it said: The Penthouse. It felt like entering a state apartment inside a palace and had to be worth at least fifty million.
Inside the entrance, minimalistic-looking spaces were visible beyond in various shades of grey. The apartment was a tall airy space with a white and grey marble floor. A long lobby lead to a square entrance hall where an expressionless woman dressed in black sat behind a rococo-style desk. To the left, a rectangular living room and terrace overlooked the park. The furniture was modern with table lamps providing soft lighting and comfortable-looking sofas. The artwork was also modern and the only feminine touches were occasional groups of family photographs in silver frames and prominent cut-glass vases of white lilies.
Four men were seated at a dining table at the far end of the room. Two wore dark grey suits and two were in dark jeans and black leather jackets. Hard-nosed bodyguards who exuded a ruthless military bearing just like the SAS. A lot of muscle for a property tycoon.
All four turned sharply to stare at Archer, then at a fifth man who was standing next to a desk by the window. This had to be Sinclair, an older man in a light grey suit, pink shirt and pale blue tie. He had short white hair and a white, elegantly trimmed beard that worked well with his sun-tan. He looked fit but distressed, still and straight, hands spread out on top of the desk as if he was about to keel over if he moved them. He was staring vacantly at the black triangular-shaped conference phone in front of him.
“This is Mr Archer,” Jones said.
No answer, just silence.
The man at the desk stared as if hypnotised by the phone. Then he turned round dramatically, clamped his eyes on Archer and walked straight towards him. He was blatant, checking Archer up and down, measuring him, judging him. When done, he extended his right hand and smiled.
“Peter Sinclair,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Archer.”
His accent was clipped public school, probably Oxbridge, but it also had a dramatic cadence, as if he had studied at RADA. Archer shook his hand. It was cold with a firm grip.
“Tell me why I should hire you,” Sinclair said.
“You shouldn’t, you should call the police.”
“But why should I hire you and not some other consultant or investigator?”
“I think there must be some sort of misunderstanding. I came here on a personal recommendation. I don’t do interviews or beauty parades, Mr Sinclair. I thought you wanted my help based on a direct referral from our mutual friend, Miles Davenport.”
“So what makes Davenport think you’re so good?” “Maybe you should ask him.”
“How do you know him?”
“I’ve known him all my life. He knew my parents and grandparents.”
“Hmm. Can you expand on your association with him or your credentials for being the best person for this job?”
Sinclair was testing him. Expecting him to sell himself. This was a unique opportunity to see if Sinclair was connected to the Boathouse. Best to play it cool. Make him do the work.
“Not really, no. I don’t mean to be rude, but like I said, I don’t do interviews. You see, I’m selective too, so I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh please, Mr Archer, have the courtesy to stay for a few more minutes so we can pick your brains a little.”
“Okay. But you really need a team of investigators.”
Sinclair looked deflated as he was clearly used to getting his own way.
“What are you then?”
“I’m a self-taught criminologist and software developer, more of a digital profiler and analyst than your typical private investigator.”
“Hmm. What happened there?” Sinclair pointed at the butterfly stitch.
“Triathlon. Fell off my bike.”
“What did Davenport tell you?”
“Your wife has been taken and you need help to get her back.”
“She was out shopping and failed to turn up at the hairdresser’s for an appointment. Then a man called and asked for two million pounds in cash. If we call the police or any of the big kidnap and ransom consultants, they’ll kill her, but if we do as they say, they’ll release her in a few days, unharmed.”
“How much t
ime have you got left to pay?”
“It’s already been paid.”
Sinclair folded his arms and stared harshly into Archer’s eyes. After a minute of silence, Sinclair’s men started to shuffle uncomfortably in their seats until Sinclair smiled again and unfolded his arms.
“Davenport tells me that you’re brilliant. Your profiling software is used all over the world and he also mentioned that you’ve consulted on major kidnap and ransom cases before. So tell me more about yourself, humour me, like you would any other wealthy client.”
“Like I said, I’m a boutique-style consultant, operating on word of mouth.”
“Who have you worked for that I would have heard of?”
“The Met, their kidnap unit, SOCA, the Home Office, Interpol, FBI.”
“I don’t understand. Why do they hire you if your software’s so bloody good?”
“Well, first we can customise the software, but there are lots of tools out there: forensic profiles, psychological profiles, digital profiles and huge data bases. It takes a long time to integrate profiles and cross-reference big data. They bring me in to speed things up.”
“Hmm, all right, you probably already know that I’m chairman of the Sinclair Group of companies. Property mostly.”
“I’ve heard of you.” Who hadn’t? His obsession for privacy was well-publicised.
“So what do you advise, Mr Archer?”
“Call the police. Right now. I can call them for you if you like. I know some people at Scotland Yard. Their specialist kidnap unit is excellent.”
Sinclair looked away for the first time. He stood still and looked out over the park for a long time. Then he looked back at Archer and smiled, as if he wanted something.
“I’d like you to help me Mr Archer, not the police.” His tone condescending.
“I’m sorry about what’s happened, Mr Sinclair, but you need serious help and serious resources. I’m just one consultant. You need a team.”
Sinclair turned and walked back to where he had started, back to the table and the telephones. He stood in the same place with his hands flat on the table again and stared at the triangular-shaped conference phone, as if willing it to ring.
“Have you got any idea who’s behind this?” Archer asked.
“Why would you care?” Sinclair sounded petulant now, like a child not getting his way. He moved his hands from the top of the desk, walked over to Archer, and motioned at a stunning portrait on the wall.
“That’s my wife.”
Archer looked at the portrait of a woman with blonde hair and green eyes. A classical beauty with prominent cheek bones and full cherry-red lips stretched into a radiant smile.
“Her name is Becky,” Sinclair said, puffing his chest out. The room was so quiet you could hear him sigh quietly.
All eyes in the room were on Sinclair.
“They promised to let her go unharmed if we met all their demands,” Sinclair said, his tone became harder. “But they haven’t called back yet and I don’t know what to do next.”
Sinclair walked away towards the window. Nobody else moved or made a sound.
“Do you think she’s dead, Mr Archer?” Sinclair asked, with his back turned.
CHAPTER FOUR
Archer watched Sinclair’s head drop and his shoulders sag. He looked back at the large portrait hanging proudly on the living-room wall that somehow managed to capture Becky’s vivaciousness. She was much younger looking than her husband; a cliché trophy wife.
“She’s probably still alive.”
“She’s my soul mate,” Sinclair said. “I waited a long time to find the right woman to marry and I want her back.”
But why did Archer not believe him?
“She’s your first wife then?”
“Yes.”
“When did you have the portrait done?”
“About two years ago at our house on Sandbanks.”
The four hard men at the table were turned towards Sinclair, still silently watching his every move like sentinels.
“You need to promise me something,” Sinclair said.
“What’s that?”
“Whether you decide to help me or not, I need your word that you won’t go behind my back and get your police friends involved.”
Archer nodded. “Okay,” he said, casually.
“I want your word.” A harsher undertone.
“Okay, you have my word, no police.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No problem.”
“No friends from the Met or Special Branch, no police contact whatsoever,” Sinclair said. “We’ll handle this situation ourselves. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“If you break your word and anything happens to Becky because of it, I’ll have you killed. Do you understand?” he said, and looked over at his pack of guard dogs.
“You have my word.”
Sinclair’s persistence was untrusting. He was a total control freak.
“And you know what I’ll do if you call the police?”
Archer looked over at the guards. The four men stared back without expression. They were hardened killers whose loyalty had been bought and paid for.
“I already gave you my word,” Archer’s tone sharpened defensively.
Sinclair screwed his face up as he spoke. “It’s not an idle threat. I could have you taken out any time I like. Always remember that.”
Archer didn’t blink.
“Why are you so afraid of the police?”
“I don’t trust them, or the so-called justice system. Not here or anywhere else, so if anything happens to Becky, I’ll organise my own justice. Anyway, you’re probably a better investigator than their burned-out dickheads.”
“I don’t have anything like their level of resources, but it’s your call.”
Archer glanced over at the phone and then back at Sinclair.
“And they asked you for two million in cash?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“You were able to get two million in cash that quick?”
“Of course,” Sinclair scoffed, and gestured casually as if it was nothing.
“How big is that? I mean, what did you put it in?”
“A Louis Vuitton suitcase full of fifties. It weighed forty-five kilos on the scales.”
“I assume you’re insured for kidnapping?”
“Yes, of course, but if I call the insurers they’ll contact the police or a kidnap and ransom consultant and I can’t risk that, so I’m on my own.”
“Okay then,” Archer said, a little over-enthusiastically, consciously trying to show more interest in the case, but detesting every moment of being in the same room as Sinclair. “I’d like to know more about what happened yesterday.”
Know your enemy and know what they want.
“Have you decided to help then?” Sinclair smiled, as if he’d won the first round.
“No not yet,” Archer shot him a stern glare to keep him on his toes. “But they’re going to call you back today and you need to be ready for them when they do.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“They’ll want more money. Lots more, in fact. You’re worth too much to settle for a lousy two million pounds, so sit down and tell me what happened yesterday.”
Sinclair sat in a chair with his back to his men and started to tell Archer about the previous day. Archer sat on the sofa looking at them all. Jones sat bolt upright with the others at the table. On the same team, but not in the real hard men’s clique.
“Becky went out around ten in the morning,” Sinclair said. “She went to Harvey Nichols as she had a hair appointment nearby at noon.”
“But she failed to show up at the salon?”
“Yes.”
“Was she alone?”
“As far as I know. I don’t have her followed – well, not often enough anyway.” Sinclair scoffed at his own joke and then stopped abruptly as if he didn’t want to give too much away.
“Who drove her there?”
“Jones, the same driver that picked you up today, same car.”
“Where was she dropped off?”
“The side entrance on Seville Street.”
“Does she go there often?”
Sinclair tilted his head back and closed his eyes, appearing to be frustrated by the questions. “When we’re in London she likes to go there. Harrods, Selfridges, Bond Street, any one of those about once or twice a week, hairdresser’s every week, and lunch once or twice most weeks. She also spends a lot of time in the gym and being pampered at the spa.”
“Who does she lunch with?”
“Her sister mostly, if she’s in London, but she’s out of town a lot on business. She owns a travel company. She has a set of Sloane Ranger flunkies they do lunch with.”
“Is there anything that you have or can get hold of that somebody else wants badly enough to do this?”
“Like what?”
“Art. Information. Property.”
“Well, I own plenty of buildings other people seem to want.”
“Do you have many enemies, Mr Sinclair?”
“Why? Do you think someone’s out to get me?”
“Maybe,” Archer said. “Tell me more about the phone call.”
“They called at three in the afternoon. It was brief. They said I have to pay to get her back. They threatened to kill her if I called the police, as I already told you.”
“What did the caller sound like?”
“They used an electronic voice changer. It was mechanical, slow and deep.”
“How did you respond?”
“I asked them how much they wanted. They said two million pounds.” Sinclair closed his eyes. “I agreed without even thinking and the man said he would call me back within the hour with further instructions.”
“And did he?”
Sinclair closed his eyes again and nodded. “At four o’clock. I was told to wait until seven and put the money in the trunk of the Mercedes and have it driven around London while waiting for further instructions by mobile phone. They instructed us to drive a clockwise circuit around Hyde Park. We gave them a mobile number and that was it. If we called the police they said that they would kill her without hesitation.”
The Boathouse Page 2
