The Boathouse

by R. J. Harries

  “Anything else?”

  Sinclair shook his head solemnly.

  “Nothing else, no proof of life?”

  “I asked to speak to her, but they said that she was sleeping as they had drugged her when she put up a fight. She’s quite feisty, you see.” Sinclair smiled with a deeply etched frown on his hard lived-in face.

  “How do you know for sure that they have her?”

  “A motorbike courier delivered her handbag with her purse and phone inside. Cash-in-hand job off another motorbike courier. All the cards still intact. Then they called on the private number reserved for friends and family rather than business.”

  “We can’t track the cards or phone then. Where was the drop-off made?”

  “Hyde Park.”

  “Who drove the car?” Archer asked.

  “Jones volunteered,” Sinclair said, and nodded over at him for support.

  “I followed their instructions,” Jones said. “I drove around until they called the mobile and they told me where to go. They had me driving around Hyde Park for over an hour, probably checking to see if anyone was following.”

  “Where exactly did you make the drop?” Archer asked.

  “South Carriage Drive, in the park – you know, by the barracks.”

  “How was it made?”

  “I stopped and was instructed by phone to open the boot from inside the car,” Jones said. “A van pulled up and parked right behind me and a hoody got out of the back, took the suitcase out and put it in the back of the van.”

  “What kind of van?”

  Jones nodded knowingly as if he had known what the next question would be.

  “Dark blue Volkswagen Transporter, new-looking – well, the latest shape anyway.”

  “Did you get the licence number?”

  “Yes, fake plates, we already checked. It’s registered to an older van in Scotland.”

  “Can you describe the hoody?”

  “Medium height, broad shoulders but slim, probably early twenties, faded jeans, Nike trainers, faded light blue hoody, with the hood up completely hiding his face, the sort of outfit that blends into the background. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “And then what?”

  “He closed the back doors from inside the van and they drove off.”

  “They?”

  “It moved straight away so he wasn’t the driver.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “They went north towards Lancaster Gate.”

  “Can you describe anything else about him or the van?”

  “He jumped out of the back of the van, took the case out of the boot, put it into the back of the van and then jumped back in. In all it only took about ten seconds.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Archer said. The hoody was at the bottom of the food chain, but it would be worth checking the cameras for facial recognition.

  “So Mr Archer, will you help me?” Sinclair said.

  Every eye in the room was clamped on Archer now. He looked directly into Sinclair’s steely grey eyes and tried to read them. His instincts told him that Sinclair was a ruthless manipulator and a naturally competent liar. But why was he fifteenth on Alex’s list?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Your wife needs all the help she can get. I will help you, but by my rules. You pay me as a consultant, but I don’t take orders from you or anyone else. Is that clear?”

  Sinclair sneered and folded his arms. “You’d better be bloody good.” A hint of East End occasionally crept into his polished accent. He was all about façade.

  Archer loathed Sinclair, but couldn’t allow his wife to be killed. He also had to find out if he was connected to the Boathouse, or at least if he could lead him there. In Archer’s reckoning this case was not as it first seemed. He still felt like he was being set up.

  “And if anything happens to her, will you help me find the men responsible?”

  This was confirmation that this case was more complex than just a kidnapping for ransom money. Sinclair was not just concerned about his wife’s welfare. There was more to it. His new client wasn’t telling him everything.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Mr Archer. I’ll pay you whatever it takes to find her and get her back.”

  Money seemed to be a vulgar concept to this ruthless bastard.

  “And I want to find the men who took her. Who do you think they are? Professionals, some sort of criminal organisation?”

  Archer’s hackles rose, but he stayed calm. He immediately knew that revenge rather than rescue was the primary motivator on display before him.

  Know your enemy and know what they want.

  “This was not opportunistic, it was targeted and they knew her routine. Either they knew exactly where she was going or they followed her there. In that case they’ll know plenty about you too.”

  “Why’s that?” Sinclair asked.

  “They knew you could get two million in cash together in a couple of hours without time to go to a bank. And they know that you can and will pay more.”

  “So they’ve either been watching me or perhaps you think they know me?”

  “Probably both. Have you swept this place for bugs today?”

  “It’s clean. What else have you got?”

  “It’s definitely a gang. There has to be at least three of them, two in the Transporter van, probably stolen, and at least one watching Becky, somewhere in London or the Home Counties. Somewhere close to the motorway system.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They need to have access to the drop-off, unless there are two crews, but kidnappers usually work as a close-knit team. They’re either still based in the city, or somewhere out in the country, with access to fast routes back for the ransom drops.”

  “How do you know they’ll call back? They could be long gone already.”

  Know your enemy and know what they want.

  “They’ll take you for as much money as they can and it’s going to be a lot more than two million. Unless they do in fact want something more specific from you. They haven’t shown their real intentions yet. They’re building up to something.”

  “So why haven’t they called back then?”

  “They’ll call, but in their own time. They’re showing you who’s in control. This could go on for a long time, weeks even. Does anyone know exactly how much cash you can get hold of?”

  “Not accurately, no. I deal with many people. But nobody knows everything.”

  “But it’s a lot more than two million, right?”

  “Of course, much more in fact,” he said, unable to hide his smugness. Sinclair was a more arrogant bastard than he’d initially imagined.

  “Then Becky is safe for a while anyway, at least until they’ve taken enough money or whatever they’re really after. Getting her back safe is the hard part and that’s what we need to figure out. I’ll stick around until the next call if that’s all right. I need more information before I can start looking for them.”

  “Okay. What do we need to do next?”

  “Wait for the phone to ring and then ask to speak to her. Stay calm but be firm and don’t back down. Try to buy as much time as you can to get the money together. And give me the number of that phone so we can trace the call.”

  Sinclair wrote the number on the back of a business card and organised for sandwiches to be brought in by his assistant. They arrived in twenty minutes on a large silver platter from Claridge’s, but Sinclair didn’t eat any. He just sat back at the desk and stared at the phone while the bodyguards eagerly tucked into the free food.

  Archer walked out to make a private call on his mobile. He called Zoe from the terrace and asked her to hack into the local exchange and trace the next phone call to the penthouse. He also asked her for a full background check on Becky and Peter Sinclair and to keep digging until she found everything she could. All other jobs would have to wait, including those that boosted their profit margins with the provision of insider infor
mation. This case had just become their number one priority.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Archer quietly interviewed members of staff out on the terrace, while keeping a watchful eye on his new client through the window. He hadn’t eliminated Sinclair yet, but the kidnapping seemed more likely to be motivated by ransom money or revenge. At three p.m. he heard the phone and saw Sinclair jump awkwardly to his feet and hit the speaker button after the third ring. Archer ran inside to listen.

  “Sinclair,” he said calmly, despite the sudden movement.

  “Listen carefully. If you want to see your wife again you need to get five million dollars in cash in a suitcase like before plus a half-litre flask of flawless cut diamonds, just like the hot ones from Botswana.” The electronic voice changer lowered the pitch and made the call mechanical and far more threatening than a natural voice.

  “I want to speak to my wife,” Sinclair shouted.

  “Shut up and listen,” the distorted voice snapped back.

  “No, you shut up and listen. Put her on the phone now otherwise you’ll get nothing else and I’ll come after you with everything I’ve got.”

  The line went dead.

  Sinclair stared at the phone in shock and then glared at Archer. His face tightened and flushed red in anger. He picked up a crystal paperweight and threw it down at the desk. It bounced off and landed on the floor. Jones jumped up and put it back in its place. Sinclair sat back uneasily with his eyes closed and his head resting on his chest.

  Five minutes later the silence was broken and the phone rang again. Sinclair braced himself, sat up straight and pressed the speaker button after two rings.

  “Peter. Are you there?” A woman’s voice, undistorted, nervous, out of breath.

  “Becky. Is that you?” Sinclair started trembling.

  “Help me. Do whatever they say. Please help me. I want to come home.” Everyone in the room heard her scream and then a muffled sound and a bang like the phone had been dropped. Sinclair jumped to his feet, thumped the desk and kicked his chair backwards.

  The distorted voice returned. “Get the money and the diamonds and we’ll call you in two hours with instructions on where to make the drop.”

  “When will I get her back?”

  The line went dead.

  Sinclair was shaking. He made a private call on the cylindrical handset next to the conference phone. He turned his back and spoke quietly, but Archer overheard him mention five million dollars and a half-litre flask of diamonds from Botswana in half an hour. “Make sure we’re ready to go again in two hours,” Sinclair ordered.

  Archer walked to the lobby and called Zoe. The kidnapper’s call had been too short. She couldn’t trace it back far enough. She would try again with the next call.

  “I’ll call you when I find something useful,” she said and ended the call.

  Archer returned to the living room. Three of the men walked out to the terrace and started smoking. The other two including Jones sat in armchairs and waited in silence.

  Sinclair was still seated, staring at the portrait on the wall.

  “Can we talk somewhere private?” Archer asked.

  Sinclair got up stiffly as if in pain and said, “Follow me.” Archer followed him to the rear hallway and up the stairs to the tenth floor. A quiet floor with what looked like guest bedrooms and a large private study. Was this the retreat where he schemed and plotted?

  The study was full of trophies, including a picture of Becky riding a horse through the surf on a beach, with a bronze sculpture of a female rider and horse below. It was a classical study in contrast to the rest of the modern apartment. The walls were light oak panels and the shelves were filled with old books, artefacts and sculptures. The art on the walls was also classical, more Canaletto’s Venice than Picasso’s Cubism downstairs. Sinclair sat down wearily at the desk and Archer sat in the green leather armchair opposite.

  “There has to be an insider,” Archer said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “The kidnappers have inside information. First, they know you can get hold of substantial amounts of cash in sterling and dollars.”

  “So can plenty of other people in London,” he said, with disdain.

  “Plus they know you can quickly get your hands on cut diamonds.”

  “Okay, less common than cash, but still not unique. Carry on.”

  “Specifically, they know you have some illicit diamonds from Botswana.”

  “All right, not so common, but I still can’t form a shortlist on that basis alone.”

  “How much does your wife know about your business dealings?”

  “Too much,” Sinclair blurted out quickly, before his face reddened. “I mean too much for her own good.” The recovery failed to mask his apparent discomfort at this revelation. But if his wife did know too much and he wanted to bump her off, there were far easier ways than faking her kidnapping and putting on a complex show like this. The same would be true if she was running away from him.

  Sinclair turned and looked out of the window.

  Archer thought through his potential suspect list: Sinclair, Becky, Relatives, Staff, Friends, Enemies and Opportunists.

  The phone vibrated twice in his hand with an incoming text from Zoe. He made an excuse to call the office about the trace and Sinclair walked back downstairs in a trance. Archer stayed seated in the study and speed-dialled his office.

  “Hey, what’s up?” “Sinclair hides a lot of his deals. He’s careful, but I’ll find a hole in his armour somewhere, don’t worry. There has to be one. There always is.”

  “What are the signs?” Archer said.

  “The usual stuff when something bad is being covered up by immoral lawyers and bankers on massive fees. It takes a poor moralistic hacker like me to find them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Layers of offshore shell companies with transactions through numbered bank accounts in Switzerland, Aruba and the Cayman Islands. He’s well connected in several countries via lobbyists and agents. And I just found a trail of property deals leading back to Washington D.C. and the CEO of a major defence contractor. Be careful, Sean.”

  Sinclair was definitely connected to cold-blooded killers. But was he connected to the cold-blooded killers behind the Boathouse?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sinclair sat bolt upright at the desk. His stare switched between the phone and his solid gold Rolex with occasional glances towards the large portrait on the wall. At five p.m. the phone rang as promised. Sinclair pressed the speaker button after the third ring and listened carefully to the instructions to drive around the circuit. At the end of the call he quietly said, “Okay, so when do we do the exchange?” The line went dead.

  As he stood up he took a deep breath and addressed his team. “Load the money and the diamonds into the car and drive around the circuit again, like before. Start in an hour. Who wants to make the drop?”

  “I’ll do it,” Jones said.

  “I’ll go with him,” Archer said.

  The other four men at the table started talking quietly and then one walked towards Sinclair.

  “Shall we follow them, sir?” asked the biggest one.

  “No, not yet,” Sinclair said.

  “What’s the circuit?” Archer asked.

  “Basically it’s a clockwise route around Hyde Park,” Sinclair said.

  He walked off towards the master bedroom. It was on the same floor as the living room, across the entrance hall. Archer was still waiting to see inside it. The four men at the table openly discussed the call while Jones walked over to Archer.

  “Be ready in half an hour,” Jones said, and walked off.

  The stockiest of the four men broke away and nodded at Archer. “So are you going to help us find out who’s behind this?” he said.

  “Yes,” Archer said.

  “You find them and we’ll sort them out,” he said. “Once Mrs Sinclair’s back safe we’ll get the money back and then shut them down for g
ood. They won’t be bothering anyone after we’ve finished with them.”

  Archer looked into the stocky man’s dark eyes and believed he meant it. Then the man stuck his arm out to shake hands and a huge bicep flexed into action beneath the silky grey suit.

  “John Haywood,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” His crushing grip lasted a moment too long. Archer wondered if the excessive muscles and handshake were over-compensating for some hidden weakness. The ice was broken, but only by a hairline crack. The rest of the men slowly stepped forward to introduce themselves. Adams was the biggest, Best the shortest and Clarke the nastiest. They shook hands with Archer, but he sensed they were still keeping their distance. There was not a hint of warmth or a welcoming smile. He was still the untrusted outsider.

  “So do you all work for a security firm or what?” Archer asked. No reply. “What kind of security do you guys do?”

  Archer focused on Haywood. But he just stared back without expression.

  “You’re all retired SAS though, right? Archer asked.

  “Not too difficult to guess, but Clarkey here was a Commando.”

  Archer asked them some light questions and they answered curtly until Peter Sinclair came back into sight. He was pulling a large suitcase that looked stretched full and heavy. Five million dollars just like that, Archer thought. Some cash machine this guy has access to. He estimated that it weighed about fifty kilos. The case had two wheels, not four, and was bulging to its expanded limits, like elasticated trousers on a mud wrestler. Sinclair wheeled it out to the entrance hall, where it fell over and crashed onto the marble floor with a dull thud.

  Jones flinched and the four guards instinctively reached for their weapons. Archer noted the exact locations of their reflex actions and followed Sinclair into the entrance hall.

  “Can I see Becky’s room now and her personal effects?”

  “Why?” Sinclair said, over-defensively.

  “It’s called investigating. I’m trying to help you, remember?”