“Okay, follow me.” Sinclair frowned and tapped his leg nervously as he led the way.
He followed Sinclair to the modern master bedroom across the entrance hall. More of the same grey and neutral tones. Again, nothing feminine except a heavy-looking crystal vase of white tulips and some tastefully framed holiday photographs of the Sinclairs.
“Any children?”
“No.” Sinclair snapped.
The bedside tables told two stories. One had an alarm clock and a photograph of Becky looking radiant. The other had several photographs and recent hardbacks. The photo of Peter Sinclair posing with a shovel at a construction site was dwarfed by one of three women preparing to ski down a mountain.
“Who are they?” Archer asked.
“That’s her sister Louise and her niece Amanda.”
“Are they close?”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Very,” Sinclair said, and grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.
Archer took a photo of it and sent it to Zoe. He skipped the all-marble en-suite bathroom with its giant marble bath and in-built television. Instead he headed straight for the walk-in closet full of designer clothes and shoes. Hundreds of shoes and handbags lined up on show. Archer started to look through the drawers in the closet, causing Sinclair to raise an eyebrow. One of the drawers was full of jewellery, another of watches. Several contained expensive-looking underwear, mostly matching sets of silk lingerie. Archer wondered if Becky was naturally well proportioned or surgically enhanced, but decided not to comment.
The bottom drawer, about the size of a briefcase, was full of neatly stacked money, bundles of new twenty-pound notes.
“How much is there?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“Why all the cash?”
“She has expensive tastes and a limitless charge card, but sometimes only cash is king. She has instant access to it if she needs it.”
A fortune to most people, but he thinks it’s just some spare cash stashed in a drawer.
“Okay, thanks. I’ve seen enough for now,” Archer said. “I’ll need to speak to the rest of your staff, but I can do that later.”
Archer followed Sinclair back to the living room. The suitcase was still on the floor, in the entrance hall. A small stainless-steel flask had appeared next to it. Jones and the other men were still sitting quietly in the living room. Jones nodded that it was time to leave. Adams and Best took the case and the diamonds to the car. Clarke and Haywood stayed seated with Sinclair in the living room. Archer assumed they were his most trusted bodyguards.
At ten minutes to six, Jones drove the black Mercedes out onto Park Lane in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic with Archer in the passenger seat. Five million dollars in cash in the boot and a small flask of sparkling diamonds between his legs worth well over two million dollars. The second drop was underway.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jones drove the Mercedes around the congested street circuit exactly as instructed by the kidnappers. Knightsbridge was still busy with shoppers as Archer stared out of the window. Throngs of tired-looking commuters still travelling home from work. Cyclists in suits with their computers in rucksacks. Joggers who left their suits in the office. People in office outfits wearing trainers to walk easier and faster, some even overtaking slower people out exercising. The pace of commuting had increased dramatically over the years. These fit commuters were seriously focused on minimising their journey time as they elbowed tourists and dawdlers out of the way, as if they had a birth right to be first wherever they happened to be. He noted the contrast as they passed the overweight smokers and drinkers standing outside pubs calmly waiting for the rush hour to pass. It was all easy to watch from the comfort of a luxury air-conditioned sedan.
Becky would be used to the remoteness of wealth, accustomed to the finer things in life, like being whisked around in style and never getting too close to the workers. She was probably struggling with her ordeal on several levels. Being held prisoner, not in control or comfort, but far too close to strangers and fearing what they might do to her.
The route around Hyde Park took between ten and twenty minutes per lap depending on the traffic and the lights. Archer counted the fourth lap out loud and checked his watch. They had been driving for exactly one hour and it was getting dark, but still no call.
“Do you always drive the Sinclairs around?” Archer asked.
“I’m mainly Mrs Sinclair’s driver, but sometimes I drive Mr Sinclair.”
“Does she always keep to the same routine every week?”
“She favours certain shops and restaurants, normally after her workout.”
Jones was a steady driver and held his nerve well during an hour of mild interrogation. He kept hitting Archer’s questions back over the net without taking his eyes off the road or showing any signs of stress, like a well-trained ex-soldier.
“Does she socialise much?”
“Long lunches with her sister, dinners and functions with Mr Sinclair.”
“Are she and her sister good friends?”
“They argue like all sisters.”
“Any notable jealousy?”
“Her sister’s a bit envious of Mrs Sinclair’s wealth I suppose but they’re still close.”
“What else does Mrs Sinclair like to do?”
“Keeps fit, watches movies and reads a lot.”
“No clubs or charities?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Any male friends?”
Jones took his eyes off the road for a second and gave Archer a bemused sideways glance in total disbelief.
“You must be joking, Mr Sinclair wouldn’t have any of that.”
Archer had finally made a dent in the stiff-lipped driver. Jones showed he had some personality hidden somewhere beneath the surface. This was the exploratory foot in the door Archer was after; he had to bond with someone on the inside. He was about to change tack and make the move, when the mobile phone in the cradle lit up. He answered it on the second ring on speaker.
“Yes.”
“Turn left and park in front of the Hilton.”
Archer hit the mute button.
“Turn left up there.” He pointed but Jones was already indicating.
They had just passed the turning for Curzon Street and took the next left and another immediate left which brought them right in front of the hotel entrance. They reverse-parked next to two other German-made cars in front of the high-rise hotel, the boot facing Park Lane and the park. Jones turned the mute button off and the sound system’s volume up.
“Okay, what next?” Archer said.
“Put the flask on the ground in front of the car while letting down the driver’s side front tyre. Then take the bag to the concierge. Tell him it’s for Mr Jefferson.”
“And then?”
“Pump the tyre back up and go home. Don’t hang around the lobby or follow anyone otherwise she gets a bullet in the head.”
The line went dead.
“Open the boot and I’ll take the bag to the concierge. Here, you take the flask and let the tyre down,” Archer said.
Jones pressed the button to open the boot and it started to lift slowly. He took the flask and opened the door. Archer opened his door and got out. People were milling around in all directions but nobody was taking any notice of them. Taxi drivers were talking in a group, the doorman was talking to a cab driver. A group of couriers were smoking near their bikes.
Archer lifted the heavy bag out, carefully placed its two wheels on the pavement and closed the boot. He looked up at the twenty-seven-storey hotel and wondered if they were being watched. A vivid image of his friend free-falling flashed before him. He had died base jumping off the hotel roof when they were twenty. The chute had snagged and his arm was torn off on the way down. Archer had witnessed it from the rooftop and had never base jumped since.
He watched Jones place the flask in front of the car
and unscrew the dust cap. Jones then squatted down beside the wheel and used his nail to depress the valve and let the air out.
Archer wheeled the heavy case past Jones and yanked it up the kerb. The doorman asked if he wanted any help but he politely declined, shimmied through the revolving door into the lobby and casually strolled across to the concierge desk. He waited in line behind a tourist getting directions to a restaurant and then stepped up to the desk. He was greeted by Sergio from Spain, or so his badge stated.
“Luggage for Mr Jefferson.”
The young concierge’s eyes bulged greedily and his face lit up.
“We’ve been expecting that one, thank you, sir, let me come and get it.”
The concierge grabbed the handle and pulled it towards the lifts. He seemed to wait for a lift, but as Archer exited the front entrance he looked back and saw the concierge walk away towards the rear entrance pulling the case behind him.
Archer walked out of the front entrance and saw Jones take a small bag from the boot. He then sat in the car with the door open and opened the bag. The front tyre was deflated and the flask of diamonds was still on the ground. He was getting the pump ready as a silver BMW motorbike stopped in front of the car. The leather-clad rider was wearing a full face helmet but appeared to be male. He bent down, picked up the flask, and put it in a small rucksack.
The biker headed off down Pitt’s Head Mews. Archer ran to the corner of the hotel to see if he could read the small number-plate for Zoe to track by hacking into the CCTV system. As he turned the corner he saw the biker had stopped. A lorry was blocking the road while a crane was unloading materials at a construction site. This was an opportunity to read the plate if he could get close enough. Archer sprinted down the road. The biker was only forty yards away, but wasn’t waiting for the road to clear. He spun the bike around, leaving half a donut of rubber behind, and headed back towards Archer, who automatically stopped in the middle of the road and held his hands out, shouting, “Stop!” Which immediately felt like a stupid thing to do.
The fit-looking biker stopped six feet in front of him and casually reached inside his leather jacket, pulled out a yellow Taser gun and aimed it at Archer. He motioned it towards the pavement and Archer moved off the road and jerked uncontrollably as his body went into spasm. Every muscle in his body tightened and became rigid with the fifty-thousand-volt shock from the Taser. It stopped, and his legs fell away beneath him. His muscles vibrated as if he’d had a mains electric shock. His body went numb and seemed to fall asleep for a minute or two. He couldn’t move, and then he felt hot, and as soon as he could move again his muscles started to tingle. He tried to stand but was too weak. Hundreds of pins prodded his skin before it was set on fire, prickling, itching. Would it ever end? He sat on the kerb with his head bowed between his knees for a couple of minutes to recover. Pedestrians passed by, but nobody stopped.
He got up, still feeling weak, and managed to stumble back to the car, slumping into the passenger seat next to a relaxed-looking Jones.
“What happened to you? You look like shit.”
“Never mind, let’s get out of here.”
“Did you get the plate?”
“No, did you?”
“No.”
“Let’s tell Sinclair what happened and then come back and see the concierge.”
CHAPTER NINE
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.”
CHAPTER TEN
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 automa
tically 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.
The Boathouse Page 4
