The phone on her desk rang. She picked it up and swivelled around, turning her back to Archer. He was able to stare at the outline of her long legs without getting caught.
“I can’t talk now. I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you back later.”
She slammed the receiver down hard and spun the chair around to face Archer.
“Client chasing you?”
“No, that was my lawyer. I’m in the middle of getting divorced. It’s not much fun, I can tell you that for nothing.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”
“That’s okay, you’re a detective. Maybe you do divorce, one way or another. Sorry, that wasn’t a sporting remark. Flywheel and Shyster’s negotiating a settlement deal for me, but I won’t get much out of it. I signed a stupid pre-nup. I believed all of the bullshit charm and now it’s backfired on me.”
She leant against the desk, dropped her head in her hand and sighed. “I’m downsizing from a fairy-tale mansion into a two-bed flat in Knightsbridge, which is fine by me. The contractor tells me it will be ready in a week. It has a rolltop bath and will soon have a fridge full of wine, but you know what’s really upsetting about it all is the fact that our married friends have all taken sides with him and left me out in the cold.”
“Why’s that?” Archer thought he knew why, but asked anyway.
“He’s the one with the money. That means the ability to do whatever he wants. They all know he can open privileged doors for them, from private parties to better jobs and good business deals. Me, I’m just an ex-copper snooping around other people’s bins.”
“Sounds like a fairly shallow bunch to me. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“But I miss them. It was a lot of fun – another world, far away from all this crummy stuff. All I do now is hang around people getting divorced, bent coppers and shifty criminals. Well, the ones that don’t hate me or want to get me back for something. It was really nice to hang out with different people, even if they were shallow.”
“What about kids?”
“We kept putting it off, until it was, well, too late, I suppose. We’d already drifted too far apart.”
“Look, Sarah, help me find Becky. Just tell me exactly what you want from me.”
“Tell me about the kidnapping.”
“Very professional. Well planned. Well executed. Becky Sinclair was specifically targeted. It wasn’t opportunistic. They’re using an electronic voice modulator to distort the voice. It’s been set to sound deeper and flatter. The lack of modulation also makes it sound unsettling, which is generally the desired effect. We can’t untangle it. Believe me we’ve tried. We can’t get a read on the voice or the background noise. Nothing whatsoever.”
“Can’t you trace it?”
“We’re trying to, but it’s being bounced all around the globe by illegal and powerful servers in Bulgaria. We haven’t had enough time during the calls to get to the source yet.”
“You have that kind of manpower in your operation?”
“Just a know-it-all resident hacker.”
“What about the police?”
“She dies the minute they’re called.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Why me? What can I bring to the investigation?”
“You have unique background information that I don’t.”
“But I’m snowed under with work and I really need the money to get back on my feet. I can’t afford to mess my clients about.”
“Juggle, postpone, refer. Do anything – this has to be more important. We’re talking about saving an innocent woman’s life.”
“I have priorities too, Archer. Why is this case more important than mine?”
“Because we’re running out of time. This case is life-threatening.”
“You’re absolutely sure it’s not Sinclair playing games? He isn’t bumping her off?”
“No. It’s far more complicated than that. She’s been kidnapped by professionals. He’s not acting. He’s way too angry – in fact he’s getting out of control. When he finds the people responsible, I’m sure he’ll have them killed. The problem is, when he finds Becky, I think he’ll have her killed too.”
“What’s the reason this time?”
“There was a pregnancy scare. He hit her. Seems to have grown tired of her.”
“He’s a real piece of work, isn’t he? So you want to rescue Becky from a gang of ruthless kidnappers and then convince her not to go back to her wealthy husband, but to go into hiding instead. How will you manage that?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“We?”
“Yes. We.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“I’ll pay you and help you clear your cases. My business partner is very good.”
“So, you’ll pay me, you’ll help me, and you’ll owe me?”
“Owe you what exactly, what do you mean by that?” Archer was confused.
“Owe me a favour. As I’d be doing you one under such difficult circumstances.”
“Whatever it takes to get you on board. How about I wire you twenty grand upfront?”
“Really, just like that. You know what you want and you go for it. I like that.” She smiled at him. “Let me make some calls, give me an hour or so, then call me on this number and here’s my bank details.” She scribbled them down on the back of her card.
“Thanks. I’ll call you in an hour. We can work the case from my office.”
She handed him her card and he pointed at his lying on top of her desk.
They shook hands and looked each other in the eye before she went back to her desk and started making calls. Behind the titanium facade Archer saw a softer side, but thought he understood that her fragile situation required her defences to be on full alert.
Archer walked out and waited for the glass lift. He felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and took it out to see who was calling. It was Peter Sinclair again. He had called six times and left five voicemail messages, which Archer swiftly deleted without playing back.
He walked back slowly towards Sinclair’s penthouse to give himself time to think about what Forsyth had just told him. He noticed Louise Palmer’s travel agency as he walked down Sloane Street. On the off chance, he went in to see if she was back. He asked an assistant if he could talk with her, but was politely told that she was away on business and would not return until next week. Archer decided it was a blessing. The last thing he needed was an hysterical family member making it harder than it was already.
He crossed the road near the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and cut through Albert Gate to South Carriage Drive, where two private soldiers in camouflage outfits were picking up horse manure from the road and putting it in hessian sacks.
He noticed Julian Cavendish was still at lunch with his promiscuous-looking young client. They sat enthralled with each other in the hotel window. He strolled along Rotten Row, quietly mulling his thoughts over and over until he got to the end of the park, where he stood and stared across Park Lane towards Sinclair’s mansion block and up at his huge penthouse.
It was time to confront him about Hunter. Face to face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Archer entered the Penthouse living room, which was graveyard quiet. He could feel the unspoken tension between the six men before anyone even noticed he had returned. Sinclair’s anxiety had tacitly transferred itself to the rest of the solemn-looking group of mercenaries.
Sinclair sat motionless at the desk with his head bowed and his eyes closed like a meditating monk. His driver and his guards were at the table with complementary blank faces and arms folded. Best was back from his fruitless trip. He faced Archer, but avoided eye contact, looking suitably embarrassed after being given the slip.
Archer just stood still and watched them until Sinclair stirred from his trance and spotted him. He jumped to his feet and shouted, “Where the bloody hell have you been
, Archer?” His face flushed red with rage.
Archer walked up to him and looked down into his eyes as he thought about his next move. He decided to use the simple technique of calmness and politeness to defuse Sinclair’s anger; temporarily putting him off balance with a false but friendly-looking smile.
“I’m back. I’ve been following up leads. Have I missed anything?”
“Shut it, Archer, before you get a slap. I ask the questions round here, okay? So whenever I’m talking, you stay quiet, and then when I ask a question and my lips stop moving, that’s when you answer, and it better be good. Got it?”
Sinclair’s temple pulsated and his bottom lip trembled with anger. His clipped public school accent was occasionally tinged with a hint of the East End thrown in, but in moments like this, whenever he lost control, his working-class roots were much more pronounced.
Archer stayed quiet, but his friendly smile naturally turned into a defensive glare.
“Answer your bloody phone when I call you why don’t you. You’re working for me now, not some nobody. Why haven’t you answered my bloody calls?”
Archer could see the pulse beating faster at his temple. Sinclair was having trouble keeping the fury from his face, which was still flushed, both fists clenched, knuckles white.
“Battery died, had to recharge it.” He shrugged his shoulders and showed his open palms in a gesture that said no big deal, these things happen. “Too many Apps.”
“Where the hell have you been all day anyway?”
“In my office, working the electronic side of the case.”
“I need you to be more responsive when I call you. When you work for me I want you on call twenty-four seven – got it?”
“Oh, do you?”
“I fire people for less.”
Archer held up his phone and smiled. “Well you can phone me right now if you want a chat. It’s fully charged.”
“Don’t be so fucking insubordinate.” Sinclair screwed his face up like a madman.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Sinclair. I don’t work for you. Remember that.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. You’re my client. Not my employer.”
“So where’s my bloody wife then? You’re a typical consultant – fucking useless.”
They stared at each other for half a minute, until the silence became uncomfortable and Archer decided it was a good time to drop his bombshell to maximum effect.
“You haven’t been upfront with me.” Archer’s ice-cold stare drilled into Sinclair’s eyes with laser-sharp focus, like a merciless barrister going in for the kill. “Tell me about Stuart Hunter.”
Sinclair glared back at him as if he had just mentioned the unmentionable. Unable to control his rage he thumped down fast and hard on top of the desk in a fit of anger that left him trembling from head to toe. He hurriedly yanked open the desk drawer and pulled out a heavy silver handgun.
Archer knew instantly that it was a Magnum, Desert Eagle.
“I’ll tell you about Stuart bloody Hunter. He’s a dead man when I find him. Whoever’s done this to me, whoever’s taken Becky away from me, and humiliated me, and made me look like a fool in front of my men, whoever’s done this – is a dead man.”
He was still trembling when he walked over to the table with the loaded gun at his side pointed down at the floor and looked at his men.
“I want to send the world a message. Heads must roll. Understood? We have to settle this quickly before it gets out, otherwise we’ll be a laughing stock.”
He turned and aimed the gun at Archer’s chest, across the table. His men all ducked instinctively.
“You need to pull your finger out. Personally, I think you’ve been oversold. You’re overrated. If money doesn’t motivate you then perhaps this bloody gun will.”
Sinclair walked around the desk and walked right up to Archer. He pressed the gun barrel hard up against Archer’s forehead. If it was loaded he was in deep shit. Sinclair was out of control, but at least the safety was still on.
“Do you know who I am?”
Sinclair’s rapid breathing rose above the edgy silence.
“Do you? I’m somebody. Got it? And you’re nobody. I’m Peter Sinclair, and that means I’m somebody in this town.”
He pulled the gun back, leaving a stinging sensation on Archer’s temple.
“Don’t threaten me, Sinclair. I couldn’t give a shit who you are.” This was purely a gut reaction with no conscious thought process behind it.
“I’ll bloody shoot you for that.” But the gun was pointing down at the floor and the safety catch was still on.
“Go on then, shoot me. Then go to jail for me.” Relying purely on instinct and nerve.
Sinclair’s face reddened into a crimson glow. His hand oscillated back and forth with unrestrained rage. He closed his eyes as he steadied himself with a deep breath.
“I should kill myself and be done with all of it.”
“You haven’t got the balls,” Archer said aggressively.
“What did you say?”
“You haven’t – got – the – balls.”
Sinclair slowly inched closer until there was no gap between them. He screwed his face up again and looked completely insane; he was a maniac – a megalomaniac.
“Don’t tempt me, boy. I’m literally itching to do it.”
“Back off. Don’t ever threaten me again. Just carry on boring me to death as usual, okay?”
“I’ve had enough of your lip.”
Twenty years of Krav Maga training in various dark alleys and an old crypt in Chelsea kicked in instinctively as Archer snatched the gun from Sinclair’s hand and stepped back in a split-second move that caused Sinclair’s jaw to drop.
“Who the hell are you, Archer?”
The bodyguards shot out of their seats, un-holstered their weapons and aimed their guns at Archer’s head.
Archer removed the clip and the bullet from the chamber. He put them in his pocket and put the gun down on the desk.
“You’re going through a stressful ordeal. Emotions can get a bit raw.”
The guards re-holstered their guns, but instinctively closed in around Sinclair.
“It’s all right,” Sinclair said. He raised his hand and lowered his head. “It was my fault, he’s right. I needed to vent. I’ll be all right. Leave him alone.”
Jones led Sinclair back to his chair at the desk and talked him through some deep breaths, which softened his facial expression. He told Best to fetch some water while Sinclair sat with his elbows rested on the desktop and his fists clenched white-knuckle tight.
Sinclair continued to breathe deeply and slowly. After his breathing had returned to normal he unclenched his fists and drank some water.
A mobile phone rang with a loud fanfare. Sinclair removed it from his pocket and listened quietly until it fell from his hand. He seemed frozen in time, tears welling up in his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sinclair sat hunched at the desk staring into space as the tears streamed down his face. Jones fetched a square box of tissues and placed them on the desk before he picked up the mobile phone and gave it back to his boss.
Sinclair clasped both the phone and Jones’s hand. He stared at him and thanked him, dried his eyes, blew his nose and sat up straight, trying to regain some composure, but the desperate look on his face gave him away.
Archer walked back up to the desk and looked him straight in the eye.
“Who was that?” he said.
“My lawyer – says the police have just found the burned body of a thirty-something-year-old woman dumped in a disused warehouse in South London. It could be her.”
“It could be anyone,” Archer said.
“It’s her. She’s dead. And I look like a bloody fool.”
He looked more embarrassed or ashamed than grief-stricken.
“You don’t know it’s her. She could still be alive.”
“What are
the odds?”
“Fifty per cent or better.”
The resolve drained out of him. His face went pale. “I look like a bloody fool.”
Archer was certain he was more concerned about himself, his loss of respect, being shamed. Becky would always come off second best until she was dead.
“I’m done. Just find out who took her. Then leave the rest to me.”
Archer left him looking up at her portrait and went out onto the terrace to make a private call to Sarah Forsyth. Sinclair disgusted him. The man was genuinely upset about the kidnappers getting one over on him. He was moved to shed tears for himself and his reputation. But his logic was that of a psychopath. Archer felt certain he would blame Becky for getting herself kidnapped. Without her, there would be no kidnappers. Archer couldn’t trust him, not even as a client. He was a selfish man. A master manipulator and a control freak. It was difficult to be civil, but his personal investigation demanded it. For Alex.
His mind flashed back to the day Alex had been killed. The pain he had felt at seeing her dead body on the steel gurney and the emptiness which had soon turned to guilt for not stopping her. He carried it around with him, even now as he continued to dial the same engaged number over and over on his mobile. Sinclair wasn’t showing realistic signs of grief. He was feeling something else. Not grief like Archer, but a selfish fear of not being in control, compounded by being made to look foolish in front of his peers. A killer combination. Finally the phone started ringing and a female voice answered.
“Sarah, it’s Sean Archer.”
“Hi Sean. I was just about to call you. I’ve managed to re-schedule my diary. You’ve got me for a few days. I’ll drive over to your office in Walton Street now, shall I?”
“Can you come and pick me up first?”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“Sinclair’s place. Park Lane.”
“I know it. I’ll meet you at the back entrance on Park Street, give me say fifteen minutes. I also have some old case files you’ll need to see.”
“Can you send them to the email address on my card?”
“No problem. I’ll do that first and then pick you up.”
The Boathouse Page 10
