The Boathouse

by R. J. Harries

  “There’s a client in with Doctor Azeez. He can’t be disturbed.”

  “Call him and tell him he’ll have to reschedule.”

  “I can’t. He’s doing an, er … examination.”

  Archer leaned over and pressed the speed dial for Doctor A. It started ringing on speaker, but there was no answer. Archer opened the nearest door and found a dimly lit narrow hallway with two more doors. The ageing paint was peeling off the woodwork more like that of a back street address than a prestigious one. He knocked on the door with the doctor’s name on it. There was no answer, so he tried to open it, but it was locked from the inside.

  “Doctor Azeez, it’s urgent, please open the door.”

  “Go away. I’m with a client.”

  “We’re evacuating the building, open the door right now, this is the police.”

  “Two minutes please.”

  Archer and Forsyth waited in the dark hallway. They could hear muffled voices.

  The door opened and a skinny dishevelled woman in her twenties walked out doing up her sheer black blouse. She had a pale expressionless face and drunken swagger, as if she was high on drugs. Archer led the way into the examination room. When Azeez saw Forsyth he frowned and said, “Don’t I know you?”

  “You have a good memory, Doctor Azeez. Or should I say Benoir Fache.”

  “Who are you?” He continued to stare intently, but seemed to have forgotten her name.

  “Nice little set-up, Monsieur Fache. Drug the patient, turn the lights out. And in such glamorous surroundings too. What do you think, Sean? Should I bring my mother-in-law to be treated by this snake oil salesman?”

  “No, I think this dark cesspit has seen its fair share of venomous old cobras.”

  “What do you want? I have important patients waiting.”

  “Where’s Stuart Hunter?” Forsyth said.

  “Go to hell. Putain. I know who you are now. Merde. You’re the mercenary bitch who falsified all that evidence against me.”

  “And here’s some more false evidence…”

  Forsyth held up a manila folder and took out a wad of documents which she threw down one at a time on his desk. His confidence drained away as he saw the files.

  “Fake passport, fake qualifications, new marriage certificate, old marriage certificate. Impersonating a doctor. Bigamy. Taxes. Need we say more?”

  He shook his head, mute as a mannequin, expensive white porcelain teeth gritted and slowly grinding together.

  Archer stepped into his personal space. “Where’s Hunter?”

  Azeez stepped back and held his hands up in the air.

  “Puh,” he shrugged warily. “Nobody knows.”

  Forsyth picked up the documents, waved them in his face then slipped them back into the folder.

  “Once these get around town, no one will know where you are either. Not where you’re going. It’ll be sausage and beans all day long for you, cowboy.”

  “All right,” he snarled. “Let me think.”

  “No,” said Archer. “Don’t think. Talk.”

  “I don’t know where he is. The driver does.”

  “Who’s the driver?”

  “He collects the medicines and treatments. Then he delivers them to the Hunters.”

  “Call him.”

  “But I don’t have another delivery scheduled for two weeks.”

  “Call him. Tell him you have a small package for urgent delivery. Make something up, you’re good at that. Just make it sound important. If you don’t, you’re going down.”

  “Très bien. I’ll tell him they need some important medication. That will make it sound more urgent.” The phoney doctor made a call then informed his uninvited guests that the driver would pick up the package within the hour.

  They left quietly and waited in the open-top car. After half an hour, a black BMW Seven Series with tinted windows double parked in front of the address, blocking them in. They pretended to ignore the driver and acted like a couple saying goodbye. A shaven-headed thick-set man got out, wearing a long black leather coat and dark sunglasses. Archer saw a neck tattoo peeking out from above his collar. He looked like a Hollywood hit man. Two minutes later he returned clutching a small white paper bag with a green cross on it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  They followed the black Seven Series to Docklands without being spotted. Forsyth parked the convertible Merc in one of the empty parking bays at South Quay House, across the dark green water from Canary Wharf. The BMW was parked in a disabled space next to the main entrance. The driver waited outside it until a well-dressed young woman opened it and collected the package from him. He left without saying a single word to her, lit a cigarette and drove off. She went back inside and took the lift, but Archer could not make out where it had stopped.

  He called Zoe and told her where they were. He read out the name and address of the building. Within five minutes she called him back and delivered her findings. She’d searched the information on all the tenants and found that the most likely property was owned by a shell company in the Caymans and rented out to a retired widow who was living off a trust fund allowance from Liechtenstein. She had a French live-in housekeeper and a British live-in boyfriend slightly older then her. The widow’s name was Samantha Knight, but it was a false identity for Samantha Hunter. She was living in apartment 12A, one of two apartments on the top floor of South Quay House. Her “boyfriend”, Hunter, might be hiding from Sinclair, but this was still an extravagant five-thousand-square-foot apartment.

  “Do you think he could be armed?” Forsyth asked as she got out of the car.

  “Possibly, but he’s not used to using guns himself, is he? Zoe said he doesn’t have a gun licence, so if he’s got a gun it’s unregistered.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that we’re about to rumble him and he’s probably armed?”

  “Not really. Hunter wouldn’t get his hands dirty. He’d hire contractors.”

  “He could have contractors in there guarding him right now.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you think Becky’s in there?”

  “I think Hunter’s potentially behind the kidnapping, but I don’t think he’d use his own hiding place to keep her prisoner. Actually, I’m not expecting to find anyone in there apart from the Hunters and their housekeeper.”

  “Are we going to wing this one as well then?”

  “I think we will. You ready?”

  “You go from hero to zero in less than two minutes.”

  Archer frowned at her and pressed the shiny silver button for apartment 12A.

  A soft female voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mrs Knight? I’d like to talk to you about Peter Sinclair if you can spare some time. He’s looking for you and I want to help you stay alive.”

  No response.

  “Mrs Knight, please open the door.”

  No response.

  Archer pressed the buzzer again for ten seconds. He knew how to annoy. He smiled vacantly at the lens above the buzzer. “Mrs Knight. I have some vital information for you. You’re in great danger.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Archer was directly in front of the video entry system camera. Forsyth stayed out of sight as she leaned back casually against the wall next to the camera with her arms folded and watched her accomplice attempt to get in.

  “Who are you?” a female voice said.

  “I have to talk to Mrs Knight.”

  “Mrs Knight is not here.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the housekeeper. What is your name?”

  “My name is Sean Archer.”

  “I’ll tell her you called. Goodbye, Mr Archer.”

  “I need to speak with her now. She’s in great danger.”

  No response. The voice had vanished.

  “That went well,” Forsyth smirked, as if she’d enjoyed watching him fail.

  “Thanks, I put a lot of thought and effort into it. It’s al
l about detailed planning and flawless execution. You should take notes.”

  “I’m glad you’re not perfect. But right now we look like a pair of door-to-door salesmen trying to flog Armageddon to Jehovahs. Hold on, someone’s coming.”

  The door opened and a young couple walked out holding hands. Before they made it to their bright yellow Porsche, the uninvited visitors had quietly slipped inside the lobby and walked towards the open lift.

  “I’m not taking the stairs to the twelfth floor.”

  “Nor me,” he smiled and gestured with his right hand to let her go in first. Taking the opportunity to have a good look down at her perfectly sculptured body and then realising she’d clocked him in the mirror. He felt his face flush, but faced the door and stayed silent.

  They took the lift to the top floor and got out onto an extra-wide hallway. The floor was covered with large dark slate tiles. The walls were covered with lighter stone tiles. The slightest sound echoed like the inside of an old church. There were two console tables with oversized glass sculptures and table lamps and a window at the far end with a clear view of the O2 Arena. The door on the left was labelled 12A and the one on the right 12B.

  “The property developer wasted a lot of space on this hallway; these apartments must have cost mega-millions. I’d say Hunter still has plenty of money.”

  “He probably doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t see what he has, but what he’s lost.”

  “Shall we knock on the door?”

  “Wait.”

  “Listen, did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Voices – arguing inside.”

  They tiptoed across the slate floor to the extra-wide light oak door with shiny decals stating 12A above a small peephole. Archer’s left ear touched the polished oak and Forsyth listened with her right. Their faces were only a few inches apart. They could feel each other’s breath; hers smelled minty fresh.

  Inside, a man and a woman argued. The sound was muffled by the door and they couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. From the tone and the raised voices they could tell there was an element of alarm.

  After a couple of minutes the argument fizzled out. A moment’s silence was followed by accomplished piano music and the distinctive sound of pool balls crashing into each other as they were hit hard and fast by a cue ball.

  Forsyth touched Archer’s shoulder. “Leave this to me,” she whispered confidently.

  “It’s all yours.”

  He stepped back and watched. Forsyth clenched her right fist and knocked on the door assertively with the middle knuckles of her fingers.

  “Mrs Hunter, it’s Sarah Forsyth.”

  The professional piano playing continued without pause.

  Forsyth hammered on the door with her clenched fist half a dozen times. Then they listened with their ears pressed up against the door again. They heard stiletto heels getting nearer as they clipped out a measured rhythm against the hard floor.

  “Go away,” a soft female voice said. “I’m calling the police.”

  There was a small lens built into the door and Sarah stood in front of it a good yard back to avoid any menacing distortion from the peephole view.

  “We know who you are. If you don’t open this door in twenty seconds I’m calling Peter Sinclair and within an hour you’ll be in the boot of a limo driven by four of his thugs.”

  The heels clipped off again. The piano playing stopped. There was more muffled debate, but this time with three voices. One male and two female. It had to be them. Then the piano started playing again and the heels clipped back towards the door.

  “Where did you last meet Mrs Hunter?” the soft female voice asked.

  “We had tea at the Ritz; in the Palm Room. You’ve got three seconds.”

  The door opened slowly. A slim woman in her early thirties looked at them with a stern expression. She wore a black skirt, black seamed stockings and black stilettos with a white blouse. Her jet-black hair was scrunched up into a bun. Her accent was French, but her almond-shaped eyes looked Asian. Her unblemished face was white and her lips were painted bright red. She had a small beauty spot on her left cheek which made her look like a classic movie star from the monochrome Forties or Fifties. She looked like Zoe’s sister, except far too short.

  “You’d better come in then.” She offered her hand. “I’m Madeleine, the Knights’ housekeeper. I look after Mr and Mrs Knight.”

  “You mean Hunter,” Forsyth corrected.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The apartment was huge with an open-plan reception area that looked straight across the quay to Canary Wharf. The towering mirrored glass skyscrapers were more in keeping with Manhattan than London, but the views were formidable by any standard.

  The layout was open and uncluttered, although not sparsely furnished. It had a minimalist art gallery feel to it with fine art pieces, sculptures and paintings positioned for maximum effect. A life-sized copy of the Venus de Milo in dull white marble greeted visitors upon entry.

  Steel-tipped heels echoed on the polished mahogany floor as they walked towards the massive sofas near the window. The polished black grand piano with the lid down had centre stage in front of the window. Next to it was a large red baize and light oak pool table with a game unfinished, but no players in sight.

  “Wait there,” Madeleine said harshly.

  She walked to the kitchen area then out of sight around the corner. When she returned she was followed by a tall white-haired and suntanned man in his early sixties. He was informally dressed in a light linen jacket, pink polo shirt and beige chinos. Navy moccasins and no socks. The Glock in his right hand was aimed squarely between Archer’s eyes.

  “What the hell do you mean by threatening us with Peter Sinclair?”

  “His wife’s been kidnapped.”

  “So bloody what.”

  Hunter was a thin and gaunt-looking man. He had a red weathered face like a yachtsman, but there was something hard about his appearance. His nose was straight, but vertical like a boxer’s. He looked like he’d been putting in the hours on the shooting range too. He wasn’t going to miss at this quarter, no matter what. Archer calmly rolled his eyes at Forsyth.

  “I know,” she said. “He looks so accustomed to it, doesn’t he.”

  “Shut up, Forsyth,” Hunter said. “I know who you are. How did you find me?”

  “We’re private investigators,” Archer said calmly. “It’s what we do.”

  An elegant looking silver-haired woman in a cream suit walked into the kitchen area and then headed straight towards Hunter. She nodded curtly at Forsyth before resting her hand gently on Hunter’s shoulder.

  “So, Sean Archer, what the hell do you want?”

  “Put the gun down and I’ll tell you.”

  “Do you really think I’m that foolish? This gun is all I’ve got left between our life and nosy little busy-bodies like you two.”

  “Pardon the pun but you’ve jumped the gun a bit, I’m afraid,” Forsyth said. “The fact is that we’re all that’s between your life and Sinclair. He thinks you’ve kidnapped his wife.”

  “Then you’re bigger damned fools than I already thought. Sinclair’s probably behind the kidnapping himself.” He cocked his nose mockingly at his intruders. “It’s what he does.”

  Madeleine clipped across the room, extending one foot exaggeratedly in front of the other like a catwalk model emphasising her swagger for maximum effect and attention. She barely glanced at the gun in Hunter’s hand, treating it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No one had asked her to, but she brought a freshly made cafetière of strong-smelling coffee on a tray with four bone china mugs. She poured, left the four mugs on the table then turned around and clipped back off towards the kitchen. The soles of her stilettos were as red as her lips. She might have been working as a simple housekeeper, but she was dressed more expensively than both of her employers.

  “Tell us about Sinclair while we drink our
coffee,” Archer said, ignoring the gun himself and sitting down. Forsyth followed suit.

  “You two have got some balls, I’ll give you that.”

  Forsyth rolled her eyes back at Archer and faked a yawn. “I’ll be on to my union rep in the morning. Sexual harassment in the workplace during my afternoon coffee break; erroneous gender-specific remarks about my private parts.”

  “What is society coming to? Hosts just don’t treat their guests politely any more.”

  “But you’re not my bloody guests though, are you?” Hunter said. “You’re fast-talking intruders in a private home. Unwelcome hustlers bullying decent people like us around. I’ve got a good mind to shoot you both. I’ve a hermetically sealed room downstairs where I can dump your bodies for ever without any inconvenience to either me, my wife or the housekeeper. Do you understand?”

  “Not really, no,” Archer said. “Is that where Becky is?”

  “Who the hell is Becky?”

  “Sinclair’s wife.”

  “For the love of God, why the hell would I want to kidnap Sinclair’s wife and have every goon in the country after me, when all I want is to stay alive peacefully?”

  Archer could sense that Hunter’s façade was starting to crack.

  “Then tell us everything you know about Sinclair.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “It might save your life. If we can find you then so can he.”

  “How did you find us? We’ve been hiding in peace for years.” Hunter’s voice had cracked and his eyes welled up. He went pale and began sobbing like a spoiled brat.

  Samantha put her arm around her husband to console him. “Are you feeling all right, dear?” She rubbed his shoulder affectionately. He looked like a helpless child.

  “No. I’m not all right. I can’t do this any more.” Hunter started to tremble and the gun looked unsteady in his right hand. “Let me take that off you, dear.” He tugged it back.

  “No, leave me alone.” Hunter threw the gun away. It crashed to the wooden floor without going off and slid along until it hit the skirting board. Luckily the safety catch was on. Hunter cried like a coward and buried his head into his wife’s shoulder.