Archer sensed that Sinclair was getting himself worked up again. He cringed at the idea that Sinclair had the ability to back up his death threats.
“Go to bed and get some rest. We’ve got another tough day ahead of us tomorrow. Don’t sit by the phone all night, there’s no point. They won’t ring again.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Archer. We’ve only got two more days before they vanish into thin air and make me look like a bloody fool.”
“At least we’ve got two days.”
“Find them, Archer.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You need to up your game, big time, you don’t want to make a complete Horlicks out of it, otherwise your days are numbered too. Just remember that.”
“I’d better get back to work then.”
He had to find a way to take Sinclair down. Find Becky first, then find the Boathouse and Alex’s killer, and then deal with Peter Sinclair.
Forsyth strolled back to the kitchen, shut her laptop down and put it back in its cinnamon-coloured soft leather case. She shared the rest of the wine out equally between the two glasses and handed one back over the island. They sat down on the kitchen stools with the lights dimmed.
“You didn’t tell him about Louise, did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you think the sisters might be in on it somehow?”
“I did think so initially, yes. I thought that Becky might be running away from him. Who would blame her? But this whole thing is far too elaborate, and the sisters are too soft to do all this on their own. It’s got to be someone fearless or powerful enough to take on Sinclair and his goons. I don’t think it’s just one person we’re up against.”
“So who do you think the insider is then – Louise?”
“It could be her.”
“How would that work?”
“Well she’s either in on it or she’s being forced to do it.”
“Or she’s dead.”
“Why would she be in on it though? It doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“No, she’s not exactly short of money. She’s got a lucrative business, I pass it every day. It’s busy and she lives in Kensington. She’s got to be worth a few million?”
“Her financial records show that her business is turning a healthy profit and her house alone is worth over two million, even in this climate – she can’t be in money trouble.”
“Okay, so let’s say she’s not in it for the money. And it’s not jealousy as the sisters seem to spend a lot of time together. So she’s either being forced to do it for some reason or she’s been taken captive by the same kidnappers.”
“Okay, let’s say that they’ve taken her.”
“But how and when?”
“Becky and her driver took her out to Heathrow for her business trip. She was last seen by them land-side at Heathrow Airport. We’ve checked Jones the driver out. Ex-soldier. Moonlights. Infatuated with Becky, but his digital footprint proves it’s not him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Never mind, but we’re really good at it. And we know that she never made it air-side at Heathrow.”
“So she was taken at the airport by the kidnappers.”
“This has to have been planned ahead, but that doesn’t explain how they knew about the money and the diamonds before they took her.”
“Perhaps she was blackmailed or leveraged somehow.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. We need to find out if she’s involved, and, if she is, exactly how she’s involved. That’s how we’ll find them. We’ll sit with Zoe and search the Net first thing in the morning. Louise is still our best lead.”
Archer sent an email to Zoe asking her to focus on the sister’s digital footprint and to dig deep into her money trails. He closed his laptop down and switched the plasma screen off.
“We need to get some rest. The next two days will be tough.”
“I’d better call a taxi. I’ve had too much wine to drive.”
“You can stay here if you like. The spare room is comfortable.”
“Oh, okay, thanks. Can I borrow a T-shirt to sleep in?” She smiled warmly and slowly looked him up and down suggestively.
“Sure, the spare room’s that one over there.” He pointed up the stairs. “Take a look. I’ll get a fresh T-shirt.”
Archer fetched a clean shirt and towel. She was admiring a full-size copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in a heavy wooden frame in the guest bedroom.
“That’s just like the one in the National Gallery, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is, here you go.” Alex had bought it for him. He loved the picture, but recently felt sad whenever he saw it, so he had moved it into the spare room.
“Thanks.”
Forsyth hugged him and kissed him softly on the cheek.
“Sleep well,” he said, feeling uncomfortable with her intimate nature.
“You don’t have to go so soon. Not on my account anyway.”
“Sorry?” He’d only met her at lunchtime. That was less than twelve hours ago.
“You can stay with me tonight, if you like.”
She started to unbutton her blouse, revealing her firm cleavage.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”
“Look, we’re both grown-ups. We’re both single. I’m nearly divorced, you seem lonely. Nobody needs to know about it. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
“I can’t, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m, er … goodnight, Sarah.”
He left her casually undressing without showing the slightest hint of embarrassment. He went to his room with mixed feelings. He thought about her as he brushed his teeth and washed his face. Part of him wanted to go back.
He lay on top of the king-size bed in his boxer shorts. He always had problems getting to sleep without running or alcohol. He ran regularly to stop himself from being an alcoholic. He thought about his close encounter with Sarah Forsyth. She was attractive and intelligent. But her forward approach had taken him by surprise and left him unsettled.
He closed his eyes and went over the case. Sinclair. The Boathouse. He switched the light off. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was haunted by dark thoughts of Alex.
The image of her pale dead body flashed vividly inside his head. He had identified her only two hours after she had been shot at close range. He was going to ask her to move in with him; in their favourite bistro in Kensington later that evening.
The morgue had been cold and smelled of formaldehyde and bleach. The lifeless body on the steel gurney familiar, but also different. She’d looked the same, but her soul had gone. She used to wear her heart on her sleeve, but her pale body looked empty, as if she had left it behind. Her skin had lost its lustre. It looked waxy. Almost transparent. There were small holes in her head and chest. It was hard to believe he had spoken to her only three hours earlier. She was always so full of life. But her life was over. They should have been celebrating their future together, not facing the abrupt ending of it. The sheer grief had pulled him down into the ground stronger than gravity ever could. His knees had gone weak as it started to sink in. Time shifted gears into a vivid slow motion. The sterile walls oscillated in and out with each breath as the light faded into a narrowing tunnel and everywhere turned pink with a high-pitched sound. He had nearly blacked out, but had caught himself as he was falling towards her body on the gurney. He’d looked at her remains and realised that grief was the price we paid for love. But he could not accept that he would never see her smile again. Never hear her voice talking to him or feel her touching him with her soft hands. He would never be able to make her feel happy ever again. He’d felt completely empty inside, except for the overwhelming pain of loss. He had felt weak and lightheaded, until a surge of anger welled up inside him like an erupting volcano. Then he’d felt completely driven by the powerful internal force of revenge.
It had been a brutal murder by a professional hit man. Alex must have
seen her killer coming. But had she recognised him or was he masked? Had she felt any pain? Did she know why anyone would want to kill her? He could never make it right, but he had vowed to himself, in that moment, that he would find and kill the people responsible.
His dark thoughts often kept him going, but they also kept him lying awake at night. Had Sinclair given the order to kill her?
He needed to run, to keep his mind away from his demons and the painful memories.
Wide awake now, he jumped off the bed and decided to go for a reassuring late-night run along the cool banks of the river to Westminster Bridge and back.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Archer felt as cold as ice. He had absolutely no idea where he was. The place was completely dark, but sounded huge. He took a deep breath and tried to move, but he couldn’t feel his arms or his legs. He was so cold – he was numb. The large space stank of diesel and musty decay. He turned his head left then right, letting his eyes adjust to the total darkness. He felt weightless and disorientated, like he was floating in deep water in the pitch black of night.
He remembered that he had been running away from four men dressed in black, wearing balaclavas. He’d been running south over the river at Westminster Bridge, but had blacked out and woken up in this hellhole.
His neck stiffened as he strained to listen to a slow rhythmic thud coming from above. Then he heard heavy footsteps echoing on the hard floor. Getting louder with each step. Dragging something metallic like a heavy wrecking bar scraping against a concrete floor.
Someone was coming directly towards him. His heart rate increased as he felt the presence of someone standing right in front of him. He felt their rancid breath wafting over his face. Nicotine, caffeine and halitosis. It was suffocating. He caught his breath as someone touched him on the top of his shoulder with a large calloused hand and then started to squeeze it like a powerful steel pincer with five sharp talons. As more pressure was exerted a bright strobe light flickered on and off rapidly. He saw a masked man standing before him. He tried to step back, but he couldn’t move. He looked down. His entire body was trapped inside a bath-sized block of ice from his chest down to the ground. Panic and shock set in. He couldn’t feel anything except his trapezius being crushed and his heart pounding like a drum against his ribcage as the strobe light flashed and his mind started spinning out of control.
Was this it?
Was this the final moment?
He held onto his breath. He wanted to die right there and then.
The sudden burst of sound made him jump as the bedside phone rang at twenty to seven. It woke him up from the depths of his recurring nightmare. It was still dark outside.
Archer grabbed the phone from the bedside cabinet and answered it with his head still covered by the duvet.
“Hey, it’s me. I’ve found Becky’s sister,” Zoe said.
“Jesus, Zoe, what time is it? You’ve done what? Where is she?”
He put the bedside light on and sat up against the padded leather headboard.
“Oh sorry, did I wake you? Good morning, this is your friendly wakeup call from down the road in head office, where some of us are still working and haven’t been home or had a chance to sleep yet. Anyway, that’s enough about me. I’ve found something useful: Louise has a shell company that has rented a flat in Oxford. It’s in easy reach of London, the M40, the A40, which of course provides direct access to the flat in Marylebone.”
“Excellent – thanks, Zoe. Send me the address and we’ll go and check it out.”
“It’s already on its way. So, I see you had female company round last night, didn’t you? Is the wicked Mrs Forsyth up yet? And please note, I said wicked Mrs Forsyth as opposed to wicked Miss Forsyth. Subtle but poignant difference, don’t you think?”
“We worked late in the kitchen and she stayed in the guest room. No hanky-panky.”
“Hmm, now listen to Mummy, Sean, there’s a good boy. I’m watching out for you as your best friend, looking after your best interests. She’s got a murky past, so you better watch out with her. You’re bad enough in fast cars; you don’t need to get involved with fast women – you’ll lose more than your licence with this one.”
“Thanks, Zoe, but I think I can take care of myself. And just for the record, I knew she was married. She’s separated. Getting divorced.”
“Oh, is that right? Well the jury’s still out on her at this end, so we’ll have to wait and see. Actions speak louder than words. Oh, and I also found out that Louise is friendly with a dodgy Ukrainian businessman; he’s a bit of an oil oligarch, I suppose. He uses her travel company and she goes round his mansion in Belgravia for regular meetings. I’m looking into it now, and I’ll let you know if there’s any links to Sinclair.”
“Thanks, Zoe, keep me posted.”
Archer got out of bed in boxer shorts, still half asleep. He went downstairs and put some strong filter coffee into the machine in the kitchen and turned the radio on to politely let his guest know it was morning, as it was still dark outside. He walked back up to his bedroom on autopilot. Took his shorts off and threw them in the basket. He turned the shower on and brushed his teeth before getting in. The hot power shower soon woke him up. He let it flow over his head and down his back to soothe out the crick in his neck. He must have slept awkwardly thanks to his nightmare, but he didn’t have time to use the steam room.
He turned the shower up as hot as he could stand it, then straight back down, staying under the freezing cold water until it took his breath away. He wrapped a white bath towel around his waist and shaved. He had a good feeling about today: the flat in Oxford would help them track down Louise and lead them to Becky. Then they could concentrate on Hunter’s information, find the Boathouse and Alex’s killer and finally take Sinclair out.
He poured two mugs from the freshly made pot and knocked on the guest-room door, still in his towel. “Coffee?” There was no answer so he opened it and saw that the bed was empty. He heard the shower stop and the shower door open.
“Morning, Sarah. There’s a fresh mug of coffee for you on the bedside cabinet.”
The bathroom door opened and she peered out, wearing only a white towel wrapped around the top of her head. “Can I use this bathrobe on the back of the door?”
“Of course.” Archer coughed as he caught himself staring at her naked body like a star-struck teenager. He looked away quickly, embarrassed at being caught gawping.
She looked incredible. She was like a Playboy centrefold, only better because she was all natural. What was wrong with him? How could he possibly have turned her down? He felt a rush of guilt hit him as he thought about Alex.
She tied the white bathrobe around her waist and picked up her mug of coffee. She smiled, winked and then gave him a playful peck on the cheek. Was she teasing him or just being friendly? Maybe Zoe was right after all.
“Morning, Sean. Thanks for the coffee.”
“No problem. Anything else I can get for you?”
“Do you have a hair dryer I can borrow?”
“There should be one in the drawer, plugged in and ready to go.”
“I slept like a log – how about you? Nice power shower, by the way.”
“Thanks. Zoe has just found a fresh lead on Louise. We’re off to Oxford. There’s some fruit juice and toast in the kitchen. I’ll let you get dressed. Need anything else?”
“I’m good thanks, although—” she looked at his body – “if your butt is half as firm as your abs look, then we definitely need to get to know each other better.” She looked him up and down slowly, without shame. Smirked wickedly and winked at him again. He closed the door on his way out, still unsure if she was teasing or being serious.
There was something about her that fascinated him. She was attractive and intelligent. She was confident and flirtatious. But there was something else going on that he couldn’t put his finger on and hadn’t felt for a long time. Something in his gut told him he could trust her and his instinct t
old him that he would have to before the case was over.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
They left London with the sunrise washing the mackerel sky with soft metallic hues of pink and orange. Both of them wore jeans and leather jackets. Archer’s black jacket was a present from Alex. It was the last thing she had bought for him. He also took his small combat rucksack, which was fully loaded with his customised Beretta. Instinct told him he would need it soon enough, as he expected a lot more trouble than yesterday.
Driving westward through the morning mist, against the heavy rush-hour traffic along the gridlocked A40 and M40, there was a comfortable silence. The air was a cool and damp six degrees outside, but a pleasant twenty degrees inside with the soft top up.
Archer reclined the back of his seat a little and tried to snooze while Forsyth listened to the breakfast show on Radio Two. She sang out of tune to all the songs being played and entered into lively discussion as if she was a guest on the show. It started off being more amusing than annoying, but impossible to ignore.
They arrived in Oxford at five to nine, just as Forsyth’s strangled harmonies were making Archer want to reach for his Beretta. Luckily the GPS got them into the city centre without a problem and she stopped singing as she focused on carving up other drivers. The first car park they tried was full and they cruised around the second, looking for a space. A fat contented-looking woman was sitting in a tiny red Fiat bubble car stuffing down a cream doughnut and chocolate éclair. She polished them both off before leaving her parking space.
Forsyth jammed the Merc into the vacated spot and squeezed herself out of the small gap between the car and the door, then went to get change. Archer stayed next to the car and peered out from the car park. Out on the street people scurried about their business in a hurry. Most of the shops and offices opened at nine and plenty of people were clearly running late for work.
Forsyth returned, bought a ticket from a machine and displayed it on the dashboard.
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