“It must be that building over there, above those shops on Cornmarket Street.” Archer pointed. One of his best programmers had lived in the next street so he knew Oxford city centre fairly well. Around the corner they saw a small sign over an old doorway, between a chemist and a phone shop.
“Agamemnon House – got it.” Forsyth said. The name was new, but the building was old, traditional Headington Quarry limestone, with lead glass windows.
They tried the old wooden door and found it was unlocked. The corridor and worn stone stairs looked deserted, so they walked in and found the flat in question on the first floor.
Archer knocked and waited.
No answer. He knocked again.
Still no answer. He put his ear to the door.
“Listen,” he whispered. “Sounds like someone’s moving around inside.”
Forsyth got the lock pick out of her bag and looked over her shoulder furtively before working on the door. It creaked open and the rummaging sound stopped. They stood in the doorway and took stock of the living room. Modern flatpack furniture rested on worn-out ancient floorboards. The white walls were adorned with black and white prints of waterscapes and New York skyscrapers, exported en masse all over the world from Sweden.
The room smelled of bleach and there was also a hint of Gauloises cigarette smoke, just like the flat in Marylebone. Surfaces in the room were bare as if it had recently been stripped of all personal belongings. They crept into the flat quietly as the floorboards creaked wearily underfoot. There was nobody in sight and it had gone quiet.
Archer was startled as a window slammed shut in the kitchen, followed by the sound of empty metal bins crashing around noisily outside. Forsyth ran to the kitchen while Archer raced back down the stone stairs, taking them two at a time, and ran straight out of the building.
Archer instinctively turned right and darted up Market Street. He glimpsed a man wearing a grey hoody and yellow rubber washing-up gloves sprinting away from him between the Covered Market and Jesus College. The hoody turned around to see if he was being followed. He looked a good ten years younger, but Archer was a natural runner. The hoody went out of sight briefly as the road bent to the right and then he disappeared again as he turned the corner and headed left down Turl Street. Despite his sturdy footwear Archer upped a gear and when he turned the corner he saw he had gained at least ten metres on him.
Archer swerved through crowds of students ambling to lectures on foot and side-stepped sleepy cyclists between the ancient walls of Jesus and Exeter Colleges. As the hoody turned left into Broad Street a distracted cyclist came out of Ship Street and crashed into Archer, knocking him off his feet and sent him flying into the fifteenth-century stone wall of Exeter College. Archer’s right shoulder was numbed by the impact, but he could still run. The stunned cyclist shouted apologetically after him, but it was wasted breath as Archer ignored him and sprinted off.
Archer looked left on Broad Street and just caught sight of the hoody across the wide road, running through the stone arch entrance into Balliol College. He zigzagged across the road, causing traffic to brake hard and blast horns at him but he didn’t stop.
He ran through the dark porters’ lodge and out into the Balliol front quad, but couldn’t see the hoody. He stopped and looked around. Where was he? Was he still running through the grounds up ahead towards Trinity College? Or had he gone upstairs and through the warren of corridors inside Balliol?
Archer decided to go back and check out the corridors just as he glimpsed a motorcyclist without a helmet in the darkened recess of the porters’ lodge. It was the hoody pushing off and trying to start a trail bike.
Archer accelerated towards him as the hoody pressed the start button. Archer lunged at him, grabbing the back of his grey top with his right hand and causing a sharp pain to jolt through his numbed shoulder like an electric shock. The silver BMW motorbike roared to life and the hoody accelerated away, making Archer stumble and fall to the ground. He’d got away.
Archer got up, dusted himself down and returned to the flat crestfallen, nursing a sore shoulder and a bruised ego. Forsyth was sitting on a stool at the kitchen bar talking to Zoe on her mobile and emptying the hoody’s sports bag.
The bag’s contents were spread out over the breakfast bar for summary analysis. A full baton of ten packs of Gauloises cigarettes, more handcuffs, more Trojans, six different types of bullets ranging from a soft-point dumdum to a training blank. Plus an energy drink and a yellow Taser gun, fully charged. But no obvious prints on anything and nothing useful that would lead them to anyone specific anytime soon unless they could find fingerprints somewhere and then a match, but that would take too long without police help and the hoody might not even be in the system.
Forsyth rang off and recounted the call. Zoe had called and spoken to the estate agents for the flat twice, to no avail. Their databases were impossible to hack as they were currently offline. Their net had drawn a blank. Zoe had called the estate agents the “Barrow Boy” variety. She had a sliding scale of estate agents. They ranged from chartered surveyors to “Barrow Boys” and they were either posh or not. Apparently, these were not chartered surveyors and they were not posh.
They left the flat with their heads down and walked to the estate agents in the High Street. Archer knew it was the hoody and the trail bike from the ransom pick-up. They either had to find that bike or make the barrow boys talk.
Zoe was checking out the cameras. The bike was heading for Swindon, but Archer already knew the game the hoody would play. He would enter a car park somewhere and then in less than an hour the bike would disappear again into the back of a stolen van. It was another dead end.
They saw the estate agents’ office across the road and checked out the window display. The flat was already back on the market as available to rent.
“So what do we do now?” Forsyth asked, looking disappointed.
“We’re going to get all the information these estate agents have, one way or another. It’s our last chance.”
“That won’t be easy. They wouldn’t tell Zoe anything.”
“We have to get it – physically; otherwise it’s back to the drawing board.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Plan B.”
“Oh, right of course. The famous Plan B. What’s Plan B?”
“Plan B is to leave them without a clue as to what’s going on.”
“Oh, I see. You’re trying it out on me first?”
“You got it. We need to change our appearances. Come on, we’re going shopping.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Twenty minutes later a man and a woman entered the High Street estate agents. There were two men sitting at their desks chatting casually in their matching navy pinstriped suits and no other customers inside. One agent was in his early forties with his feet up on the desk, the other in his late twenties, leaning back as far as he could in his chair. Both had thick dark hair gelled into random spikes of chaos and ridiculously large knots tied in their garish cyan and magenta company ties. It was exactly like Zoe had said, they were definitely at the “Barrow Boy” end of the spectrum.
The woman went up to the older estate agent, who threw his feet off the desk and leaned forward, smiling at her cockily. She wore a pale blue scarf over a dark wig with large Jackie Onassis-style sunglasses. She had unusually puffy cheeks like a chipmunk. The agent looked her up and down, visibly lusting after her taut body and undressing her from her brown leather jacket and skintight jeans.
“Morning, darling. You a celebrity or what?”
The man with her quietly closed the front door, pushed the deadlock button firmly until it clicked, turned the “Open” sign to “Closed” and casually closed the blinds. He was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and large sunglasses. He appeared chubby under his black leather jacket and also had unusually puffy cheeks. The younger agent slapped the desk, stood up and snarled at him aggressively.
“Hey pal, what the fuck you on?”
“Leave the computers open. Give us all the keys to the filing cabinets and tell us if we need any passwords to search the computers.”
“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” the older agent rasped.
“Don’t you worry about who we are. Get up and move it. Over there.”
The men were ushered to the back office, which had a table and four chairs for taking coffee and lunch breaks.
“Hands behind your backs. Quick.”
Archer tied their hands together with grey duct tape.
“You just made a huge mistake, you mugs. Wait till you see the next customer.”
“Shut it.” Archer stuck rectangles of duct tape over their mouths, then taped their arms and bodies to the chairs. Forsyth went through the filing cabinets, and Archer started on the databases, looking for anything on Louise Palmer.
“Here’s the company name she used for the flat,” Forsyth said.
As she was pulling out the documents, the front door handle rattled and someone shouted loudly, “Open up!”
Forsyth walked to the window and looked through the blinds to see who was there.
“It’s the local bobby in uniform,” she whispered.
“Get rid of him.”
She walked to the door and peered at him through a narrow slit in the blinds so that he couldn’t see her face.
“Sorry, officer, but we’re closed today,” she shouted through the door.
“But I’ve got an appointment at ten.”
“Come back tomorrow. No viewings today, they’ve all been cancelled.”
“But I’m supposed to see some houses in Cowley.”
“We’re being audited, spot check from head office. Sorry for the inconvenience. Come back tomorrow.”
“What about this afternoon?” he persisted.
“After four then, we may have finished the audit by then.”
The fat-faced policeman waddled off, scratching his chin. Forsyth returned to rummaging through the packed filing cabinet while Archer tapped away at the computer.
“Here’s the flat, back on the market. Shell company details, payment records and what have we got here then? You beauty, here it is. We’ve got them. Six months fully paid up on a thatched picture-postcard cottage with ample security in the Cotswolds.”
“Take the address down and let’s get out of here.”
They took photos of the address using their smartphone cameras, leaving the agents taped up and the front door locked. Forsyth put the documents back, closed the filing cabinet and opened the back door into a narrow lane. “Come on, Sean, let’s go.”
She stepped outside and stopped. Archer ran into her back.
“What’s up?”
“Clever old Dixon of Dock Green. He’s rumbled us.”
“Just run for it. He’s a puffer.”
Plod had looped round the back and was coming up the lane fifty metres behind them shouting “Stop!” and calling for back-up on his radio. Archer looked behind. They’d gained another fifty metres, so they took a corner and ran by three turnings before taking a fourth. The flatfoot was nowhere in sight. Archer knew his way around the lanes and back streets. He led Forsyth through a maze of alleyways, college quads and back entrances until they stopped at a rubbish bin in a dark corner of a Christ Church quadrangle and removed their hasty but effective disguises. With their jackets turned inside out and slung casually over their shoulders they strolled back through Corpus Christi and Oriel.
When they got back to the car park the Merc was clamped. A yellow triangle of metal was padlocked to a metal frame around the front passenger-side wheel and a ticket stuck on the windscreen. Forsyth calmly yanked the ticket off and opened the boot. She rummaged around and took out a heavy bolt cropper. Archer stood open-mouthed as she deftly snipped the padlock bolt and casually removed the wheel clamp. “I get clamped all the time in Knightsbridge,” she said, as if it was an everyday occurrence.
Two burly men in greasy navy overalls appeared and walked briskly towards the car, scowling at Forsyth as she walked around to the boot. Archer rolled his eyes at her and got in the car. “Come on, let’s go. Ignore those idiots.”
“Don’t touch that. You have to pay us first,” said one of the clampers.
“Sod off, we’re only twenty minutes late.”
“We’ll impound your car for that; you’ve just made a huge mistake, darling.”
“Who do you two grease monkeys work for?”
“We work for ourselves. We’re private contractors, clampers to you, right, and you owe us money or you’re nicked.”
“Pair of thugs, more like it. Now bugger off.”
Forsyth put the bolt croppers back in the boot and opened her door to get in the car. One of the unshaven clampers slammed it shut and pushed her back against the car. “You’re not going anywhere until you pay us, Lady Muck.”
He folded his hairy arms and stood in front of her, baring his yellow teeth. He weighed somewhere over eighteen stone, but Forsyth didn’t turn a hair. She even looked like she was enjoying the confrontation. Archer decided to see if she could handle it on her own. If she started to get out of her depth, then he’d intervene.
The clamper looked down at Forsyth. “Look, lady, just be a sweetie and pay up.”
“No.”
“Right, hand me the fucking keys or you’ll get a slap.”
Forsyth glanced over at his colleague then looked the alpha clamper in the eye.
“You really shouldn’t threaten people like that.”
“Oh yeah, what you gonna do – get your tits out?”
“What did you say?”
“You ’eard me, you stupid slag. Now pay up before this gets messy.”
“I think we’ll have a bit of messy first, wanker.”
Forsyth kicked him fast and hard in the crotch with the toe of her right boot. He bent forward and yelled loudly. She swiftly turned to her left and kicked sideways and downwards on top of his knee with the outer sole of her right foot. His leg snapped backwards at the knee joint, cracking like a branch being ripped off a tree. The big man fell to the ground instantly and wriggled around screaming, as his smaller partner bolted.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Forsyth ignored the injured clamper rolling around at her feet and got back in the car as casually as if she had just been out buying a newspaper. Archer decided not to comment on her brutally efficient self-defence skills and composure under pressure. He swiftly set the satnav destination for the country cottage. They drove smoothly and steadily along the gently undulating A40 to Burford and then followed the quieter A424 to Stow on the Wold, sticking strictly to the speed limits. The radio station played softly in the background, but the pensive passengers remained quiet, even during the daily pop quiz. Archer tried to make sense of what was happening, but he was not an impartial observer.
“Why has Louise Palmer rented a cottage in the Cotswolds for six months under the disguise of an anonymous offshore shell company?” he said finally, breaking the long silence with only five miles left to go.
“Maybe she’s being forced to do it.”
“Who’s really behind it then?”
“Or, maybe she’s in on it.”
“To pull something off like this there has to be a team.”
“So who are they?” Forsyth took her eyes off the road to look at Archer.
“Ukrainian muscle from her oligarch friend? They do all the dirty work, or they could be business partners.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me. She’s a successful businesswoman in her own right.”
“But is she? Perhaps she’s in trouble. Perhaps she’s in it for the money. Zoe thinks she’s involved in offshore money transfers with the Ukrainian. Maybe she’s cooking the books to look good in the economic downturn, or maybe the Ukrainians ha
ve some leverage over her. You know how ruthless they can be.”
Archer’s phone rang. It was Sinclair.
“Hello,” he said abruptly.
“Where are you, Archer?”
“Oxford.”
“Haven’t you found anything yet?” Unable to hide the angry edge to his voice.
“We’re following up a lead right now.”
“Keep me posted. Time’s running out, as is my bloody patience.”
“We’ll call you.”
The drive to Stow on the Wold took them just over an hour. The satnav took them through narrow streets to the outskirts of the small peaceful village. The cottage was proudly set back on a ridge top, holding court above two to three acres of well-manicured land sprawling lazily around it. They stopped in a small unused picnic bay on a gradual hill, about ninety yards past the gated entrance. They turned the car around to face the cottage. Thick bushes between the lane and the lay-by hid the electric blue body of the car, but still allowed them a good vantage point from beneath the black soft top.
The honey-coloured stone cottage had been recently thatched with pale rushes stretching over a series of arches that swooped up smoothly around the small sash windows on the upper floor. The sash windows on the ground floor were larger, six over six panes, but the rooms were hidden from prying eyes by white blinds angled for privacy. The gravel drive swept up to a wide black and white Tudor barn on the left-hand side of the long picturesque cottage. The estate agent details showed that there were various smaller stone outbuildings behind it, including stables and a small paddock.
“Nice country retreat – wisteria, ivy, the works. Dare I ask what the plan is?” Forsyth turned her body to Archer and smiled at him warmly.
“Stake it out till we find out what’s going on.”
“Great. I love stakeouts. I’ve got all the gear.” She leaned over and rested her upper body on his legs as she opened the glove box. There was a pair of Swarovski binoculars under piles of speeding tickets. He could feel her firm body resting on his lap. He couldn’t believe she was unaware of what she was doing. She was either flirting again or teasing him.
The Boathouse Page 17
