“I’ll take first watch.” She reached behind the passenger seat with her left hand and grabbed a Nikon single lens reflex digital camera with a two-hundred-millimetre zoom and a listening device. “I’ve got night vision, the works.”
Archer nodded and smiled. “You’re well equipped. I’ll give you that,” he said, then blushed with embarrassment as he realised the double meaning.
Forsyth laughed and said, “Well thanks for noticing.”
They settled in for the afternoon behind the tinted windows. For someone with such a messy office her car was kept in showroom condition, Archer reflected. The interior smelled new, like it had just been valeted. It was all black except for the aluminium trim, which meant it looked dark from the outside and they would not be seen spying on the cottage. The radio was still on, but the climate control had gone off with the engine. Archer lowered the electric window halfway and let the cool fresh air waft into the car. Memories of Alex drifted in with it, causing him to feel a pang of grief tinged with guilt. Not only because he was with an attractive woman he found fascinating, but remorseful because he hadn’t stopped her investigating the Boathouse and she was dead. But she wouldn’t have listened anyway. That’s the way she was. Stubborn and independent. But now he was dragging someone else into this deadly pursuit. Someone he was starting to care about – after only twenty-four hours.
They sat watching the cottage for hours using Forsyth’s powerful binoculars and zoom lens camera. Cooped up in a small space they managed to make it comfortable despite the lack of movement at the cottage and the lack of food in the car. They shared small bottles of Evian water and a small pot of extra minty chewing gum Forsyth had bought from the filling station. They had listened to the current affairs show and now the afternoon show was ending. The long wait had provided them with nothing. It seemed like they were wasting their time listening to the radio and playing an impromptu pop quiz.
“You won’t get this one. What film soundtrack starts with There She Goes by the Boo Radleys and ends with The La’s version?”
“So I Married an Axe Murderer.” She punched him on the arm and laughed.
“So tell me about all the parking tickets and speeding fines in the glove box. What’s going on with all those?”
“Long story. And I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this, but I sometimes work for some shady characters and one of them paid me with this car. It’s registered to one of his foreign companies. He foots the bill to keep it on the road and basically pays for everything except petrol. I don’t have to worry about any tickets as he sorts them out. I don’t know exactly how he does it, but apparently he has people in his pocket and connections all over the place. So there it is.”
“An ex-copper driving a free car from a connected gangster.”
“Hey, Drivetime’s on. It’s all requests Friday, let’s make a request.”
“You won’t get through, the show’s started.”
“I’ve got through before, and I’ve had a confession read out.”
“What was it?”
“I think I’ve told you enough for one day.”
“Were you absolved?”
“Split decision.”
Archer laughed.
“It’ll be getting dark soon. We can start snooping around the garden at least. We might see what’s happening around the back. We need a clear view through a window, see what’s on the inside.”
“And then we can get some food. We can’t fight on empty stomachs. I say recon first, then food, then hit them at three-thirty a.m. when they’re at their lowest ebb. Just like special ops.”
They each disappeared behind the hedge for two minutes, blaming too much water, and then waited until dusk to take a closer look. Archer led the way from the lay-by, but as they started to walk down the lane they saw bright headlights approaching.
They ducked into the hedgerow. The car stopped at the entrance. The gates started to open automatically and the SUV-shaped vehicle drove slowly up the gravel driveway and stopped in front of the barn.
“Looks like the new tenants have returned.” Archer looked through the binoculars and saw a white Lexus SUV. The electrically operated tailgate opened slowly, revealing a luggage compartment full of bulging shopping bags from Waitrose.
Forsyth was looking through her camera zoom lens. “That’s the hoody.”
The hoody got out of the SUV and took the bags around the back. He then opened the barn door and parked the SUV inside. With the door open they could see a blue VW van and a silver motorbike parked inside.
“The hoody, the BMW trail bike and the blue Transporter van. This is it.”
As he closed the barn door a dark grey Porsche Cayenne drove up the drive at speed, stopping with a cloud of dust rising from the tyres. Two massive men got out dressed in dark suits. Forsyth saw a tattoo on the neck and hand of one.
“They could be the Ukrainians,” she whispered.
The hoody went out of sight while the two men stayed near their vehicle.
“This could be interesting,” Archer said, staring through the binoculars.
A minute later the hoody returned with a heavy-looking sports bag and dropped it on the gravel driveway in front of the men.
“He’s paying the Ukrainians off,” Forsyth said, looking through the camera and taking pictures, including a close-up of the number plates. One of the men opened the sports bag and looked inside, but it was impossible to see the contents from the lane over sixty yards away. The two heavy suits got back in the Porsche Cayenne and reversed it out at speed, pulling a one-eighty-degree spin where the driveway widened. They accelerated away in a cloud of dust and the gates closed automatically behind them. Dusk had turned to darkness and the lights were on around the open parts of the grounds. Inside the house most of the rooms were lit.
“Time to climb over the wall and take a closer look.”
“Yeah, and see exactly how many people we’re up against.”
Archer helped Forsyth up and over first. He sneaked a decent peak at her firm butt as she went over the wall and shook his head. She was incredible, but he needed to focus on the job. He chastised himself, then followed her over the wall. There were no obvious infra-red sensors and they stayed away from the visible security light sensors, keeping to the shadows, heading around the back and moving slowly to avoid crunching the fallen leaves.
They stopped behind one of the stone outbuildings thirty feet away. The wall was flanked by a tall bush that gave them cover for surveillance. They used the binoculars and camera to peer through the bush towards the rear windows. Most of the lights were on and the blinds were still open at the back. The listening device crackled like static interference. It was either broken or there was a jammer. They had eyes but not ears.
“The upstairs bathroom window’s still open. There’s a wall next to it. That looks like the best place to get inside.”
“There’s the hoody, watching telly in the lounge downstairs.”
“There’s someone else moving. Rear of the kitchen – hold on. There’s two people in the kitchen.”
“Unpacking the provisions.”
“Two bloody women!”
“That one looks a bit like Louise from the side.”
“You’re right. I think it’s her. We need her to turn around.”
“Damn it. The hoody’s closing the blinds in the living room.”
“So, we’ve two athletic-looking women with ponytails. One blonde and one dark-haired, both dressed casually in jeans and sweaters. And the infamous hoody.”
“They’re preparing food. Look, one’s chopping vegetables and the other’s pouring two glasses of wine.”
They continued watching the two women prepare food but couldn’t get a good enough look at their faces to identify Louise. The hoody appeared at the back door and started smoking. The women laid the kitchen table with three place settings and candles. More wine was poured and they continued to fuss about preparing their supper.
The hoody lit a second cigarette and both of the women turned around and spoke to him harshly. One of them came out. Forsyth took a picture. “The dark-haired one is definitely Louise Palmer.”
There was a small disagreement and the hoody walked away towards the barn. The brunette went back inside and the blonde woman came to the door and shouted at him to fetch some logs for the fire.
“Jesus Christ,” Archer said. “It’s Becky!”
He struggled to keep his voice down.
“No way! Hang on, bloody hell. It definitely looks like her picture.”
Forsyth took a photo. Archer asked her to email the photos to Zoe for confirmation via facial recognition software. They stopped peering through the bushes and sat on the grass with their backs against the wall of the outbuilding, facing away from the cottage.
“What the hell are they doing here, Sean?”
“There are no kidnappers. It’s all been a massive hoax.”
Archer stretched his neck and looked up at the starry sky then rested his head back against the brick wall.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I know. Unbelievable.”
Forsyth bent her legs and put her head on her knees. “Why on earth would they want to have Sinclair come after them?” She raised her head slowly and looked at Sean.
“I don’t know.” He touched her hand and squeezed it gently. “They’re conning Sinclair. This is going to get very messy. Come on, let’s go.”
“Sinclair will go completely ballistic.”
“Let’s get out of here. I need to think this through properly.”
They left the same way they came and walked swiftly to the car. As they got back inside and closed the doors a text message arrived from Zoe. The facial recognition software had positively identified the three faces as Louise Palmer, Christopher Palmer and Becky Sinclair.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Forsyth confidently announced that she knew a good place to stay nearby and they drove in silence through narrow lanes with high hedgerows lit up by the powerful xenon headlights on full beam. They passed through the sleepy village of Slaughter and five minutes later they entered the private grounds of The Manor, where acres of landscaped gardens and rolling parkland boasted mature willows and oaks showcased by blue and green spotlights. The gravel driveway was highlighted by a series of low lamps and the hotel’s weathered stone walls were washed with warm yellow lights. It looked like a rural oasis of five-star comfort.
They parked the car right in front of the hotel and entered the lobby where they were instantly welcomed by a blazing log fire and a smiling platinum blonde receptionist whose badge showed that she was from Estonia. Forsyth took charge of checking in at reception while Archer stood back and admired her sophistication and easy style amid the pleasant surroundings. She booked two luxury rooms on the first floor with four-poster beds and a table in the restaurant for dinner using her business charge card and a voucher, explaining that she would get double the points.
Looking extremely pleased with herself, she handed over his card key and he followed her upstairs to the first-floor bedrooms. She explained the maze-like layout and seemed to know her way around the place like a regular.
“Give me half an hour to freshen up.”
“Why so long?”
“That’s not long, that’s fast. I’ll meet you down in the bar. Seeing as we’ve found Becky in one piece, I think champagne’s in order.”
“Champagne, downstairs, half an hour.”
Their bedrooms were next to each other. Archer’s room was large and classically furnished, decorated in a spectrum of soft pastel shades. The four-poster bed was well presented with a super-soft duvet and a cascade of puffed-up pillows, all in white linen.
Archer noticed a wide connecting door to Forsyth’s room and wondered if it had been requested as part of an alpha female’s tenacious seduction plan, or if it was merely a coincidence. She had an uncanny knack of disarming him like that.
He hadn’t brought much with him. Just essential combat gear in a small rucksack. Fortunately, the well-stocked bathroom had more designer toiletries on offer than he needed, so he washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth and ruffled his hair with wet hands.
He debated a second shave and shower, but decided to leave it. The throwaway razor could stay sharp for tackling his dark stubble in the morning.
Five minutes down and twenty-five to go.
What was she doing?
He lifted his top, sprayed some complimentary deodorant under his arms and slapped some spicy cologne onto his cheeks.
She must be showering again.
He sat down and put the news channel on the television. Nothing interesting or serious so he switched it off during a mind-numbing story about two backbench politicians overheard complaining about inadequate entertainment expenses while dining in the Savoy Grill. The media was trying to sensationalise everything, even the weather. He just didn’t get it.
He sat back in the armchair and thought about the kidnapping case.
What were these gold-digging sisters up to? It could be an elaborate escape plan, Becky running away from Sinclair because she felt in danger of being bumped off.
But how were the Ukrainians involved? Perhaps her sister was behind it all, motivated by the ransom money and using the Ukrainians as business partners or paid protection.
Or the Ukrainians could be the masterminds and the sisters are just going along with it for a share of the ransom money and an assisted escape plan from Sinclair.
They couldn’t tell Sinclair the truth without causing bloodshed, but it wouldn’t be too long before Sinclair found out. Damage limitation would be vital.
Archer needed to find out what was going on. He could tell Sinclair a version of the truth to enable Becky to get away and after that she was on her own. That’s if she would even talk to him when he paid her a surprise visit in the morning.
He stared pensively out of the window into the floodlit grounds and the darkness beyond. His mind was drifting off into the past, a vivid memory of staying in a similar country hotel near Oxford with Alex, when the phone rang in his pocket. It was Sinclair. He let it go to voicemail and a text came whooshing through straightaway.
Where are you, Archer?
Oxford. Busy.
He pictured Sinclair’s irritation and felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Sinclair was corrupt; like a contagious virus contaminating his immediate surroundings. He was also self-centred and dangerous. No wonder Becky had run away from him.
He wanted to help her get away, but he needed an exit strategy that included finding the Boathouse. If Hunter’s evidence failed to put Sinclair away, then Archer would have to take him down alone. He couldn’t tell Forsyth everything without putting her life in danger. But to find the Boathouse, and Alex’s killer, he still needed to stay onside with Sinclair. That thought alone sent a shiver down his spine colder than a midwinter mistral, abruptly ending his relaxed reverie. He bolted out of the chair and headed straight downstairs for a stiff drink.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Archer sat on a high stool, alone at the hotel bar sipping a tall Hendrick’s gin with tonic over ice garnished with a longways slice of cucumber. A bottle of pink Moët was chilling in a silver ice bucket on the bar next to his left arm. He had been there for twenty minutes watching well-dressed middle-aged couples come and go from the bar to the dining room.
Forsyth was now ten minutes late, which totalled forty minutes just to freshen up, and he felt a strange sense of unexpected excitement. He was nervous, but in a good way, like a sportsman enjoying the sensation of butterflies in his stomach just before the game starts. He hadn’t dated properly since he’d met Alex over four years ago. He’d had a few drinks and casual dinners, but nothing serious. Tonight it felt like he was out on a proper date.
Forsyth had made her intentions perfectly clear last night. It was Friday night and he was waiting for an attractive intelligent female dinner compan
ion. He thought of Alex and quickly chastised himself. What was he thinking? He wasn’t ready to start dating and Forsyth was clearly going through a messy divorce. His excitement rapidly turned to guilt. These mixed feelings suddenly made him feel empty and uncomfortable.
He heard loud footsteps approaching the bar from behind. Confident strides on the wooden floorboards getting closer until he could smell her familiar fresh fragrance.
“Guess who?” she said and giggled. Even her laughter was intoxicating.
She hugged him like he was an old friend and kissed him softly on the cheek. Her lips kept contact with his face just a moment longer than a friendly kiss should. Her hair fell in her face as she sat down on the stool next to him and she brushed it away casually, showing her wrists and then playing with her hair and smiling: all positive signs of attraction.
“So what exactly are we celebrating?” he said.
“Finding Becky, of course. Now you’ve had time to think, what will you tell Sinclair?”
“We’ll visit her in the morning and find out what the hell is going on first.”
“Well at least she’s safe.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“We saw her – she was cooking supper with candles and wine, remember.”
“Safe for tonight perhaps, but how long has she got before Sinclair finds her?”
Archer nodded at the barman to open the champagne.
“How do you think he’ll take it?”
“He’ll kill all three of them. Then Hunter, and then he’ll probably come after us.”
“Well let’s just live for the moment then, shall we?” She touched his leg and smiled.
The barman popped the cork and poured two lively glasses of champagne. They raised their fizzing drinks to each other and simultaneously took their first sips.
“Here’s to Becky staying alive and Sinclair going down.”
She looked relaxed and happy, but he struggled not to make comparisons with Alex. He wished she was still alive and that they were here together. He was still uncomfortable about dating anyone seriously, as if being attracted to Sarah more than just physically was somehow cheating on Alex. Sarah smiled back at him confidently and gently brushed his thigh with her hand as if they were already an established couple.
The Boathouse Page 18
