The Boathouse

by R. J. Harries

  “Do you think the sisters masterminded the whole thing on their own?” she said.

  Archer paused as he thought about telling her about the Boathouse.

  “It’s too well planned. The Ukrainians must be involved, otherwise why would they show up and get paid?”

  “And Louise Palmer’s son, Christopher, is the infamous hoody.”

  “He’s only twenty-one. Supposed to be on a gap year in South-East Asia.”

  “But why such a complicated and dangerous hoax? There must be a good reason for it, but I don’t get it. It probably all boils down to money in the end – it always does.”

  “We’ll find out tomorrow morning. I thought we were having the night off.”

  Their table was set for a romantic candlelit dinner. The mood continued to be light and cheerful until Forsyth pressed him to tell her about his family. He tried to change the subject several times, but she kept on until he told her.

  “I lost my parents when I was fourteen.”

  “Oh I’m really sorry, Sean. What happened?”

  He didn’t want to tell her the truth and dodged explaining it by looking down at the table and using his old cover story. “There was a nasty accident. I try not to think about it. That’s when I went to live with my grandparents in Flood Street.”

  “Small world. We used to live around the corner from each other. Tell me about your grandparents?”

  “My grandfather was a criminal prosecutor and my grandmother had a jewellery shop on Brompton Road. She was a real character.”

  His smiled as he reminisced about his grandmother, who was the matriarch of the family, very protective. She’d had him trained in Krav Maga by ex-Mossad agents at age fifteen. He visualised the picture she’d taken of him with his parents, cycling along the Camel Trail in Cornwall, and he felt saddened by the fact that he couldn’t remember them at all. It was painfully ironic that he could remember nothing before they died and absolutely everything ever since.

  The waiter topped up their drinks and he was brought back to earth with another line of inquest.

  “How come you’re still single? You must have plenty of admirers.”

  She smiled and flicked her hair. Her body language was clear. She was flirting with him outrageously and he liked it, except for the fact that it reminded him of Alex.

  “My girlfriend, Alex, died fourteen months ago.”

  Forsyth leaned forward, grabbed his hand and squeezed it compassionately.

  “I’m so sorry, Sean. I wasn’t thinking properly. It must be the champagne.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Journalist. Mostly human rights-related assignments in foreign conflicts. Always rushing off to hotspots like Iraq, Chechnya, Afghanistan, Somalia, Syria.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  She was relentless, but he could feel his stomach flutter at the thought of how he had met Alex. It was a great memory.

  “We met at a Clapton concert. Both queuing for tickets outside the Albert Hall on the opening night; you know, for the standing area in the gallery.”

  “I’ve done that a few times myself.” She smiled and looked receptive.

  “Well, I was on a date, which didn’t work out by the way, and this woman came up to me and said she couldn’t go to the concert because her husband wasn’t well and she had two stalls tickets in the second row to sell for cash. But I only had a tenner and my credit card, so this stranger, Alex, who was standing behind me, offered to pay for me. I asked her how she knew I’d pay her back and she said she just knew and gave me her number. The following day the Evening Standard said Clapton was slicker than Brylcreem.”

  “That’s a classic.”

  “Tell me about your family,” he said before she could interrogate him any further.

  She regaled him with humorous tales of her extended family and he was glad to be out of the firing line. The final course was cheese and biscuits accompanied by vintage port. They talked about London and their work, and found plenty of common ground to keep the conversation light and flowing. They had both grown up in Chelsea, but the six-year age gap had kept them moving around in different circles, despite knowing the same families, particularly around Flood Street in Chelsea and the Little Boltons in South Kensington. They had both spent summer evenings drinking with friends outside the Anglesea Arms in around the same timeframe. They decided that they must have passed close to each other on more than one occasion, but it had taken them over twenty years to actually meet.

  To finish the meal off they ordered a large glass of cognac and coffee.

  Despite covering some sensitive issues, Archer felt that the evening had turned out to be a pleasant one. They were similar in several ways. They both worked as independent consultants and investigators. They both enjoyed helping others solve problems and tried to promote social justice. And they both despised Peter Sinclair with a passion.

  Archer found it hard to believe that she was older than him. She looked more early thirties than early forties. She had good genes and judging by her smooth skin she used rich moisturisers and enjoyed a healthy diet and lifestyle. She looked radiant.

  Occasionally throughout dinner he had felt her leg casually brushing against his. Initially, he thought it was accidental. When the coffee arrived she started to rub her calf against his and smiled at him provocatively. She touched his hand and gazed into his eyes.

  “I’ve really enjoyed working with you,” she said.

  “Thanks for helping me out at short notice; somehow I knew you would.”

  Her face lit up. She drew herself up to the table and leant in towards him, smiling broadly as if they had just shared a special moment.

  “Did you notice we have connecting doors?” she asked.

  “I’d better keep my door locked, just in case I get lucky,” he said, with a wink.

  “I’d better keep mine unlocked, just in case I get lucky,” she said and smiled back at him, gently flicking her hair.

  They finished off their coffees. She ordered the cheque and signed for it on her room number. He said goodnight to her outside his bedroom door. She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, keeping soft lip-gloss contact for several seconds.

  “Goodnight,” she whispered in his ear, then turned and left him standing alone outside his door. He watched her go into her room and she shut the door without looking back.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Archer splashed his face a few times and brushed his teeth. He got into bed naked and turned out the bedside light. He stared up at the ceiling, but couldn’t see anything as it was pitch dark with the heavy curtains closed. The intimacy of the meal had reminded him of being out for dinner with Alex. He remembered the last time they’d had a meal in their favourite bistro in Kensington. She’d worn a simple black sweater and stonewashed jeans that showed off her athletic body shape. Her dark shoulder-length hair was tied back in a short ponytail and her green eyes sparkled; they were mesmerising and surrounded by the longest natural eyelashes he’d ever seen. They ate fresh rustic peasant food and drank red wine by candlelight. Her fair skin was still tanned from their holiday in the Luberon as they held hands and reminisced.

  Then he saw her wounded expressionless face on the stainless-steel gurney. Her skin was as pale as candle wax. Her green eyes were closed for ever. There was a small dark hole in her forehead and two more in her chest. He fought the image and imagined her being there with him. Snuggled together naked in the four-poster bed surrounded by fresh Egyptian cotton.

  The image of her dead body returned like a ghost watching over him. He stopped fighting it. He thought back to the bistro and it felt like they had just had dinner downstairs. He imagined he was talking to her as if she was lying there enjoying some pillow talk in the dark. The champagne helped him drift off as if he were still talking to her.

  In the dream-fuelled darkness he vaguely heard a door close in the distance followed by some light footsteps on the carpet and then a bathrobe falling to
the floor.

  He was lying on his back and he felt the duvet shuffle a little before her warm body moved next to him. She was on her side. She stroked his chest with her fingernails and rubbed his leg with her thigh. He could feel her soft skin touching his, her minty breath on his face. They embraced and held each other tight as if they had been apart for too long. Her skin felt as smooth as porcelain. His was more rugged. They kissed slowly at first, but with the passion of long lost lovers that had been kept apart against their wishes. Their kissing intensified and Archer moved swiftly on top of her and kissed the nape of her neck. She wrapped her long muscular legs around his waist and rotated her hips upward, as he thrust his hips forward, savouring the act of penetration until they couldn’t push their bodies any closer together.

  He stroked her hair back from her forehead in the silent darkness.

  “Alex.”

  “What did you say?”

  Half asleep – he was still thinking about Alex.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Try Sarah!”

  She pushed him off and to the side and jumped out of bed. He fumbled around and turned the bedside lamp on. She put her bathrobe back on and pulled the belt tight. He was dazed. He was still unsure about exactly what had just happened. The light was on a dim setting, but he could still see that she was glaring at him, unable to hide her anger, then her face reddened and she bowed her head.

  “I’m sorry, Sean,” she said. “It’s my entire fault. I shouldn’t have unpicked your locked door. I think I’d better go now before I make it worse.”

  “No, stay. Please stay and talk.” He desperately wanted her to stay.

  “Are you sure?

  “I was dreaming about Alex. And then I was with her, but it was you.”

  He got out of bed and put his boxer shorts on with his back to her. “I was thinking about her and then we were in bed together.” He turned around to face her. Her head was still bowed down – attempting to mask her embarrassment.

  “I’m really sorry. Look, I was probably using you to help get over the thought of my divorce. It’s left me feeling empty inside and quite frankly I feel unloved. I was looking for something to help me feel normal again,” she confessed with a sad, strained smile.

  “Do you want to talk about your husband?”

  “No, not really, but – thanks.”

  “It may help you feel better.”

  “Hold on a second. I need another nightcap.” She went to the minibar and took out two miniature bottles of Rémy Martin. She poured them into two small water glasses and handed him one. They got back under the duvet to keep warm, but stayed two feet apart.

  They sipped the neat cognac slowly, both sitting up leaning against the pillows and the padded headboard. The awkwardness of the moment had started to subside. After the cognac warmed his stomach he felt more comfortable about what had just happened.

  “I suppose you think I’m on the rebound,” she said.

  “I try not to sleep with my work colleagues.”

  “What are you afraid of? I’m not some nutty bunny-boiler.”

  He was afraid of losing people as everyone he’d ever loved had left him and he was afraid of falling in love again.

  “Tell me about your marriage. Are you over it?” he said, looking concerned.

  “No, not really. I still miss my husband in many ways, but he was spoilt and selfish and we drifted apart.”

  “What pushed you over the edge?”

  “The bastard had an affair with a young American intern in his office.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I found them in his office working late. I can still see them. I felt sick.”

  “Is he still seeing her?”

  “No. He wants me back. Tell me, why can’t you sleep properly?”

  “It doesn’t matter … I, um …”

  “It does matter and I’m a good listener. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  She looked at him and smiled with genuine kindness. He felt incredibly comfortable with her. He bowed his head and sighed. Should he tell her? He wanted to.

  “My girlfriend Alex was killed by a professional hit man and I’m looking for the people responsible.”

  “Oh Sean, I’m really sorry, but revenge is such a nasty business. What happened?”

  “I don’t talk about it. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

  “I’m an ex-copper. I know the risks. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Knowledge can be dangerous. You’re better off not knowing. Not getting involved.”

  “I’m already involved. You can trust me. Really.” She touched his hand and squeezed it. He felt he could trust her. There was something special about her.

  “She was following up a dangerous lead about the CIA taking insurgents for torture and disposal to an off-grid facility. The disgruntled ex-agent who was left for dead took her from Syria to Yemen and then back here.”

  “Well that sounds ominous for a start.”

  “She was killed trying to find out who was behind it. She found out the codename of the place. It’s called the Boathouse.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was shot by an assassin on her way to meet me after work for dinner, walking from a meeting near Vauxhall Cross to a small bistro we liked in Kensington. They also killed her flatmate last week just after I spoke with her about it.”

  “Why haven’t they tried to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve received threats, but nothing to worry about yet.”

  Apart from a dirty copper setting him up for murder and blackmailing him, while a car full of mercenaries chased after him dishing out death threats.

  “You should stay well clear of it.”

  “I know, but I feel compelled to act. I’ve accepted what happened to her, but in order to move on, I need to finish it off – one way or another.”

  “Be careful, Sean,” she said, then stroked his head and rested hers on his shoulder and stroked his chest. “I know this sounds insane, but I’m going to help you. No strings.”

  He turned to look at her as she put her arm around him and squeezed him tight. The kiss that followed felt perfectly natural and after he turned the light out their bodies fitted together without a hint of awkwardness.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Archer woke late on Saturday morning after it was already light outside. He remembered another episode of his recurring dream. He’d been followed by the four-man hit squad in black combat gear again, but this time he turned around and confronted them. As he got closer he could see that the leader was shorter than the rest of the team, with a clothing outline that revealed the curves of an athletic female body. He walked up to her without any fear and she told the team to holster their weapons and they did. She pulled off her sub-zero balaclava to reveal her identity. It was Alex.

  She had told him to move on and forget about the Boathouse, and then kissed him passionately until he woke up. He tried to get back into the dream, to see her again and kiss her soft lips one last time, but it was impossible. He stayed awake and watched Forsyth sleep until she stirred, then she looked surprised when she realised where she was. He glanced at his watch on the bedside table. Ten past nine.

  “Oh my God, my head has shrunk. I had too much champagne.”

  “Morning, Sarah.”

  “What the fuck am I doing here?” She looked startled.

  “What?”

  “I get frisky if I have too much bubbly.” She slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not even divorced yet, and now you’ve made me an adulteress.”

  “Sorry about that – I shouldn’t have kept the door locked.”

  “You ordered pink champagne, which is my absolute favourite. Then you charmed me into your bed over dinner, like Casa-bloody-nova.” She laughed out loud, then held her head and winced.

  “It was a great evening, and thanks again for listening.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  Archer got up, walk
ed to the bathroom and closed the door. His head felt heavy after all the drink. He shaved and showered. He stood for some time under the warm jets of water just to clear his head. When he returned with the towel wrapped around his waist Forsyth was gone. She had left a short note saying she had ordered a late breakfast for them both in her room and signed it with a big smiley face and three kisses.

  He dressed and gazed lazily out of the window at the clear blue sky. Another calm sunny day in October. In the Cotswolds countryside with a beautiful woman who was great fun to be with. He had to admit to himself that the chemistry felt too good. He was miles away when his mobile phone rang. Without thinking he answered it – on hazy autopilot.

  “What’s going on, Archer?” Sinclair yelled.

  “Can’t really talk right now,” he whispered.

  “Why bloody not?”

  “Stakeout.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Near Oxford.”

  “Where exactly in bloody Oxford?”

  “In the countryside just outside the city.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, sunshine. Whereabouts exactly?”

  He needed to change the subject fast. Think of something to say. Quick.

  “We’re watching a remote cottage.”

  “Who’s inside?”

  “Louise.”

  “Louise? What the hell’s going on?

  “I’ll call you back in half an hour. They’re on the move again.” Archer ended the call.

  He felt uneasy as he walked through the connecting doors into Forsyth’s room where a trolley full of food and coffee waited. He realised he’d just made a fatal mistake. He wasn’t thinking properly. He should never have answered the phone. He shouldn’t have mentioned the cottage or Louise. They had to move fast now as Sinclair’s associates would soon dispatch a team after them.