She grabbed the drink off the bar and took it back to the sofa. She downed it in two.
Sinclair carefully picked up the sword from behind the bar. He slowly removed the blade from the wooden scabbard. It glistened under the spotlights.
“This is a very special sword. Look at it. A magnificent fifteenth-century Katana. Sharp as a razor. It’s killed many men over the years. It once belonged to a famous Samurai and then to his son who was the most feared Ronin of all time. Now it’s mine.”
“Whatever.”
Sinclair placed the gleaming sword delicately on the bar and picked up the phone again. He dialled a number and turned round, leaning against the bar with his back to her. Her eyes darted between him and the poker in the fire. She got up and walked quietly to the fire.
She picked up the poker and pointed it at the back of his head over ten feet away. She started to swing it back and forth as if she was hitting an imaginary object in mid-air. He was still talking on the phone with his back to her when she started to walk towards him, moving the poker down by the side of her leg. She stopped at the bar. She was within range.
Sinclair turned round and replaced the phone.
“Same again only lots more vodka,” Becky said.
“I almost forgot how trashy you were. Very well, another one coming right up.”
He fixed her another drink and took a single pill out of one of the boxes. Becky placed the poker against the bar and sat on a stool with her mouth open in anticipation.
“Just one until I get my money.”
She took the pill and swallowed it without a drink. She grabbed the second drink, but stayed on the stool and drank it slowly through a bendy black straw. Sinclair poured another whisky and they drank in silence, staring at the cream phone on the bar.
It rang loudly, making Becky jump. Sinclair answered it and listened without speaking. He put the receiver back down and smiled at Becky.
“The address worked out.”
“That was fast.”
“I had men in the area.”
“In the Cotswolds?”
“In the helicopter.”
“Can I have another drink and my pills back now?”
“It seems like your young nephew was in the cottage having some fun. Some old whore his mother’s age had him tied up in bed. Whips and handcuffs. He’s a funny boy, that Christopher,” Sinclair laughed out loud. “My men found everything except the two million you said you’d used. You’re free to go. Do you want me to spare your sister?”
“You can do what you like with her. I never want to see her again.”
Sinclair made another round of drinks at the bar. He then picked up a slim leather briefcase, placed it on top of the bar and snapped it open. He smiled to himself as he carefully extracted a thin document and turned it around to show Becky, pointing out parts of it on different pages.
“Here look,” he pointed and then tapped the document. “The settlement figure is even spelled out. Ten Million Pounds.”
“How will you pay me?”
“I’ll have it transferred into your personal bank account tomorrow, less the two million you owe me, of course.”
“Where do I sign?”
“You sign against the red sticker and I sign against the yellow sticker.”
He presented the bare signature page to her. The red sticker was at the bottom pointing towards nothing but white paper. Above it a yellow sticker did exactly the same thing. Becky snatched the pen off the bar, scribbled her signature and printed her name and the date below it without reading the document.
Sinclair took the document and placed it back inside the briefcase.
“Put everything back in your handbag.”
He handed her four boxes of pills and she grabbed them out of his hand. She took two more pills and put the contents back inside her handbag.
“Cheers.” She raised her glass and drank the rest of her vodka.
“You can stay here tonight and take the Learjet tomorrow.”
“I think one more drink should do it before I go to bed.”
“Haven’t you had enough?”
“One for the ditch. Neat.”
“Very well.”
Becky stood up. Her right heel keeled over, but she managed to grab the bar and save herself from falling over.
“I’ll have it on the sofa by the fire and then go to bed.”
“One neat vodka coming up. You better go and sit down.”
Becky stumbled over to the sofa and fell into it. She rolled over and managed to sit up.
“What’s taking you so l-o-n-g?” She started to slur.
Sinclair poured neat vodka in a fresh glass and took it over to her on the sofa, holding it by the base with a small black napkin.
“What about the o-r-r-a-a-n-n-g-e?”
Her eyes rolled around and her head wobbled as if she was catching it and then losing it again. Sinclair put the drink down carefully on the glass coffee table.
“What day is it, Becky?”
“S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y.” Her head fell to the side and she slumped to the left, resting against a large cushion.
“Where are you?”
There was no answer. She was sprawled over the sofa on her back. Motionless.
Sinclair stared coldly. He looked sober and deadly serious.
He walked back to the bar and picked up the sword. Holding it gently, he stroked the polished blade and kissed it. “Business first.”
He started humming as he took the divorce papers back out of the briefcase. Pulled the paperclip off and removed the last page. Grabbed Becky’s pen out of her handbag and wrote something on the sheet above her signature. He placed the sheet of paper on the coffee table. Wiped the pen with his handkerchief and placed it in Becky’s right hand for prints. He held it with the handkerchief and placed it on the coffee table next to the sheet. He did the same with the glass. He removed the pills from her handbag and scattered them across the table. He left them spread randomly over the table and placed the glass of vodka on top of the fake suicide note. Archer pushed the door open.
“What do you think you’re playing at, Sinclair?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Archer stood in the doorway and unholstered his gun. Sinclair jumped before turning around.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” His mocking tone and sarcastic grin showed no fear whatsoever. Archer pointed his Beretta at Sinclair’s head. He knew Sinclair was unarmed.
“Trying to fake your wife’s suicide? Leave her alone.”
“Your too late, old boy. The spiked vodkas did the trick.”
Archer looked at Becky’s lifeless body slumped on the sofa.
“You think you can murder your way out of everything.”
“Of course. Why not? I’m more powerful than you’ll ever know.”
“You’re wrong. You’re the weakest person that I’ve ever met.”
A door crashed hard against the wall. Clarke burst through the doorway next to the bar and pointed his gun at Archer.
“Drop it, Archer. You’re outnumbered.”
“I’ve got a kill shot on your boss.”
Haywood lunged through the same door and pointed his gun at Archer.
“See what I mean? You’re outgunned.”
Archer walked slowly towards Sinclair, moving away from the doorway. The two guns tracked his movement through an arc of over ninety degrees.
“Who’s going to pay your wages if I kill your boss?”
“Drop it, Archer.”
Forsyth entered through the French doors. Two bullets ripped into Haywood’s chest. The gunshots surprised everyone except Archer, who shot Clarke in the chest and head before he could get a single shot out. The two bodies fell to the floor and slumped next to each other by the bar. Sinclair was stunned into statuesque silence as the two pools of blood on the marble floor merged into one.
Archer walked up to Sinclair and put the hot barrel of his Beretta against his temple, ca
using him to flinch and move his head backwards. Archer caught hold of him by the neck and held him at arm’s length.
“One wrong answer and you get a bullet. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own and operate a facility known as the Boathouse?”
“One of my companies does. Yes.”
“Were you responsible for the death of my girlfriend, Alex?”
“Not personally. No. Contractors.”
“Why?”
“She was poking her nose where she shouldn’t have. Bloody journalists.”
“You murdering bastard.” Archer put his gun away. He grabbed Sinclair and wrapped his gloved hands around his neck. Sinclair’s face went purple and his eyeballs bulged. Archer could feel his hands touching as they blocked Sinclair’s air passage. Red veins stood out on the whites of Sinclair’s eyes. They looked ready to burst.
A third armed guard entered through the main door near the sofa and raised his gun at Archer. Forsyth shot him in the head before he could pull the trigger. The gunshot jolted Archer from his stranglehold. He turned to see what had happened and released his hands from around Sinclair’s neck. Sinclair fell and gasped for air loudly. He drew a long deep breath and then panted violently until his breathing slowed down. He was bent over, wheezing like a broken accordion.
Archer looked at him with contempt. “Tell me why you killed Alex.” He could feel his anger welling up inside him. He was ready to erupt.
“We run the most secret facility in Europe. We’ll kill anyone who gets close to it.”
“Why haven’t you killed me?”
“Davenport’s protecting you.”
“What?”
“Davenport masterminded it all. We give the British and American governments what they need to win wars and control foreign countries. Davenport conducts psychological experiments. I have all the power of private contractors at my fingertips.”
“But Miles Davenport is not a killer.”
“He’s a monster. Your parents were going to expose him and so I had them killed. But don’t bother looking for him. He fell out with some folks in Washington. He’s gone into hiding. New face, the works.”
It was all too much to take in and digest in one go.
“You killed my parents and Alex.” Archer grabbed the back of Sinclair’s silver hair.
“Stop him, woman,” Sinclair said. “Show some compassion. I beg you.”
“Hurry up, Archer,” Forsyth said simply. “Finish off whatever you came here to do and let’s get out of here.”
“You’re a moron, Archer. You’d better start running. You’ll never get away with this.”
Archer frogmarched him towards the fish tank. He pushed Sinclair’s head under the water and held onto it firmly. He fought to keep it semi-submerged as large bubbles of air escaped from Sinclair’s mouth. The piranha continuously tore into his flesh as a cloud of blood expanded inside the ultraviolet water.
Archer released the tight grip on his hair. Sinclair fell to the floor gasping for air. He rolled around coughing as he struggled to clear his windpipe and fill his lungs. There was no skin left on his face, just lumps of bleeding flesh hanging off it.
Forsyth sprayed the sofas and curtains with lighter fluid from a small yellow can and then made a continuous trail of fuel towards the fire. The fluid ignited with a loud whoosh and the flame followed the invisible trail back to the curtains, which instantly burst into flames.
*
Sinclair slowly pushed his body off the ground and crawled on all fours, regaining his breath before he stood up. He staggered towards Clarke’s body, clearing his throat as the fire rapidly spread through the large room, engulfing it in flames that raged across soft furnishings, rugs and paintings. His hair and clothes were still drenched. His face was full of bleeding wounds.
He grabbed the gun from Clarke’s hand, held it up and screamed like a psychopath in the middle of a prison riot.
“I killed your parents, you fucking moron,” he yelled. “I shot the fuckers. Now it’s your fucking turn. Where the fuck are you?”
He waved the gun around, unable to see clearly through the orange haze of bellowing fireballs. He held it at chest height and fired haphazardly around the room, smashing the fish tank and several bottles behind the bar until the clip ran out of bullets.
The water from the tank spilled towards the French doors. He threw the gun down and dodged the darting flames. Screaming incoherently as he crashed through the blazing doorway, onto the terrace, then stopped and froze before a fifteenth-century steel blade sliced right through his neck in one fatal blow.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
It was a week later. Archer walked along Walton Street from his house to his office on a cool Saturday evening. The clear sky was already starry and the air pleasantly fresh. He rarely used the office on weekends, but he had some time to kill before his six p.m. appointment.
His first-floor office was as deserted as expected. He swiped his card and entered the eight-digit security code. It was unusually dark and quiet without Zoe. No computer screens on. Not even the screensavers. He sat alone in the darkened office facing the window, his feet on a meeting table, and thought about Davenport, Sinclair and the Boathouse.
His eyes adjusted to the faint light from the street. It gently washed the room with shadows and outlines. He stared at Forsyth’s generous gift. A two-foot-tall bronze sculpture of Lady Justice. The blindfolded moral force of the justice system. Balancing the scales of truth to measure both sides of the case. Holding a double-edged sword to symbolise the power of reason and justice. Like a judicial medieval knight.
He looked over at the gilt-framed canvas on the wall, darkened with horizontal shadows from the blinds. The two-hundred-year-old painting depicted a medieval knight riding on horseback across a stream, deep inside a forest. It was called Knight Errant. It had been a generous gift from one of his wealthier clients, for finding a stolen masterpiece.
He turned his head back towards the windowsill and focused on the highly polished fifteenth-century blade balancing on a small wooden stand.
He closed his eyes and took a long deep breath. His mind drifted off lazily. He thought about the good times with Alex and felt that he was finally ready to move on and live his life as best he could. He didn’t feel good about what he’d done to Sinclair, but he didn’t feel guilty about it either. Sinclair deserved it. He had no regrets, but the unpleasant act of revenge had only given him cold comfort. Miles Davenport had mysteriously disappeared without a trace, but he had no intention of looking for him. He had protected Sean from the murderers that ran the Boathouse, but he had also lied to him all his adult life – which meant that hypnosis would probably unlock his childhood memories. Did he really want to go through the inevitable pain those memories would bring? Probably not.
The computer drive he’d taken from Sinclair’s briefcase was encrypted. Who knows what they might find if Zoe ever managed to crack the code.
Mobile phone GPS tracks and CCTV footage had proved that DS Lambert, the dirty cop, had killed Alex’s friend Gillian King. With the comfort of not having the police or a car full of mercenaries chasing after him, he closed his eyes and sensed an unusual calmness emanating from the growing changes within. He felt released from the shackles of the past and in some strange way he felt renewed. The grief that he had carried around wherever he went was slowly lifting off his shoulders. The pain was still there, but it was bearable. Over the last week he had finally allowed himself to vent. He had stopped repressing his darkest feelings. Now he knew he could live with all that had happened. The future seemed less daunting. He had slept well all week and enjoyed running without feeling like he was constantly running away from something. He was comfortable with who he was. His life was not as he had planned or dreamed, but he knew he could make it work. He opened his eyes and felt surprisingly refreshed.
Forsyth texted him: So far so good. Thanks for listening. SF xxx
She had
been a great partner and would become a close friend and possible business associate in the future. She had decided to move into her new flat and also to give her husband a second chance. They were going out for dinner tonight to see if it could work.
He kicked his feet off the desk, locked the office door quietly and headed downstairs to Morgan’s Fine Art Gallery. There was a small champagne party to introduce three new artists to interested local collectors, and then it was off to Le Bistrot for a dinner date with Francesca Morgan.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my family – my wife, daughter and parents – for their constant support and encouragement. My wife and parents also read lots of earlier (much rougher) versions, where they helped me immensely with feedback and discussions.
I would also like to thank Dexter Petley, Britt Pfluger, Kris Kenway, Andrew Wille, Helen Pisano and Arielle Eckstut, for all their helpful comments and advice.
And finally, I would like to thank Aimee Bell at Author Design Studio for designing the cover.
Any errors or omissions that remain are completely my own responsibility.
www.rjharries.com
The Boathouse Page 25
