The Boathouse (3 page)

Archer watched Sinclair's head drop and his shoulders sag. He looked back at the large portrait hanging proudly on the living-room wall that somehow managed to capture Becky's vivaciousness. She was much younger looking than her husband; a cliché trophy wife.

“She's probably still alive.”

“She's my soul mate,” Sinclair said. “I waited a long time to find the right woman to marry and I want her back.”

But why did Archer not believe him?

“She's your first wife then?”

“Yes.”

“When did you have the portrait done?”

“About two years ago at our house on Sandbanks.”

The four hard men at the table were turned towards Sinclair, still silently watching his every move like sentinels.

“You need to promise me something,” Sinclair said.

“What's that?”

“Whether you decide to help me or not, I need your word that you won't go behind my back and get your police friends involved.”

Archer nodded. “Okay,” he said, casually.

“I want your word.” A harsher undertone.

“Okay, you have my word, no police.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No problem.”

“No friends from the Met or Special Branch, no police contact whatsoever,” Sinclair said. “We'll handle this situation ourselves. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“If you break your word and anything happens to Becky because of it, I'll have you killed. Do you understand?” he said, and looked over at his pack of guard dogs.

“You have my word.”

Sinclair's persistence was untrusting. He was a total control freak.

“And you know what I'll do if you call the police?”

Archer looked over at the guards. The four men stared back without expression. They were hardened killers whose loyalty had been bought and paid for.

“I already gave you my word,” Archer's tone sharpened defensively.

Sinclair screwed his face up as he spoke. “It's not an idle threat. I could have you taken out any time I like. Always remember that.”

Archer didn't blink.

“Why are you so afraid of the police?”

“I don't trust them, or the so-called justice system. Not here or anywhere else, so if anything happens to Becky, I'll organise my own justice. Anyway, you're probably a better investigator than their burned-out dickheads.”

“I don't have anything like their level of resources, but it's your call.”

Archer glanced over at the phone and then back at Sinclair.

“And they asked you for two million in cash?” he asked.

“That's right.”

“You were able to get two million in cash that quick?”

“Of course,” Sinclair scoffed, and gestured casually as if it was nothing.

“How big is that? I mean, what did you put it in?”

“A Louis Vuitton suitcase full of fifties. It weighed forty-five kilos on the scales.”

“I assume you're insured for kidnapping?”

“Yes, of course, but if I call the insurers they'll contact the police or a kidnap and ransom consultant and I can't risk that, so I'm on my own.”

“Okay then,” Archer said, a little over-enthusiastically, consciously trying to show more interest in the case, but detesting every moment of being in the same room as Sinclair. “I'd like to know more about what happened yesterday.”

Know your enemy and know what they want.

“Have you decided to help then?” Sinclair smiled, as if he'd won the first round.

“No not yet,” Archer shot him a stern glare to keep him on his toes. “But they're going to call you back today and you need to be ready for them when they do.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“They'll want more money. Lots more, in fact. You're worth too much to settle for a lousy two million pounds, so sit down and tell me what happened yesterday.”

Sinclair sat in a chair with his back to his men and started to tell Archer about the previous day. Archer sat on the sofa looking at them all. Jones sat bolt upright with the others at the table. On the same team, but not in the real hard men's clique.

“Becky went out around ten in the morning,” Sinclair said. “She went to Harvey Nichols as she had a hair appointment nearby at noon.”

“But she failed to show up at the salon?”

“Yes.”

“Was she alone?”

“As far as I know. I don't have her followed – well, not often enough anyway.” Sinclair scoffed at his own joke and then stopped abruptly as if he didn't want to give too much away.

“Who drove her there?”

“Jones, the same driver that picked you up today, same car.”

“Where was she dropped off?”

“The side entrance on Seville Street.”

“Does she go there often?”

Sinclair tilted his head back and closed his eyes, appearing to be frustrated by the questions. “When we're in London she likes to go there. Harrods, Selfridges, Bond Street, any one of those about once or twice a week, hairdresser's every week, and lunch once or twice most weeks. She also spends a lot of time in the gym and being pampered at the spa.”

“Who does she lunch with?”

“Her sister mostly, if she's in London, but she's out of town a lot on business. She owns a travel company. She has a set of Sloane Ranger flunkies they do lunch with.”

“Is there anything that you have or can get hold of that somebody else wants badly enough to do this?”

“Like what?”

“Art. Information. Property.”

“Well, I own plenty of buildings other people seem to want.”

“Do you have many enemies, Mr Sinclair?”

“Why? Do you think someone's out to get me?”

“Maybe,” Archer said. “Tell me more about the phone call.”

“They called at three in the afternoon. It was brief. They said I have to pay to get her back. They threatened to kill her if I called the police, as I already told you.”

“What did the caller sound like?”

“They used an electronic voice changer. It was mechanical, slow and deep.”

“How did you respond?”

“I asked them how much they wanted. They said two million pounds.” Sinclair closed his eyes. “I agreed without even thinking and the man said he would call me back within the hour with further instructions.”

“And did he?”

Sinclair closed his eyes again and nodded. “At four o'clock. I was told to wait until seven and put the money in the trunk of the Mercedes and have it driven around London while waiting for further instructions by mobile phone. They instructed us to drive a clockwise circuit around Hyde Park. We gave them a mobile number and that was it. If we called the police they said that they would kill her without hesitation.”

“Anything else?”

Sinclair shook his head solemnly.

“Nothing else, no proof of life?”

“I asked to speak to her, but they said that she was sleeping as they had drugged her when she put up a fight. She's quite feisty, you see.” Sinclair smiled with a deeply etched frown on his hard lived-in face.

“How do you know for sure that they have her?”

“A motorbike courier delivered her handbag with her purse and phone inside. Cash-in-hand job off another motorbike courier. All the cards still intact. Then they called on the private number reserved for friends and family rather than business.”

“We can't track the cards or phone then. Where was the drop-off made?”

“Hyde Park.”

“Who drove the car?” Archer asked.

“Jones volunteered,” Sinclair said, and nodded over at him for support.

“I followed their instructions,” Jones said. “I drove around until they called the mobile and they told me where to go. They had me driving around Hyde Park for over an hour, probably checking to see if anyone was following.”

“Where exactly did you make the drop?” Archer asked.

“South Carriage Drive, in the park – you know, by the barracks.”

“How was it made?”

“I stopped and was instructed by phone to open the boot from inside the car,” Jones said. “A van pulled up and parked right behind me and a hoody got out of the back, took the suitcase out and put it in the back of the van.”

“What kind of van?”

Jones nodded knowingly as if he had known what the next question would be.

“Dark blue Volkswagen Transporter, new-looking – well, the latest shape anyway.”

“Did you get the licence number?”

“Yes, fake plates, we already checked. It's registered to an older van in Scotland.”

“Can you describe the hoody?”

“Medium height, broad shoulders but slim, probably early twenties, faded jeans, Nike trainers, faded light blue hoody, with the hood up completely hiding his face, the sort of outfit that blends into the background. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And then what?”

“He closed the back doors from inside the van and they drove off.”

“They?”

“It moved straight away so he wasn't the driver.”

“Which way did they go?”

“They went north towards Lancaster Gate.”

“Can you describe anything else about him or the van?”

“He jumped out of the back of the van, took the case out of the boot, put it into the back of the van and then jumped back in. In all it only took about ten seconds.”

“Okay, thanks,” Archer said. The hoody was at the bottom of the food chain, but it would be worth checking the cameras for facial recognition.

“So Mr Archer, will you help me?” Sinclair said.

Every eye in the room was clamped on Archer now. He looked directly into Sinclair's steely grey eyes and tried to read them. His instincts told him that Sinclair was a ruthless manipulator and a naturally competent liar. But why was he fifteenth on Alex's list?

“Your wife needs all the help she can get. I will help you, but by my rules. You pay me as a consultant, but I don't take orders from you or anyone else. Is that clear?”

Sinclair sneered and folded his arms. “You'd better be bloody good.” A hint of East End occasionally crept into his polished accent. He was all about façade.

Archer loathed Sinclair, but couldn't allow his wife to be killed. He also had to find out if he was connected to the Boathouse, or at least if he could lead him there. In Archer's reckoning this case was not as it first seemed. He still felt like he was being set up.

“And if anything happens to her, will you help me find the men responsible?”

This was confirmation that this case was more complex than just a kidnapping for ransom money. Sinclair was not just concerned about his wife's welfare. There was more to it. His new client wasn't telling him everything.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Mr Archer. I'll pay you whatever it takes to find her and get her back.”

Money seemed to be a vulgar concept to this ruthless bastard.

“And I want to find the men who took her. Who do you think they are? Professionals, some sort of criminal organisation?”

Archer's hackles rose, but he stayed calm. He immediately knew that revenge rather than rescue was the primary motivator on display before him.

Know your enemy and know what they want.

“This was not opportunistic, it was targeted and they knew her routine. Either they knew exactly where she was going or they followed her there. In that case they'll know plenty about you too.”

“Why's that?” Sinclair asked.

“They knew you could get two million in cash together in a couple of hours without time to go to a bank. And they know that you can and will pay more.”

“So they've either been watching me or perhaps you think they know me?”

“Probably both. Have you swept this place for bugs today?”

“It's clean. What else have you got?”

“It's definitely a gang. There has to be at least three of them, two in the Transporter van, probably stolen, and at least one watching Becky, somewhere in London or the Home Counties. Somewhere close to the motorway system.”

“How do you know that?”

“They need to have access to the drop-off, unless there are two crews, but kidnappers usually work as a close-knit team. They're either still based in the city, or somewhere out in the country, with access to fast routes back for the ransom drops.”

“How do you know they'll call back? They could be long gone already.”

Know your enemy and know what they want.

“They'll take you for as much money as they can and it's going to be a lot more than two million. Unless they do in fact want something more specific from you. They haven't shown their real intentions yet. They're building up to something.”

“So why haven't they called back then?”

“They'll call, but in their own time. They're showing you who's in control. This could go on for a long time, weeks even. Does anyone know exactly how much cash you can get hold of?”

“Not accurately, no. I deal with many people. But nobody knows everything.”

“But it's a lot more than two million, right?”

“Of course, much more in fact,” he said, unable to hide his smugness. Sinclair was a more arrogant bastard than he'd initially imagined.

“Then Becky is safe for a while anyway, at least until they've taken enough money or whatever they're really after. Getting her back safe is the hard part and that's what we need to figure out. I'll stick around until the next call if that's all right. I need more information before I can start looking for them.”

“Okay. What do we need to do next?”

“Wait for the phone to ring and then ask to speak to her. Stay calm but be firm and don't back down. Try to buy as much time as you can to get the money together. And give me the number of that phone so we can trace the call.”

Sinclair wrote the number on the back of a business card and organised for sandwiches to be brought in by his assistant. They arrived in twenty minutes on a large silver platter from Claridge's, but Sinclair didn't eat any. He just sat back at the desk and stared at the phone while the bodyguards eagerly tucked into the free food.

Archer walked out to make a private call on his mobile. He called Zoe from the terrace and asked her to hack into the local exchange and trace the next phone call to the penthouse. He also asked her for a full background check on Becky and Peter Sinclair and to keep digging until she found everything she could. All other jobs would have to wait, including those that boosted their profit margins with the provision of insider information. This case had just become their number one priority.