The Boathouse (7 page)

The phone rang seven times before Sinclair finally pressed the speaker button.

“Sinclair,” he said, still staring straight ahead, slightly breathless.

“Do as we say and she won't get hurt.” The mechanical voice boomed.

“Okay, so what do you want this time?” Straining, unable to hide his anger.

“Ten million Euros in various unmarked denominations in two waterproof canvas bags. Start driving around the park like before at exactly two p.m. and we'll call you on the mobile with more instructions. Keep the police away and we won't hurt her. Do anything stupid and she gets a bullet through the head.”

The caller hung up. The dial tone purred loudly over the speaker.

Sinclair stood still like a dummy in a wax-works.

He looked stunned. No one spoke.

He sighed loudly, turned the speaker off and put his dark blazer on.

“I'll get the money in two hours. Clarke, come with me,” he said, then looked at Jones. “Be ready with the car by two.”

“Yes, sir,” Jones said, obediently, as if addressing a general.

“I think we should get a speed boat on standby just in case,” Haywood said.

“What for?”

“They asked for two waterproof canvas bags? I'll get them from Selfridges. They may be planning to use the river to get away.”

“Get a boat from that charter company we used for last year's booze cruise.” Sinclair flinched. In a rare moment of confession, he surprised Archer by saying: “They're not going to dump her body at sea, are they? Drowning gives me nightmares.”

“What about placing trackers in the bags this time?” Haywood said.

“No trackers. If they find them they'll kill her.”

“We need a car following us this time, tracking us. This will probably be the last ransom drop-off,” Archer said.

“It's too risky – if they spot it, they might kill her.” Sinclair's voice started to rise.

“What if they don't? What if they kill her anyway?”

Sinclair glared at Archer. His fists clenched tightly at his sides. He was simmering, a volcano close to eruption. He walked slowly up to Archer. His body stiff.

“I don't want any cock-ups, young man.” Sinclair prodded him several times in the shoulder with his left index finger.

“There won't be any, trust me.” Archer struggled to keep his cool but somehow managed. The prods were firm. They didn't hurt as much as they emphasised disrespect. He gritted his teeth, but kept his tongue in check.

“If anything happens to Becky because of this, I'll hold you responsible. Best, follow them in the Land Rover.”

He prodded Archer one last time and scowled before turning his back on them.

Sinclair and Clarke left without saying another word. Archer saw a renewed sense of urgency in their eyes and in their step. They all knew that time was running out. Reality had sunk in and the finality of what could happen to Becky if they failed hung over them like a dark cloud. Their fears were unspoken, but tension was written over their faces and bodies.

Haywood confirmed he'd just organised a launch on standby down-river. Best and Jones left to prepare the cars. Archer followed them to the garage in Adams Row.

They checked the cars over for fluids and air. Jones topped up the screen wash. The cars were already clean and polished. They drove to a small garage near Park Lane and filled them both up on Sinclair's account. Then they drove back to Adams Row where they set the satellite navigation in the Land Rover Discovery to follow the Mercedes via the mobile phone. Jones put bottled water in the cars.

“I'm off for some food – anyone coming?” Jones said.

“I'll come. Mr Sinclair won't allow food in the cars. It could be a long old wait,” Best said.

“I'm fine,” Archer said. “I'll watch the cars, you two go.”

Archer sat alone in the Land Rover. Contemplating what the kidnappers' next move might be. They had to start driving around the park by two p.m. Then there would be a call with instructions to go somewhere. The first drop had been in the park, South Carriage Drive. The second was at the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane. They didn't venture too far off the given circuit. So the next drop could be Kensington or Bayswater.

Archer looked in the glove box for a map. Sure enough, there was a mini
London A to Z
at hand. He opened it and flicked through the pages until he found Hyde Park on pages seventy-three and seventy-four. He followed the circuit on the map. It covered a large area. There were too many options to consider. The next drop-off could be anywhere. He went over the events again in his mind, searching for clues, but found nothing but more questions.

Who was the kidnappers' mastermind? What was their next move? Would they release Becky or would they kill her?

The nagging doubt of an inside job wasn't going away. But who could it be? If Becky just wanted to run away she had access to plenty of money. Taking on Sinclair was a dangerous game. The kidnappers were either brave or stupid. Most likely an organised gang of hardened criminals with plenty of muscle behind them. The odds of saving her were already slim and rapidly diminishing. They had to take a risk.

At ten minutes to two Archer saw Clarke and Haywood walk across South Audley Street with expressionless faces and purposeful long strides. They wore dark grey suits, shirts without ties and dark sunglasses. They walked with an air of confidence and calm that was silently threatening. Violent mercenaries constantly ready to unleash mayhem wherever they went.

The two men carried identical light-grey canvas sailing bags over their shoulders. Each filled with five million Euros and weighing in at twenty kilos. Despite the obvious weight of the bags they walked normal and treated them casually. They placed them in the boot of the Mercedes and walked straight back to the penthouse without speaking. Jones watched them walk across the road and then pressed the remote to close the boot.

Archer climbed in the front of the S Class with Jones. Best flashed the lights from the Discovery, signalling that he was ready to follow. Jones turned the radio on, but kept the volume down low. As the two o'clock news started on Radio Two they drove down Upper Grosvenor Street towards Park Lane.

The traffic was slower than the previous ransom drop. It took them just under an hour to make three laps as a long trench of roadworks on Kensington Gore slowed them down.

Archer was staring aimlessly at the window display in a book shop when the phone rang on the fourth lap while they waited to turn right from Kensington Church Street before heading east down the Bayswater Road. The voice modulator sounded eerie over the sixteen speakers but broke the silent tension inside the car.

“Turn left down Westbourne Terrace, towards Cleveland Terrace and look for the private car park on the left-hand side and valet park the car. Leave it there until six p.m. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Do not return to the car until six p.m. otherwise she dies.”

They hung up and the radio automatically returned to the sound system.

Jones turned left and slowed down as he looked for the garage. Archer spotted a blue neon sign and pointed at it. The car park entrance was down a side street with just enough space off the road to stop and let the valet take over. Jones parked the car in the designated spot off the road and waited until a friendly-looking valet appeared.

Jones and Archer got out and a young eastern European valet wearing a royal blue jacket and broad smile took the key card and parked the car. Archer saw Best in the Land Rover, looking around for a parking space on the road nearby. Jones and Archer went into the office to pay, but had to wait until the valet had parked the car.

The valet returned with the key card and put it in a small cubby hole. Jones paid the minimum fee of sixty pounds for one day despite arguing that he would return for it at six p.m. As they walked out of the office and onto the street they saw Best drive past and cross Westbourne Terrace. He made a skilful U-turn and parked on the road in sight of the car park. He got out and looked around like a typical bodyguard before he casually fed the meter.

The area was busy with more people than usual and fewer cars. Several police vans were parked at the Bayswater end. Inside, armed police sat talking in a relaxed manner.

More armed police walked down the street wearing Kevlar vests and blue riot helmets. In the distance the unmistakeable sound of horses drawing nearer was getting louder.

Archer felt the air was charged with an electric tension as people in the street warily scrutinised each other. Some looked afraid and apprehensive. Archer asked a Lebanese shopkeeper standing outside his bazaar-style store what was happening.

“Supposed to be a student protest. Supposed to be peaceful. But the rioters have come instead. Many gate crashers wanting trouble. Wanting to fight the police.”

“Where are the students?”

“They left already. It's just the anarchists now and the looters. But I have a baseball bat and my sons are ready to fight.”

“Why don't you close the shutter and go home?”

“No. We stay and fight.”

“Good luck.”

“Filthy scum.” He spat on the floor in disgust.

Archer and Jones crossed the street and got into the Land Rover with Best.

“Looks like we're in the middle of a war zone.”

“We'll never spot the kidnappers now.”

Jones sat in the front of the Land Rover and immediately retuned the radio. He kept the volume down and seemed to be weary of Best, who remained as stiff as a mannequin in the driver's seat. Nobody spoke as they kept watch on the car park. Best and Jones had brought small field binoculars and used them intermittently. Jones hesitantly turned the volume up to listen to the traffic news. He told them that he often texted in as “Spitfire Man” with tips on how to avoid the ever-changing bottlenecks. Nobody responded.

Dropouts with dirty clothes and matted hair walked past the car in small groups. Some threatened to rock the car and others took out keys as if they were going to scratch the paintwork, but they soon backed away from the silent threat of its inhabitants.

The rioters were mostly in pairs by now, trying to disguise their true nature, but they stood out. Some of them stopped and looked agitated. They were not causing enough trouble and the armed police kept them moving. The riot police owned all the nearby streets, including the one where Archer sat waiting as the tension evaporated.

At first the trouble-makers looked disgusted, then disappointed. They turned their attention from rebellion to drinking cans of cider and smoking weed. They soon slumped against the walls of the side streets in a dazed state. Sneering at the police and anyone they saw in smart clothes or cars. Dishing out slurred abuse as they stumbled and fell over themselves. One fell against the car by mistake. Best was out like a shot, taking the opportunity to vent his anger by threatening to break some bones.

When the
Drivetime
show started after the five o'clock news, Archer and Sinclair's men had been watching the car park for nearly two hours. Nothing had happened at the garage. No cars had gone in or out. Archer thought something was wrong. The garage was too quiet. They had not seen a single valet for over an hour. Was it because of the rioters or because of the kidnappers?

“Only another hour to go.
Drivetime
's my favourite,” said Jones.

“I'm not waiting any longer. I'm taking a closer look right now,” said Archer.

“They specifically instructed us not to return until after six.”

“I'm just taking a look, that's all.”

“But they said they'd kill her if we went back early.”

“Do you think they're still watching?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you wait until six or would you take the money and run?”

“Obviously I'd take the money before. But no one apart from the valet has gone in or out of the office, and no one has taken the key from the cubbyhole yet.”

“That's why I'm going to take a closer look. You two stay here and wait for my call.”

“I don't think you should go back until six,” Best said, loudly.

“Don't think, just wait here and watch.”

Archer got out and walked towards the abandoned car park. The armed police were still milling around but the invisible electric charge in the air had disappeared from the collective mass of residents and shopkeepers out on the street.

The tired-looking garage was still and quiet. The valets' office had a glass door and floor-to-ceiling window facing the entrance. The messy office was empty. There was not a single valet in sight. Archer tried the office door but it was locked. The key of the Mercedes had been placed in cubbyhole number twenty-one, but he could see that it was now empty.

Archer looked inside the garage but there was no movement or sign of life. He shouted and waited, but there was no answer. He ducked under the red and white barrier, stepped over the yellow and black floor barrier and walked into the garage, following the lane up to the next floor and looking for bay twenty-one. The garage was only half-full of cars.

At the top of the incline he turned and saw the black Mercedes with the boot open. He jogged up to it and looked inside. The two canvas sailing bags full of cash were gone.

The key card had been left on top of the roof. Archer took it and noticed a staircase at the back of the garage with a bright green fire exit sign. He walked to the back of the long narrow car park to see where the fire exit led and peered over the handrail into a narrow lane. It had been a well-planned job. The bags would have been taken to the lane within twenty seconds. He walked down the stairs, pushed the bar and checked the lane. The alarm didn't go off. No cars in sight, just a few drunken rioters slumped against the walls. He went back inside the garage, closed the door and walked back through to the valet's office.

The street was still dead. Nothing interesting until he noticed a valet sitting in a coffee shop over the road, staring back at him in the window, sipping coffee and eating. Archer crossed the road and sat on the stool next to the smiling valet as he finished off a Danish pastry and washed it down with a large cappuccino.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Getting paid to sit here and wait until six o'clock.”

“What happened?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Archer threw five twenties on the table. “Because, that's why.”

The valet smiled again and purred under his breath. He looked pleased with himself.

“Okay, what a day this one is turning out to be. Better than birthday.”

“What happened?”

“A man gave me five hundred pounds to close the office and return at six.”

“Who?”

“Some stranger.”

“Why?”

“He didn't say, I didn't argue, simple.”

“But what about doing your job?”

“The boss called and said to close up until the trouble was over. We closed the barriers and left the office locked. No cars can get in or out.”

“Tell me about the man with the five hundred.”

“Early twenties, lean-looking, British.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said that he had to collect something from the boot of the black Mercedes S600L. It was important, and he would leave the key on the roof. He seemed clean, not like the trouble-makers. And he couldn't steal the car with all the barriers, so I let him do it.”

“What else did he say?”

“He asked me to switch the alarm off the fire exit door. His van was waiting in the lane and he was in a hurry. He told me to come over here where another five hundred was waiting for me in an envelope.”

“And was it?”

“Yep.”

“So you're a grand up?”

“Not bad work if you can get it.”

“You didn't think that it was strange?”

“No, man. I need money, job pays minimum wage.”

“I'm going to get the car back now – will you open the barriers for me?”

“But you're supposed to return at six o'clock, then I go home.”

“So you can take the rest of the day off in two minutes.”

“Okay. Let's go.”

Archer drove the car back down the ramp. The valet opened the barriers and Archer parked it outside the valets' office. Best flashed the lights and drove slow until he stopped in front of the garage.

Archer told Jones and Best what had just happened.

“Take the cars back and tell Sinclair what happened.”

“What about you? You tell him.”

“I'm paid to investigate, not run errands.”

“You're afraid to tell him.”

“Just go.”

Jones and Best left, frowning, clearly dreading the task of telling Sinclair that they had failed to discover any leads. Archer walked back towards South Kensington through the park and called Julian Cavendish on his mobile. He answered it this time.

“Mr Cavendish, my name is Sean Archer. I'd like to meet you.”

“How did you get my number?”

“My office found it. I need to speak to you urgently. About Peter Sinclair.”

Pause.

“Why?”

“I can't talk over the phone, but it's very important. Can you spare me just twenty minutes tomorrow morning?”

“Very well then, come to my office at nine.”

Finally a chance to get a break in a case that was seemingly still without leads.