Read Online The Boathouse by R. J. Harries - Free Book Online

off his gold-digging wife. Becky was still a suspect, with a trusted accomplice in her sister, who might not be away on business after all. Both untraceable without their phones, but it was a complicated and dangerous way to leave a powerful husband, and less lucrative than finding a good divorce lawyer, so highly unlikely. The insider angle was still the key to catching the kidnappers. There had to be an insider and they were teamed up with an enemy or an opportunist, mainly motivated by ransom money. But he was still only skimming the surface. He needed much more information before he could run his powerful digital tracking and profiling models. Coffee, bacon and eggs required urgently.
    He noted that Sinclair’s cars were all still garaged in Adams Row before he stopped at Café Richoux on South Audley Street for breakfast. The décor was continental; it was like he had been transported to a café in Paris or Vienna. He sat in the corner with his back to the wall and a good view of the room and the door. The clientele was mixed. Business-people, tourists and workers. He overheard a large man in a track suit explaining to a family on holiday that he was staying in a five star hotel nearby that wanted ninety-five pounds for breakfast. “London’s criminal. Full of sharks.” The man owned a football club up north, but he was still shocked by the extortionate prices in central London. Archer stopped people-watching, ordered his breakfast, read the headlines and started doing the crossword.
Heartfelt appeal, from the depths
. Two and nine. He knew it.
De Profundis
. Good start.
    He finished off his crispy bacon and scrambled egg with HP Sauce, drank Tabasco- and Worcester-sauce-infused tomato juice and changed papers and crosswords from
The Times
to
The Telegraph
. Two rounds of wholemeal toast, butter and thick-cut Oxford marmalade and another pot of freshly ground Illy coffee. It was half past eight and he wanted to be back at Sinclair’s apartment before nine. Ready to tackle anything.
    One round of toast and two thirds of the crossword to go. He was on form and was feeling compelled to finish it, until his mobile phone rang.
    â€œSlumming it in Mayfair again, I see? How’s Café Richoux?”
    â€œAlways good to know you’re keeping track of my whereabouts.”
    â€œSomeone has to. I’ve just sent you the brother’s telephone number – the brother of the fiancée who came to a sticky end. His name is Julian Cavendish and his sister was Jane. He hates Sinclair with a passion. Now it looks like Becky’s going down the same hole, he ought to sing.”
    â€œExcellent, thanks, Zoe, I’m going back into his evil eyrie now. I’ll call you later.”
    Archer paid his bill and left a generous tip. As he walked to the penthouse he called Julian Cavendish, but got his voicemail, so he left a message.
    He was back at the penthouse before nine. Sinclair was sitting on the sofa watching the news. His face was pale and crumpled. He looked completely exhausted. The mood in the living room was gloomier than the night before and even the glamorous presenters on the news channels were unable to ease the awkward tension.
    The ten a.m. weather forecaster was an attractive blonde woman dressed as if she was going out on a date in a tight skirt, low-cut blouse, bright red lipstick and matching jacket. Archer wondered if the bodyguards were ever interested in the news and weather. He knew the answer. She had the room’s full attention and promised no rain, blue skies and a cold wind from the North-east.
    She smiled vacantly and started to go into more detail as the phone rang. All eyes jumped from the pretty weather forecaster on the big screen to the phone ringing on the desk.
    Sinclair burst with energy. He pounced off the sofa towards the desk like a leopard focused on its prey. He grabbed the desk before pressing the speaker button on the second ring. He then