The Boathouse Read Free

Dorchester and Grosvenor House Hotels.
    â€œWhere are we going?” Archer asked.
    â€œMr Sinclair’s penthouse,” Jones said.
    They got out together and stood on the pavement outside Sinclair Mansions. A heavy-set man in a dark grey suit stepped out of the lobby, got into the car and drove it away. Another heavy bald-headed man held the door open as Jones escorted Archer into the building and pressed a button for the lift. The lobby was decorated neutrally, but soft lighting showcased glass cabinets of hand-painted china, two large oil paintings of old sailing ships and four white marble Grecian-style busts on square columns. It was like visiting a private museum reserved for wealthy patrons; an off-limits elitist’s paradise.
    â€œHave you worked for him long?” Archer asked, inside the lift.
    â€œLong enough,” Jones said. Not giving anything away to a stranger, like a typical ex-soldier finally onto a good thing and afraid to lose it.
    They got out on the ninth floor and Jones led the way straight ahead. A tall silver door opened automatically and a shining square plate next to it said: The Penthouse. It felt like entering a state apartment inside a palace and had to be worth at least fifty million.
    Inside the entrance, minimalistic-looking spaces were visible beyond in various shades of grey. The apartment was a tall airy space with a white and grey marble floor. A long lobby lead to a square entrance hall where an expressionless woman dressed in black sat behind a rococo-style desk. To the left, a rectangular living room and terrace overlooked the park. The furniture was modern with table lamps providing soft lighting and comfortable-looking sofas. The artwork was also modern and the only feminine touches were occasional groups of family photographs in silver frames and prominent cut-glass vases of white lilies.
    Four men were seated at a dining table at the far end of the room. Two wore dark grey suits and two were in dark jeans and black leather jackets. Hard-nosed bodyguards who exuded a ruthless military bearing just like the SAS. A lot of muscle for a property tycoon.
    All four turned sharply to stare at Archer, then at a fifth man who was standing next to a desk by the window. This had to be Sinclair, an older man in a light grey suit, pink shirt and pale blue tie. He had short white hair and a white, elegantly trimmed beard that worked well with his sun-tan. He looked fit but distressed, still and straight, hands spread out on top of the desk as if he was about to keel over if he moved them. He was staring vacantly at the black triangular-shaped conference phone in front of him.
    â€œThis is Mr Archer,” Jones said.
    No answer, just silence.
    The man at the desk stared as if hypnotised by the phone. Then he turned round dramatically, clamped his eyes on Archer and walked straight towards him. He was blatant, checking Archer up and down, measuring him, judging him. When done, he extended his right hand and smiled.
    â€œPeter Sinclair,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Archer.”
    His accent was clipped public school, probably Oxbridge, but it also had a dramatic cadence, as if he had studied at RADA. Archer shook his hand. It was cold with a firm grip.
    â€œTell me why I should hire you,” Sinclair said.
    â€œYou shouldn’t, you should call the police.”
    â€œBut why should I hire you and not some other consultant or investigator?”
    â€œI think there must be some sort of misunderstanding. I came here on a personal recommendation. I don’t do interviews or beauty parades, Mr Sinclair. I thought you wanted my help based on a direct referral from our mutual friend, Miles Davenport.”
    â€œSo what makes Davenport think you’re so good?” “Maybe you should ask him.”
    â€œHow do you know him?”
    â€œI’ve known him all my life. He knew my parents and grandparents.”
    â€œHmm. Can you expand