The Boathouse by R. J. Harries Page B

do it first or the mechanical impact of the train as it sliced and diced through flesh and bone like a massive meat mincer? He felt the adrenalin kicking into his system as his mind and body fought to survive. Two more seconds and he would be safe. Safe from his dark side.
    Archer knew there would be no mercy or sympathy from any commuters if the train was held and delayed. They wouldn’t care about the loss of his life. Just the inconvenience of a half-hour delay to their journey. “Bloody jumpers.” He’d cursed them many times himself.
    The tube driver passed by, looking up at the ceiling of his cab, chewing gum, completely bored. Archer felt a surge of relief. Safe until some other day.
    Archer boarded the tired-looking westbound tube to Rayners Lane. He got off one stop later at Knightsbridge. The train and the escalators were dead quiet. A few shoppers and tourists. He waited at the pedestrian crossing outside the station, looking up at One Hyde Park, and crossed the road that had been part of the ransom drop circuit around the park. He walked from the tube station exit towards the red brick and stone majesty of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.
    He hurried past the doorman in his red coat and top hat, up the worn stone steps and through the pillared archway and tall doors leading into the lobby. Cavendish was not there so he found a quiet red leather armchair with a good view of the entrance and reception desk and waited for him to arrive.
    Sinclair called him on his mobile phone, but he let it go to voicemail and switched it on silent. Well-heeled businessmen and well-dressed shoppers came and went in all directions as the lunch crowds assembled for liquid refreshment. The aperitifs flowed like storm water going down the drain in a monsoon.
    Cavendish entered the hotel lobby with an air of confidence and arrogance befitting a successful managing partner in a major law firm. The pin-striped lawyer glanced around, spotted Archer and smiled, but before he could get to him a junior member of the hotel management had recognised him and politely asked him if he was lunching there today.
    Cavendish shook hands with the man and gestured to his waiting guest. Archer heard him explain that he required a table for four, but only two would stay after aperitifs for lunch. Archer got up and shook Cavendish’s hand. The dark-haired junior manager asked them to follow him and led them briskly towards the high-ceilinged dining room at the rear of the hotel, overlooking the park.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

    Cavendish had a prime table, next to one of the tall crystal-clear windows. They sat down as half a dozen Blues and Royals passed by, providing a chorus of clattering horseshoes. Beyond them the familiar sights of Rotten Row and the colourful oak trees around the Serpentine, where Archer had been walking with Best less than fifteen minutes ago.
    Cavendish looked immaculate with his silver silk tie and matching handkerchief ruffled flamboyantly in his breast pocket. He gesticulated a lot as he ordered sparkling bottled water and a good bottle of white Burgundy on ice.
    Archer politely declined.
    â€œSarah Forsyth, my favourite investigator, should be here any minute,” Cavendish said with gusto and a smile.
    â€œThanks for doing this. Will she talk candidly?”
    â€œI’ve asked her to share everything she found out with you.”
    â€œThat’s good of you. Thanks. What’s she like?”
    â€œFearless.”
    â€œIs this her?”
    An attractive woman in her early thirties wearing a dark business suit and carrying a laptop-sized briefcase walked towards them. She smiled confidently at them both. She was tall, slim and tanned. Wide-set brown eyes, pert nose and a generous lower lip that shimmered with lip gloss. Archer’s first impression was that she wore too much make-up for a business meeting and revealed too much of her cleavage and thighs. Pouting more like a glamour model than a