Free The Boathouse by R. J. Harries Page B

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.
    â€œWhat are you so happy about?”
    â€œGetting paid to sit here and wait until six o’clock.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œWhy 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.
    â€œOkay, what a day this one is turning out to be. Better than birthday.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œA man gave me five hundred pounds to close the office and return at six.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œSome stranger.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe didn’t say, I didn’t argue, simple.”
    â€œBut what about doing your job?”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œTell me about the man with the five hundred.”
    â€œEarly twenties, lean-looking, British.”
    â€œWhat else did he say?”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œWhat else did he say?”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œAnd was it?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œSo you’re a grand up?”
    â€œNot bad work if you can get it.”
    â€œYou didn’t think that it was strange?”
    â€œNo, man. I need money, job pays minimum wage.”
    â€œI’m going to get the car back now – will you open the barriers for me?”
    â€œBut you’re supposed to return at six o’clock, then I go home.”
    â€œSo you can take the rest of the day off in two minutes.”
    â€œOkay. 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.
    â€œTake the cars back and tell Sinclair what happened.”
    â€œWhat about you? You tell him.”
    â€œI’m paid to investigate, not run errands.”
    â€œYou’re afraid to tell him.”
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œMr Cavendish, my name is Sean Archer. I’d like to meet you.”
    â€œHow did you get my number?”
    â€œMy office found it. I need to speak to you urgently. About Peter Sinclair.”
    Pause.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI can’t talk over the phone, but it’s very important. Can you spare me just twenty minutes tomorrow morning?”
    â€œVery well then, come to my office at nine.”
    Finally a chance to get a break in a case that was seemingly still without leads.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    Archer decided to spend an hour in the basement gym followed by a long run to make sure he was tired enough to sleep. He fancied drinking himself into a coma, but decided to take the healthier option, so he ran to the river via Chelsea. He had been born and raised there and often ran past his grandparents’ old house, where his eidetic memory began, at fourteen years old. And not a single memory before