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closet, causing Sinclair to raise an eyebrow. One of the drawers was full of jewellery, another of watches. Several contained expensive-looking underwear, mostly matching sets of silk lingerie. Archer wondered if Becky was naturally well proportioned or surgically enhanced, but decided not to comment.
    The bottom drawer, about the size of a briefcase, was full of neatly stacked money, bundles of new twenty-pound notes.
    â€œHow much is there?”
    â€œTwo hundred thousand.”
    â€œWhy all the cash?”
    â€œShe has expensive tastes and a limitless charge card, but sometimes only cash is king. She has instant access to it if she needs it.”
    A fortune to most people, but he thinks it’s just some spare cash stashed in a drawer.
    â€œOkay, thanks. I’ve seen enough for now,” Archer said. “I’ll need to speak to the rest of your staff, but I can do that later.”
    Archer followed Sinclair back to the living room. The suitcase was still on the floor, in the entrance hall. A small stainless-steel flask had appeared next to it. Jones and the other men were still sitting quietly in the living room. Jones nodded that it was time to leave. Adams and Best took the case and the diamonds to the car. Clarke and Haywood stayed seated with Sinclair in the living room. Archer assumed they were his most trusted bodyguards.
    At ten minutes to six, Jones drove the black Mercedes out onto Park Lane in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic with Archer in the passenger seat. Five million dollars in cash in the boot and a small flask of sparkling diamonds between his legs worth well over two million dollars. The second drop was underway.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Jones drove the Mercedes around the congested street circuit exactly as instructed by the kidnappers. Knightsbridge was still busy with shoppers as Archer stared out of the window. Throngs of tired-looking commuters still travelling home from work. Cyclists in suits with their computers in rucksacks. Joggers who left their suits in the office. People in office outfits wearing trainers to walk easier and faster, some even overtaking slower people out exercising. The pace of commuting had increased dramatically over the years. These fit commuters were seriously focused on minimising their journey time as they elbowed tourists and dawdlers out of the way, as if they had a birth right to be first wherever they happened to be. He noted the contrast as they passed the overweight smokers and drinkers standing outside pubs calmly waiting for the rush hour to pass. It was all easy to watch from the comfort of a luxury air-conditioned sedan.
    Becky would be used to the remoteness of wealth, accustomed to the finer things in life, like being whisked around in style and never getting too close to the workers. She was probably struggling with her ordeal on several levels. Being held prisoner, not in control or comfort, but far too close to strangers and fearing what they might do to her.
    The route around Hyde Park took between ten and twenty minutes per lap depending on the traffic and the lights. Archer counted the fourth lap out loud and checked his watch. They had been driving for exactly one hour and it was getting dark, but still no call.
    â€œDo you always drive the Sinclairs around?” Archer asked.
    â€œI’m mainly Mrs Sinclair’s driver, but sometimes I drive Mr Sinclair.”
    â€œDoes she always keep to the same routine every week?”
    â€œShe favours certain shops and restaurants, normally after her workout.”
    Jones was a steady driver and held his nerve well during an hour of mild interrogation. He kept hitting Archer’s questions back over the net without taking his eyes off the road or showing any signs of stress, like a well-trained ex-soldier.
    â€œDoes she socialise much?”
    â€œLong lunches with her sister, dinners and functions with Mr Sinclair.”
    â€œAre she and her sister good