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then sat in the car with the door open and opened the bag. The front tyre was deflated and the flask of diamonds was still on the ground. He was getting the pump ready as a silver BMW motorbike stopped in front of the car. The leather-clad rider was wearing a full face helmet but appeared to be male. He bent down, picked up the flask, and put it in a small rucksack.
    The biker headed off down Pitt’s Head Mews. Archer ran to the corner of the hotel to see if he could read the small number-plate for Zoe to track by hacking into the CCTV system. As he turned the corner he saw the biker had stopped. A lorry was blocking the road while a crane was unloading materials at a construction site. This was an opportunity to read the plate if he could get close enough. Archer sprinted down the road. The biker was only forty yards away, but wasn’t waiting for the road to clear. He spun the bike around, leaving half a donut of rubber behind, and headed back towards Archer, who automatically stopped in the middle of the road and held his hands out, shouting, “Stop!” Which immediately felt like a stupid thing to do.
    The fit-looking biker stopped six feet in front of him and casually reached inside his leather jacket, pulled out a yellow Taser gun and aimed it at Archer. He motioned it towards the pavement and Archer moved off the road and jerked uncontrollably as his body went into spasm. Every muscle in his body tightened and became rigid with the fifty-thousand-volt shock from the Taser. It stopped, and his legs fell away beneath him. His muscles vibrated as if he’d had a mains electric shock. His body went numb and seemed to fall asleep for a minute or two. He couldn’t move, and then he felt hot, and as soon as he could move again his muscles started to tingle. He tried to stand but was too weak. Hundreds of pins prodded his skin before it was set on fire, prickling, itching. Would it ever end? He sat on the kerb with his head bowed between his knees for a couple of minutes to recover. Pedestrians passed by, but nobody stopped.
    He got up, still feeling weak, and managed to stumble back to the car, slumping into the passenger seat next to a relaxed-looking Jones.
    â€œWhat happened to you? You look like shit.”
    â€œNever mind, let’s get out of here.”
    â€œDid you get the plate?”
    â€œNo, did you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œLet’s tell Sinclair what happened and then come back and see the concierge.”

CHAPTER NINE

    They drove from the hotel via Berkeley Square, where Jones pointed out his boss’s office. He waved at the doorman standing outside the Connaught, who looked like another ex-soldier, and then turned sharp left into Adams Row, stopping in front of Sinclair’s double mews garage. They sat in the car with the engine running in the quiet cobbled lane near Grosvenor Square. Jones told him that the garage housed four of Sinclair’s cars and had a four-bedroom serviced apartment above it which was used by his staff to stay overnight if required. Archer acted disinterested in the garage and flat, but noted all the information freely provided. There seemed to be no end to Sinclair’s cash or ego.
    â€œI need to know more about Becky Sinclair,” he said.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œPersonal details, discussions when you were in the car with her or places that you took her. I need to know about her private life, her friends and family.”
    â€œHer sister Louise, Mrs Palmer, is her closest friend.”
    â€œWhere does she live?”
    â€œKnightsbridge. It’s not far but there’s no point going there as she’s away on a business trip.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI took her to the airport with Mrs Sinclair. We always take her to the airport.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œSunday, the day before they took Mrs Sinclair.”
    â€œWhen is she due back?”
    â€œWe’re picking her up next week.