Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (10 page)

“Which is another way of saying that he hasn’t got
a bloody clue.”
“Yes I agree. I’ve pulled in a favour from the Chief
Constable. There’s an armed police officer stationed outside
of his room twenty four hours a day.”
“Good, and what of his daughter. Has she arrived
yet?”
“She’s on a British Airways flight, landing at
Gatwick,” LJ glanced at his gold Rolex that his wife had
given him for his birthday. “In approximately twenty-five
minutes time in fact.”
“You’ve sent a car to collect her?”
“Yes, and she’ll be staying with me while in London.”
“Excellent, in the circumstances I think that is wise.
You’d better have someone watch discreetly over her,
especially when she visits her father in the hospital.”
“That has already been put in place, sir. From the
minute she gets off the plane, there will be at least two
watchers following at all times.”
There was a knock at the door and a moment later
Stagg’s butler came in carrying a silver tray complete with
bottle of Champagne and two tall elegant crystal glasses.
LJ, suddenly felt very uncomfortable with the old man’s
blatant insensitivity, and display of frivolous indulgence at
a time when his friend and former colleague was lying in a
hospital bed fighting for his life.
The Champagne cork popped, and the glasses were
filled. Lucius Stagg sipped at the pale sparkling liquid and
then held the glass approvingly up to the light, saying,
“Please forgive me Edward, but this is now a daily ritual.
I’ve been told by my doctor that this stuff is actually good
for me.” He sipped a little more from his glass. “I think it’s
just an excuse for him to come round here, and drink my
very expensive vintage Bollinger, if you ask me. Anyway,
drink up, and I’ll have Stebbings show you out, I’m sure
you’ve got far better things to do with your time than stand
here and talk to an eccentric old man.”
“You know fully well, that it’s always a pleasure
to see you, sir. I’ll keep you up to speed with Commander
Cunningham’s progress, and I’m sure the Partners will keep
you informed as well, regarding the operational details
when we get to Jersey.” He put the half full glass back onto
the silver tray.
“Very good, Edward.”
“Goodbye, sir.”

The flight up from Jersey to London Gatwick airport
took approximately forty-five minutes. As the British
Airways jet touched down, Annabelle Cunningham was lost
deep in thought, thinking about her father who was laying
in a coma because of a reckless driver in a fast car. Whoever
it was, hadn’t even had the decency to stop, she thought,
instead had just callously driven off up the road. This
image brought tears to her eyes, and then the stewardess
was lightly touching Annabelle’s shoulder to tell her that
they had landed. Outside the terminal building a chauffeur
was waiting to greet her. He was standing alongside a black
Mercedes saloon, the name on the small plaque that he held
in his hand read, Cunningham. Annabelle got in, and a
moment later the Mercedes pulled away from the kerb.

Just before six o’clock, Guy Roberts arrived at
Belgrave Mews to collect LJ and Annabelle, and to take
them to the hospital. They settled into the rear seat of the
Mercedes, and were driven away. At the end of the road
the Mercedes had to squeeze past a white van coming from
the other direction, with the words Emergency Drainage
& Sewerage Engineers written down the side in bold black
lettering. It drove slowly to the other end of the Mews, and
parked in the vacant space that Roberts had just left.

Two men in their late twenties got out of the van,
both were wearing pristine blue overalls, and white hardhats
of the type worn on building sites. They went straight to
a manhole cover that was located a few feet away in the
middle of the pavement. Lifting the heavy metal plate off,
they placed it to one side, and then erected a portable safety
barrier around the hole, and then walked back to the rear
of the van.

After five minutes, the one whose name was Dean
Slater went along the path that led around to the back of
the elegant Georgian building, and the rear courtyards.
Opening a gate in the wall, he walked on ageing flagstones,
which led to the backdoor of LJ’s ground floor garden
apartment.

The mortise lock gave in easily to Slater’s experienced
touch, and a moment later he was stood in the middle of
the kitchen. The state of the art alarm system that had
been fitted remained silent. LJ, had once again forgotten
to activate it in his haste to leave earlier. He went through
the hall to the front door; his eyes darting into the rooms
on either side, familiarising himself with the layout. Slater
opened the heavy door, and Sean Black came up the front
steps to join him in the hallway.

They worked quickly and methodically through all
of the rooms in LJ’s apartment, searching every drawer
with meticulous care, systematically removing books off of
shelves, and then replacing them diligently in exactly the
same position as they had been taken from. Every painting
including the large portrait of Winston Churchill hanging
over the fireplace was lifted in one corner, in their search for
a safe, but one wasn’t found.

Finally, Slater said, “We’re wasting our time, the
briefcase isn’t here.”
They went through every room again, checking that
they hadn’t left anything out of place. Slater and Black
prided themselves on being professionals. They went to
great lengths to ensure that every room looked exactly the
same as it had done before they had entered it. Slater had
placed tiny cameras and microphones in the study, living
room and was just finishing in the kitchen when Black
walked in.
“Why are you bugging the place, that wasn’t what
we were asked to do?”
“So it wasn’t part of the brief. That’s no reason why
we shouldn’t show a little initiative is it? Anyway, we might
see or hear something to our advantage, and that’ll mean a
bonus on top of what we’re getting already.”
“Slater, have you forgotten who owns this place?
Listen this bloke was with MI5, he’s not one of your
ordinary everyday spooks, you know. This one is still
involved in that sort of stuff at the highest level, and we
were definitely warned not to take any risks that could
make him suspicious. Remember?”
“Black, you really are like an old woman. Are you
forgetting who is paying us? Hugo Malakoff, and you’d
better believe me mate, when I tell you that this French dude
is not someone you mess around with, right. He wants fast
action on this one, and no pussying around, that’s what the
man said. I know what he’s capable of, and you don’t want
to upset this guy. Now let’s get the hell out of here, and
dump that van, before some nosy git gets suspicious, and
rings the number on the side that doesn’t exist. Someone
will almost certainly have made a note of it being parked
here, they always do in these sort of areas. I think we’ll
swap it for something a little more our style, Black, say a
Ferrari preferably or perhaps we’ll even make do with an
Aston Martin, who knows. Then we’ll go get ourselves one
of Gino’s special pizzas to take back to the lockup.”
“Then what?” asked Black.
“Then we wait, Black. And when this Levenson
whatever his name is and the girl return, well, then we
can settle down to a little night time eavesdropping and
hopefully learn something to Mr Malakoff’s advantage.”

“He looks so dreadful, with all of those tubes stuck
in his body.” Annabelle Cunningham stood beside her
father’s hospital bed stroking his hair with tears in her eyes.
LJ, who had been standing by the door, came over, and put
a fatherly arm around her shoulders. The door opened, and
the consultant who LJ had seen on his last visit, breezed into
the room with two young white-coated doctors following.

After introducing himself, he proceeded to examine
Nathan, at the same time he gently explained to Annabelle
just how serious her father’s injuries were, but at the same
time, also reassured her that his chances of pulling through
were now much more favourable. When he’d left, Annabelle
slumped down in a nearby chair, she looked tired, and had
dark circles under her eyes. She looked up at LJ, and tried a
smile that failed miserably.

“You look absolutely bushed my dear. Why not
get a good night’s rest at the apartment, and then I’ll have
young Roberts bring you back here first thing tomorrow
morning.” She was going to protest, but was far too tired,
and gave in.

As they drove away from the hospital Annabelle
said, “You’re very kind. But I need to know exactly what
happened, can you tell me?”

“Okay, well from what the witnesses have told the
police, Nathan was at a level crossing, the traffic lights
changed to red, and he simply stepped off the pavement.
Was half way across the road when a BMW saloon car
came from the right and hit him. According to the lady
who called for the ambulance, the driver of the car then
accelerated off up the street, and disappeared into the mid
morning traffic.”

“What a bloody cowardly callous bastard.” The sobs
had gone, and had been replaced by a steely hardness to her
voice now. “I mean, here we have a man whose reflexes and
eyesight are as sharp as anyone half his age. He would not
simply walk out in front of a car, he just wouldn’t. I really
can’t believe it, there must be more to this than we know
LJ?”

“I know, and that’s why I’ve got my best people
looking in to it, and why the police are treating it as
attempted murder, and not simply another hit and run
incident.” They travelled the rest of the short journey in
silence.

They arrived back at Belgrave Mews just before ninefifteen. To be greeted by a police patrol car parked outside
of the apartment. Guy Roberts stopped the Mercedes a
short distance along the road. LJ walked back towards the
two waiting uniformed officers. He talked briefly with them
on the front steps, before going up, and opening the front
door. In the hallway one of the officers outlined the alleged
events that had led to them being called to the scene.

“Apparently sir, there was a white van parked
outside your flat with two white males inside it. One of
your neighbours became suspicious when one of the men
disappeared around to the rear of the properties, and then
the other one was seen going up your steps at the front a
moment later. The lady who witnessed this then tried to
telephone the number on the side of the van to find out
what the problem was with the drains. It turned out to be
a fake number, so she decided to call us and report it. We
arrived fifteen minutes later, but I’m afraid the van had
already gone.”

LJ went ahead of the policemen towards the kitchen,
and checked the back door for any signs of forced entry.
He then went through each room in turn. “There doesn’t
appear to have been a break in officers, and as far as I can
tell there’s absolutely nothing missing or out of place.”

The officer in charge took a few minutes to write
up a brief report, and LJ was asked to read and sign it.
When they had left, he went, and poured two large
whiskies. Annabelle downed hers in one gulp, and then
said goodnight. Levenson-Jones poured himself another
generous measure of whisky before moving to one of the
Chesterfield sofas, and slumping down on to the antique
leather. Sitting forward, he held his glass up to the portrait
of Winston Churchill, and toasted the great man.

At the same time he made a mental note to have
his technical support chap, Vince Sharp come round in the
morning, and check the place for fingerprints. He was sure
that the painting had been perfectly level before.

Six miles away in the East End of London, the sound
of trains could be heard rumbling on the heavy metal track
high above the run-down side street. Sending dust down
from the exposed rafters, and vibrations through the very
structure of the Victorian railway arches, and into the lockup.

Slater and Black sat eating pepperoni pizza from
Gino’s, and complaining about the noise from the trains,
while intently watching the monitor screen. Headphones
kept out the noise above, and enabled them to hear what
was being said at Belgrave Mews. The miniature bugging
devices that Slater had placed inside the apartment were
now active, and they could here and see the police officers,
and LJ talking in the kitchen.

“Um, very unfortunate, that is Black,” Slater said
aloud, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a
shiver ran down his spine. Whoever she was would almost
certainly be able to pick out the two young criminals with
the bottle-blond cropped hair in a line-up? Malakoff will be
furious that they’ve been so amateurish as to bring attention
to themselves. Of that he had no doubt. The only option
was to eliminate the witness, whoever she was.

Slater calmly picked up the phone, and dialled
the number of a certain Detective Sergeant within the
Metropolitan Police. This one owed his very recent
promotion to a tip off that Slater had given him, which
resulted in the downfall of a big-time drug dealer. Five
minutes later the phone beside him started to ring, and he
picked it up, and listened carefully, writing down the name
and address that was given to him. He hung up without
saying a word, the debt had been re-paid in full. Switching
the twenty-four hour recorders over to automatic, Slater
got up, and went to the back of the lock-up to an old rusty
metal cabinet that was dented down one side, and bolted to
a brick wall.

Opening the steel door he swung it around to reveal
what was inside. He studied the array of weapons for a few
moments, before extracting a Walther PPK with a silencer
already attached for himself, and a sawn off shotgun for
Black. Before closing the cabinet door, he reached in, and
picked up a syringe along with a small ampoule bottle that
he then carefully placed into his jacket pocket.