Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (10 page)

Hammer had some questionable friends who were all involved at the highest level of serious organised crime. From time to time, an article about him would appear in the financial press; usually about one of his PLC companies and how well it was doing on the Stock Exchange. Rare though it was, a photograph would occasionally turn up in The Times, taken at one of the elaborate annual charity functions he had hosted, usually at one of his five-star hotels. Invariably the image would show a group of random people standing around him, along with some of the highest ranking police officers in the Met. Dillon thought how that must cause a few sniggers throughout the force, especially as many of the faces present at these gatherings were well-known criminals. Yet, as far as Dillon knew, Hammer had no actual police record. There were certain types of businessmen who for some quirky reason got a kick out of fraternising with the upper echelons of the criminal underworld and the police – like groupies with rock stars. So it was logical to assume that both would be called on from time to time, essentially to boost their sense of importance.

On the flip side of this was that some of these criminals got their kicks from mixing with legitimate big names: businessmen, politicians and so-called celebrities. In fact, anybody who on the surface of it all placed them on the ‘A’-list of important people. History was littered with cases of criminals rubbing shoulders with, and usually to the detriment of, members of society’s elite and politicians. Hammer was not only extremely wealthy, but well-connected too. His reclusiveness was something that people found intriguing, which made him attractive to others. Whereas Tommy Trevelyan was only moderately wealthy by comparison, had a limited vocabulary, and couldn’t string a sentence together without the inclusion of a number of the more colourful swear-words for company.

The two names were a strange combination. Dillon couldn’t see Paul Hammer openly mixing with the likes of Tommy Trevelyan, who sent fear through most of those who knew him, and was rarely seen in any photograph or in public. Trevelyan didn’t seek publicity of any kind. It was difficult, too, to imagine Jack Fox having anything to do with either of these men – they were both way out of his league. But he had both names on his database, which Dillon thought was odd. True enough, even those in a position of power often needed the services of men like Fox.

It was well over two hours before Vince rang back. Dillon listened to what he’d found out, making the odd note and not interrupting. Ten minutes later, he hung up and immediately phoned Dunstan Havelock on his Whitehall number. After a few minutes of listening, Havelock was berating Dillon for jeopardising the whole assignment with his maverick approach and they ended up arguing. At which time Havelock reminded him that the Home Office could not, under any circumstances, tolerate unorthodox intelligence activities, let alone fund them. Dillon shot that down by reminding Havelock that he was the one who had got him involved in what was fast becoming a life-or-death situation. That both partners of Ferran & Cardini International and Sir Lucius Stagg were not happy about some of the high-profile names involved. They believed that there was something very much adrift with the whole affair.

The Mercedes 4x4 had been reported stolen in London earlier that day, and had been found abandoned near Bournemouth train station. This confirmed Dillon’s surmise that the gunmen had come down from the city, but this really meant nothing, except to suggest where they had returned to.

The news on Julian Latimer was more interesting. Although not a very prominent Member of Parliament, he was thought to be wealthy. He was from old money in the city and had a healthy portfolio of investments, though no directorships that had been disclosed. And he had interests in India. He had been there on numerous occasions and had money invested in the State Bank of India. It was also believed that he had lost a great deal of money on October 19, 1987, ‘Black Monday’, when the UK Stock Exchange plunged to an all time record low. But had recovered most of it over recent years by shrewdly investing in emerging markets.

“Where on earth did you get all of this information from?” asked Havelock.

“Vince Sharp. Just point him in the right direction and let him go. I’d have asked you to dig this stuff up, but I knew you’d have told me I was abusing the Home Office and your generosity.”

“That’s as may be. But he has quite obviously hacked into the parliamentary computer system, yet again, and delved around the members’ database with his pudgy little fingers. This cannot, and will not, be tolerated!”

“Dunstan, you know as well as I do that Vince wouldn’t do that.” Dillon laughed.

“It’s not a laughing matter, Jake. If he didn’t get the information from there, then he must have got it from one of his pals over at MI5.”

“Are they watching Latimer?”

“Goodbye, Jake. And another thing, please do not contact me on this number unless it’s a matter of life or death.”

Dillon smiled to himself. Havelock had a warped sense of humour and it definitely helped to know that when dealing with him.

As Dillon put down the phone, he was feeling more and more frustrated with the assignment, but was now in too deep to back off. Going into the kitchen, he made a fresh pot of filter coffee and was about to take it outside onto the balcony when the intercom buzzed in the apartment. It was a driver coming to collect the hired Porsche and take it for repair, and at the same time leave a rather dirty-looking Ford Focus for Dillon to use. After ignition keys had been exchanged, the bullet-holed Porsche was put on the back of the transporter and taken away. Dillon went back up to the apartment and dialled Issy’s mobile phone number. He was immediately diverted to voicemail and although he wanted to leave her a message, he didn’t. Instead, he hung up, went and packed an overnight bag. He checked Paul Hammer’s address, and twenty minutes later, was heading out of Bournemouth towards St John’s Wood.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Charlie Hart wasn’t a man to dwell on trivial matters and, true to his nature, he had put Jake Dillon out of his mind the moment he left his Sandbanks house. The unwelcome intrusion into his business affairs and disruption of his normal everyday life was, in his opinion, no longer there. It was not a problem or of any concern to him anymore. He went to bed that night, alone in his opulent waterside mansion, except for Mrs. Pringle, who slept in her own private apartment on the ground floor.

Hart woke suddenly from a troubled sleep. He’d been sweating, the silk pyjamas he was wearing felt clammy and clung to his skin. It had not been as bad as this for many years. His head felt like it was going to explode, his mind in turmoil like a bubbling cauldron – full of bad thoughts and memories that wouldn’t let him rest, not even for his own sanity’s sake. When the torment came, it came from deep within his subconscious – like a hydra-headed monster sent to destroy him during the hours of darkness. He sat up in the bed trembling, not able to stop the fear that he could smell and feel, just as if it were there in the room with him.

He got out of bed and stripped off in the adjacent dressing room. The clock on the side table showed a little after 3 a.m., but, in spite of this, he went into the en-suite wet room and showered. The water hammered at his head but the anguish and total isolation that he felt, remained. He ran the water cold for a few minutes and this torture calmed the tangled mess of thoughts inside his head. By the time he finished he was shivering rather than trembling, but his head felt clearer and more focussed. He towelled off, put on fresh pyjamas and returned to his bedroom.

Instead of going back to bed he went over to the panoramic window. The mansion’s central control automatically parted the drapes on his voice command. He stood looking out across the harbour at the rolling mist hugging the surface of the black, still water. He remained there for several minutes. Only then did Jake Dillon return to his thoughts.

This whole affair had really started when he had allowed his son to bring a girlfriend and her bodyguard to view the collection. He comprehended, however, that no one could have known that the girl would be so well-acquainted with the Dutch painter, Johannes Vermeer. Hart didn’t know himself, not the full context, so it was difficult to blame his son or anybody else. However, the events that followed her visit, and the repercussions thereof, had already been enormous.

Hart knew the problem would not go away. If he handed over the painting to the Boston Museum, he would only bring more suspicion upon himself and even more speculation as to how he had come to own it in the first place. Whatever he now did, the damage was unfortunately already done and somebody’s interest was sufficiently aroused to employ the talents of Jake Dillon. Why not the police, or even the security service? If it was thought that it was in any way something that would embarrass the Government on an international scale? Which is probably what the Americans would think. He thought he knew why and felt sorry for Dillon.

Thinking like this was something he hadn’t done for many years, but he now found himself having been unwillingly drawn into a situation from which there was no escape, and which he thought he’d left way back in his past. Sitting down on the nearby reclining chair he dozed for a while, but the problem wouldn’t leave him alone. His only relief was that there was only one subject occupying his mind and not the crammed clutter of information from years gone by.

Hart had not felt so totally alone and isolated as he did now. There wasn’t anyone that he could talk to about the old times, because no one would want to remember them. But that was not the only reason. The past was best left dead and buried and here he was bringing it back to life.

He didn’t want to go back to bed, wasn’t tired anymore and decided to take another shower and shave. He went down to breakfast in his dressing gown. Outside the sun was rising in a cloudless sky and he was feeling much happier with the world. But in the dark recesses of his mind he knew that he was being pulled away at a time when he should be strong-willed and totally focussed. Or suffer the consequences for this distraction.

Mrs. Pringle always insisted he had a cooked breakfast, but this morning he really didn’t feel up to it. He did his best for her sake and left the house late morning, driving the Jaguar.

He was halfway across Bournemouth before he realised he should by paying more attention to his rear-view mirror. It was usually second nature to watch out for cars that stayed behind him for too long. In heavy traffic it was unavoidable, but he had been vigilant for so long that he believed he could pick out a car tailing him from somebody just driving along the same stretch of road. Like traffic cops who could spot the innocent drivers from the guilty ones by some almost indefinable difference of road behaviour.

Hart slipped back into normal routine and watched his back, satisfied that he wasn’t being followed. He reached Boscombe, drove up and down side streets to find a parking space, and then walked slowly back to the old florist shop where he had seen the woman come out.

These strange outings achieved absolutely nothing except more confusion. And yet he was completely unable to stop himself from coming. This time he took a table at the other end of the café, away from the main entrance and people coming and going. Whilst he waited he ordered and drank two white coffees and wondered, as he had before, just why he was doing it?

He was no wiser when the woman came out of the doorway of the building opposite – as she always did about this time, on this day of the week. The woman still appeared to be dressed poorly, wearing the same coat as before. Only this time she wore a hat which largely covered her grey hair. She seemed to be happier than the last time he’d observed her and when she walked off up the road, she had a bounce in her stride. Hart finished his coffee, leaving a five pound note under the mug. He went outside and followed her, staying on the opposite side of the road so that she wouldn’t notice him. When she reached the Roman Catholic Church, she went inside and Hart stood and watched as she disappeared into the building.

He crossed the road and this time went into the church just behind an elderly couple. He looked around and spotted the woman praying in a pew off to his left. He wanted to get near enough to be able to leave a wad of twenty pound notes on the pew nearby to where she was praying. He walked slowly down the aisle with one or two others and when he came to the line of pews directly behind the woman, he shuffled his way along until he was within a few feet of her. The woman continued with her prayer, only glancing up when another woman sat down beside her, making it virtually impossible for Hart to carry out his good deed. The act of leaving such a large sum of money on a church pew could also be misconstrued, he thought.

The woman hastily got up and as she went passed him towards the aisle, he had to lower his head as she briefly glanced over in his direction before hurrying off up the aisle towards the exit. Had she recognised him, or was it merely Hart being paranoid? A moment later, he too got up and left the church. Once outside, he looked up and down the road in a vain attempt to see the woman, but she’d disappeared into thin air.

He was feeling really stupid, even amateurish, and realised he could have put himself in an extremely compromising situation. Even had he succeeded in leaving the money, what would the woman have thought if she had found it on the bench next to her? She would more than likely have handed it to the Father for safe keeping. He felt the embarrassment wash over him as he accepted that he had acted like an adolescent schoolboy.

As he walked back towards the Jaguar he pondered on why he had been so reckless. The possibilities of what might have gone wrong inside the church were still running through his mind and had shattered his confidence. By the time he had reached the car, embarrassment had turned to bewilderment at his own actions. By the time he was halfway across town heading home, he had fully recovered and was forcing his thoughts ahead rather than behind. There was no future dwelling on what might have been. His only reaction now was that he should never forget it again. It had been a naive lapse which would never be repeated.

Then his mind drifted again and so did his concentration. Within a split second, the Jaguar was over the centre line and he very nearly hit the car heading towards him on the other side of the road. Thankfully, he was driving down a side street and not a busy main road, for he missed the oncoming car by only a matter of inches. Horns blared and the other driver shook his fist at him as he went pass. He should have pulled over at the first opportunity but he somehow kept driving even though he still felt shaky, although he was driving more slowly and being extra careful. The shock had woke him up, and his head felt clearer than it had done for a long time.

What the hell was happening to him? He knew, but was not ready to acknowledge it. His mind was in a state of turmoil to the point of not knowing which day or even which month it was. It was a situation he’d not been in before, and it terrified him. Past events came tumbling back to mix with the present, and they were all attacking him at once until there were times when he believed that he was going completely mad. The problem was compounded because he had believed that those days were long over and forgotten.

He knew what had triggered it, as it had done before. And with it came all of the other problems. Destiny was in his own hands. There was a point in life when he had firmly believed that to be true and he had proved it to be so. It was still true if he remembered the simple rules he had created for himself. But he was beginning to ignore them. He would overcome the problem, though. He always had. But he was reluctant to admit that this time it was different and largely self-created.