Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (28 page)

“Rosie Poulte, this could simply be a coincidence and that there are two Rosie Poulters. But according to a document I’ve just found on a very old database at central archives, a woman by this name was recorded by the coroner’s office as having died in 1978. Death by drowning due to misadventure. Is that helpful?”

“No. Not in the least bit. Why wasn’t that picked up on the first search?”

“Too far back and the original database had been placed into an archived programme that doesn’t reveal itself unless specifically asked for.”

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where did she die?” Dillon felt as if a piece of the jigsaw had just fallen into place.

“According to the record, Brighton.”

“So there is the possibility that the woman in Bournemouth is an impostor, using a dead woman’s identity?”

“What is her connection to Hart, though?”

“That’s what I need to find out.”

“You coming into the office tomorrow?”

“No. Tell LJ that I’ll email him a report of all recent events. Oh, and Vince, good work, mate.”

Dillon hung up, glanced down at his Omega Seamaster watch, and decided to fly to New Delhi on the first available flight into Indira Gandhi International Airport the next day.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dillon phoned Brendon Morgan on his mobile number early the next morning.

“I know it’s early, but I didn’t want to get bogged down with the call waiting system at Thames House,” he quickly explained.

“By the way, thanks for keeping your word and releasing Issy last night.”

“I said I would and I always keep my word. To be honest, it was costing the British tax payer an absolute fortune keeping her in that five-star hotel. Is that what you called for?”

“No. What I need now is a contact in Delhi. Whoever you can come up with at short notice. But they’ll need to have their ear to the underworld and know what’s going on. I’ll also need a gun when I get to the other end, preferably a Glock with spare clips.”

Morgan laughed. “I’m in the middle of my breakfast – that’s always a bad time to land me with that sort of problem. I can give you a contact, but the weapon is something else.”

“Don’t even go there, Brendon. Obtaining a weapon from the British Embassy should be a walk in the park for you. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to be unarmed in such a dangerous city. After all, do you really want me to find out what’s going on or not?”

“Ring me back in fifteen minutes and I’ll give you a contact. I need to check first, though.”

* * *

Having someone like Morgan on his side had its uses, like getting on a fully booked British Airways flight and automatically being upgraded to business class. It was the first time in days that Dillon felt like he would have a chance to relax, and it was not until they were rolling up the runway and taking off that he realised just how tired and bruised he felt. He slept for most of the way, often flying over countries that he had operated covertly in as a serving Army Intelligence Officer. By the time the aircraft was starting its descent into Indira Gandhi International Airport, he felt completely refreshed, where most of the passengers in economy class were feeling weary.

He was using his own passport and it seemed that Morgan had smoothed the way for him, because he was through immigration and customs whilst the others were still queuing. There were luxury air-conditioned limousines waiting to take tourists to their five-star hotels in fashionable downtown New Delhi. Dillon’s transport was a battered old embassy car running on diplomatic plates, double parked outside the terminal building. The young Indian driver sent to collect him stood by the passenger door, holding up a clipboard under his arm. When he spotted Dillon walk through the doors, he waved the clipboard above his head to attract his attention.

“Mr. Dillon?”

He was annoyed at having his name shouted across the concourse for all to hear and headed directly for the car.

“I’m, Dillon. Are you my contact?”

“No, Mr. Dillon. I have been sent to take you to your hotel. Your contact will make himself known to you there. You have been booked into the five-star Shangri-la Hotel – I hope that it will be to your liking. It is one of the best.”

“Is it? Well, I’m sure the Shangri-la will be just fine.”

They climbed into the car, the upholstery was in surprisingly good condition for such a battered-looking vehicle, and the V8 engine was definitely not standard issue. Dillon sat in the back seat, the driver was no more than twenty-five years of age, but handled the car like a seasoned professional as he negotiated the late evening Delhi traffic on route to the Shangri-La.

Dillon checked into the luxury hotel and a bellboy escorted him up to his room. He couldn’t be bothered to unpack. Instead he threw his luggage on the bed and went back downstairs to the main bar.

As he walked across the opulent marble-floored reception area, a tall thin man in his late fifties approached, khaki linen jacket open to show a white shirt, the top button undone and a silk tie loosened off. The face was narrow, lined and weathered, but in it were two twinkling blue eyes which looked out with amused cynicism at all they gazed upon.

“Jake Dillon?”

Dillon stood at a long sweeping bar.

“Yes, that’s me. Are you Adam Khan?”

“I am. And I must say how jolly nice it is to meet you, Mr. Dillon,” Khan said smiling. “I’ll be your liaison officer for the next day or two.”

“It’s Jake. Would you like a drink?”

“I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s on ice, please.”

Dillon ordered two Jack Daniels’, and, whilst he waited for the drinks, took in his surroundings.

The Embassy chose the Shangri-la because it is handily placed for reaching Shahjahanabad,” Adam Khan said in English Oxford tones.

“Shahjahanabad?”

“Old Delhi, Jake. London only gave my station head the briefest of details, but I imagine you’ll want to go there.”

“I expect so. You’ll know your way around, I assume? And if you can supply me with what I want to know, I might need to stay only the one night.”

“London did mention that you wouldn’t be staying longer than necessary. Most people would give their month’s salary to stay longer if they could.”

“I’m sure they would. But I’m afraid that on this trip I don’t have the time. By the way, I’ve been to India on many occasions.”

“In which case the sightseeing tour is out.” It was said with joviality.

He then added, “Apparently, I must ensure that you find what you are looking for quickly. And before I forget, I’m to give you this package. Apparently you already know what it is.”

Khan handed over a package wrapped in plain brown paper and then downed his drink in one long gulp.

“Please don’t think me rude, but I’ve got to run a small errand. I will return in one hour. If you like, we can talk more then.”

“That’ll be fine, see you then.”

Dillon went back up to his room and before unpacking, opened the package and checked the pistol. He pushed a full clip into the base of the grip and made sure there was a round in the chamber before tucking the Glock into his trouser band at the small of his back.

Adam Khan returned to the hotel an hour later, where he found Dillon already sitting back at the bar drinking his third Jack Daniel’s of the evening. He ordered another for Khan as he sat down on the stool next to him.

“I don’t know how much London has told you, but I’m here to check up on a character called Charlie Hart. I believe his father worked for the British Imperial Import & Export Company here in Delhi, and that he was brought up here.”

Khan leant back on the padded, circular seat. The bar was loosely packed with people, active in a leisurely sort of way. At the other end of the bar a group of business men were in full flow, drinking the hotel’s vintage Champagne and, with much laughter, telling dirty jokes.

“I know of Hart. It must be over twenty years since he left India.”

He mused for a while, listening in on the tail end of a joke that was being told by a rotund Irishman who was sweating profusely and slurring his words.

“He had a son, if I remember rightly. It was rumoured that the mother was a singer of local origin, used to perform in one of the Old Delhi nightclubs that were frequented by white colonials. I don’t think they were ever seen in public together. She’s probably still living in the city, but it would be hellish difficult to locate her after all these years.”

Dillon said, “I’ve got to know Charlie Hart a little. My impression of the man is that the mother may have deserted the child, or was told to disappear by Hart for hard realistic reasons. But I would guess that he would have made sure she was never destitute. He would have ensured that a generous financial provision was made for her.”

Khan raised one eyebrow and gave one of his slight cynical smiles.

“So we’d be looking for a singer who originally came from the slum district, who had come into money and did not know which section of the community she belonged. That really makes it a lot easier.”

At first Dillon was angry at Khan’s response, but quickly saw that he was right. The Indian community was a very close-knit one, and even if someone knew her it was highly unlikely that they would tell. He dwelled a little on a woman who had had a child and had then simply dumped it on the father’s doorstep because she did not fit into Hart’s wealthy world, and he now felt a little less respect for Hart. But then, that was the whole problem – he knew nothing of the circumstances that had led to such a situation. The fact that Hart had gone with a singer in a bar at all, made no sense. And it was some twenty odd years ago. To try to find Daniel’s mother would be hopeless.

He said, “How far back can you remember Charlie Hart?”

Khan waited whilst the coffees were put down and stared thoughtfully at them. He was sitting on the stool with his legs crossed, his wiry body turned slightly away from Dillon, his gaze shrewdly roaming the reception area and bar.

“That’s difficult to say, specifically. You see, as I recall, Hart was always something of a loner, didn’t mix a great deal. I seem to remember that he would attend those functions where it would look odd if he didn’t, but he never stayed long. A wealthy young man, but that’s nothing new in this place. Millionaires are common place nowadays. That’s why I never became one.”

Dillon smiled. “So how did he make his fortune?”

Khan swivelled round. “Jake, my new friend, you should know that is not the sort of question one asks in New Delhi.”

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell?”

“I’ll give you this. You’re persistent. I’m warming to you, but that doesn’t mean I know, or if I did, that I would wish to tell you.”

“Then you’re wasting my time. I need this information, and I need it now.”

“Look Jake, you’re asking about someone who left India over twenty years ago; whom nobody knew well, because he kept to himself, and who was never my personal friend. I do not know how he made his money, only that he was never short of it. What I do know is that he definitely didn’t get it from his parents.They were comfortable by the standard of those days, but had nothing like the money Hart had.”

“Are you saying he used to flash it around?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Jake. After all, he lived in a red-bricked mansion surrounded by twelve foot high walls in what was, and still is, one of the most affluent of areas in Delhi. This was probably why he bought it. It was nothing short of enchanting, but very few people ever got to go there, except to one of Hart’s rare parties. And before you ask, yes, I was there once. Even then he did not put in too much of an appearance. I remember that because everyone was so surprised he held a party at all. Some speculated that he would sit in his study and observe his guests on CCTV cameras that were strategically placed all over the building. But it was only speculation.”

“Was this shortly before he left India?”

Khan raised a brow, sensing a trap in the question.

“I’m afraid that my memory is not that good on remembering such fine detail, Jake.”

“You have the type of memory,” Dillon said picking up his coffee cup, “that the security services in London rate highly or they wouldn’t be picking up the bill for a five-star hotel and a business class return airline ticket. Nor would they have recommended that I come and talk with you. Was it?”

“As I recall, it could have been, but I believe he left a few weeks later. Simply sold up everything and left. Sold out to a Russian tycoon who now lives in the mansion. His parties are much more frequent. What is it that’s playing on your mind?”

Dillon looked around the busy bar, but there appeared to be no one near to them. “Hart has a UK passport, presumably because his parents were British citizens. But does anyone know anything about Hart’s parents?”

“I believe they came here in 1947, or there about. Hart was born in 1951, went to a British school here in Delhi, and by the time he was sixteen, I believe the saying goes, wheeling and dealing his way to his first fortune. By the time his twentieth birthday came, he was already a millionaire.”

“What was he trading in?”

“Anything that he could get his hands on easily.”

“Drugs?”

“One couldn’t dismiss the idea. After all, opium is a readily available commodity in these parts.”

“Were his parents really murdered by kidnappers?”

“The official police and embassy reports at the time state that they were both killed when the British Imperial Company refused to pay a second ransom. Charlie Hart appeared to take their deaths very badly. So much so, that shortly after he sold up and left India for good.”

“Appeared? Why appeared to take their deaths badly?”

“Some say that Hart owed a large sum of money to, let’s call him, ‘a merchant’ and that his parents were snatched because of this, and that Hart did eventually hand over the money. However, the merchant decided to raise the stakes and also demand a ransom from the company and that the British Consul advised that no payment should be made to the kidnappers. As far as I can see the company was not short of money when the demand was made.”

Dillon gave Khan a cynical look.

“The term ‘merchant’ can cover a multitude of sins and tells me absolutely nothing.”

He finished his coffee and put down the cup.

“Although, it would not be unreasonable to assume that Hart would hold a grudge and believe that the British Consul was to blame for the death of both his parents. Is that everything you know about him?”

“Just about. There is a man, a local, who was Hart’s right-hand man. He’s over in the old part of the city.”

He handed Dillon a small, folded piece of paper with a name and address written on it.

“I can take you to see him, although I doubt that he’ll help you. If Hart is half the businessman I think he is, he’ll most likely still be receiving a generous cheque payment each month.”

“Okay. But we won’t know until we knock on his door, will we?”

“You must understand, Jake, loyalty comes at a high price here.”

“You mean there’s no such thing as bribery here?”

Dillon was quietly laughing. “For a sceptic, and I would have said cynic, you’ve suddenly gone all naive, old son.”

“Well, I suppose if the sum of money is large enough it will catch the attention of the most loyal person. It’s very late. We’ll drive across to see him in the morning. How does six-thirty sound?”

“Early. But, I’ll see you out front six-thirty prompt.”

The two men shook hands and Dillon stood for a moment, watching Khan walk across the foyer, stop briefly at reception to hand over an envelope and then out through the rotating doors of the hotel. There was a nagging doubt in the back of Dillon’s mind about Khan’s integrity, which made him a little uneasy.

By the time Dillon had got back up to his room, he was beginning to feel a little jet-lagged. He took off his clothes and put them away in the wardrobe. Then went and showered off the sweat of travelling. He lay on the bed in the white complimentary bath robe and thought it had been a long way to come for what little he had learnt so far from Khan.

He unfolded the piece of paper with the address Khan had given him: Devdas Shah Zafar, Chandni Chowk, Gurdwara, Sisganj. He returned it to his jacket pocket. Khan was probably right – he could expect very little from someone who had worked for Hart, unless he had a reason to dislike him.