Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (33 page)

Rachel came downstairs just as Havelock was showing Morgan out through the front door. Morgan said his goodbyes with good grace, but he looked tired when he left and didn’t look back as he stepped into the waiting car parked at the kerbside.

Once the door was closed Rachel said, “That is one very unhappy man. you must have given him a hard time.”

When neither replied, she said she would get some coffee and biscuits, sensing that they were far from finished.

“What’s he up to?” asked Dillon as they went back into the living room.

“I’m not sure. But I do know that I lied for you.”

He finished his drink. “And I don’t know why I did such a thing.”

“Because he’s up to something. Why is it so important to him that I’m sidelined after doing all of the donkey work? I have a feeling it has something to do with Charlie Hart. He’s the one he wants to keep me well away from.”

Havelock sat in an armchair, quietly reflecting, not too happy with what he had done.

“I think he knows that the drugs are in this house,” he said, after a while.

“I’m positive he knows. After all, his men are positioned outside. They would have seen me get the holdall out of the boot and bring it inside.”

Havelock sat bolt upright. “You mean they’ve got the house under surveillance?”

“I think it’s more likely that they were waiting for me to turn up. But I do think they’ve got your office line wired up again. They’ll still be positioned out there. I saw one of them when Morgan left a moment ago. I know they don’t trust me and I think I know why, but what I don’t know is the real reason behind it. Everything is pointing back to Hart. I must see him again, because he’s definitely the key to all of Morgan’s waffling. I think these drugs being left behind and then being found by yours truly is about to become a bloody great big embarrassment to Morgan. Anyway, all that said and done, I’ve got to make sure that when I leave here they see me carrying the holdall.”

“Well, you could just stay here tonight,” said Rachel as she came through the doorway with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She put down the tray and waited for Dillon to reply.

“Thanks, Rachel. But I suspect they have a full team out there, which means that they’ll still be there in the morning. And it’s far easier to play cat and mouse with them in the dark.”

Havelock didn’t like the sound of what Dillon was saying. He wanted to believe that apart from Morgan’s strange behaviour, it really was over and that only the loose ends had to be tied up. If Morgan had stationed a full team of watchers outside waiting to follow Dillon, it was far from being concluded and had suddenly taken on a more sinister aspect.

“It’s really kind of you to offer to put me up, but I’d better leave. There’s a strong possibility that they will have placed a tracker on the Porsche whilst I’ve been here. I’ll be able to check if they have, thanks to Vince’s little addition to my mobile phone.”

Dillon saw the look of puzzlement cross both their faces and explained, “He’s added a multi-frequency scanner to the phone, which can pick up any tracking or listening device within five metres. Now there’s something else that I need to do before I leave.”

Dillon went to the kitchen with Rachel and part-filled three plastic sandwich boxes with every ounce of flour that he could find, and then swapped them for the others in the holdall. As he walked down to the Porsche he made it appear heavier than it actually was. Havelock kept watch on the doorstep as he put it in the boot. Rachel came outside a moment later, after she’d put on another sweater against the cold night air.

Dillon got into the driver’s side of the car and before turning on the engine, took his mobile phone and entered the code for the scanning mode. Ten seconds later the screen lighted up like a Christmas tree and the tracking device was located just behind the front air dam. Dillon entered a series of numbers and then waited for the device to be spiked and immobilised. He got out of the car and went back to where the Havelocks were standing, gave Rachel an affectionate kiss on the cheek and shook Havelock’s hand warmly.

As he was about to walk back to the car, Havelock asked, “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

The discovery of the tracker filled his voice with concern.

“I’ll be fine. After all, it’s almost an occupational hazard for me. Admitted, I don’t know what they have in mind next, because I’m not sure how useful I still am to Morgan now. So I’ll be expecting the worse and be ready for whatever they throw my way. But he must be up to something to pull a stunt like this, and only time will show us his true colours. See you both soon.”

“Take care, Jake.”

Rachel was holding Havelock’s hand tight, unable to hide her deep concern.

Dillon climbed into the Porsche and drove off.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Dillon was making it easy for them – playing it safe as he could see no point in driving around all night long, but wanted to see what they were up to. He headed south back into town, at Piccadilly Circus he drove around for a while before scooting off up Shaftsbury Avenue and heading for Charing Cross. At the first opportunity he turned left and headed back towards Whitehall, past The Ministry of Defence buildings and on towards Westminster Bridge.

There were two cars following – a black Mitsubishi Evo and the other a silver BMW M3 coupe. Both cars were keeping a discreet distance back but were within easy reach of him. He turned right at Parliament Square, took a left and was then driving along Birdcage Walk. All the time they stayed on his tail. As he passed Buckingham Palace and started down The Mall, they made their move. The Evo raced past him and the BMW remained on his tail, but came in dangerously close so that if he suddenly braked hard it would definitely pile into the rear of the Porsche Cayman.

As the front car slewed across he was forced to brake and the following car mirrored his actions and came to a halt just behind the Porsche. He now found himself sandwiched and he knew they would not waste time chatting about the weather. To prevent any passing police interest they had stuck blue flashers on the roofs of both cars to make it look like a plain clothes official job.

He sat back in the leather bucket seat and waited for them to come. Two men approached, one from either side and both were armed. Morgan must have warned them about him carrying a weapon. But Dillon remained cool. He didn’t make any move to get out of the Porsche, and instead lowered the window just before it was tapped. “Something wrong, officer?” he asked wearily. “Or is this one of those car-jacks one hears about, where you beat me over the head and steal my wallet and the car?”

Dillon was deliberately playing the fool for his own amusement.

“Open the rear boot, wise guy, or we’ll blow a steaming great hole in it.”

“Oh, goodness, please don’t do that,” Dillon said in mock horror.

He started to get out of the car – his instinct told him to goad them into making their move prematurely. But they waited for him to get out and then ordered him to face the car with his palms flat out on the roof and his legs spread. One of them moved in quickly, pressing the barrel of his 9mm Glock into Dillon’s back whilst he frisked him. They were somewhat surprised to find that he was unarmed.

“Okay. Now open the boot and be very careful how you do it. We know all about you, Dillon.”

He stepped away from the car and unlocked the boot with the remote control on the key fob, and without hesitation they removed the canvas holdall and carried it to the lead car.

“Stop! Come back! Help! I’m being robbed of my baking flour” he called out just as they climbed into their own cars.

Both cars drove off at high speed up The Mall. He watched them disappear and then closed the boot, climbed in and did a u-turn before driving off slowly. He changed direction back towards Knightsbridge along Constitution Hill. As he drove, he smiled to himself. He didn’t know whether they had another tail on him in order to find out where he was staying, but he still phoned Havelock and left a brief message that he was okay and turning in for the night.

He called Issy the next morning and told her, “I’ve uncovered an international drug cartel that looks as if it’s also involved in raising funds for terrorist organisations around the globe.”

He told her because she had a right to know, and as a corporate lawyer would see through any lie. Also, she was tired of his feeble excuses and reassurances of how soon the assignment would be concluded. Dillon was also fed up with having to tell her half-truths about what was going on – she had no idea of how things had digressed from the original issue of the Vermeer painting.

“There’s just one more thing that I need to clear up. It shouldn’t take me more than a day or two and then I’ll sort out that compensation claim you’ve slapped me with. I’m sorry about all of this, Issy, and I’ve really missed you.”

“Does this mean that you’re now out of danger?”

In fact he was in far more danger now than at any time before – Trevelyan would have by now found out about the missing cocaine and, if the Conners had done a runner without their van, might well blame him. As far as he knew, Trevelyan still had the open contract out on him. How the security services rated his well-being was far more difficult to assess, but he wasn’t sure of his survival rate if he continued on. But he had to continue and he knew that would bring danger back to Issy’s doorstep.

“Not quite, but I’m sorting that as well. It was mostly hot air and blustering, to be honest.”

What he wanted to say, was for her to find another place to stay. But that would merely heighten her anxiety and he did not want her worrying, especially as she still had the official protection of MI5, who would know the second she stepped outside.

“Well that’s a relief. Oh, I nearly forgot to mention that I’m back in my office, if you want to contact me during the day. Those nice security service men are never far away, so I feel completely safe and see no reason not to.”

“Good. Well, I’ll call you in a day or two.”

Dillon hung up and pondered on the problem of keeping MI5 sweet for a while longer. Although that might prove tricky, as they had three containers of flour in their safe room at Thames House.

Dillon left his rooms at The Old Colonial Club and drove to Saville Row. He paid an unannounced visit to his personal tailor, Thomas Porter. After fifteen minutes he left again, much to the distress of Thomas, with an off-the-peg navy blue pin-stripe suit, shoes, white double-cuffed shirt, and a tie with the crest of his old regiment on. He then drove back to The Old Colonial and purchased a newspaper from reception before taking a late breakfast in his rooms. All the time he mulled over what his next move was to be. When he had finished his second cup of black coffee, he scanned through the newspaper and a by-line heading on the fourth page caught his eye. ‘Mystery deaths in Dorset woodland.’

There followed a police account of the double shooting of Sheila and Harry Conner, who were discovered dead in woodland near to the couple’s Lyme Regis home. The neighbour, who discovered the bodies whilst out walking his dog, said that the couple were always very polite and friendly, but kept themselves private.

Dillon lowered the paper. He was shocked and disappointed that the Conners had not heeded his advice and got away from the house as fast as possible. Had Sheila not believed her husband about the very real danger they were in, and why was he feeling responsibility for their deaths? He continued to read on to discover that ‘the police investigation was well under way and it was thought that Conner had tied up his wife and then shot her through the head. He then turned the automatic pistol on himself and shot himself through the temple’.

Dillon screwed up the newspaper violently and threw it across the room into a waste paper basket. Harry Conner would have been terrified to the end. Dillon realised he must have missed Trevelyan’s men by a fraction. He genuinely believed that Conner and his wife would have been killed anyway, but the discovery of the missing drugs would not have improved their chances of survival. The cocaine was one thing that the killers could not report back to Trevelyan unless they could somehow blame them for it.

Dillon felt lower than he’d felt in a long time. The Conners were employed as the caretakers, but doubted they ever knew that they were guarding class-A drugs. As far as they were concerned, it was simply stolen works of art and the occasional consignment of gold bullion. They had been small fry and had died because of it.

He went downstairs into the main reception foyer and sat reflecting for a few moments. He needed to contact Estelle Bouchard at Interpol, but that would have to wait until later in the day. Meanwhile, he decided to drive down to Dorset.

* * *

The street where he had parked on his previous visit was full of cars and he had to drive around before he could find a space, which left a long walk back. It was nearly lunchtime and the drive down to Bournemouth had been fraught with tailbacks at some of the motorway junctions. When he left the Porsche, he was wearing the new suit, shirt and regimental tie. He reached the high street where Rosie Poulter lived and immediately felt all the usual warnings. He went past the café where he’d observed Charlie Hart sitting in the window, gazing across at the old florist shop. Two doors further on and he crossed the busy street, went to the other side and stood in a derelict shop doorway. He didn’t like the idea of just knocking on the door and hoping for the best, but knew there was a strong possibility that he would have to.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been stood there before the young woman came out. She was fairly well dressed, somewhere in her mid-thirties, carried herself well, and looked vaguely familiar.

On impulse he waited a few moments before following, crossing back to the other side of the street and keeping a safe distance behind her. He didn’t want to leave it too long before approaching her and willed her to turn a corner, which she did. He saw his opportunity and quickened his pace to catch up with her before she had a chance to jump into a taxi parked at the kerbside.

She had the door open and was about to step in, when Dillon called out, “Excuse me, but are you Sarah Poulter?”

The young woman turned to look back at him; she had one hand on the taxi’s roof and one foot inside when she stiffened. She gazed at him suspiciously and Dillon immediately saw that she was a striking looking woman.

“Why, who are you and why do you want to know?”

“Because I saw you come out of the apartment building where Rosie Poulter lives. And would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind, that is.”

She withdrew her foot from inside the taxi but left the door open. The driver looked around and gruffly asked if she wanted the ride or not, because there were other fares waiting. She didn’t bother answering, simply slammed the door and a second later he drove off.

“You haven’t answered my question. And, whatever you want, it had better be good. Because I’m giving a lecture in forty-five minutes.”

Her tone had hardened and she was obviously not that comfortable with talking to a total stranger at the kerbside.

Dillon spoke quietly and without any preamble. “Look, I’m not a perv stalking you, or a salesman trying to sell you something. I’m simply trying to unravel a mystery that might involve your mother. I think that she might be able to help me with some background information about a man I’m writing a book about. My name, by the way is, Jake Dillon.”

The young woman stood looking at Dillon for a few seconds, weighing him up and trying to decide whether he was being genuine or not.

Dillon added, “Look, I’m really not trying to waste your time. I simply want to talk to your mother about something that has possibly to do with her past. The problem I have, is not wishing to blunder in and inadvertently drag something up that may upset her. That’s why I’d like to talk to you first. If you’ve got a little time, that is.”

“There’s a pub around the corner. You’ve got five minutes and the meter’s already running.”

“Sounds good, thank you,” Dillon said.

In the pub, Dillon ordered drinks and they sat down at the bar.

“Look, I’ll come straight to the point. When I saw you coming out of that building, it was very strange. Because you have a remarkable resemblance to the man whom I am writing a book about. His name is Charlie Hart.”

She almost spat her drink across the bar and was clearly shocked by what he had just said. Dillon noticed a little colour blush her cheeks and a look of disbelief cross her face.

“Why have you come here? Is this some sort of bad joke?” It came out as a suspicious accusation.

“I really have come here to find out from your mother about Charlie Hart. Hopefully to find out about his relationship with her, and why he visits the café opposite your building on a regular basis, sits at a window seat and waits for your mother to appear, yet never approaches her or even attempts to talk to her.”

“What are you? A private detective or something?”

“Or something, I’m afraid. I’m actually a freelance writer.”

“Oh, a writer. Must be exciting.” She looked confused, but held herself together all right.

Dillon could see that she was disturbed and to say the least, a little distressed, by the mention of Hart’s name. But he pressed on regardless.

“Do you know who Charlie Hart is?”

She turned her head, eyes misted and retorted. “He was my mother’s long-lost younger half-brother, that’s who.”

“Why do you say that he was your mother’s younger brother?”

Sarah Poulter wiped the tears from her cheeks with a pristine white handkerchief.

“Because, when mum was just a baby she was given up for adoption by her mother who was seventeen and unmarried. She left mum in care and a few weeks later ran off to India with this bloke named Hart. You see, when you don’t know anything about your past you can’t look forward to the future. That’s why she’s spent most of her adult life trying to come to terms and discover her past. Finding out about Charlie was a lucky break. She had been searching the births, deaths and marriage records when she came across him. That was a monumental turning point for her. Can you imagine finding out that you had a younger half-brother? After that it was a case of tracing the Harts through the British Embassy in Delhi. It was from the embassy records that she discovered that the parents had been killed many years before.”

“Sarah, I can tell you that Charlie Hart is alive and kicking. He did leave India shortly after his parents were murdered by kidnappers when a ransom wasn’t paid. This was a long time ago, and he went to live in Hong Kong with his son for a while. They both travelled back to the UK and have been living here ever since.”

“Are you sure about this? Where?”

“Close by in Poole, I’ve stood about as close to him as we are now and talked with him. I’m sure, all right.”

“My uncle, living here, near Bournemouth? But why hasn’t he contacted mum? Why skulk about watching her?”

“At first I thought that there was some other connection they had. But you’ve squashed that theory. I really can’t tell you why he hasn’t made direct contact and I’ll not speculate about a family matter. I’ll leave that to your uncle when he eventually thinks the time is right to meet her himself. Now, I’ve taken up enough of your time and I really do appreciate you talking to me. You’ve been more than helpful.”

Sarah was now fully recovered. She had listened carefully to what Dillon had said and agreed that this revelation would be an enormous shock to her mother after so many years, and that it was best left to Charlie Hart to break the news.

“You’ve disappointed me, Mr. Dillon. I thought you had much more to tell me. Why am I left with the feeling that you have learnt more from me than I have from you?”

“If you get the opportunity to meet Charlie Hart, you’ll appreciate what a great risk I’ve taken just talking to you about him. He’s a very powerful and wealthy man. I’ll leave it there. Once again, you’ve been very kind and generous with your time and I appreciate that.”

Sarah frowned. “I still don’t wholly trust you.”

“Please believe me, Sarah, when I say that I have no intention of hurting you or your mother in any shape or form.”