Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (8 page)

“What the hell do you want with me?” His tone was hostile, although laced with uncertainty. By this time, Elaine had left the room.

Dillon produced the fake police ID card. “Didn’t your boss tell you who you were following?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, copper. And, I haven’t been following anyone.”

“But you recognised me and were surprised to see me sitting in your living room. Surely Bob, you can be more original than that?”

“Well you’ve got it wrong, haven’t you?” Norton didn’t sit down, in the hope that Dillon would get up and leave.

Dillon pulled a small black notebook from his jacket pocket, turning the blank pages as if they were full.

“That’s your car out front and your registration number. I ran it through the system. You followed me from the moment I drove out of Charlie Hart’s place on the peninsula. Have you told dear old Charlie that you were given the run-around all over Bournemouth, only to end up being given the slip? I’ve no doubt whatsoever that he wouldn’t be too pleased about that. Why would you want to follow me, Bob? What were your instructions?”

Norton was starting to regain his confidence. He came further into the small room and sat down on the arm of the only chair.

“I don’t know anyone by the name of Charlie Hart and I wasn’t following you. If we happened to be travelling along the same route it was purely coincidence. Got it? As far as I’m aware, there’s no law against that.”

“Ah, now that’s where it gets a little tricky for you, Bob. You see, you followed me from the minute I left Hart’s house, and then all over Bournemouth and out onto the motorway – now that’s what we call harassment. And it’s my word against yours. But, of course, I’m a police officer, and you’ve almost certainly got an existing record. Good God man, it was only your carelessness that gave me the opportunity to lose you at that busy crossroad and by the time you’d managed to get to the other side, I’d gone round the block and was following you. That’s how I was able to get your registration number. Now, tell me. Are you working for Charlie Hart or are you one of Sammy Samuels’ boys?”

The arrogance that Norton had entered the room with was back with a little more truculence thrown in for good measure. He knew that what Dillon had said so far couldn’t be proved and saw nothing to gain by answering his questions. Instead, he switched on the television and made out he was going to watch it.

Dillon got up and went and stood between Norton and the television. Norton found this amusing, was still sitting on the arm of the chair.

“Going, are you? Or are you now going to start on me with the rough aggressive stuff?” Norton said with a sneer.

“Why don’t you just piss off and leave us alone?”

Dillon pulled the Glock and pointed it at Norton’s head. With his free hand he produced a silencer, and as if it were second nature, had screwed it on in the blink of an eye. If Norton was going to make a move on Dillon it had to be then, but for the second time that evening the man had an expression of incredulity; his eyes bulging with fear.

“How perceptive of you, Bob. You’re right, of course. If, at first, I don’t get the answers I want... well, I try again, only a little harder and with my friend here for company.”

Dillon nodded at the Glock still pointed at Norton’s head.

“Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Don’t move a muscle, or I’ll blow the top of your head off,” Dillon said it casually, but his tone made sure that there was little room for doubt about whether he’d do it or not.

He waited for Norton to adjust to this shock, and then added, “I can tell you’ve worked it out, and you’re absolutely right – I’m not really a police detective. Now, are you going to answer my questions or do I start putting holes in you? Like they say, you know how it is, Bob, if a job’s worth doing and all that bollocks. So I promise to take my time.”

“I don’t work for Charlie Hart. I was told to wait outside his place on Sandbanks and was given a photo of you. All I had to do then was follow you wherever you went. That’s it, and I don’t give a toss about this bloke Hart. He’s not my boss.”

“If he’s not, who is?”

“Jack Fox. I do the odd job for him from time to time.”

Well, this one was odd, that was for sure. Dillon had heard of Jack Fox. He’d been employed by Robert Flackyard to look after his security and the well-being of his lap dancing clubs across the South coast. After Flackyard had had to flee the country in a hurry, Fox had taken over the day-to-day running of the clubs, even lived in Flackyard’s Canford Cliffs mansion. He was into most things but nothing heavy, so he kept out of trouble. From what Dillon had heard, he appeared to keep the Flackyard empire running, and in the process had amassed a small fortune of his own.

“Have you told him that you lost me in light traffic?”

“Piss off.”

“Have you?” Dillon repeated, sliding the safety catch off.

Norton hesitated for a second, weighing up Dillon and the Glock that was still pointing at his head, and then answered, “I phoned him the minute I got in.”

“Okay, that’s good, Bob. Now, I already know where that scumbag lives. But what’s his phone number?”

Norton was scared; his eyes gave him away easily, “I can’t do that.”

“Look, all you have to do is tell me what his ex-directory number is and I’ll leave you alone. Or I could put a bullet directly into the joint of your right wrist. It would hurt. Damn, would it hurt. And then there’ll be the constant nagging pain that would be with you until the day you die. It’s your choice, Bob. Anyway, Fox isn’t the type to blow your head off for failure. He’s far too smart and if nothing else, he knows a loyal employee when he sees one. Write it down and I’ll be on my way.”

Norton took the notebook from Dillon and scribbled on a blank page before handing it back to him.

“Thanks,” said Dillon, rising. “You’re not likely to say anything to Jack, but don’t tell anyone you’ve had a visitor. You followed me; you lost me; end of story. After all, you’d not want anyone to know that you’ve given Jack Fox’s ex-directory number out, would you?”

“You stuck-up bastard.”

“It’s been said before, Bob,” Dillon said with a grin. “But it’s no good being the big brave man now. Don’t get up; I’ll see myself out.”

* * *

Jack Fox lived in a multi-million pound mansion, located along one of the most expensive tree lined avenues in Canford Cliffs. It was just after two in the morning, and the roads were quiet. Dillon was in no particular hurry, but was finding it difficult to park the Porsche somewhere suitably discreet and out of view of prying security cameras. In the end, he managed to park in a side road just off the village centre, about a quarter of a mile away from Fox’s place. He walked back to the impressive Mediterranean style residence, thinking about the last time he’d had reason to come to this place and about the man, who then, had tried to outsmart him – Robert Flackyard.

From the other side of the road, Dillon could see that there were still a number of houses that had lights on, but Jack Fox’s was in total darkness. Luckily, the street lamps were poor, throwing long deep shadows that afforded a good degree of cover. And there was something eerie about the place at this late hour – the road was understandably empty, except for the occasional car passing by. Dillon walked casually, but confidently, across the wide road, and straight up to the gated entrance. He pushed the intercom button, keeping the tip of his forefinger in place for what seemed like many seconds.

Dillon stepped back from the electric gates as the security lights came on, and the CCTV camera was re-positioned to point directly at where he was standing. But as nothing further happened, he pushed the intercom button again. A moment later, the irritated voice of a woman came through over the speaker.

“Yes, what do you want?” She spoke in an angry whisper.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I’d like to speak with Jack; it’s rather urgent.”

“Well, piss off and come back some other time. We were asleep, you inconsiderate sod.”

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. It’s either now, or I come back at five with uniformed men and a warrant to turn the place over. Your choice.”

Dillon held his fake police ID card in front of the camera.

“Or perhaps you’d rather your nice neighbours witness a full squad of armed police marksmen storm your place?”

The gates slowly opened, and Dillon walked up the long driveway to the house. By the time he’d got to the front door a woman somewhere in her mid-to-late thirties was stood by the wide entrance, and proceeded to verbally hurl a string of expletives and abuse at him.

“I suppose there’s no point in telling you that swearing shows a lack of vocabulary?” said Dillon when she had finished. He added, “Ever considered buying a dictionary? Now, where’s Jack?”

“You’re staying right there wooden top, until I’ve taken a much closer look at that ID card of yours. And what do you want with Jack?”

Dillon ignored her, produced the card and was already considering his next move should Bob Norton already have phoned Jack to warn him. As she scrutinised it, he took a good look at her. She could easily have been any one of the many kept tarts that Dillon had seen during his career and, like so many of them, protective of the man who was keeping her in luxury.

“Are you Mrs. Fox?” he asked politely.

She completely ignored him, and said, “You’re making the doorstep look untidy; you’d better come in. Go to the end of the hall, it’s the last door on the left. You can wait in there.”

Dillon brushed past her, catching the faint scent of an expensive perfume as he went by and made his way to the end of the darkened hall.

The light was on in the room and he went in to find that it was a reasonably sized games room. There were paintings of well-known race horses on one wall, and blown-up photographs of Formula One drivers on another. A full size snooker table commanded centre stage, with various slot machines lined up Las Vegas style along the entire length of one wall. During the day, it would be a bright room, Dillon thought, with two sets of double French doors that opened up onto a large terrace outside.

He turned to face her as she entered the room. Her tough demeanour and hard face of a moment ago had softened. Dillon could see that she had once been beautiful and would still turn a few heads. He had an impression that she would put up a far better fight for her man than Elaine would for Bob Norton. He suddenly found himself feeling a little sorry for her because she looked really worried.

“I’m sorry if I woke you, but this really can’t wait. Do you think you could get him for me?”

“Well, that’s a turn up. A copper apologising for something. You’re certainly different from the rest of them. I’ll see if he’s awake.”

“As she turned for the door a thick-set man entered the room, cropped dark hair and his silk pyjama jacket gaping to show a muscular body. He had a disarmingly honest face, wide eyes and a natural smile. As he passed the woman, he slapped her backside playfully.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Our Cassey was a professional model in her day, you know.”

“I’m sure she was. Does she make coffee by any chance?” Fox looked at the woman and nodded towards the door.

Cassey left the room, closing the door behind her.

“So, what brings a policeman to my door at this unearthly time of the night?” As Fox came further into the room, Dillon drew in close and hit him hard just under the ribs. Fox let out a gasp and doubled up in agony. Dillon helped him into a club chair.

“Sorry to do that to you, Jack. But I haven’t really got the time for social niceties. Just relax, all you have to do is answer a few questions, and then I’ll leave you in peace. Jack, can you hear me?”

Jack Fox managed to nod.

“One of your men followed me around Bournemouth today. Don’t ask me how I know that he was one of yours, because I won’t tell you. What I want to know is who it was who hired you. Was it Charlie Hart?”

Before Fox could answer, Cassey came back in with the coffee, leaving Dillon thinking that she must have made instant. She immediately went to the suffering Jack.

“What have you done to him, you bastard?”

“It must have been something he ate. The moment you left, he seemed to go down with gut ache.”

Jack made a waving motion with his hand towards the door.

“It’s all right, Cas; nothing to worry about. Please, leave us. This won’t take long.”

Cassey shot Dillon a venomous look as she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“So who hired you, Jack?”

Fox pulled himself into an upright sitting position.

“That was a bit harsh. It wasn’t Hart who hired me. Although I obviously know who he is, but it wasn’t him. Look, when I took the job on the details were sent to me by special courier half an hour later and the instruction was to get on with it.”

He rubbed his side, had a pained expression, but was every bit a professional as Dillon remembered he was.

“Hart may have nothing to do with it. Somebody knew you were visiting that house and we had to follow you from there.”

“Then who was it that hired you?”

“If I told you that I’d just as well top myself right here and now.”

Jack’s fear was genuine and it wasn’t because of Dillon.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“So enlighten me. Because right now I’m the one that you should be very eager to please. If you don’t tell me, I’ll be the one to put you out of your miserable little existence.”

“You really think that bothers me?” Jack had almost recovered.

“It probably doesn’t. But all I want is a name. Your name will never be mentioned and you’ll never see or hear from me again.”

“You are the strangest copper I’ve ever met. Are you on drugs or something? Of course I’d be involved. I’m the only one who knows the name of the person who hired me. And because of that I’m not saying a bloody thing.”

“So it wasn’t Hart?”

“No, it wasn’t Hart who hired me.”

“Dillon leant against the edge of the snooker table and stared down at Fox. He handed him one of the cups of coffee.

“I think we’d better drink this, don’t you?”

“I’m not stupid, you know. And don’t even consider trying the ‘Mister Nice’ routine.”

Jack took the cup of coffee from Dillon.

“It’s very simple, really. Even for a copper like you to understand. I can’t tell you because if I do, he’ll track me down, cut out my tongue and then rip out my heart. But he’ll make sure I’m still alive whilst he’s doing it because he’ll want me to see what it looks like just before it stops beating. I wouldn’t even be safe if you locked me up, because he has people everywhere, even inside.”

“I haven’t thought for one moment that you’re stupid. And I do appreciate that if you grass him up, whoever ‘he’ is, that he’ll want to know why you did it.”

Dillon took a sip of the sour-tasting instant coffee and noticed that the door had a hefty-looking rim lock on it. The key was conveniently on the inside, so whoever used this room obviously wanted to keep people out when entertaining guests. Dillon went across to the door, pulled it open sharply, and called out loudly, “Cassey, can you come here, please?”