“Goodnight then.”
At 4:55 a.m. that same morning, three men wearing white overalls pulled up in a silver van at the gated entrance to Jack Fox’s house. One of them got out and went straight to the security intercom. He unscrewed the metal casing, took off the front panel and expertly by-passed the wiring. A moment later, the gates opened and the van slowly moved off up the driveway. At the front of the imposing Spanish style residence, the driver remained behind the wheel whilst the other two men got out and went to work on the heavy oak door. Within thirty seconds, they’d managed to effortlessly pick the two locks.
They entered the house and crept up the stairs. On the landing, they upholstered their Walther PPK pistols and attached silencers. They located the master bedroom and entered. Both men moved to the foot of the large double bed, stood in silence, listening to the steady breathing of the couple lying together in the bed. They emptied their magazines into the two bodies. After the first shot, Jack opened his eyes and reactively placed an arm across Cassey in a futile attempt to protect her. Within seconds, the room was once again still and silent. All that remained of the violence was the heavy hanging smell of cordite and a light haze of gun smoke from the heated barrels of both men’s Walthers. Through tiny gaps in the window shutters, thin shafts of sunlight announced the dawn of the new day.
Jack Fox lay dead alongside his partner Cassey in the bed they had shared for the past two years. Blood had soaked through the mattress and was dripping onto the ivory-coloured carpet below. He’d lived his life by an unswerving code of conduct and had never once strayed from it. To grass-up anyone was to him an unthinkable act of treachery.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took Dillon no more than five minutes to walk back to where he had parked the Porsche, and then immediately drive back to where he’d just come from. Parking up the road from Fox’s entrance and far enough away so as not to be too conspicuous. He’d taken some information off of Fox’s hard drive which might be useful and his instinct was telling him to wait around a while. He sat pondering over why someone in Fox’s position would be so worried about a late night visitor. And why his visit alone could get him killed. Jack Fox was well connected and known for having been Flackyard’s enforcer. But, from what Dillon had seen, these days he was more interested in making the clubs earn a profit than anything heavy. Dillon also knew from his last encounter with the man, that he wasn’t the type to let anyone down and he felt a certain affinity to him. But villains like Jack Fox had to be ruthless to stay ahead of the rest, because if they didn’t they usually ended up jumping to the tune of a much bigger fish.
Bob Norton was different and something was nagging in the back of his mind about the connection between the two men. Jack would not have given away Bob’s name so freely. But the reverse was not true.
Dillon stayed in the Porsche and after an hour started to feel the onset of a cramp in his left leg. He was wondering what the hell he’d been thinking when he had decided to hang about outside of Jack Fox’s place. He was about to turn the ignition key and drive off, when he spotted a silver van coming down the road towards him. He saw the faint outline of three men in overalls sitting inside, and then it suddenly pulled into Jack Fox’s entrance. The sign writing down the side said Landscaping & Grounds Maintenance. One of the men got out and went to the intercom; it looked like he was talking into it. As he turned to walk back to the van, the gates opened and the next moment the vehicle drove off up the driveway. The gates remained open.
Dillon waited for a further five minutes and then decided to go take a look, got out of the Porsche and walked up the road towards the gated entrance. He quickened his pace; sprinting across the road when he saw that the front panel of the intercom was hanging off and he immediately guessed what was happening, but by the time he could get up the driveway to the house, the job would be over.
As he rounded the bend at the top of the driveway, he immediately saw the van parked in front of the entrance porch, facing directly at him with one of the three men still sitting at the wheel. He darted to the right into the dense shrubbery at the driveway’s edge, pulled out the Glock and slid the safety catch off.
He moved slowly and with the utmost care through the undergrowth towards the front of the van and was about to make a move when he heard voices coming out through the front door. A moment later, the other two men appeared, still carrying their silenced handguns. One of them walked by, only missing him by inches. Dillon quickly dropped down, flattening himself against the ground as the shooter walked past to get into the van. The engine started and a second later the van moved off slowly down the driveway
The smell of damp soil mixed with decomposing leaves was all around him. As he stood up he holstered the Glock and looked up at the luxury Spanish-style property. There was no point in going back inside; Dillon knew what he would find. He felt partly responsible, but wasn’t going to dwell on it. Instead, he sprinted back to the Porsche just as the van’s tail lights were disappearing over the brow in the road. He drove at speed without lights, but with the sun fast rising there was enough light. The sheer power of the Cayman soon had Dillon pulling up sharp at the next junction, just as the silver van was turning left. They hadn’t spotted him, and so he held back his urge to give chase, allowing them instead to drive off up the road before following.
He stayed a good distance back so he couldn’t see any of the men in the front seat, but he made a note of the registration number to check out later.
In the back streets of Westbourne driving without lights and following another vehicle, was not too much of a problem. Once they hit the main roads it would become too risky, even though they were virtually empty at nearly five-thirty in the morning. This was a time when police traffic patrols were looking for something to alleviate the boredom. So he decided to switch on his sidelights even though the day was becoming lighter with every minute.
Even though he was taking no chances by keeping his distance, he knew that he’d be seen sooner or later and that the three men in the van were professional hit men. He simply kept following. When the route became erratic and they started using the same tactics that he’d used against Bob Norton the previous afternoon, he knew for certain that he had been seen.
He took an educated guess on the general direction they were heading and immediately turned up a side street that would lead him to the main road at another point. It worked the first time, because as he joined the main road he saw tail lights in the distance and accelerated smoothly to catch up just enough to make sure that it was the same van. When he was satisfied that it was, he turned off again.
At the next junction, he turned right and then right again. When he rejoined the main road, there were the first signs of early morning commuter traffic building up. But no silver van. A yellow taxi came drifting towards him, but as it passed Dillon saw no passengers – only the driver who looked like he’d had a long night behind the wheel.
Dillon was tempted to speed just to find out whether the van was way out in front of him. But that would bring another kind of risk, and to confirm it a police patrol came out of one of the side roads as he went by and followed him for a short distance. As it cruised by the Porsche, Dillon was scrutinised by the officer sitting in the passenger seat. For a second, as he saw the brake lights come on, he thought that they were going to pull him over, but then the patrol car picked up speed again and was gone.
Dillon decided it was time to make his way back to the apartment in Lilliput. As he drove, his thoughts reverted to Jack and Cassey Fox and wondered whether he could have done anything to save them. A gun battle with the two hit men as they had come out through the front door would not have been successful – certainly not with the third one sitting in the van on his left flank. But it still didn’t make him feel any better about their demise. His thoughts were starting to drift, he was tired and his eyelids felt heavy with lack of slee
p. He switched on the radio and dropped his side window, was heading down the road towards Branksome Chine when a black Mercedes 4x4 shot out of a side road and cut in front of him. Within seconds, the silver van re-appeared right behind him.
Dillon had been outsmarted, boxed in by the 4x4 in front and the three men in the silver van behind him. He switched off the traction control, hit the brakes hard and the back end of the Porsche immediately twitched as he flicked the steering wheel to the right, allowing the back-end to drift out to the right. He kept a light grip on the leather steering wheel and a heavy foot on the accelerator. The driver of the van slowed down, but then had a spurt of confidence and at speed hit the rear bumper of the Cayman full-on. Dillon reacted by accelerating and was about to overtake the 4x4 when he saw someone lean out of the driver’s side rear window with a silenced machine pistol pointing straight back at him.
He re-activated the traction control, put his foot down and lurched forward until the Cayman’s bumper was actually touching the 4x4’s bumper. The driver of the Mercedes reacted immediately by swerving violently from side to side in an attempt to shake Dillon off, and when eventually he did, all that Dillon could do was duck down and drive almost blindly at speed. Glass shattered over him as his windscreen exploded into millions of tiny fragments. Bullets ripped through the interior and then the rear screen shattered under the short burst of gunfire.
The Porsche’s lightweight body shell had stood up pretty well under the fusillade of gun fire, but the bonnet had been riddled with bullet holes. Dillon tried the brakes – there was nothing, no resistance and no slowing of the car. But at least the vehicle in front of him was no longer there and neither was the silver van. He was heading at speed down the hill towards the beach car park and the bistro. He was in grave danger of missing the tight right-hand bend at the bottom and crashing through the low brick wall.
He desperately wrenched the wheel round to the right, hit the accelerator to the floor and then immediately brought the steering wheel back round to the left and managed to power-slide the powerful sports car through the bend and on up the steep hill towards Canford Cliffs village. A moment later he found a quiet side road and pulled in. There was glass everywhere. He had cuts on his face and on the back of his hands from the shattered windscreen. He got out of the car, walked around it once and surveyed the damage and the puddle of brake fluid that had already appeared on the tarmac. He’d been caught off-guard once again and it was starting to annoy him. He got back in and slammed the door in anger.
He turned the ignition key and the engine immediately came to life. Sitting for a moment, he thought about what had just taken place. The warnings were obviously over. It would seem that from now on it was for real with no holds barred. He put on a pair of sunglasses in an attempt to cover up some of the cuts around his eyes, turned the car around and went back to the main road. He drove slowly, having to rely solely on the gearbox and handbrake to slow him down. It had been a long time since he had felt so defeated and it was starting to depress him. By the time he reached the rented apartment in Lilliput he was tired out, but was satisfied that he’d made the journey back without anyone following him.
High in a sky of the most brilliant blue, white clouds appeared to be suspended motionless in midair. Out in the main channel of the harbour the cross channel ferry steadily made its way out towards the open sea. Dillon stood on the balcony drinking strong black filter coffee out of a white china mug. The trials of the night were now behind him and with the sun rising and a new day before him, he found himself wide awake and in need of a shower and a shave.
He stood in front of the mirror and found the cuts on the back of his hands, face and neck were only superficial. After he’d showered, he felt refreshed and decided not to bother with bed, so went back through to the kitchen and made more coffee. He had already made a note of the gunmen’s car registration number and from his Sony Vaio, emailed this information along with a report to Vince Sharp back in London. Next, he plugged in the USB memory stick containing the files he’d taken off of Jack Fox’s hard drive and started to sift through what was there.
They were mainly files containing names, addresses and contact numbers, each placed in its own separate sub-file. Some of the names had additional information added to them, but this had been encrypted so that only Jack Fox was able to view it. Vince had software to decode these encryptions. Most were unknown names, but there were three that he recognised and two of those were men not to mess with. The third name was the same as that of a leading politician, but that could be a coincidence. By the time he’d finished looking through the files, he was feeling tired and frustrated, because Charlie Hart’s name wasn’t there, and nothing connecting him to Jack Fox either.
He went back outside onto the balcony and paced up and down to keep himself awake, for he knew if he fell asleep it might be for the rest of the day and he still wanted to make a number of phone calls. He was also anxious about Issy who he hadn’t contacted since she’d moved in with her friend, Grace.
Sleep had got the better of him and it was the comfy sofa by the window that had been its accomplice. He woke three hours later, feeling like he’d just been dragged over barbed wire and then wrapped in it. He glanced down at his wrist watch – it was eleven-thirty. Outside the sun was now high in a sky of unbroken blue and he still had a number of phone calls to make.
He rang Vince Sharp for a trace on the car registration number, and also asked him to get as much information on an MP named Julian Latimer. He knew the name and was only able to bring up some basic information about him, but Dillon wanted everything – public and private. As this would take longer, Vince told him that he would email the information later in the day. He phoned Issy to tell her that he was okay and to find out how she was. Before disconnecting the call, he reiterated how important it was for her remain off the radar for the next few days. And that it was most likely that she wouldn’t hear from him for the next day or two either, but not to worry.
He phoned an old acquaintance in Bournemouth who he knew specialised in the repair of exotic cars. He would come and collect the Cayman and wouldn’t ask any awkward questions as long as he was paid in cash. He then phoned Vince again and this time checked two of the names that he recognised on Jack Fox’s database. The details were exactly the same as those held on the Home Office and police files. One of them was Tommy Trevelyan, a notoriously dangerous south coast criminal who allegedly solved his problems with the gentle persuasion of a pick axe handle. At first glance he looked as respectable as any major league property developer can be. But beneath the surface was the true man, involved in serious crime, running prostitutes, people smuggling and the distribution of class-A drugs.
Dillon had indirectly crossed Trevelyan before. Trevelyan was involved with certain ostensibly respectable London businessmen, one of whom ran more rackets than Trevelyan himself and had been killed by a contract hit man about a year ago. Amongst other things, Trevelyan was involved in money laundering and had important connections from London to Shanghai. Proving it was another matter. It then struck Dillon that it would make sense if Trevelyan was associated with Charlie Hart.
The other man was more difficult to find information on. By comparison to Trevelyan, Paul Hammer was the complete opposite; introvert and had apparently become reclusive over the last few years, although he controlled a number of highly successful multi-million pound businesses. These were mostly in the hotel and hospitality sector. It was strongly rumoured that he was also involved in illegally supplying weapons to rebel armies in exchange for gold bullion or uncut diamonds. This was only hearsay, and nothing had ever been proven, but Dillon had heard the same reports from a number of reliable sources via the grapevine of dubious underworld snouts and criminals with whom he sometimes came into contact. Hammer also owned a nightclub and a casino and both were located in South London. Dillon had seen the likes of Hammer before –
men who had a knack for making large amounts of money from illegal activities, but who never got their hands dirty themselves and therefore never got caught. But they always slipped up sooner or later.
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.
Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 11
