Bull-Dog just managed to stop himself from striking Dillon. He had sufficient sense to grasp that he was being deliberately set up to be knocked right back down again, and then a question entered his mind.
“Who are you really working for, Dillon?”
Dillon ignored his question, and asked, “Look, I don’t know who would want to employ trailer trash like you. But you’d better understand that you’re going to take the rap for carrying out someone else’s orders. Was it Tommy Trevelyan?”
“Don’t be stupid. Tommy Trevelyan wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
For Dillon that was tantamount to an admission. “Perhaps one of his associates then?”
Bull-Dog came closer. “You’re not very smart, are you? I didn’t beat anybody up. And if you go round talking of Tommy Trevelyan like that, you’ll be making a premature departure from this world. Now piss off.”
“Okay. But, the moment I leave here, I’m going to start spreading it around in certain circles that you’ve been accusing Tommy of setting you up for a spell inside. Now that should make him really happy.”
Dillon had been waiting for it from the moment the big man had regained his confidence. Bull-Dog swung a blow at his head and Dillon responded in the way he’d been taught over many years. Bull-Dog struck air and something hard hit him in the stomach with immense force, leaving him curled up in a great deal of pain, face down and barely able to get his breath. Dillon roughly flipped him on to his side with his foot.“Was it one of Trevelyan’s people?”
But Bull-Dog was still not capable of talking; he was still curled up and groaning with pain.
Dillon stood back from him, watching carefully for any feigning. When his breathing became more regular he asked again, “Was it one of Trevelyan’s crowd?”
When there was still no answer, Dillon squatted on his haunches and pulled out the Glock again. He tapped Bull-Dog’s broken nose with it, just hard enough to draw blood.
“The bloke you beat to a pulp is a good friend of mine. Now you’re in the frame for actual bodily harm, but if he dies, it’s murder. That’s along with the murder of that unfortunate young woman. That should get you at least two life sentences and definitely no possibility of release. Ever. However, if I don’t get an answer now then I’m going to blow your brains out, because I don’t trust the courts and nobody is going to be bothered by your death.” He toyed with the Glock.
The big man’s eyes flickered with fear. He started to say something but gagged and Dillon waited, moving away again.
Bull-Dog was trying to think clearly as he came out of the pain. Before he was able to say anything Dillon added, “Before I put a bullet in your thick skull I’m going to make you suffer even more by slicing off both of your ears. You’ll beg me for the bullet before it comes; it’ll be merciful, an end that you’re not really worthy of. But I’m feeling generous today.”
“If I tell you I’m going to get a bullet anyway, so what does it matter?”
“Why should he know? Take a holiday for a while. Or would you rather be tucked up inside?”
Bull-Dog tried to sit up. The movement brought the pain back.
“What the hell did you hit me with?”
“A full-on back kick. I wasn’t trained to fight clean or fair. So tell me, was it Trevelyan’s people?”
Bull-Dog nodded slowly. He struggled to his feet, held on to the edge of the sofa to steady himself. As he stood upright he put every last ounce of strength into a back-handed swing that would have almost decapitated Dillon’s head had it struck him. But Dillon wasn’t standing where Bull-Dog thought. He wasn’t in the room or the building. The big man was thrown off balance as he spun round and it was then that he started to have the first pangs of fear start to grip him. His mind was racing with a jumble of disjointed thoughts. He was sweating profusely; his instinct was already telling him to get as far away from London and as quickly as possible.
He went through to the bedroom, crammed some clothes into a suitcase and after cleaning himself up as best he could, he left. He dared not leave a note.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dillon was already outside the building when Bull-Dog made the back-handed swipe at him. He’d satisfied himself, beyond doubt, that there was a positive link between Charlie Hart and Trevelyan, and reckoned that Paul Hammer and Julian Latimer were also involved. Stella had boasted during their little chat that Hammer was fairly well-acquainted with someone in politics. Latimer was certainly that, although he wasn’t one of the well-known politicians of the day who were constantly in the media lights. According to Havelock, they’d been trying to get rid of him for some time. Latimer was in a political vortex and unlikely to stand at the next election.
It was an odd mixture. A top villain, a politician, a hotel tycoon who was something of a recluse, and Charlie Hart, the enigma, whom it was difficult to place in any particular group, but who might just be the most dangerous of them all.
Everything stemmed from Hart, yet Dillon had difficulty in believing that he had sanctioned the thugs who’d roughed up Adam Finch and then murdered the young prostitute. Trevelyan had almost with certainty provided the street level thugs to dish out the violence. The pattern was familiar but with such a strange liaison, what were they protecting? Trevelyan would not be involved in any petty crime venture – it was way beneath his status. It would have to pay in a big way to attract his interest.
Hart and Trevelyan might have been involved in similar rackets and their paths had possibly crossed at some time, and they’d gone on to do the occasional deal together. As for Latimer and Hammer: these two men were the odd ones out. If he could find out the common denominator he’d be able to figure out what the central racket was.
Dillon phoned Vince Sharp and gave him an account of his conversation with Bull-Dog, and asked how Adam Finch was fairing in hospital. He’d been told that Finch’s condition was improving and that he’d been moved out of intensive care, which was a huge relief.
He had settled up the B&B and so had nowhere definite to stay. He couldn’t compromise any more of Ferran & Cardini’s staff, no matter how enthusiastic they were to get field experience. And he was sure that the word would have been put around the small hotels and guest houses by Trevelyan’s men; there was no going back and they wouldn’t stop now.
Vince arranged for a motorcycle courier to deliver a canvas holdall to Dillon who was waiting in a side street not far from Docklands.
He rang Issy again, reassured her that everything was going to plan and then drove into town to see his tailor for a complete change of clothes, which on this occasion would have to be off the peg. Although tempted, he considered even a brief visit to his home too risky. He then drove to The Old Colonial Club and managed to book a suite and underground car parking. He’d belonged to the club for a few years under the name of James Wentworth, the Earl of Waverley, with the help of Havelock who had supplied proposal and seconding letters. He had also created Dillon’s legend and had seen to it that the Earl had been listed in all of the appropriate places. Dillon used it only in a crisis and as a relatively safe haven. He had no interest in making friends during his infrequent visits, being standoffish and aloof to discourage approaches.
Once he’d checked into his suite, he phoned Vince and had him look up Julian Latimer’s private London address and telephone number on the intelligence network database. He thought it rather odd that the four men he was now investigating were all so easily traceable when they apparently had so much to hide. Perhaps their apparent openness was itself a clever disguise.
Dillon phoned Havelock again – this time on his mobile number, and was immediately diverted to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message, instead tried again an hour later and got hold of him. By this time Havelock was worried about the whole assignment. What had started out as an effort to help the Americans recove
r a priceless work of art had got hopelessly out of hand. Now there were pressures from above, on Havelock himself, to come up with answers regarding Charlie Hart.
Havelock wanted to meet Dillon to bring himself up to speed, but Dillon’s survival instinct told him that Havelock would surely be followed this time. He explained quickly.
“Three dead, one seriously injured, I’m keeping my head down and I’ve sent Issy to stay with one of her friends. I won’t tell you where she is and I’ve told her not to go near her office. I’ve already given the names of those I think are involved one way or another, but I want more information on Julian Latimer.”
Havelock knew he was getting out of his depth, but couldn’t do anything other than help.
“I can tell you most of what is known about Latimer off the top of my head. He’s a confirmed bachelor, is of a similar age to Charlie Hart and has been in politics since his early twenties. For most of that time he’s barely uttered a parliamentary word since his maiden speech. For the majority of his political career he has been used on various committees, which I’ve no doubt made him feel as if he was doing something useful. But on the whole, a lack-lustre man with very little drive according to those who know him well. I would say that he’ll never get any further in the party and that must frustrate the hell out of him.”
“You told me before that he isn’t liked. Was there a point in his career when that came about, or has that always been the case?”
“Look, Jake. This is all very well talking like this, but we should meet and discuss it properly.”
“Dunstan, I’m sorry. But that’s not an option at the moment. They’re looking for me and I don’t want you getting caught up in the crossfire. You wouldn’t stand a chance against those thugs and you most certainly wouldn’t live through the torture they’d inflict. So talk.”
“He used to be the life and soul of the political circuit. Harmless enough, some would say, with a certain charm and charisma that used to win him the votes. But he’s changed over the last few years. He’s become very self-opinionated, obnoxiously arrogant and, at times, quite insufferable.”
“Any obvious reason?”
“Some say that he may have come into a substantial sum of money which made him surer of himself. His parents were quite normal and definitely not wealthy, so it might have been a rich relation that left him a legacy or something. He doesn’t seem unhappy by the prospect of almost certainly losing his seat at the next election.”
“What were these committees that he sat on?”
“For heaven’s sake, Jake. I’ve absolutely no idea. After all, there could have been hundreds of them over the years. They’re the normal things; parliamentary committees are commonplace, set up with as much frequency as you or I drink coffee.”
“You’d better trawl through the archives then. From about the time his character changed.”
“That will take forever. I’ll have to get one of my office juniors to do it. The problem there is that it will run the risk of not only awkward questions being asked, but Latimer himself may even get to hear about something like that being sanctioned.”
“Okay, but try and do what you can. I also want to know how much money he has. And whether he’s ever been seriously involved with anyone?”
“I’ve already told you that he’s a confirmed bachelor, and as far as I’m aware not seeing anyone past or present. As for what he’s worth, I’ll see what I can rake up on him.”
Havelock sounded exasperated. “Where are you staying, Jake?”
“It’s best you don’t know, Dunstan. It’s safer that way. Now you give my love to Rachel and I’ll be in touch very soon. Oh, and Dunstan, thanks.”
Dillon made a mental note to visit Julian Latimer first thing the next morning.
* * *
It turned out to be one of those luxury apartment buildings in Chelsea. Just six in one building, with names and numbers alongside their respective intercom buttons. Stepping out of the Ford, Dillon peered back up the street to the King’s Road and then in the opposite direction towards Fulham Road. Satisfied that he’d not been followed.
As there were eight floors including the basement parking area, Dillon naturally assumed that one of the apartments must be a two-floor penthouse. He pushed the intercom button of number six, which he figured was at the top of the building, and waited. Nothing happened. He pushed the button once more without result and crossed the road to get a better view of the whole building. He spotted the security cameras on each corner and the one over the entrance to the underground car park. Buildings of this calibre usually had a central security system controlling door access CCTV and police alert, and that made things a little trickier. Data was usually fed to the concierge’s workstation and monitor, or directly to a contracted security company’s office and monitored from there. Gone were the days of locks and chains on each occupant’s door which could only be opened by a mortise key or a lock release from inside the apartments – this building looked as if it had electromagnetic locks and digital entry systems.
As he gazed across the street, Dillon thought of Anthony De-Luca, better known as ‘Cracker’. Dillon knew his own limitations when it came to breaking and entering, and he had used Tony before for this sort of job.
Somewhere along the line he would have to break in to find what he could. Nobody was going to tell him what he wanted to know. Tommy Trevelyan was the last man to enter his mind as a possible source of information; he would need an army to help him and then another to protect him. Hart was wired up to the hilt. Paul Hammer was a possibility. But Julian Latimer seemed to be the weakest of them all: arrogant men could rarely be told and invariably never listened to sound advice. But he needed to know something of Latimer’s habits and didn’t have the luxury of time to have him followed for the next few days. Havelock would curse him for this next request, but somehow he had to ensure that Latimer was in the House of Commons, preferably a late session that would drag on for a bit.
He dialled the number again. A resigned Dunstan Havelock said, “Yes Jake?”
“I need to know what Latimer will be doing over the next forty-eight hours. Especially the times when he’s in the House.”
“What you want, Jake, is for me to hack into his electronic diary, isn’t it? Why?”
“I need him to be away from his apartment for a while.”
“I never heard that. Just what the hell are you up to?”
“Will you?”
“Of course I won’t, because I bloody well can’t! I’m the personal assistant to the Home Secretary. Not a spy.”
Dillon could almost see Havelock shaking his head in despair.
“Dunstan, I want to be absolutely sure that he’ll be away from his home for at least four hours.”
“Look, Jake, the man is a bloody loose cannon. He’s been warned numerous times by senior ministers to tow the party-line. And because of that he’s very rarely seen in the House.”
“What about if there was something happening, which meant that he had to be there?”
“Oh, you’d like me to organise something, would you? That’s no problem. Let me have a look at the next few days. I know I’ll have a word with the Home Secretary and get her to ask the PM to rearrange the whole dammed schedule just so that you can do a spot of breaking and entering at a Member of Parliament’s private home address. How does that sound?”
“That would be fine, Dunstan.”
Dillon couldn’t fail to hear Havelock’s exasperation. In all the time that Dillon had known him, he’d never asked for such help. Havelock wanted to help, felt that he must, but on this matter he could not. He was well-aware of what he had got Dillon into and just how much danger he’d put him in, including all of those around him.
Dillon laughed. “I’m only kidding, Dunstan. I just thought it was wor
th asking. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll find another way.”
There was a long silence and Havelock finally said more calmly, “I’d forgotten. One of the more prominent committees that Latimer sits on is meeting this afternoon. It should keep him busy for a few hours as it’s a voting session. Sorry, I was looking beyond today. I suppose that’s too short a notice?”
Dillon couldn’t think how he’d be able to get Tony ‘Cracker’ De-Luca in time; Cracker always liked to make a thorough recce of his targets before going anywhere near a lock or security system.
“What time does the committee sit?”
“Two o’clock. Give or take ten minutes.”
“I’ll give it my best. Thanks for the help, Dunstan. I don’t like harassing you, but I’m being pushed into a corner and need some answers quickly. I’ll see you around.”
* * *
“You think I’m bloody crazy, man?” asked De-Luca bluntly. “No way!”
He had an Italian swagger about him, drove a fast car, had exceptionally good taste and always had a stunning woman hanging off his arm. Since the last time Dillon had worked with him he’d put on some weight and his jet black slicked-back hair was still as thick as ever. He appeared to be prosperous.
“You look as if you’ve been having a run of good luck. I’m glad to see you doing well, Tony.”
They were in a fashionable restaurant in Covent Garden and Dillon was picking up the bill for lunch. He had been lucky to get hold of De-Luca so quickly, but now it was looking as if it would not help.
De-Luca sipped the vintage Bollinger and wiped his lips.
Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 16
