“Sounds like we might have hit a nerve. Best I stay unobtainable then – as if I haven’t got enough aggro as it is.”
“Are you going to give me this mobile number? At least then I can keep you informed about what they’re up to. We’ve got to try and stay one step ahead of them, Jake. And please don’t ring this number again – it’s more than likely tapped.”
“Answer me honestly, Dunstan. You’re certain that you don’t know what this is all about? No inclining as to what might be the reason for their interest?”
“Absolutely none whatsoever. I wish I did know, Jake. At least then we would know what we’ve got ourselves into. Marriott gave LJ the impression that this was something that happened at least twenty years ago. I’ll take a close look at the archive files. After all, the original enquiry would have come from this office. I’ve got no doubt whatsoever that many of those who would know anything will most likely be retired by now, and those who are left won’t want to go against the security service. So it’s best that I keep it as low-key as possible.”
“We’ve got to keep digging, Dunstan. We can’t let Trevelyan and all the other rubbish like him frighten us off. As for Marriott, it would be a complete waste of my time speaking to him. He won’t believe a word I say because of his firm, yet unfounded, belief that I’m a habitual liar.”
“Are you sure about that, Jake?”
“Of course I’m not bloody sure, Dunstan. But that’s completely irrelevant. If they’re involved, then it starts to take on an entirely different shape, bearing in mind what they’re up against. Hart, Trevelyan and the others.”
“Whatever it, is?”
There was a silence between them for a few moments, and then Dillon added, “Perhaps they’re all in it together.”
There had been a time when Havelock would have hotly contested that such a thing could be, but now he had no reply except to say, “How do I get in contact with you?”
“Better we don’t from here on in. I think you’ve gone as far as you can and if I need you again I’ll get LJ to make contact. It’ll be much safer for you that way. Give my love to Rachel, and thanks, Dunstan.”
When Havelock met with the Home Secretary the next morning he gave his report and assessment of the recent developments concerning Dillon’s investigation into Charlie Hart, the sudden MI5 interest in the situation, and about them wanting a chat with Dillon. Havelock knew better than to criticise or accuse the security service of having ulterior motives for this request. Home Secretaries had to rely on their Security Chiefs. Instead he asked for his authorisation to ask them to clarify their reasons for wanting to talk with Dillon. Later that day he received the reply he had been expecting. Dillon was requested to attend an informal interview relating to an ongoing MI5 enquiry and that it would be of mutual benefit to both MI5 and Dillon to exchange information about certain people involved. As Dillon had said, perhaps they’re all in it together.
* * *
The Victorian house stood in private grounds approaching two acres of prime West Dorset countryside, fairly isolated and away from the main Lyme Regis road which leads down to the coast. The property was approached up a narrow lane and Dillon could see where deer had worn cut-through paths in the dense hedgerows. There was pastureland, which largely surrounded the house, and twenty-foot high poplars running in a straight line along the rear boundary, which eventually merged with a small coppice wood a little further from the house.
With so many trees around, it would be a simple job keeping an eye on the place. And with so much open ground close to the house it was impossible to approach it without being seen. Dillon saw no easy way in except by night – something he hadn’t allowed for.
He parked the Ford Focus about half a mile away, well out of sight of the property, and then jogged back along the narrow lane. He had the Glock in its holster under his right arm; it was the first time he had really felt the need for a weapon. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck were bristling as he rounded the last corner and caught sight of the front of the house a short distance away.
There was no one about. This made him edgy – his instincts on full alert as he noticed an upstairs window open, suggesting that someone was at home. As he moved around to the side of the house, he could see a stable block with two horses peering out over their stalls that looked up as he approached.
He was feeling uneasy mainly because of what Havelock had told him about MI5. It had introduced a new dimension and he didn’t trust an organisation which had once tried to eliminate someone he had known simply to cover up a badly bungled operation and save face. At least with Hart and Trevelyan he knew where he stood. It was particularly annoying, because no one was more for getting to the truth than Dillon. Havelock at least knew him as someone with unquestionable integrity and discretion through and through.
The unease increased as he drew nearer to the door at the back of the house, which he could now see was ajar. Dillon stood taking in his surroundings on aged moss-covered flagstones, weathered smooth over time. It was so still, not so much as a light wind. Even the natural sounds of the countryside seemed to be much quieter. Then dogs started to bark somewhere near. It wasn’t an aggressive sound, and no dogs came bounding round the corner at him.
He walked away from the building, retracing his footsteps into a lightly wooded area at the side of the gravel driveway. At the front of the house he kept to the edge of the driveway and went straight to the main door. Instead of pulling on the braided rope hanging under a tarnished antique bell, presumably so it could be heard from the stable yard at the rear, he went down the other side of the house, past a large brick-built garage, and could see where two large dogs were running on long chains. There were two sizable green-houses further on, but there was nobody in sight.
Crouching low, he moved slowly, ever closer towards the rear of the house and the chained dogs. Both animals charged toward him; fangs bared, hackles up, the chains bringing them to an abrupt halt some five feet from where he was standing. Dillon backed away from them and returned to the front door where he rang the bell.
A man appeared as if he’d been standing behind the door waiting. He looked at Dillon and said, “Was that you I saw snooping around outside?”
“I’m sorry if I startled you, I saw that the back door was ajar, but couldn’t see anyone around. So I came around to the front door.”
Dillon found himself staring into the watery eyes of a tall thin man of sixty-odd years, who was wearing a light check shirt unbuttoned at the collar and brown corduroy trousers that had seen better days. The thinning grey hair was slicked back in place.
“So you’ve had a good look around the place, now what do you want?” The tone was more aggressive than the look.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, but my car has broken down about half a mile away and I can’t get a signal on my mobile phone. I was wondering if I could possibly use your phone to call a breakdown truck.”
“Of course. Mind yourself on the step. The phone is out in the kitchen.”
Dillon went past the old man, who slammed the door shut and followed him inside.
“Follow me; the phone is on the wall behind the door.”
He brushed past Dillon in the direction of a doorway at the end of a narrow passage. And as they went past a closed door, the man stopped as a woman’s voice called out, inquiring what was going on.
“I’ve got a visitor. Nothing to concern you,” he said.
The feeling on impending danger would not leave him. He couldn’t help thinking how the old man had let him in so readily; older people would have been much more wary of letting a stranger into their home in this day and age, even if it was in a gesture of kindness. As they entered the kitchen it was, for Dillon, like stepping back in time to his grandmother’s home. With free standing cupboards against the white painted walls and a traditio
nal old-fashioned range oven standing in between them. A quarry tiled floor was largely covered by a long oak table and everything was spotlessly clean.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Dillon said.
The house was quiet – the only sound came from a clock mounted on the wall above the doorway.
“No. We’re going into Lyme this evening. My wife has decided that we should eat out tonight.” The man raised his eyebrows in resignation. “The phone’s over there by the door,” he said, sitting down at the table. “What’s the matter with your car then?”
“Haven’t got a clue. I’m afraid I’m not very good with anything mechanical,” Dillon answered, dialling the Ferran & Cardini special projects number.
As soon as Vince Sharp’s direct line was answered, he proceeded to talk as if he were speaking to the breakdown company. Vince knew what Dillon wanted. Everything there was to know about the address he was calling from and the occupants. Dillon ended the call by saying aloud, for the benefit of the man, that the recovery vehicle and mechanic would be there in about forty-five minutes.
“Thanks for the use of the phone.”
Dillon pulled out a five pound note and placed it on the table. The man looked offended, telling him to put it back in his pocket and in the same breath offered to make Dillon a cup of tea, which he accepted. Dillon got the distinct impression that the man was actually pleased to see another human being and be able to talk to someone different.
Dillon had been offered a chair with its back to the door and was looking for some kind of reflection from the facing window. As he sat down, the man came back to the table with the cups of tea.
“So then, where were you heading before your car broke down?”
“I’m on my way to Exeter,” Dillon lied easily, adding, “My name is Robert King, by the way.”
“Harry Connor. That’s my wife Sheila in the front room. You’ll have to excuse her – she’s watching one of those damn soaps on the television. Every day is the bloody same, a load of old rubbish if you ask me.”
Dillon smiled and sipped the tea.
“It’s a lovely spot you’ve got yourself here, so quiet and off the beaten track. How long have you lived here, Harry?”
“About fourteen years, I’d say. And you’re right, it is a beautiful place to live. Where do you live then?”
“London. Complete opposite, I’m sorry to say. It’s still as polluted and noisy as it’s ever been.”
“We went to London once, but Sheila didn’t think much of it and I can’t stand crowds of people, see?”
“I know what you mean, Harry. So who lived here before you?”
“Bit nosey, aren’t you? Asking all these questions about the place. You’re not one of those property developers are you? Sound out old folk before trying to buy their homes from under their feet?”
“No, Harry. I’m not a property developer and I’m not here to sound you out, as you say. I’m simply a nosey bugger whose car has broken down and asks too many questions over a cup of tea. I’m just interested, that’s all. Every house has a tale to tell. That sort of thing.”
“Oh, well in that case I’ll go and ask Sheila, she’ll know who lived here before we did.”
Conner went through the door behind Dillon, leaving it ajar as he went into the living room to speak with Sheila. Dillon couldn’t hear what was being said but caught the tones of a women’s voice and heard footsteps pacing around the other room. Some sort of argument was taking place with Conner attempting to explain and the woman constantly shouting at him. Conner came back and sat down. He raised his brows in resignation and said, “Sheila’s got a memory like an elephant. Apparently there was only ever one owner who lived here before we arrived, and it was his father who had the house built. His name was Keysworth, but we never met him. Everything was conducted through a local solicitor.”
Harry’s tone was the friendliest it had been since Dillon had arrived.
Keysworth was one of the original names on Latimer’s list located at the address. This confirmed what Dillon already knew, and he now saw no purpose in outstaying his welcome. After thanking Harry Conner for the use of his phone and hospitality, he headed for the front door. He could still hear the television in the living room, but there was also movement from upstairs. He offered his thanks again and as he walked out into the driveway, he had the distinct feeling he was being watched all the way down to the road. Even as he rounded the bend at the bottom, he still felt that he was being held under surveillance. He felt a lot more comfortable when he could see the parked Ford just a short distance away up the road.
He sat behind the wheel for a moment, doing nothing, except collecting his thoughts together and pondering on why Harry Conner had lied to him. Every now and then he looked in his rear-view mirror; some hikers appeared behind him and wondered off along the footpath into the woods. By the time he started the engine he was almost certain that no one was watching him. He drove off slowly, thinking that Conner wasn’t the frail old man he made out he was, and he definitely knew far more about Mr. Keysworth than he was letting on. He got back onto the main Exeter Road where at this time of the year the road was packed with holiday traffic and constant bottlenecks.
He reached Lyme Regis, fought his way into the centre of the historic coastal town, through narrow streets and out the other side, on up the steep hill past the Royal Lion Hotel. He turned left into Pound Road and then into Cobb Road, and found a parking space in the car park near to the old harbour. There were people milling around and walking along the 13th Century Cobb – a formidable breakwater wall of solid stone that snakes its way out to sea; made internationally famous by the movie The French Lieutenant’s Woman. He found a traditional fish and chip shop, ordered a large cod and chips to take away, and watched the fishing boats and yachts coming in from the English Channel from where he sat on the pebble beach. After wandering around the town he took his time and walked back to the Ford. By now it was getting dark.
He slowly drove back to the house and once he’d left the main road, he used only the side lights as he approached it. He pulled up, reversed the Ford over uneven ground into a clearing at the edge of a wooded area and tucked the car away from sight of the road. Not wishing to take any risks, he went to work covering the bonnet and windscreen with fallen branches and any other foliage that he could find laying around. Satisfied that it was properly concealed, he picked up the powerful torch off the passenger seat, locked the car and then started to walk back through the woods towards the house.
When he reached the corner of the driveway, he took up a position by a thicket of bushes, which afforded him a good degree of concealment from the house and from anyone who might happen to be approaching up the driveway.
Most of the lights in the house appeared to be on; a couple of rooms upstairs, the hall and a very efficient light over the front door. He couldn’t see if the light in the kitchen was on, but thought it highly likely. It was 9.15 p.m.
It was another fifteen minutes before anyone appeared. The front door opened and Dillon heard Conner’s voice and further along inside the hall, a woman’s. Conner was waving his arms around angrily, ran back inside, and the lights started to go out one after the other until the entire house was in total darkness. In such a remote place with no other properties around, the resulting effect was a blackness that you only find in the country. Dillon couldn’t see a thing until a torch was switched on and he could hear Sheila Conner complaining about her husband being over-dramatic as they crossed the gravel drive towards the garage.
The electrically operated up-and-over wooden door started to whir as it opened, but no lights were switched on, suggesting that Conner wasn’t taking any chances of being seen. The torch’s beam picked out a small van and focussed on the driver’s side so that Sheila could see to get in. Then the light was extinguished, a
diesel engine fired into life and the full beams came on and seemed to be shining straight at Dillon. The van moved forward and stopped. Harry Conner waited until the door was fully closed, replaced the heavy-duty padlock into its keep and then got into the passenger seat. A moment later, they set off down the driveway towards the road.
Dillon didn’t move a muscle. He was far too experienced to break his cover, but still felt uncomfortable and exposed as the lights of the van swept past him at speed. At the bottom of the driveway they turned left in the direction of Lyme Regis.
Dillon waited. It was somewhat of a strange time to be going out; rather late for dinner. And why was the woman driving so erratically and at such a speed?
The house was now almost invisible in the total darkness. Even the trees around him were difficult to make out. And yet, as he began to tread carefully along the edge of the driveway, he knew it would be foolhardy to use the powerful torch. After the glare of the van’s headlights, his sight gradually improved and as he advanced he could make out the outline of the house. The feeling that he was being watched, as before, had returned. Only this time he was certain of it. It was not just the eeriness of the isolated location. In the middle of the Dorset countryside only the sounds of the night creatures could be heard around him. It was for much deeper reasons.
Something was missing and he suddenly realised it was the barking of the two dogs. A dog’s acute hearing could pick up the most silent approach, even indoors, and as the slight breeze was blowing towards the house they would also have picked up his scent. He was certain the dogs had not been in the van but could have missed them. He continued on, making sure that his footsteps were on the soft grass verge of the driveway and not the gravel.
Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 20
