“What’s that?”
“Dunstan Havelock’s home and his private Whitehall phone lines are both being monitored by the security services.”
“Are you positive?”
“One hundred percent. As luck would have it, I intercepted an email confirming it to one of the monitoring departments at GCHQ. It grabbed my attention because it was so heavily encrypted, but not so much that I wasn’t able to decipher it within ten minutes though.” The big Australian chuckled out loud.
“Why are they so interested, Vince? And why are they so keen to talk to me? Something is all cock-eyed about this whole affair and I reckon they know that I’m getting very close to finding out what it is.”
“Well it might have something to do with what you found down in Dorset. I’ve been reading the report you sent to LJ. I’m sure that they know nothing about the gold or the other things you found, and it’s best kept that way. But I’ve no doubt whatsoever, they have their suspicions.”
“What makes you think that?”
“As you know, every now and then I go snooping around in the security service archive files. Electronically, that is.”
“And?”
“It may be nothing, but about twenty-five years ago three tons of gold were stolen from the Brinks Mat warehouse near Heathrow Airport. Or, to put it another way, 6,800 bars were put into seventy-six boxes and have never been found.”
Vince let Dillon take this in for a second and then continued.
“The police files state that it was a South London gang at work, but that it was no ordinary robbery. They handed it over to MI5 because there were rumours that it might be linked to the IRA.”
“And you think that there might be a connection?”
“What I think, mate, is that MI5 was told by our illustrious leader, LJ, about the list of names and addresses that you lifted from Latimer’s place. They were extremely quick in telling him to forget about it, as it was nothing of any importance. So LJ asked me to take a look at their internal email system and this was crammed full with urgent emails about, none other than, Tommy Trevelyan. I’ll leave you to work that one out. As for the old woman, I’ll contact you when I find out anything about her.”
“Thanks, Vince.”
Dillon hung up, and thought about phoning Dunstan Havelock. But he decided that it would put the home secretary’s personal aide in too much danger to contact him, given what Vince had just told him about the security service.
He went out onto the balcony and stood taking in the view of the harbour. A light breeze was blowing in off the ocean, the sun high in a sky of unbroken blue. And as he gazed across the water at Brownsea Island, he remembered what Stella, Paul Hammer’s lover, had said. She had recalled the words said in a moment of drunkenness, ‘There’s blood in the harbour’. Dillon went back inside and got the canvas holdall, extracted a nautical chart from one of the side pockets, and took a close look at an area of channel on the southern side of the National Trust Island. There it was, Blood Alley. Using his mobile phone he pushed the speed dial button and was immediately connected to Vince Sharp.
“Vince, can you get me everything ever written about the Brinks Mat robbery and email it all to my laptop?”
“It’ll be with you in an hour or so.”
“Thanks mate, I really appreciate it.”
Dillon hung up, thinking he had better get some sleep.
He slept for several hours and it was dark when he awoke. Dillon went through to the open plan living room and booted up his laptop, immediately opened his mailbox, and discovered that one message had been received. Vince had sent the information he’d asked for about the Brinks Mat robbery. A moment later, his mobile phone started to ring – it was Vince’s mobile number.
“Do you know how many Poulters there are in the United Kingdom? How many Rosemary Poulters? I hope I never see that name again. Mrs. Rosemary Poulter, nee Clarke. Born May 11, 1946, lived in an orphanage in the east end of London until the age of seventeen. At that time she was sent down to Brighton to work as a chambermaid in one of the big hotels. She met Leonard Poulter whilst working there, and they married a year later, after she became pregnant. Nine months later, she gave birth to a daughter, Sarah. The records show that the marriage was dissolved five years later on the grounds that Leonard had been adulterous. Seems like Rosie brought up the baby on her own and did a pretty good job too, by the looks of it. Sarah left school with outstanding exam results. The records also show that she obtained an Open University degree and graduated with honours four years later. She now teaches media studies at Bournemouth University. Rosie Poulter moved to Bournemouth about six years ago.”
“Anything else?”
“Only that Rosie Poulter has been a registered drug addict for many years and has a police record as long as your arm.”
“This just gets more interesting by the day. Let me guess: heroin?”
Vince confirmed this and then said, “Heroin and she was picked up and charged with soliciting. But surely she’s a bit old for all that malarkey.”
“Um, well it fits perfectly with the area she lives in now and the way she looks. But what the hell is the connection to Charlie Hart?”
“Haven’t got a clue mate. I’ll leave you to work that out.”
“Thanks. See what else you can dig up, keeping in mind the angle with Hart.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as anything turns up.”
Dillon left the apartment around eight that evening, walked the short distance to Salterns Hotel, and made directly for the main bar. Just as LJ had said, Frank Gardner was there and Dillon immediately recognised him from his description. Slender build with a beer belly, somewhere in his mid-to-late fifties with cropped fair hair, tanned skin and wearing a polo shirt with denim jeans and a pair of tatty old deck shoes. The former MI5 spy was sitting by a window overlooking the marina and reading a newspaper. He briefly looked up as Dillon sat down on the chair opposite him and placed his drink down on the small, circular table.
“Frank Gardner?” Dillon enquired.
Gardner lowered the newspaper a fraction, peering at Dillon through tortoise-shell framed reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“You must be Jake Dillon then.”
He neatly folded the paper and placed it on an empty seat nearby. Emptied his pint glass and pushed it towards Dillon.
“Mine’s a pint of Best Bitter, then.”
Dillon returned a moment later, and as he sat down Gardner said, “Thanks.”
He raised his glass and proceeded to empty a good third of it before placing it back down onto the table.
“LJ said you’d most likely be in touch at some time. Been expecting a visit, see?”
“Is that your boat down there?” Dillon pointed at a fifty foot power cruiser, which was tied up alongside one of the pontoons in the marina.
“It’s not only my boat, it’s my home as well, see. Her name is The Napster, after the Internet network site Napster. Inc – one of the most notorious file-sharing websites ever, see?”
Gardner saw the look of puzzlement on Dillon’s face.
“LJ obviously didn’t tell you what department I ended up being attached to, then. The Cyber Crime and Anti-Terrorism Unit. And before you say anything, I make no apologies for being a computer nerd. Much better than just sitting behind a desk pushing paper around, see?”
“I’m glad to hear that you’re a computer nerd.”
Gardner smiled. “So what is it you have in mind, then?” And then took another sip of his beer.
“I need you and The Napster for one night soon.”
“Sounds like it might be interesting. What for, then?”
“I may want to do a spot of diving to check out a hunch I have about something to do with my current assig
nment.”
“Diving, eh? Where?
“The harbour. And before you ask, it’s better that you don’t know where for the time being.”
“Fair enough, I understand. But you won’t want The Napster – she’s too big, see? Much better in the rib, that’s about sixteen feet, shallow keel and very fast, see? Just right for this type of job, and there’s plenty of room for the equipment and air-tanks, see?”
Frank finished his beer and pushed the empty glass towards Dillon. “Better have another, eh?”
Dillon went up to the bar thinking that he may have made a mistake about Gardner. He obviously drank too much, had an annoying habit of ending every sentence with ‘then’, ‘see’ or ‘eh’. But, in his favour, the former spy was an amiable type who, according to LJ, had been an excellent field operative in his day. Dillon knew that he was becoming far too judgemental, but he’d always gone with his gut feelings and they’d never let him down. Although having doubts about Gardner, he would cut him a bit of slack for the time being, especially as he’d only just met him. Dillon’s mobile phone started to ring. It was Vince calling him back about the woman, Rosie Poulter, in Boscombe.
“Vince, what have you got for me?” Dillon walked out onto the deck overlooking the marina.
“Cut straight to the chase, why don’t you? Whatever happened to ‘Hello Vince, how’s it going up there in the grime city?’, or something like that.”
“Sorry, mate. How’s it’s going up there in the big smoke?”
“As to be expected, really. But thank you for asking. How’s it going down in sunny Dorset-by-the-sea?”
“Okay. I’ve made contact with Frank Gardner, LJ’s old buddy from his security service days.”
“What. The Frank Gardner?”
“What do you mean the Frank Gardner?”
“Strewth, mate you must know who he is?”
“He’s one of LJ’s old cronies, isn’t he?”
“That may be, mate. But he was also one of the best computer hackers in the business. Or he was until he went straight and joined MI5.”
“Well, that’s all very interesting. But what have you found out about the Poulter woman?”
“Rosie Poulter had a brother about the same age as her who never went to the orphanage where Rosie lived. Instead he was adopted at the age of two and taken to live with a couple in London. I checked them out, but they’re now both dead. The address where they lived came up on the official records as not existing. So I did a local authority search which showed that the entire area where the terraced house originally stood was bulldozed and completely re-developed back in the late seventies.”
“So what does all of this tell us?”
“Good question. To be honest, Jake, I’m not really sure why you’re so interested in this Poulter woman. She doesn’t appear to be connected in any way to Hart, Trevelyan, Hammer or Latimer.”
“So why does Charlie Hart drive across Bournemouth, sit in a café drinking coffee and then follow her at a distance so as not to be seen? It simply doesn’t make sense.”
Dillon thanked the big Australian for the information he had obtained for him and hung up. As he strolled back inside he wondered why he was concentrating on the Poulter woman and not on Hart himself. Because whatever he knew, Hart must surely know already. It was clear that Rosie Poulter had had a pretty rough life. Perhaps the brother held the key? What had happened down the years to make this happen now?
As Dillon waited for the drinks at the bar he at first thought that Hart must be the brother, suddenly awakening with a conscience. But it was difficult to accept this and, anyway, he had been born in India. And what did any of this have to do with his current assignment? And yet, Dillon felt there was a connection – not an obvious one, but it was there and it was strangely strong, leaving him with an odd feeling of unease.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dillon walked across the hotel’s car park to the apartment. He went through to the kitchen and poured himself a good measure of single malt whiskey. Standing in the near dark for a moment, mulling over what Vince had found out and then went outside onto the balcony. The cool late night air washed over him, instantly calming his mind. He raised the tumbler and drank the smooth, light amber-coloured spirit; the effect was instantly warming. The night sky was unusually clear – the inky blackness speckled with millions of tiny stars that captivated and held his gaze for a moment or two. The spectacular view of the harbour wasn’t registering whilst his mind was so anchored on the history of Rosie Poulter. He knew the beginning and the end but nothing of the middle. Why was she so important?
The only person who could tell him was probably Rosie herself. Or Charlie Hart. But what did this have to do with the gold bullion bars and stolen art cache in Lyme Regis? Several killings, the loss of his own Porsche and the near destruction of the one he’d hired. The hiding away of Issy and, to a lesser degree, of Dunstan Havelock who now had to be wary of making even the most innocent of telephone calls, which raised questions about any part MI5 might be playing in all of this. The Vermeer painting, whether a fake or the original, had long since lost importance.
Dillon considered going straight to Rosie Poulter, but immediately discarded this idea as far too dangerous. And to what end? He couldn’t pin point it, and his instinct told him to stay well clear of the woman for the time being. He had the distinct feeling that he might be stirring up something personal and private that was best left well alone. It was a difficult decision, but one that he felt was right, given that she might still be using drugs and he would not want to add to her problems by stirring up the past.
Dillon decided to let Vince run with his enquiries into Rosie’s life. In the hope that he might dig something up from a more detailed search of the archived records held on the Government’s databases. Especially as trudging through the millions of old scanned documents was not a strong point of his.
He went through to the open-plan lounge and, sitting down at the oak dining table, went through Latimer’s list of names and addresses again. It was then that stirrings of a notion began to come to him.
Dillon had not paid too much attention to the pieces of art he had found. He’d been far more interested in the gold. From his mobile phone, he downloaded the images he’d taken of the paintings he’d found in the secret room onto his laptop computer. The first thing he recalled was the pristine condition that everything was in – almost as if it had only recently been put in there. They were unmistakably old masters and without a doubt, stolen. He would have to go back to Lyme Regis or even try one of the other addresses.
* * *
Julian Latimer, MP, was feeling uncomfortable and not quite so confident during a meeting with Tommy Trevelyan. These meetings were never pleasant, but there was too much at stake to ignore him or to show a lack of respect by not turning up. The location of the venue had been kept a secret until the very last second, as to be almost ridiculous. Trevelyan never took chances, was fastidious about the planning and execution of every security aspect, and always considered carefully who he was being seen with and who not to be seen with. Latimer accepted that it was an immensely sensible thing to do, but as a naturally gregarious extrovert, found Trevelyan’s paranoia extremely boring.
On this occasion they had met on the thirty-second floor of one of his most prestigious construction sites. A new office building in the heart of London’s financial quarter that Trevelyan’s construction company was nearing completion on. The two leather club chairs that had been specially placed facing each other in the centre of the bare concrete floor, were all there was. Trevelyan had thought it safer to meet after the workforce had left for the day. It was not only extremely quiet up high with only the birds for company, but also more difficult for anyone attempting to listen in on their conversation. They were there to discuss the current problems. But Tommy Trevely
an liked to conduct his meetings in a civilised and orderly manner, and that’s why they were drinking tea from fine china cups with saucer, poured out of a large Thermos flask by his chauffeur.
Trevelyan was never a pleasant man to spend time with. Apart from pouring over his account ledgers, nobody really knew what his other interests were. He was a small muscular man, hard-featured, yet, at times when it was necessary, could produce a surprising charm. It wasn’t clear whether or not he was married, divorced or even possibly gay, and nobody was willing to ask. He did have staff that included a housekeeper, cook and a personal bodyguard and chauffeur. His aim in life, it seemed to those who knew him best, was to make other’s lives a misery and to profit by doing so. He had always ruled by fear, but just once in a while he would meet someone who was not intimidated by it. Such a person was Charlie Hart, who had declined his offer to attend the meeting on the grounds that he would learn nothing from it that he didn’t already know. He knew what the problems were and it was up to Trevelyan to sort them out, as he had already appointed himself to that role.
No-one else would dare speak to Trevelyan in this way and like all bullies, Trevelyan was at the top of the tree, but he always backed off. There had always been something about Hart he just could not place. He was sure about his honesty in his dealings as any man he’d ever met. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder when dealing with Hart, and there were very few men he could say that about. Just the same, he never liked to lose any form of control and it annoyed him that Hart had been so contemptuous of his suggestion that a meeting was imperative.
There was little harmony at the meeting – it was a no nonsense appraisal of what had gone wrong in Dorset and whether there was a need for urgent redistribution. Had Jake Dillon been successful in finding the gold bullion and stolen artwork? Nobody knew the answer to this. But they all knew what had to be done: Find Dillon. This was the subject that Julian Latimer did not want to discuss – he was a politician, not a hoodlum hell-bent on murder.
Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 24
