Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  want you to leave now, leave me in peace. I promise you, I’ll

  not going running to the police.” Tears started to roll down

  over Albert’s ruddy cheeks, and then his whole body started

  to shake with his pitiful sobbing.

  The German, put a hand on the back of his neck, and

  squeezed. “Tell me what you said, you old fool!” “Ahh, that’s hurting. I only said the things that I’ve

  already told you. Now please let me go!”

  He released his grip on the old man’s neck, and then

  patted his shoulder. “Do you know, Mr Bishop? I believe

  you’re telling the truth.”

  Kurt slid his left arm across Albert’s throat. Placed

  his right hand over the top of his head, and twisted it around in one smooth motion. Breaking the neck so cleanly that the

  old man was dead in an instant.

  Kurt released his grip as the body went limp. The legs

  instantly buckled, and the body fell and tumbled awkwardly

  down to the bottom of the stairs. After a moment, he calmly

  walked down, and without hurry studied the scene that he’d

  created. Making absolutely sure, that it looked as if the old

  man had accidentally fallen.

  Very quickly, he went back through the cottage,

  ensuring along the way, that there was nothing out of place.

  He left through the French doors again, and then walked

  back to where the Porsche was parked. He glanced back at

  the granite building, before getting into the sports car and

  slowly driving off down the lane. Ten minutes later, he’d

  reached St. Helier and the car park where Vince had left

  the Range Rover. He parked the Porsche next to the luxury

  4x4, and sat looking at it for quite some time.

  * * * LJ and Dillon had the lobster which, they both decided, was probably the best that either of them had ever eaten, while Vince and Chapman shared a platter of cold fruits de mer. A gastronomic selection of locally caught shellfish; including butterfly king prawns, stuffed oysters and chancre crabs. All washed down with a crisp white wine, that Malakoff had personally chosen from the hotel’s wine cellar.

  Malakoff snapped his fingers, and a second later the head waiter appeared.

  “Coffee, gentlemen?” Malakoff asked.

  “I’ll have a double espresso.” Dillon said.

  “Earl Grey tea, for me please.” LJ said, much to the amusement of the Frenchman.

  Malakoff was about to speak, when he caught sight of Kurt coming through the door. “Please excuse me, gentlemen.” Malakoff got up out of his chair, and walked briskly towards the bar area to meet the big German.

  “What is it, that can’t wait until we get back to the Solitaire?”

  “I found Albert Bishop.”

  “And?”

  “One of Levenson-Jones’s people got to him this afternoon.”

  “Talk to me, Kurt?”

  So the German told him briefly and Malakoff listened intently, watching LJ and the others, out of the corner of his eye.

  “How cunning of Levenson-Jones, to have found Albert Bishop so quickly. Which of course, means that he now knows about Asquith’s involvement in this affair? But, I wonder what will he do with this knowledge?”

  “Albert Bishop, will not be giving us any more trouble, Mien Herr. And as for Levenson-Jones, it really doesn’t matter what he does. Especially as the Cunningham girl will be arriving back on the island tomorrow. If she really does know where to find the U-boat, then she will lead us to that tunnel entrance. As for those English buffoons. Well, we won’t need them anymore.”

  “Kurt,” Malakoff said. “You did kill Mr Bishop, didn’t you?”

  “Of course, Mien Herr. It was very quick and clean, and I made it look as if the old man had fallen down the stairs. In fact, I impressed myself with the meticulous attention I paid to every detail, Mien Herr.”

  “I’m sure you did. Now, I must return to the table. We’ll talk about this in more detail later.” Malakoff turned to go back into the dining room, but Dillon and the others were already making their way towards him.

  “Excellent dinner, Malakoff, but we really must be making tracks. Early start, you know.” LJ said matter of factly.

  “Such a pity you have to leave. The evening is so young, Levenson-Jones. But, I must say it’s been interesting. And quite an experience.”

  “Yes, it has. Hasn’t it? LJ said, looking over the top of his round, gold wire framed spectacles.

  “Oh, by the way, Malakoff.” Dillon’s hand dived into his jacket pocket and came out a second later clutching the tracking bug that he’d found on the power cruiser, and gave it to the Frenchman. “I think this belongs to you.”

  He then pulled out the other one that Vince had found on Rob Chapman’s boat, the Wave Dancer. He held it in his open palm.

  “Did your mother never tell you, that it’s very rude to spy on other people, Malakoff?” Dillon handed him the small device, and then walked off down the stairs.

  Malakoff stood and watched him leave. The only sound that he made was a sort of snorting sound that came down his nose.

  “Next time you speak to Lord Asquith, Malakoff. Say hello for me.” LJ said, as he buttoned up his jacket.

  “What an informed fellow you are, Levenson-Jones. And yes, I will give Oliver your very best wishes. Goodnight, gentlemen.” Malakoff then turned and walked back into the dining room, where he engaged in conversation with Francois Cocteau, the head waiter.

  Dillon and the others reached the Range Rover, and the Porsche Carerra, that Kurt had been driving was still parked next to the 4x4.

  “What a lovely looking beast.” Vince commented with enthusiasm, and pointing at the sports car, added. “Can’t you just smell the money?”

  “Okay, if you like the hard ride.” Dillon said laconically, and then added. “I think that we should drop by Albert Bishop’s place tonight, on the way back to Bonne Nuit. I know it’s getting late, and Roberts has arranged for us to meet him tomorrow morning. But, I’ve got a few burning questions I’d like to ask him.” Dillon said.

  “Good idea, Jake. No time like the present.” LJ commented. A moment later, Vince was pulling out of the car park.

  * * * They drove out of St. Helier and headed west along Victoria Avenue, which sweeps around the edge of St. Aubin’s Bay. It was magnificent; the tide was at a high, and bathed in the light of the full moon. Vince took the Range Rover inland along the narrow lanes, and five minutes later they pulled up outside of Albert Bishop’s picturesque stone cottage. Dillon and LJ, got out, and walked up to the front door. The cottage looked peaceful in the moonlight, the only intrusion to this tranquil scene, was the sound of the countryside settling down for the evening. LJ rapped the polished brass knocker hard against the door plate, and then stepped back away from the entrance, and looked up at the windows to see if any of the lights were on.

  Dillon walked around to the rear of the property, and peered through the French doors. Everything looked neat and tidy, which gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his gut. Nothing should be this perfect, he thought, and immediately walked back to join LJ.

  “There doesn’t appear to be anyone in, old son.” LJ said.

  “Something’s not right here.” Dillon said, as he approached the front door, squatted down, and using the torch he’d taken from the glove box of the car, peered through the letterbox.

  “What do you mean, not right? Bishop’s obviously gone out for the evening, and simply not returned yet.”

  “No, I mean there’s something not right. Here, take a look.” Dillon gestured for his boss to look through the letterbox.

  “Great Scott!” LJ exclaimed, and immediately stood up again.

  From the Range Rover, Vince and Chapman watched on with growing curiosity, as Dillon and then LJ squatted down and pee
red through the open letterbox. After a moment, they got out and walked across the lane to join the others.

  “What’s the matter, boss?” Vince asked LJ.

  It was Dillon who answered, “Albert Bishop is dead. From what we can see from here, it looks like he fell down the stairs. More than likely broke his neck on the way down.”

  “The poor old bastard.” Chapman said. “He must have missed the top tread in the dark, and down he went.”

  “It’s all too convenient, if you ask me.” Dillon commented.

  “I agree. All to convenient. One minute he’s talking like a songbird to young Roberts. Telling him all about Lord Asquith, senior. And the next thing, he’s dead.” LJ stated.

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” Dillon nodded.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Vince put in. “I mean, if Malakoff knew about the old boy’s existence, why leave it until now? I’d have thought he’d have had him taken care of long before now.”

  LJ nodded. “But what if he’s only just been informed of the old chap’s existence. By the same person who has also been feeding him all of the other information he needed.”

  “You mean, the present Lord Asquith?” Chapman asked.

  “The very one, and it demonstrates to me, that you can’t trust anyone these days.” LJ said as he walked off down the path. “Now let’s get out of here. We’ll call the police on the way back to Bonne Nuit from a call box.”

  They all got back into the Range Rover. Vince drove away from the stone cottage, taking them north through the narrow country lanes. At the first bright yellow telephone box they came across. Dillon jumped out of the 4x4, and called the police. He kept it brief and anonymous, and told them that he’d heard what sounded like gunfire coming from Albert Bishop’s cottage.

  “Okay?” LJ asked, as Dillon got back into the passenger seat of the Range Rover.

  “Yeah, the old boy’s place should be crawling with police in about ten minutes, I’d say.”

  “Good,” LJ said. “At least the old chap will be properly looked after. Dreadful way to end a long life, dreadful.”

  “Oh, and I also gave them an exact description of Malakoff’s henchman, Kurt. I said that I’d seen him running away from the house with blood down his shirt.”

  “Inspiring, old son.” LJ said with a sparkle in his eye.

  “I don’t think Malakoff will be giving us much trouble once he discovers that the police are looking for his man. In fact, I’d say that we’ve bought ourselves more time before he wants us out of the way.” Dillon said looking over his shoulder at the others sitting in the back.

  Five minutes later, Vince brought the Range Rover to a halt outside of Chapman’s renovated sea castle, and dropped him off. Back at the Fisherman’s Lodge, LJ retired to his bedroom leaving Dillon and Vince in the living room. Dillon poured them both a generous measure of single malt whisky, raised his glass and proposed a toast.

  “To Hugo Malakoff and his little band of thugs. Here’s hoping that they’ll regret - to their dying day, if they ever live that long - sticking their noses into our business.” Both men smiled sardonically, and then downed their drinks in one gulp.

  * * * LJ was savouring his second cup of strong black coffee of the morning, as Dillon and Vince walked out through to the garden.

  It was a magnificent day, the sun was up, and there were no clouds in the sky. Across the bay, herring gulls swooped down on the fishing boats at anchor, scavenging for scraps. And as far as the eye could see brilliant blue sky seamlessly merged with deep blue of the sea.

  After breakfast, Dillon and the others walked down to the harbour to meet Chapman who was already waiting for them on board his boat the Wave Dancer.

  “Thought you weren’t coming. Overslept did we?” Chapman said sarcastically.

  Dillon ignored the comment, and said, “Well, if we’re all ready, we’d better get this tub out there. We’ve got a lot of coastline to cover, and I’ve got to be back here by mid afternoon to collect Annabelle from the airport.”

  “Suits me just fine.” Chapman said, releasing the mooring lines. The next moment, he was throttling back, and reversing slowly away from the harbour wall. They moved quickly out into open water, and then headed north along the coast. Chapman was racing over the water at full throttle, and then it happened.

  Smoke started to pour out of the engine compartment, and then moments later it exploded, splintering wood and fibreglass, sending debris in every direction. There was instant power loss, and then the Wave Dancer began to take on water.

  “What in hell’s name, has happened?” LJ demanded.

  “How should I know,” Chapman snapped, and then moved quickly back to the stern to survey the damage. Water was rushing in through a large hole in the hull, and the dive boat was beginning to list over onto its starboard side. “We’re sinking,” he said. “Jake, break out the life jackets from the forward locker.”

  “What about the dive gear?” Dillon said.

  “If there’s time, we’ll transfer it to the dinghy. But we haven’t got long.”

  Chapman pulled the small inflatable dinghy that had been tied to the stern along the port side. From over his shoulder, he said to LJ and Vince. “Here, you two put your life jackets on, and get into the dinghy.”

  Dillon dragged the two large canvas bags that had the diving gear and weapons inside, across the waterlogged deck. He passed them across to Vince, and then climbed into the dinghy himself.

  Chapman hurriedly grabbed his sea charts, and dive log from the small wheelhouse, and with only seconds to spare, just made it into the dinghy. A moment later the Wave Dancer started to list heavily, before rolling completely over.

  Only the sound of the ocean, and the gulls high up above could be heard. The four men looked on silently, as the upturned vessel bobbed gently up and down on the swell.

  Chapman pulled the nylon cord, and the small outboard coughed and spluttered into life. The single propeller bit into the water, and they started back to shore.

  “And what about your boat?” LJ asked.

  “I’ll get one of the local fishermen to go out and tow it back in for me. But I can’t wait to hear what the marine engineer thinks caused the engine to explode like that, when he examines it.”

  “You sound as if you’ve got a theory, old son?” LJ said.

  “Perhaps I have,” Chapman said. “All I know for sure is that it’s bloody suspicious. Especially as that engine was only serviced last week.”

  Within minutes they were back at Bonne Nuit. Chapman came in fast, beaching the dinghy onto the sand. As they started up the beach towards the slipway, Dillon stopped in his tracks and said, “Something’s just occurred to me. Last night, I made light of the fact, that I thought we’d bought ourselves more time. That’s to say, before Malakoff would try anymore funny business, and attempt to get rid of us once and for all.”

  “What of it?” LJ said.

  “Well I think he just got impatient, and tried.”

  * * * The fisherman that Chapman knew was standing on the sea wall talking to one of the other fishermen. On seeing him, Chapman left the others, promising to phone them the minute the Wave Dancer had been towed in and inspected by the marine engineer.

  Back at the rented lodge Dillon had a long hot shower, standing under the torrent of water thinking about things. He changed into some dry clean clothes, went through to the living room and poured himself a large single malt whisky.

  The French door opened, and LJ came in from the garden. “Ah there you are, Jake. Pour me one of those, will you?” LJ said, waving a hand at Dillon’s tumbler. “What time is it? I appear to have misplaced my watch.”

  “Just coming up to two-thirty.”

  “Good, young Roberts will be back from his lunch in that case.” LJ dialled the London number of Ferran & Cardini International.

  * * *

  Roberts was sitting at his desk, studiously going through a pile of documents, when the phone start
ed to ring. “Guy Roberts.”

  “Roberts, it’s LJ. Are you alone?” “Quite alone, sir. I’m just getting started on those files you left for me to go through.”

  “Well you can push those to one side, because I’ve got something far more important for you to do.”

  “They’re already pushed aside, sir.”

  “Good, now listen up. Remember that old chap, Albert Bishop who you spoke to before flying down from London?”

  “Of course. Nice old boy, why?”

  “Well, he’s dead. Murdered, we suspect, by one of Malakoff’s henchmen. But it does confirm one thing, Roberts.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “That Malakoff’s association with Lord Oliver Asquith runs much deeper than we had thought. And as I suspected, Asquith has been keeping Malakoff very well informed of all our movements. Most likely from the minute I asked him to be involved with this project.”

  LJ gave him a brief account of what had happened the previous day, right up to Chapman’s boat exploding.

  “But why is Malakoff going to all of this trouble antagonising and it would appear attempting to kill you all down there? And what is it that Lord Asquith wants to keep secret?” Roberts said thoughtfully.

  “That’s what I want you to find out, old son. Give it your full and undivided attention, and dig as deep as you can. I’d concentrate on the late Lord Asquith, and in particular his financial affairs. You know the sort of stuff, sums of money that were paid in or out on a regular basis?”

  “What about MI5?”

  “What about them?” LJ replied.

  “Hasn’t Simon Digby been instructed to put the Asquith file under lock and key?”

  “Oh, that. Digby isn’t really interested in the late Lord. Oh no, as I mentioned before, he’s more concerned with the present Lord Asquith. He won’t give you any problems, old son. And if he does notice that you’re snooping around. Well, let’s cross that bridge as and when we need to.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll get cracking on it right away.”

  “Call me as soon as you find anything. Oh, and one other thing, Roberts?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Please stop calling me sir.”

  * * * LJ broke the connection, and said, “Right then, that’s that taken care of. All that we have to do now, is stay one step ahead of our friend Malakoff.”