“That was awesome! What the hell is it, and why is it on this boat?”
Charlie asked, his voice a little shaky. He knew my fixation with gadgets and that I had a contact at the Army’s Establishment for Weapons development in Surrey.
“Um, was rather effective wasn’t it,” I said with a smirk. “This Charlie, is the little toy I was telling you about, I asked LJ to phone a friend of mine and ask if I could borrow it for the assignment; never thought we would be able to, not in a million years. I wanted it because it’s as good underwater as it is on the surface. So that if there had been large rocks to shift out of the way down there, or blow a hole to gain access, this little beauty would have made light work for us.”
In silence we cruised back towards Sandbanks and the rented house.
We arrived back at around six thirty. Mrs Rumple had been informed by radio that her sewing expertise was going to be required again the minute we docked. In her usual expedient manner and without fuss this was taken care of.
We decided to leave the waxy opium packages hidden on board the phantom for the night, but to take everything else up to the house. We secured all hatches and double locked the boathouse doors. Everyone except Rumple and Mrs Rumple would take turns in doing a guard duty, just in case any other unwanted visitors called.
* * *
Thursday: 6.00am As usual LJ was already at his desk. I’d no doubt that he was already savouring a cup of piping hot black coffee to kick-start his metabolism for the day. I sat in front of the laptop using the built in camera and secure line video link.
“Good morning Jake, I hope you slept well after yesterday’s activities.”
“Can we cut the crap, please? We were ambushed; it’s as simple as that.”
“There is no other way of looking at it. Whoever those goons were, they had known exactly where we would be and I suspect what goodies we had just loaded on board. It could only be our client or this chap in Bournemouth, Flackyard.”
“OK, old son, you may be right - but please calm down, – I’ve made a number of phone calls, Hawkworth categorically refutes any suggestion that the opium found on board the Gin Fizz was being trafficked for him. It’s far more likely that this Robert Flackyard is behind the drugs, and that those three you sent to the bottom of the English Channel worked for him. Special Branch has confirmed that he is the subject of an ongoing investigation with regard to his various activities both here in the UK and abroad. Further more, Jake, please remember that had it been a team of let’s say, five, instructed by our client, you would all be lying on slabs in a mortuary.”
“Great, so we have a Cabinet Minister who has jumped into bed with a gangster instead. Who also has an appetite for dealing drugs and killing people? But where does that leave us, and where do we go from here?”
“Look, the first thing to do is for all of you to sit tight. I will arrange for the items retrieved from the safe, to be brought back to London, then the Partners can arrange the hand-over to their rightful owners. A dispatch rider will collect them this morning. Your code name will be used as the greeting.”
“Understood?” I nodded at the screen.
“Good, because once that is taken care of, I can take my instructions from upstairs so that we can concentrate on the more important matters such as the Italian Generals and their Sicilian project. In the meantime, see what else you can find out locally about this chap Flackyard. If you turn up anything interesting, call me immediately, at any time of the day or night, you’ve got my London home number.”
He broke the link and the screen went blank. At breakfast, I filled the others in on the conversation I had with LJ. I gave everyone something to do for the day ahead; the Rumples were to stay at the house to keep an eye on things. Fiona Price looked as if she was staying in Dorset and looked as if she were more than capable of visiting some of Flackyard’s clubs and wine bars.
“Try and find out as much about his organisation as possible,” I said, but please try to be discreet. Remember there’s an active investigation on this character and his many activities.”
Fiona assured me that discretion was her middle name, and that she didn’t know I cared so much.
Around 11.30 am Charlie and I decided to take a look at the local ‘in’ place, a modern café bar by the water’s edge. Highly polished chrome tables and chairs lined the marble frontage and overhead large billowy canvas blinds let shaded sunlight filter through, creating a relaxed atmosphere where life passes by and time stands still. We took a table overlooking the Bay. A waitress came over and took our drinks order. Charlie instantly struck up a rapport with the talkative girl, asking her if it were possible to have a chat with the owner. I noticed someone walking up the road from the direction of the beach. He was a muscular figure, perhaps a little overweight. His dark hair was cropped close to his skull and his chest featured more hair than his head.
A small crucifix dangled from a fine chain around his neck. He wore a baggy pair of swimming shorts and carried a towel, which he rubbed against his head as he walked. It was only the towel and shorts that marked him as a visitor, for as he approached us an attractive tanned woman came from behind the bar and waved enthusiastically at him.
He shouted, “Is that an English rose I see there?” In response the woman wrinkled her nose and pouted her mouth. As they met he kissed her on both cheeks and gave her a friendly hug. “God, you look good today, Georgina. How do you keep so young and vibrant, working this bar of yours morning, noon and night?” The woman ignored this compliment and guided the big American inside. I could see from where I was sitting, that she was whispering to him conspiratorially, flicking her eyes in our direction a number of times during their conversation. Five minutes later he came over and introduced himself.
“Caplin,” he said, and extended a large hairybacked hand to Charlie.
“Caplin?”
“Yes, Harry Caplin.” He laughed. “I’m from the United States – I live in the house two doors from you. Look, that’s it for me today. Say – I know we don’t know each other and I’m being really presumptuous in asking, but would you fellas like to join me for lunch? That’s if you’ve got nothing better to do.”
Look I’ll go back to the house and scramble into some clothes. Let’s say 12.45 at my place for drinks then eat around 1.00. It’ll sure be good to have new faces to talk with. Bring your friends and swim-suits if you like.” He laughed loudly and went off up the road.
Charlie was all for it, of course, he just wanted to break the monotony of sitting around waiting for further instructions from London. He said, “He’s a bulldozer, that man; he’s the American I mentioned.”
I said, “He’s seems friendly enough, but I’ve got a strange feeling that his offer of lunch was most definitely, not off the cuff. Something about him is not right and how did he know that we weren’t alone? I’ll get Rumple to check him out this afternoon.”
Fiona was already back at the house when we arrived to collect our shorts.
“Back so soon Fiona? I thought you’d be gone at least until late tonight?”
“Mr Dillon, you will find my report on the table over by the fax machine.”
She pointed across the room. “You should find it an interesting read. This Flackyard character is on the face of it whiter than white. But in reality he is into anything illegal, according to a young waitress with big ears and a loose tongue who I got talking to in one of his bars. He runs most of the working girls in the town, controlling them with what he calls his enforcers. These are basically paid thugs who collect the money and dish out any punishment as and when required, to keep the girls in line.”
“Funnily enough, one thing she did mention was that there is a rumour going around that three of these thugs have just disappeared. Apparently Flackyard is really pissed off and very twitchy about it. He thinks they’ve stolen certain items of value from him that he was transporting for one of his associates and that he was supposed to deliver yesterday. She think
s that it’s almost certain to be drugs. Unfortunately we were interrupted, so I left and came straight back here.”
“Sounds good Fiona. I look forward to reading it. But now, we have a lunch date with a bullish American two doors away. Would you like to come?”
“Another pair of eyes and ears might prove useful.”
“Sounds too good to miss. Have I got time to quickly change?”
I picked up the type written report. “Five minutes, and no more.” I said looking down at the white sheet of paper in my hand and thinking how I may have judged her a little to harshly at the outset, and how well written and detailed her report was. Perhaps she could be a valuable asset to the team after all.
The three of us arrived at Harry Caplin’s a little before 12.45. He lived in a magnificent mock Gothic house; the entrance hall was large and airy with a rich oak floor running throughout the ground level. The dark furniture did a heavy dance as we walked across the uneven plank flooring.
From the entrance hall one could see right through the house to where the green sea, dark clouds and stone balcony hung like a tricolour outside the back door. From the kitchen emerged the aroma of olive oil, onion, pimento, and fish. A wizened old woman of seventy something who ‘did’ for Harry was busy preparing salads. I could detect her feminine hand in the hydrangeas that filled the borders.
“Hi there, Sofia – this way, folks,” said Harry, “Did I tell you, that I’m the only American on this peninsula?” He had fixed the patio with green plants and a parasol. From his balcony one could see across the harbour towards one of the many scattered islands.
Harry swirled his drink and looked across to one of these islands regretfully. “This place is going to be way outside my tax bracket when they finish developing this area.”
“How long have you owned this house Harry?” I asked casually.
“Hell, I only rent this place, costs a fortune, but what the heck. I was lucky enough to be able to get off the treadmill, so I said to myself, Harry you’ll soon be nudging fifty, and what are you? A small-time publishing exec. making seventy thou. and not much chance of pushing it past seventy-five.”
“And what are you getting in return? Three weeks in Florida once a year and a ski trip to Colorado if, repeat if, you’re lucky. So what did I do?”
There was a knock at the door, and a minute later Sofia led a man in his fifties out on to the balcony. He was thin and neurotic looking. His face, although cleanly shaven was pitted with pockmarks from his adolescence, he had fine hair that was parted down the middle, and one of his long sideburns concealed a small but noticeable scar around his ear.
“Let me do the introductions,” said Harry. “This is George Ferdinand, he’s a good friend of mine, from hereabouts. Hope you’ll join us for lunch George? Sofia has cooked up the most wonderful dish using local fish just caught this morning.”
“Thank you Harry, I’d be absolutely delighted to join you – that is, as long as your other guests don’t mind?”
After we had all introduced ourselves, we sat down to eat. However, my appetite had been replaced with an overwhelming feeling of being fitted up.
This character George Ferdinand turning up out of the blue and on the off chance was just too convenient, as well as clumsy, to be believable.
My attention turned back to the meal, and Harry was quite right; Sofia had indeed cooked a magnificent feast for us. Charlie sat next to our late arrival who didn’t seem to talk very much, although at every possible opportunity he did light up a cigarette and consumed copious quantities of wine throughout the meal. As she came by I congratulated Sofia in Italian on a fine lunch.
George had heard me and said in clear and fluent Italian also, that he had never thought fish could taste so superb. Harry saw me look over.
“And he speaks German, Spanish and Russian just as well as you and I speak our mother tongue, don’t you, George?” He patted him affectionately on the shoulder. Charlie, Fiona and I all looked at each other. “How about one of my special cocktails to finish off this perfect afternoon” said Harry, looking over to Fiona. “Come and help me fix it up, Fiona.”
They disappeared into the kitchen. George came and sat with Charlie and me by the water edge. We soon discovered that he talked only in general terms about anything, steering well clear of anything personal about himself.
The tide was turning as I watched the waves moving down on to the private beach. Each shadow darkened until one, losing its balance, toppled forward.
It tore a white hole in the green ocean and in falling brought its fellow down, and that the next until the white stuffing of the sea burst out of the lengthening gash.
Fiona and Harry emerged from the kitchen with a big tray of glasses and a jug with frosted leaves around it. As they came through the door Harry was laughing and saying, “…it’s the only thing I really miss of the New York scene to be honest.”
Then Miss Price said in a loud clear voice, “Come and get it – Harry has just made us the most outrageous cocktail with…” Harry broke in, his voice taking on a reprimanding tone, “Now you promised that the ingredients would remain our little secret, Fiona.” His hand patted her bottom softly.
“That’s an un-American activity,” said Fiona.
“Oh no,” said Harry, “we still got a couple of things that have to be done by hand.”
George Ferdinand apologised profusely to Harry about having to leave early, telling him that he had a little business to take care of. I caught his attention for just a fraction of a second. There was something odd about the way, when under a little pressure, his eyes never stayed still, flitting in all directions. There was constant perspiration on his upper lip and forehead.
Since meeting him five hours ago my opinion hadn’t changed; this man was not to be trusted.
The waves were tripping over, crashing on to and falling through the foamy, hissing remnants of their predecessors. I wondered how long before we would begin doing the same?
Chapter 7
Rumple’s ruddy colour had returned to his cheeks. He was perched on a chair by the French doors that opened out to the garden, checking over and cleaning his dive equipment. Mrs Rumple looked up from her typing as we came into the room. We, however, all looked a little worse for wear after several of Harry Caplin’s cocktails.
Rumple came over to me and said, “I caught a chap snooping around the front gates earlier, sir. An unsavoury character if ever I saw one. When I asked him what he thought he was doing snooping around, he said that he had an appointment to see you. To be honest, sir, I didn’t believe him and challenged him further by walking down to where he was stood.”
“Unfortunately, before I got to him he’d jumped into his car, wound the side window down and before driving off; he said to tell you to be at La Café, the one down by the beach, at nine o’clock sharp.”
“Did he now, well I certainly didn’t have any appointments today because no one knows that I’m here. Did he give his name Rumple?”
“No sir. Unfortunately he went off down the road like a shot out of a gun. But I’d recognise him alright”
“Go on then man; tell me, what did he look like?” I said impatiently.
“Well, sir, he was tall with smarmed hair parted down the middle, I’d say he was late forties, possibly early fifties. He had a thin long face and a complexion that looked like a lunar landscape on a very bad day.”
I showered and put on a change of clothes. Before going back downstairs, I made sure the automatic pistol now holstered under my arm was completely concealed. Satisfied, I went down to tell the others what to do if for any reason I didn’t phone in on the hour, every hour.
I pulled the Mercedes into the car park of La Café. In the far corner I spotted the blue Porsche, the registration was the same as the car that had recently followed me all the way from Bournemouth to London. Owned by Mr Robert Flackyard.
“Good evening, Mr Dillon - so good of you to join me.” The voice was familiar ye
t the tone was now cruel and cold. His words hung in mid air, suspended on invisible wires.
I slowly turned to greet the darting eyes and sweaty face of George Ferdinand, who was sat at a small circular table overlooking the water. A handful of people were sitting at the bar talking and laughing loudly, as people do when they’ve had too much to drink. Otherwise the café was virtually empty.
I spoke with deliberate nonchalant slowness.
“Well, well, Mr Ferdinand - what a pleasure, we meet again so soon. Why am I not surprised to see you? Is this the little bit of business you had to take care of?” I noticed the small automatic laid on his lap partly covered by his jacket. He stroked the silenced barrel slowly up and down as if it were some sort of phallic. His eyes darted up at me and caught me looking at it.
“I have no wish to harm you Mr Dillon or your friends. I am here to escort you to Mr Flackyard’s home in Canford Cliffs. He wishes to have a conversation with you, that’s all. My instructions are to ensure that you arrive at his home safely and on time.” He stood up, the 9mm held in his left hand covered by his jacket now draped over his arm. The barrel pointing directly at my stomach, without a word he jabbed the gun in the direction of the rear door.
As I got up to leave I said over my shoulder, “Listen, George, the gun under the coat routine, it’s a bit of a cliché, you know? Why don’t you be a good boy and put it away before you hurt someone. After all, you know that you won’t use that peashooter in public. There are far too many witnesses around, and it would be much simpler if you were to put it away yourself, before I have too take it away from you?” The end of the pistol barrel was sharply jabbed in the small of my back in reply.
Once outside he stopped and said. “I’m reliably informed Mr Dillon, that you are carrying an automatic pistol under your left arm. Please be so kind as to pass it to me - carefully.”
Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) Page 5
