Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (12 page)

Dillon activated the Bluetooth connection on his mobile phone and sent an updated photograph of himself with cropped hair and designer stubble to Max’s laptop. Then he wrote a cheque, made it out to Max for five thousand pounds.

“You can have this express-cleared if you’re worried about it bouncing, and I’ll pick up a receipt from you when I come to collect it tomorrow. Oh, and make sure the new name is on it.”

Max looked at the cheque – his expression like he’d just won the lottery. He took a long look at Dillon and shook his head.

“Smoke and mirrors, isn’t that what you intelligence people call it? Now, what name would you like?”

“Robert King. Vince Sharp has already uploaded the photo that I’ve just given you to the Worldwide Art Underwriter’s personnel database. If anyone checks, he’s just another investigator on their payroll. I’m sorry, but Mr. Bateman has had his cover blown for good. If I carry on using that card, I’ll have the police chasing me all over the south of England. This way nobody knows except you and me. Thanks Max.”

* * *

Dillon drove back across Vauxhall Bridge to Pimlico, and found the address that Jason Single had given him. He parked the Ford in the only space he could find in the next road, and then walked back around the corner to the small row of townhouses. Dillon looked at the numbers on the doors, and eventually found number twenty-six halfway along the mews. The property looked cared for and had white-washed walls, wooden blinds at the windows, and a black high-gloss front door that you could almost see your face in.

Standing on the front step, Dillon rang the doorbell and waited a minute before pushing it again, this time for just a little longer. Nothing happened. He rang twice more, hung on and finally decided that Stella had done very well for herself. But she was obviously out or simply couldn’t be bothered to answer her front door. He turned away and almost bumped into an extremely attractive auburn-haired woman. She was expensively and elegantly dressed, held herself well, was naturally beautiful and had the most alluringly dark eyes that he’d ever seen. She was as tall as any catwalk model and moved with the grace of one.

“Are you looking for Stella?” The voice purred in a Sloane accent. Although the hint of an East-end undertone was not at all what he was expecting, Dillon found it impossible to complain.

“Yes. Is that you?”

“That depends on who’s asking, darling.”

“I want to ask her a few questions which, I’ve been reliably informed, will cost me.”

“Will they now? And what was the name of this person who told you that and gave you this address?”

“Jason Single.”

“Oh, that gorgeous man. I could just eat him up, he’s so lovely. So you just want to talk? Well I haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

She was rummaging through the bottom of her oversized designer handbag for the door key and finally found it.

“I’m sorry I was a bit cagey just then. But I have to be careful. There are a lot of weirdos around these days. A friend of mine was murdered about a month ago. It unnerved me to the point of almost giving up the city and moving to the quiet life in the country.”

“I wouldn’t be stood talking to you on your front doorstep in broad daylight if I intended to harm you, Stella. Can I come in?”

Stella was eyeing Dillon suspiciously. “You say Jason gave you my address?”

“That’s right; we had lunch at that flashy restaurant of his about two hours ago. We’re old friends, so please give him a call if you’re unsure.”

“You’d better come in then.”

Stella opened the door and went inside. Dillon followed her, admiring her shapely legs as she walked ahead of him. When they entered the living room he was surprised by the tastefulness of everything he saw. The place looked invitingly lived-in, but the décor was flawless; contemporary light colours blended well with modern light oak furniture and natural sisal grass floor covering. Stella either had very good taste or a clever interior designer. She was obviously not short of money and certainly didn’t need Paul Hammer’s.

“Please, sit down,” she said, sitting down. Crossing her legs, she gestured Dillon to an identical antique leather chair directly opposite her.

“Now, lovely man, what would you like me to call you? What I mean is it’s not a problem to me if you don’t want to give me your real name.”

“How about Jake?”

She gave Dillon a devastating smile, her dark eyes even more seductive than before. “Okay, Jake it is.”

“Jake is good for me.”

“So you only want to talk, do you? Well it’s still going to cost you my hourly rate, you know?”

“And how much is that, Stella?”

“Two hundred and fifty. Cash.”

“Naturally,” Dillon said as he produced a roll of notes far in excess of anything she would expect, and laid it on the low occasional table between them.

“So, let’s talk, Stella. Do you know a man called Paul Hammer?”

He saw a marked stiffening in her demeanour at the mention of Hammer’s name. She then suddenly stood up and was about to ask him to leave when he added smoothly.

“I’m trying to protect his back against a threat he doesn’t know exists yet. He’s got himself involved in a major business deal that looks like it’s turning cold on him, and I’m trying to cover him.”

“I don’t know anything about his business dealings.”

She sat back down and, collecting the notes up off of the table, started counting carefully. Dillon did nothing to stop her. Once she’d peeled off what she wanted, she leant forward to give Dillon what was left of the money roll.

“Leave it on the table. The charge may increase.”

Dillon had already made up his mind about the lovely Stella. She wasn’t in need of money – that was evident by her surroundings and how she looked after herself. But, like so many, she was greedy for it. Because of her extraordinary good looks she had graduated to being kept by one man at a time, so far as he could make out. Hanging around the likes of Jason Single had obviated pimps long since, they wouldn’t dare try to move in on Stella.

Dillon watched her put the money into a zipped compartment in her handbag and he said, “If you don’t know about his business, you must know something about his personal life and those people who he socialises with. After all, he’s a well-educated and extremely wealthy man. Surely his bedroom talk can’t always be about sex. Ever heard of a man called Charlie Hart?”

“Can’t say I have, Jake.”

Dillon was patient, but put an edge to his voice. “Just a little too quick there, Stella. If you carry on like this, I’ll be wanting a full refund.”

“Well, you won’t get one. What do you want me to do, make something up about these people? I can’t help it if I don’t have the answers to your questions.” Something about Dillon’s shift in attitude was making her nervous. “I may have heard of him. But I’m not sure, though.”

“Don’t be mistaking me for a fool or a soft touch Stella. Because if I say I’ll get a refund, I will get a refund. So far I’ve been more than fair, but that can change. Now, have you heard the name or not?”

She put both hands palm down on her knees as if to brace herself. “It was only pillow talk, you understand? He was drunk once and was babbling on about how rich he was. He told me about his hotels, but I already knew about them from Jason, and Paul had already told me himself. He’d had far too much to drink and I don’t think he ever knew what he actually said.”

“Perhaps that’s just as well.” There was a morose tone to Dillon’s voice that made her wince. “Never let him know what he told you. But you’ve still told me nothing.”

He could see that she was worried. “Paul wouldn’t hurt me, would he?”

“I wouldn’t spend too much time asking him. Now, can you please get on with it, Stella?”

“He mentioned Hart’s name, and another man; a politician.”

“Can you remember his name, Stella?” She shook her head, and he asked, “Was it Latimer?”

However, she couldn’t remember, and he didn’t want her agreeing just to get rid of him, so he pressed it no further.

“Did he say what they were all up to?”

“No. I wouldn’t have remembered anyway. I wasn’t that interested but had to sound as if I was. He was so boozed up that he couldn’t even get it up that night and fell asleep.”

“Surely he must have said more than just giving you a couple of names. Think. Because that refund is looking more likely by the minute.”

“He kept rambling on about something, but I couldn’t make out exactly what it was. Sorry.”

“Close your eyes and picture the words in your head, Stella. Come on, think about that night.”

“I can’t remember what the bloody hell it was. If I did, I’d tell you. No, wait, I remember. He kept saying ‘there’s blood in the harbour’, over and over again just before he passed out.”

“Okay. Look, I’m sorry for getting heavy, but this is extremely important, Stella. And to be completely open with you, anything else that you can remember will only help Paul. I’d really appreciate it if you’d call me on this number.”

Dillon wrote his mobile number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Perhaps there is something else you could do for me. If I said that I’ll give you a thousand in cash up front, and another thousand on completion, if you can get him that drunk again and ask him a few questions that I’ll write down for you, what would you say?”

“I’m sorry, Jake. But I really don’t want to get involved.”

“Shame, because you’ve not really got a choice in the matter, Stella. You see, just by telling me what you already have, has broken his confidence. And all for two hundred and fifty quid. Now, what would he say to that if he found out?”

“You rotten bastard. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Not content with scaring the living daylights out of me, you’re now trying to blackmail me. I don’t know who you are, but I want you out of here right now.”

Dillon knew he was playing a dangerous game, but if he was to stop Stella passing any of this back to Hammer, he had to scare her just a little bit more.

“He’ll kill you. You do know that, don’t you, Stella? My way we all get what we want and live happily ever after. For you the money, for me the information. And Paul Hammer is none the wiser about our little meeting. Jason won’t say anything, because he doesn’t know anything.”

“I’ve already said far too much.”

“You’ve said nothing, and you know it.”

He didn’t want to push her too far, and if he did she might just cave in on him. Instead he said, “Look Stella, I’m hardly likely to tell him we’ve met and I’m pretty sure that you won’t. I mean, apart from anything else, he might just think that you turned a trick with me just to keep your hand in, and a man in Hammer’s position would definitely throw a tantrum about that. So we both keep quiet.”

He was now confident that he’d found a connection between the men. It was a start. He crossed to the window and looked carefully up and down the street. A silver Lexus saloon was parked on double yellow lines opposite Stella’s house. Inside one of Gideon Lihiri’s faithful followers was sitting behind the wheel of the luxury car, talking to another man in the passenger seat. As Lihiri’s office was at least three miles away, his presence was suspicious to say the least.

He kept his back to Stella. “Do you have a back way out?”

“Why?” She shot up in alarm.

Dillon turned to face her casually. “No particular reason, except to make it safer for you. After all, you wouldn’t want someone telling Paul that you’ve had another man in here. So if there’s a back way out of here, I’ll take it.”

“There’s a gate in the rear wall, and a path that runs all the way along the mews to the road at the other end. You go through the kitchen, but I keep the gate locked. The key is on a hook by the back door.”

“I’ll find it,” he said, picked up the remainder of his money from the table and moved off towards the kitchen. The next moment Stella heard the back door click shut as Dillon gently closed it.

He slowly cracked open the gate, just in case there was someone watching the path on the other side. Satisfied that there wasn’t, he stepped out, pulled the gate shut, and walked casually away from Stella’s house towards the main road. He decided to head off in the opposite direction to where he’d parked the Ford Focus, which took him through back streets and alleys. His senses were on high alert. Every few paces, he looked over his shoulder to see if Lihiri’s men were following him. All the time he was running through the events that had led up to arriving at Stella’s house. Lihiri’s men had not been there when he had arrived, so it left the question of whether Stella was been watched for whatever reason. If Paul Hammer was a jealous man he might have kept an eye on her, might even have had a driver and car at her disposal so that he could monitor her movements. But why use Lihiri’s men, which meant Charlie Hart’s? Or was Hart watching everyone in the hope that Dillon would turn up and place himself in the target zone?

CHAPTER TEN

Adam Finch was enjoying the job of minding Dillon’s apartment, especially as it had all the latest gadgets built in – the complete opposite to his own tiny one-bedroom flat that he rented in a less fashionable part of town. Another major benefit was that it was closer to the Ferran & Cardini building, which meant that he didn’t have to get out of bed so early. Adam had been with the firm for just over a year. He had graduated from Oxford with an honours degree in criminal law and was now a junior case officer with the firm. In real terms this was someone who had to carry out mundane tasks that the more senior personnel didn’t want to do. Finch was in his late twenties, with a ready smile and a sharp mind. Some people found him irritatingly charming, but he and Dillon had hit it off from the start. They had similar backgrounds, one tried to hide it, the other never did; it was something they understood about each other.

Finch never got home much before eight each evening. The elderly-looking lady from the first floor apartment across the road waved to him from her armchair near the window. Finch already knew about her, as she did him, from Dillon, or he would most likely have considered her a little eccentric. On the second night he arrived home, he placed Dillon’s spare keys on the hook in the kitchen and went to the sink, washed his hands, and then went into the living room to pour himself a drink. As he walked into the darkened room he knew at once someone was in there with him.

Finch had none of Dillon’s highly developed instincts, nor had he lived anything like so dangerous a life, but he knew something was wrong. He was certain when the door was closed behind him without him touching it. He spun round and a tough-looking man, somewhere in his late fifties with a wide, friendly smile, leant against the door with his arms folded across his chest. When Finch turned back to face the room, another man was sitting in one of Dillon’s leather chairs.

“Where’s Dillon?” asked the seated man. His accent was distinctly East London.

“Dillon? Dillon who?” Finch was not trying to be obtuse, but was starting to fear for his safety.

The seated man was much smaller in build to his friend, who seemed to fill the entire doorway with his bulk. He shrugged, “So I’ll ask you again. Where is Jake Dillon?”

Finch had not found himself in this kind of situation before and no matter how well schooled and qualified, text books could never replace experience. He tried to be brave and without conviction replied, “I don’t know. He simply asked me to house sit whilst he’s away for a few days.”

“So he didn’t tell you where he was going or give you a number to contact him on?”

“Spot on, you’ve got it.”

“Are you taking the proverbial out of me sonny? Because if you are...”

“Absolutely not. And I really don’t know where he’s gone,” Finch cut in quickly.

He could feel cold sweat running down the centre of his back, and his shirt was now starting to cling to him in an uncomfortable way.

“Did you hear that, Bull-Dog?”

The man behind Finch said, “Yeah. You believe him, Neville?”

Neville, still seated, smirked. “No I don’t. But I reckon he does though. Give him something that will make him remember, Bull-Dog.”

Finch’s legs felt like they were turning into jelly with just the thought of any pain. And with the first crunching blow to the back of his neck, he momentarily blacked out before his knees gave out and he collapsed on the floor, unconscious.

Neville jumped up out of the chair. “That wasn’t Dillon you hit, this one’s straight out of school, he’s a softie. I reckon you’ve gone and bloody well killed him!”

Bull-Dog stepped forward to where Finch was lying.

“I only gave him a little tap. I’ll go and get some water.”

He went through into the kitchen and came back with a jug full and tipped it over Finch’s head. A puddle immediately collected on the stripped oak flooring. Neither man thought to check Finch for a pulse but as it happened, he stirred, groaned and then lay still again. They hauled him up to his feet and dragged him to the nearest chair where Neville slapped him about his face a couple of times in an effort to bring him round.

Finch remained out cold for a few moments and they started to get worried. When he did finally come round he was soaking wet, trembling and a nervous wreck. He felt as if his head had just been severed and then stuck back on again; the pain in his neck was excruciating. He heard them asking him question after question, over and over again, but the pain was so bad that he wasn’t even sure whether he was answering them or not.

He must have passed out again; a tide of blackness washing over him, and with it came the blissful evaporation of all pain until light began to penetrate his lids. And this time he was much more aware of being conscious. He didn’t want to wake up, he could hide forever behind the darkness, but they were not going to let him. He had a much clearer picture now of what had happened. And yet a strong loyalty made him determined not to tell them about Dillon’s whereabouts.

Bull-Dog worked with an incessant fervour dealing him a brutal beating; relentlessly raining heavy blows to Finch’s face and body. All that Finch could recollect was that he was babbling and had no idea what he was babbling about. As Finch’s resistance had held up, Neville, in spite of his earlier criticism of Bull-Dog’s initial heavy handedness, had joined in. What they had considered to be an easy in-and-out routine job had proved to be anything but. Finch had held up like a seasoned professional and they suddenly realised that they had gone too far.

They went through his pockets, found nothing, and then left him lying on the floor whilst they hastily ransacked Dillon’s study before leaving the apartment by the private lift.

* * *

From her first floor apartment the old lady had seen the two men appear across the street – she had kept watch from behind the curtains. She knew that Finch and Dillon worked together and were good friends. Dillon had told her before he’d left that a friend would be staying in the penthouse whilst he was away on business. And there was no reason why he shouldn’t have visitors. But she didn’t like the look of them.

She didn’t know that Dillon’s friend was out. She was in the kitchen making herself a cup of tea when he’d pulled up in his car. But she had caught sight of him when she’d returned to her chair by the window, just as he was going through the front door. She then realised that the two men must have let themselves in. This worried the retired school headmistress and she was further worried when she saw the two men leave hastily twenty minutes later. She grabbed her binoculars, a notebook and a pen, and watched the two men hurry off up the street and get into a car. She wasn’t able to see the number plate immediately, as other cars were obscuring it. But the moment they pulled out in to the street she wrote the registration number down.

She didn’t know what to do then. She didn’t want to interfere with something that wasn’t any of her business and was most likely completely innocent anyway. So she sat and thought about what she should do for a few minutes, and then dialled the emergency number that Dillon had given her. It was Vince Sharp who answered the phone, and without interruption let her pour it all out to him. Within five minutes, the big Australian was pulling up outside Dillon’s building with a spare set of keys. He looked across the street and saw the old lady standing at her first floor window.

As he came out of the lift, he immediately saw Finch lying prone on the floor. The chair he’d been sitting on was upturned next to him; credit cards and old till receipts strewn across the oak floor. He kneeled down and checked Finch over without touching him at first. He’d been badly beaten, but he was able to see that the younger man was still alive. Using his mobile phone he called for an ambulance. As for the police: he’d let LJ deal with them later.

Whilst he waited for the ambulance to turn up, Vince went around the apartment and checked the other rooms. Dillon’s study had been completely trashed. Computer monitors had been smashed and were on the floor; hard drives had been ripped out in an amateurish fashion from the processors. Files and books were strewn everywhere, drawers and cupboards had been emptied in a hurry as they’d searched for whatever it was they had been looking for. Everyone in the firm knew that there were risks involved with every assignment, but it was never easy seeing a colleague lying in a pool of blood. He went back to where the still unconscious Finch was laying. He checked his pulse again and then sent a text message to Dillon. This wouldn’t allow anyone monitoring his mobile phone to fix his location.

He went back into Dillon’s study and looked up and down the street for anyone who may be watching; the old lady was still standing by her window. She looked across and saw him, gave a wave which he returned before giving her the thumbs up, which he knew wasn’t strictly true. But she had done her bit and had most likely saved young Finch’s life. She’d also given him a written description of the two men and their registration number. All he had to do now was get hold of Dillon before these two characters found him and attempted to hand out some of the same treatment as they’d given to Finch.

He drove across town to the firm’s safe-house where Dillon was staying – all the time aware that there may be a tail on him. He took a number of detours and drove past the property twice from both directions. Satisfied that he’d not been followed, he found a parking space up the road and walked back to number twenty-seven. He punched in the pin number for the door entry system, the electromagnetic lock released and he went inside. He just stood inside the hall taking in the chaos and destruction that was everywhere. Then he moved quickly through each room, stepping over pieces of broken furniture and glass, all the time thinking that whoever had smashed the place up had done it with a professional thoroughness, and had obviously been really pissed off at not finding Dillon home. The question of how they had got past the security system was something the firm would have to seriously look into.

In the master bedroom, the scene was still one of destruction, but with a macabre twist. Sprawled across the double bed was the dead body of a half-naked young woman somewhere in her mid-twenties. She’d been shot once in the head; the bullet wound dead centre between unseeing eyes that stared blankly up at the ceiling. Vince immediately phoned Edward Levenson-Jones and described the scene to him. LJ told him to get out of the building as quickly as possible.

Whilst he was walking back to where he’d parked his car, three police cars and two white transit vans pulled up outside of number twenty-seven. He carried on walking, not wishing to get caught up in what was about to ensue. He slowly drove away in the opposite direction, up the road and around the corner, and at the first opportunity found another parking space. The old lady who lived opposite Dillon’s apartment answered her telephone after only two rings. He asked her if there had been any developments after Finch had been taken away by the paramedics. She told him that the police had arrived about ten minutes ago, had sealed off the street, and that they were still there asking questions about whether the man now in hospital was the owner of the property. Before hanging up, Vince thanked her for her trouble and reassured her that Dillon was safe and unharmed, and that he’d be home in a few days’ time.

Only Adam Finch knew if he’d given away the safe-house address. Although the likelihood of talking to him in hospital was unlikely, even if he was in a fit condition to talk. And the police would almost certainly have posted a uniformed officer outside his room. He went back to his office.

* * *

Dillon hadn’t checked his mobile phone for any missed calls or messages. He had been working hard throughout the day; looking up and hustling some of his old contacts in the area with only limited success. He parked the Ford and walked back towards the safe-house. As he rounded the corner at the end of the street, his pace slowed. The police were still blocking off the street either side of number twenty-seven and an ambulance was parked directly in front, lights still flashing. A small crowd had gathered, which took any attention off of him standing at the end of the street alone.

The ambulance drove off. There was no siren and no flashing lights, which Dillon found ominous. The police were multiplying and there was already a number of Scene Of Crime Officers in white overalls moving around outside and in the building. An unmarked Lexus drove up and two men, who were obviously detectives, climbed out. Two uniformed officers were pushing back the crowd.

Dillon decided to take a chance. He joined the fringe of the crowd.

“What’s all this about?” he asked a man standing in front of him.

“A woman was found dead upstairs apparently. I overheard one of the coppers saying on his radio she’d been shot in the head.”

Dillon had been staying in the safe-house alone. That thought was enough to make him slowly edge away from the crowd and back up the street towards the parked Ford. He used his mobile to call his home number. A strange voice answered and he hung up immediately. What the hell was happening? He rang Vince who had a go at him for not reading his messages, and then filled him in on what had happened to Finch. How he’d called round to the safe-house to find the half-naked corpse of a young woman lying on his bed. Dillon was now totally confused as to who it was looking for him, and why they should put a dead girl’s body in the safe-house. What he did know was that his description would almost certainly be given to the police by the neighbours and that he’d be a prime suspect for whatever had happened.

Dillon went back to his own home, but only as far as the corner of the street. The police presence was less obvious, but there was an unmarked car outside his apartment building with two plain-clothed officers sitting inside. He suddenly realised what was happening. Someone was trying to close him down, and by taking away his freedom of movement he wouldn’t be able to work efficiently. So far they were doing a pretty good job of it. He was systematically being set up and it wasn’t Charlie Hart who was doing it. Two innocent people, one beaten up and the other murdered, all because someone wanted to find him. It seemed far too extreme, which meant that whatever it was these people wanted to keep secret, must be big. He phoned Edward Levenson-Jones and arranged to meet him that evening in a pub called the Black Dog.

Both men were extra vigilant; they met late – at ten past eleven. Dillon arrived early, got a booth near the back and seated himself so that he had a clear view of the bustling bar and entrance. Ten minutes later, LJ came strolling through the door, got himself a gin and tonic at the bar and then went and sat down opposite Dillon. LJ told him in more detail what had happened and gave him the images of the dead woman that Vince had taken at the scene.

“So who was the woman?” Dillon asked, still studying the photos.

“A young prostitute by all accounts. I called an old acquaintance from way back. As luck would have it, he’s now a Detective Chief Superintendent at the same nick that’s heading up the investigation.”

“Was she known to them?”

“Oh yes, she’d been cautioned on numerous occasions for street walking. Sad really, to think that she risked her life everyday of the week going with strangers only to end up murdered, most likely, by someone she knew.”

“But why, and by who?”

“The why, Jake, is simple: to frame you. But as for the who, I’ve really no idea. I was rather hoping you’d be able to tell me that, old son.”