Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  As Issy sat down he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  She didn’t reply, trying the pasta instead. She knew him far too well and his ploy was to take her mind off what he’d done. It wasn’t like Dillon at all. Granted he was reckless, that’s what gave him the edge on his peers and counterparts alike. But, normally, he would have a clear plan in his head, and nothing as vague as this, which worried her immensely.

  * * *

  Charlie Hart sat alone that evening, as he frequently did. Solitude was something he could cope with. Reclusiveness sometimes had its advantages. After Dillon’s call he had emailed Worldwide Art Underwriters of London to discover that they did in fact have a Mr. Bateman, but that he was currently on a case in Argentina and would not be available for another two weeks. That partly explained the withheld mobile number, but not entirely.

  He walked down through exotically landscaped gardens to the water’s edge. Boarded the luxury power cruiser he’d had delivered only a few weeks ago, and went up to the upper deck with a large gin and tonic. He felt the chilled feeling of uncertainty run through him. He had aroused someone’s interest and that was something he’d managed to avoid for many years. Whoever had phoned him was professional and had handled it very well. But what sort of professional was he and who was his employer?

  He went and lay down on his bed in the main stateroom, gazing up at the watery shadows rippling across the ceiling. He’d left the curtains pulled back to allow the moonlight into the cabin. Because suddenly he wanted to avoid total darkness for fear of stirring up feelings he’d not felt for many years. It was as if the clock had been turned back. And he’d always looked forward. To look back into the past was a definite road to disaster and he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to cope with it.

  The anxiety that he was feeling had created confusion and self-doubt in his mind and drew a veil over reality. His thoughts became a farrago until he was not even certain who he was, and a cold sweat had broken out all over his body. A moment later, almost startling himself, he snapped out of the trance-like state, got up and went straight to the bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror, gazing at himself, appalled at what he saw – an old, grey-faced man looking back at him with fear in his eyes. Where had the street brawler gone; the man who was never frightened of anything? Hart could feel himself teetering on the edge, and had never been closer to walking away from it all as he was at that precise moment. He could move away, far away. But would his fears remain behind? He went through to the galley and made himself some hot chocolate, and sitting at the centre island with all the lights on, started to mull over two things that had taken place that day to unnerve him.

  One had been by his own doing, and yet he knew that he would do it again until fully satisfied; the other had come out of the blue. He was the focus of suspicion and being investigated. He didn’t know by whom or the reason why, but it would have to be stopped.

  He finished his hot drink and was starting to feel a lot better. All he had to do was think positively as he always had done, tackle the problem head-on and then remove it permanently.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dillon took a taxi from his apartment to Docklands and the head quarters of Ferran & Cardini International. His stalwart boss, Edward Levenson-Jones, had summoned his presence, so as to bring him up to speed with the conversation he’d had with Dunstan Havelock over dinner.

  “The job sounds straightforward enough, but what’s the catch? You know as well as I do, old son, there’s always a catch with Dunstan Havelock.”

  “True, but I think he’s being straight on this one. And I gave him a pretty hard time, especially after he’d mentioned Digby’s name.”

  “Um, well that may be the case. But remember the golden rule, old son.”

  “What golden rule?”

  “My golden rule. The one that clearly states there are no true friends in politics and that civil servants, like the Government cabinet ministers whose backsides they wipe, are merely sharks circling for traces of blood to appear in the water.”

  “Oh, that golden rule.”

  “Being facetious is not helpful, Jake. If you cast your mind back, you’ll remember that the last time this firm got involved with Havelock it almost cost the lives of two very experienced field agents. I do not want a repeat of that fiasco this time. You make sure you write your reports in triplicate and, most importantly, watch your back. By the way, I’m assigning Vince Sharp as your technical support officer. Make sure you keep him informed at all times.”

  “Absolutely.”

  LJ opened the buff-coloured file in front of him and started to shift paper from one side of his desk to the other. As Dillon was about to leave, he glanced up from over the top of his round wire-framed spectacles.

  “Just one more thing before you go. There’s the little matter of firearms.”

  “Firearms?”

  “Don’t be obtuse; you know very well what I mean. You have a nasty habit of starting small wars wherever you go, Jake. As you so openly demonstrated whilst in Jersey.”

  “That’s a bit unfair. After all, I was up against a narcissist fascist who employed paramilitary mercenaries as ship’s crew. Who, if I recall, attempted to murder me and came very close to it on at least two occasions.”

  “That may have been the case, but I do not want you roaming around the Dorset countryside with an automatic pistol strapped under your arm. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good. Now, I know that you’re not planning to stay down in Dorset tonight. But on your way out, see my secretary – she’ll have a file for you with the operational assignment protocols as well as the details of the apartment located in Lilliput that is at your disposal should the need arise. Also, if this thing goes on for any length of time, go to Salterns Marina and make contact with Frank Gardner. You’ll more than likely find him propping up the bar of the hotel there.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Frank Gardner. He was one of the best intelligence field officers that MI5 is ever likely to see. Lost his right eye in a shootout with a bunch of terror suspects in Manchester about six years ago, after which he was given the choice of working behind a desk or early retirement. Needless to say he took the sensible option and now lives down there – owns a forty-six foot power cruiser which he moors in the marina. I’d say that both could come in extremely handy, should the need arise.”

  Dillon closed the door gently behind him as he left LJ’s office. He picked up the file containing the operational details and went straight to the underground car park to collect his Porsche. With his overnight bag in the boot, he weaved his way through the heavy city traffic towards the M25 motorway, and then down the M3 towards Southampton with the sky turning blue-black, bruised with garish clouds. By the time he’d turned onto the M27, heavy raindrops were killing themselves on the windscreen as he headed towards his destination.

  * * *

  Dillon entered the airfield on the north-west side, driving between industrial buildings and large aircraft hangers, until he reached the helicopter charter company’s low single-storey building located at the edge of the runway. He parked the black sports car on the apron and was immediately escorted to a waiting Robinson R-44 Raven, its rotors already in motion. They were in the air within minutes, flying three hundred feet above the rooftops towards Poole and the Sandbanks peninsula. The pilot headed towards the coast, flew over Bournemouth pier and, a moment later, was skimming over the white sandy beach of Sandbanks. As they rounded the point at the Haven Hotel, Dillon looked down on the port side – the chain ferry linking the peninsular with Studland was mid-channel, fully laden with vehicles and foot passengers. The pilot tacked round to starboard, and gained height as they neared the area Dillon wanted to view from the air.

  “Go around the harbour and
approach that area over there from the other direction,” Dillon instructed the pilot, and pointed at the individual luxury properties that lined the shoreline below. Virtually all of them had their own mooring, some even had impressive boat houses. Charlie Hart’s mansion had both and a large power cruiser tied up at the bottom of his landscaped grounds. Dillon used the Nikon camera with a long zoom lens attached to get close-up images of every aspect of Hart’s property. Once he’d satisfied himself that he’d seen enough, he instructed the pilot to head back to the airfield. Ten minutes later, the Raven was put down on the airfield apron again. Dillon went and climbed in to the driver’s seat of the Porsche whilst the girl in the office processed the paperwork for the credit card payment. He connected the digital camera to the car’s specially adapted on-board computer system, downloaded the images and simultaneously sent them back to Vince Sharp in London. Thirty seconds later, he received a text message telling him that the file transfer had been successful.

  Dillon drove slowly by the gated entrance to Charlie Hart’s mansion. It wasn’t going to be easy to keep watch on the luxury house, especially with double yellow lines on both sides of the road for as far as the eye could see and CCTV cameras everywhere. How things had changed since his last visit to the area, he thought. But he decided to park directly outside the high gated entrance anyway, knowing that there would almost certainly be a camera looking directly at him, and that if Hart was straight he would make a note of the registration number and give it to the police to look into, and then forget the whole thing. But if he wasn’t, he’d probably take steps to find out who it was harassing him.

  Ferran & Cardini had the personnel and surveillance capability to easily set up a team to watch Hart’s movements, but first Dillon wanted to see for himself who and what he was up against. It was seven-thirty in the evening, there was a chilled wind coming off the sea, and it had started to drizzle. Dillon glanced up in to his rear-view mirror and immediately realised that a security guard was stood watching him from behind the gateway of a nearby house. In an area like this any suspicious-looking character, no matter what exotic sports car they were driving, would attract attention, and suddenly it seemed a bad idea to hang around any longer.

  He pulled away slowly, looking back in the side view mirror and saw the guard talking into his radio, most likely reporting the Porsche’s registration number to whoever was at the other end. Dillon knew what he had to do, and stopped with a squeal of brakes, reversed back up the one-way road and pulled up outside Charlie Hart’s property. He got out of the car and waited. The guard at the nearby property had already disappeared, much to Dillon’s annoyance. He walked up to the high electric gates and stood pondering at the entrance intercom screwed to the wall. Almost immediately the speaker crackled into life. Dillon looked up into the camera’s lens, and a man’s voice asked politely, “Are you lost or looking for a specific house?”

  Dillon recognised the voice at once, but he had to say something or arouse suspicion and possibly the police being called.

  “I’m thinking of buying a similar property and was just sounding out the area.”

  “I don’t think there is another property like this one for sale. And I doubt that you could afford to buy one on an investigator’s salary.”

  So Hart had recognised his voice as easily as he had Hart’s. He should have attempted to disguise his, but on the other hand, he had set out to stir things up a little and couldn’t complain if he’d succeeded.

  “Well, they say it never hurt anyone to dream, I suppose,” he replied casually.

  “Why don’t you come in, Mr. Bateman. Have a coffee with me and a look around. After all, that is why you’ve come down here.”

  The invitation was pleasant enough, but Hart wasn’t inviting him in to discuss his interior colour schemes. What the hell? What could happen to him in Sandbanks? Dillon got back into the Porsche, went through the entrance and up the driveway to the main house. He pulled up in front of the impressive three-storey contemporary residence to be greeted by a stern-looking woman with greying hair that was raked back away from her face and tied in a tight bun at the back. The dark grey skirt and black blouse buttoned up to the neck gave her an air of fearless authority, which obviously came naturally to her. Dillon got out of the sports car and looked up at the impressively large oak front door. The woman of fortitude turned out to be Mrs. Pringle, the housekeeper who, with a scornful glare, begrudgingly moved aside as Dillon came up the steps and who had obviously been hastily told to let him in and direct him to the first floor drawing room.

  As the heavy oak door was swung closed behind him, Dillon made his way up the magnificent sweeping staircase to find Charlie Hart dressed in a track suit and trainers waiting for him on the landing.

  “I’ve been expecting you. I didn’t think you would leave it at a phone call,” said Hart, who led the way into drawing room. “I’ll give you credit; you’re quick off the mark, but that show out in the road earlier was very clumsy for a pro.”

  “It was meant to be. I wanted to get your attention,” said Dillon, sitting in a proffered chair that was side on to the wall of glass with breathtaking views of the harbour beyond. “Or perhaps I’m losing my touch for subtlety.”

  He had to take things easy with the man who now sat opposite him, or fall at the first fence. But he had to admit, he was finding it hard to know exactly what to talk about.

  “I think not. Subtlety takes on many guises and men like you do not lose their touch, as you say. So tell me, what is your name, and who employs you?”

  Hart’s tone remained friendly, but it had become a little more superior. The equality that he’d shown Dillon before had disappeared and he was now talking to him more as an employee. By the slightest change of emphasis he was now talking down to him.

  Before Dillon replied, Mrs. Pringle appeared with a tray of coffee and put it down near Hart. “Black or white?” Hart asked.

  “Black, please.”

  Dillon noticed that the coffee pot was of the inexpensive variety. Not the best silver for him.

  Hart handed over a cup and Dillon’s first sip of the black liquid confirmed what he’d suspected.It was instant and not filtered.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said Hart.

  “I didn’t think you really expected me to. And anyway, you already know my name.”

  He produced the fake identity card and held it forward.

  “Bollocks,” said Hart without raising his voice. “You knew that I would check with Worldwide Art Underwriters of London. They tell me that investigator Bateman is working on a case in South America and won’t be back in the UK for another two weeks. So what’s your game?”

  Dillon had the impression that he was much closer to the real Hart, a no-nonsense Hart, streetwise and tough.

  “No game. I’ve been asked to look into the missing Vermeer by a private client. Obviously the name of that client is confidential and I could give you any name you want, so why don’t you give me one?”

  “How about a prevaricator?”

  Dillon wasn’t put out by this; he was fencing and so was Hart.

  “I’m not really sure that we’re going anywhere with this,” Dillon said. “How about telling me all about the Vermeer painting?”

  “I’ve already told you. But when you’ve finished your coffee I’ll take you to see it. Would that be fairer?”

  Dillon was finding Hart an interesting man; not because he was enormously wealthy – he’d met too many of those to be impressed – but because there was something very different about him. He didn’t give the impression of being agitated by the harassment Dillon was dishing out to him, yet he would not have invited Dillon in if he hadn’t been worried. Otherwise, he would have simply called the police, something he could still do if he wanted.

  As he finished his coffee, Dillon
said, “My name is Dillon.”

  Hart stood up. “Well, I suppose that’s as good as any. Just Dillon, or do you have a first name?”

  “Jake.”

  “A good English name. Modern but solid. And how about the Gaelic surname? Irish?”

  “Father was Irish. Mother English.”

  Hart smiled and led the way to the door.

  “Almost had me believing you there for a moment, Jake Dillon. Very good. Well, it’s progress, but if you ever feel inclined to give your real name, please feel free.”

  The gallery room made an immediate impact on Dillon. He’d been researching hard but wasn’t prepared for this.

  “You can look at the other paintings later, but this is what you called me about. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Like you said, it could easily be mistaken for the original that was stolen.”

  “The technical difference being that this is a genuine fake.”

  Hart stood admiring the painting.

  “But that is what you’ve come here for. To see whether or not I was telling you the truth when you telephoned me.”

  “And I’m still not sure, because this painting could be either. And I’m not qualified to determine that.”

  “So you are already presuming that what you are looking at is the original painting by Vermeer? And if that is the case, then I must demand you tell me the name of my accuser.”

  “I really don’t have that information, and that is the truth. Whoever it is, he, she or they are not my boss. I’m beginning to wonder if any of it means anything. So far as I’m concerned, I think I’m wasting my time.”