Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  “Well, I’m certain that I’m wasting mine. But I do have a small confession to make. My only excuse for bringing you in here is because I never tire of looking at such magnificent beauty. Do you know anything about art?”

  “Not much, but I’m learning fast. The one thing I do know is that it’s very easy to get hooked on it.”

  “So what do you intend to do now?”

  Hart voiced the question softly, almost casually, as if it didn’t matter that much, but Dillon felt the cold fingers of old, run up and down his spine like a piano player: it mattered a great deal... to them both. Hart had thrown down the gauntlet and would deal with it either way.

  Dillon walked slowly around the room, eventually fixing his gaze on the life-size crystal skull positioned on its pedestal in the centre.

  “I report back. I’m no further forward and, like you say, I’m presuming too much on a cursory glance. In reality, it really doesn’t matter. Because without sending a team of experts down here to examine it properly, it’s merely speculation as to whether it’s the genuine painting or not, as you say.”

  “It obviously matters to whoever sent you. Was he a Dutchman?”

  “No. Not the person who asked me to look into it. Who asked him I have absolutely no idea”

  “Are you a private detective?”

  “Most definitely not.”

  “And yet you’re acting for someone of influence. So you must be known to that person and the way you handled it the other day, and are handling it even now, suggests to me that you are well used to gathering information. You must be someone special and that puts a different complexion on things.”

  “It’s not what I’d normally be asked to do,” Dillon said. “But on this occasion, I’m helping a friend out as a favour.”

  “Well, whoever you are. I now have you on record, I’ll see if I can hunt you down.”

  Dillon grinned. “I noticed the CCTV, very elaborate.” He took one last look round and headed for the air-lock.

  “One thing, though. Why are you so bothered?”

  “Because I don’t like people poking their noses into my private affairs. You may have found a way to give my home ‘the once over’, as they say. And yes, I did notice the way in which you were paying particular attention to the alarm system.”

  “Far too sophisticated for me.”

  And then, as he was just about to leave the air-lock: “You must do what you feel you must, Mr. Hart. But I do appreciate your inviting me in. Quite an education.”

  Hart led the way down the sweeping staircase, and as he reached the front door said, “Be under no illusion, you’ll get a different kind of lesson if I see or hear of you again. I’ve been straight with you, and open. So this had better end here and now.”

  Dillon went outside, turned, and said, “That sounds very much like a threat, Mr. Hart.”

  “A promise, Mr. Dillon.”

  Dillon noticed the change in tone again. Once more he felt that he was getting nearer to the real Charlie Hart, but immediately thought why he should be thinking like that. Was Hart putting on an act all through? And in a peculiar way Dillon was actually thinking that they had some sort of affinity. Almost as though they had something in common.

  “Why don’t you simply call the police?” Dillon prompted.

  “You’re goading me, Mr. Dillon. Is that what you want?”

  “Well, if I had nothing to hide and was as innocent as you appear to be, that’s what I’d most likely do.”

  “Like you say, would most likely do. But I think you would take care of it yourself, which is exactly what I intend to do. It’s what I’ve always done.”

  Hart walked outside and stood at the top of the steps watching Dillon walk to the Porsche. As he started to open the door, Hart called down to him.

  “I rather think that you and I have much in common. There was a point in my life when I could have done with a friend like you. But I had to look out for myself. I still do. I’m very good at it, so let’s go our separate ways, shall we? I really hope we don’t meet again.”

  * * *

  Dunstan didn’t know what to say. He was sitting in Dillon’s spacious living room, drinking a mature single malt whisky rather than his usual gin and tonic.

  Eventually, he said, “It was a bit of a bullish approach, wasn’t it? Not exactly subtle. I mean, it’s a bit early to have already burnt your bridges with Hart; wouldn’t you agree?” He sounded bitterly disappointed.

  Dillon replied, but kept his voice casual. “After reading Hart’s file it looked like the best course of action to take. And you know me better than most – tip-toeing around the bushes is definitely not my style. To my way of thinking, it was the only way to push this thing forward and I think I’ve managed to do just that. He’s not denying that the Vermeer could be the original that was stolen from the Boston museum, and even concedes that it most likely passed through many hands before it reached him. In fact, he hasn’t denied anything at all. What more do you want? If the Americans want it back, let them go through the appropriate legal channels. But I doubt very much that they’d get anywhere. And anyway, doing it my way has kept your expenses down.”

  “So on the surface Hart is clean?”

  Dillon looked surprised. “I thought you wanted me to look into the Vermeer, not the man. He’s an enigma.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well if I knew that, he wouldn’t be one, would he?” Dillon said incredulously, and handed Havelock the firm’s invoice for his services. His eyebrows went up and he whistled at the amount.

  “I say, this is a bit steep, isn’t it?” Havelock asked.

  “If you want the best, you have to pay for it. And if you don’t like it, then use someone else.”

  Havelock folded the invoice and put it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.“I mean, all you did was phone the man, and then drive down to Dorset and harass him. Anyone could have done that.”

  Dillon smiled wickedly.

  “But not as creatively as I did. That takes a special kind of talent and a bare-faced nerve. That’s what you’re paying for, Dunstan. But, if you’re going to quibble over what the firm has charged you then it’ll be the last time that they, or I, work for you.”

  Havelock grimaced, and pulled out his cheque book.

  “A cheque will do nicely for the amount you owe the firm. But I’ll have my personal bonus in cash, please. Tomorrow will do. And I take it you won’t be wanting me to proceed any further with this matter?” Dillon asked.

  Havelock got up and helped himself to another generous measure of Dillon’s fine single malt whisky. Whatever they thought about each other, both men always pushed aside their differences whilst a guest in each other’s home. Havelock especially felt at home in Dillon’s penthouse; it was one place he could be himself and talk without having to worry whether their conversations were being recorded or listened to by certain eavesdroppers.

  “I think you should go to Delhi,” he said casually and returned to his seat.

  Dillon looked at Havelock, had heard him, but still blurted out, “Why India?”

  “That is where Delhi is located.”

  “No, I don’t think much to that idea. Not this time, Dunstan.”

  “A pity.” Havelock glanced at his watch.

  “I really must be getting back. I promised that I’d call back into the office before the end of the day.”

  He stood up and finished his drink in one gulp as if it were lemonade.

  “You’re not interested in the Vermeer painting at all, are you? Well, maybe a little. But you’re more interested in the man himself, and thought I’d continue because he intrigued me.”

  “Well, he obviously doesn’t, does he?” Havelock put his empty glass down.

 
“Not sufficiently enough for me to fly to India on one of your whims. I’m sorry, Dunstan, but you’ve not really sold this one to me yet.”

  “Oh well, I’ll be off then. If you have a change of mind, let me know.”

  Dillon’s mobile phone started to ring. He answered it as Havelock stood by the door of the private lift that serviced the penthouse.

  “Dillon.”

  “Yes, I know. You really did give me your real name. Wasn’t that a bit foolish?”

  Dillon mouthed ‘Hart’ silently to Havelock, and pointed at the tiny phone in his hand.

  “And why should that be foolish? I thought that we were both being honest with each other. And anyway, you’ve got me on your CCTV; you’d have traced me sooner or later. But I have to say, I’m surprised you’ve bothered.”

  “Mr. Dillon, I simply wanted you to know just how quickly you could be tracked down. And from the mobile phone company records, I now know where you live.”

  “Well, bully for you. And by the way, I’m not planning to move in the near future. Now, was there something else that you wanted to say?”

  “I’ve already said it. I wanted you to be fully aware that I now know where you are.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hart. And I hope that you sleep better for it.”

  “Oh, I have no trouble sleeping. But will you sleep as soundly tonight? Think about it, Mr. Dillon.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Havelock watched patiently whilst Dillon walked off outside onto the deck. He knew him well enough not to be overly persistent and refrained from asking him the obvious question.

  “It makes no difference,” Dillon said, as if reading the other man’s thoughts.

  “Having tried a full frontal attack, he’s now on the offensive in exactly the same way. He’s that type of man. Perhaps it’s just another reason for not going to Delhi. I’ve been warned off in no uncertain terms. And I’m taking him seriously.”

  Dillon came back inside, closed the glass panel and walked across the spacious room to the lift, stepped inside with Havelock, and said, “I’ll come down with you; see you to your car.”

  Havelock gave him a sideward glance, but said nothing.

  They walked out on to the pavement. Dillon looked up at the building on the other side of the street; an elderly woman was sitting by the window of her first floor apartment, reading a newspaper. On seeing Dillon come outside, she closed the newspaper and then immediately opened it again. Havelock’s Lexus was parked in a visitor space near the Embankment.

  Dillon knew the signal was to alert him to something strange having happened or someone unknown having turned up. He squeezed Havelock’s arm in warning and escorted him to his car.

  Havelock unlocked the car door remotely, instinctively knowing that something was wrong and taking his cue from Dillon, who casually looked up and down the road as he held the door open, whilst a frustrated Havelock climbed in.

  Dillon’s mobile phone started to vibrate in his pocket. The text message was short and to the point, and read, ‘Black car by doorway, fifty yards up on left’. Dillon looked up and nodded once in the direction of the old lady who was still sitting by the window reading her newspaper.

  Dillon leant into Havelock’s car and said quietly, “Next time you visit, bring one hundred pounds in cash for my guardian angel up there. It’s about time you paid her for keeping an eye on your car.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Havelock was looking around, hoping that Dillon was going to tell him what the hell was going on, but all that he added was, “When you drive off, make sure it’s nice and slowly and keep your eyes straight ahead.”

  He stood up, closed the door with a heavy thud and stepped back up onto the pavement. The Lexus drove off and Dillon ran quickly and silently in its wake to where the old lady had indicated. He reached the black Vauxhall Vectra, ducked in low behind it, just as someone emerged from the darkened doorway of an apartment building.

  The old lady in the first floor apartment had pulled her curtains closed.

  Havelock turned the corner at the top of the street. Dillon stood up and moved towards the thick-set man. The punch was wild and missed Dillon’s head by a mile, but allowed him to deliver a heavy blow to the other man’s stomach. As he doubled up with a rasping gasp, Dillon immediately followed through with a knife-hand chop across the back of his neck. He went down onto his knees and a moment later, was collapsing on the hard concrete footpath.

  Dillon knew he had to work quickly; the building comprised of several apartments and he knew that someone might appear at any time. He dragged the unconscious man back into the doorway, propped him against the wall and went through his pockets with a professional thoroughness. He found a small amount of cash along with a London underground ticket stub and a private investigator’s identity card. He immediately felt some sympathy for the man who was, after all, only doing his job. He slapped him across the face gently until he slowly came round and Dillon kept repeating the same question over and over again. “Who sent you?”

  When the confused man had come around enough to finally answer the question, Dillon wasn’t surprised by what he told him. He had merely been assigned to watch Dillon’s building by his employers, and to report on any callers. Dillon removed a mobile phone, small reporter’s notebook and a digital camera, and slipped them all into his jacket pocket. He gazed down at the man who was still not steady enough to stand up, and reckoned that if he was only half a detective he would easily remember Havelock’s private number plate.

  As he walked back down the street towards his own building, he caught a glimpse of Issy’s car going down the ramp in to the underground car park. By the time he’d got back to the penthouse, she was pouring him a large single malt whisky.

  “Did you see that man slumped in the doorway up the road? He looked positively ill, or most likely drunk,” she said, and then added, “And was that Dunstan’s car I passed?”

  “He came over to hear what, if anything, I’d found out in Dorset, and I’m afraid he got more than he bargained for. I told him in no uncertain terms that I felt the time that I’d spent on his wild goose chase had flagrantly wasted tax payer’s money. I then presented him with the firm’s invoice. Dillon casually ignored her comments regarding the alleged drunk in the doorway and was thankful when she suggested they go and eat out, then changed the subject to how her day had been. Dillon glanced down at the Omega strapped to his wrist and said that it would have to be later. He made an excuse about having to send a number of emails back to LJ, and went off to his study.

  He was dying to look at the notebook and find out what information, if any, was stored on the phone’s memory. But first, he looked at the images on the digital camera. There were a few long shots of Dunstan getting out of his car and going into the apartment building, and then some of Dunstan and Dillon coming out of the same door an hour later. He scrolled through the menu, found the ‘delete all images’ icon, and pushed the button. That done, he went through the mobile phone with a fine-tooth comb, found absolutely nothing of interest, and put that to one side, too.

  The private detective was Phil McVey and he was employed by the Samuels Detective Agency. ‘Sammy’ Samuels was a former drug squad Detective Sergeant in the Metropolitan Police and ran a high profile agency in the West End. It was the kind of agency whose books were always full and Hart must have paid a substantially large sum of money over and above their usual fee to get taken on so quickly.

  As Dillon had expected, the notebook contained the time McVey had taken up his position, the time of Havelock’s arrival and, of course, his car registration number. There was also a great deal of what looked to Dillon, like mobile text notes taking on the other assignments that he was working on. He tore out the relevant pages and put the notebook, along with the camera and phone, into a ji
ffy bag and sealed it. He addressed it to the Samuels Detective Agency and then called Vince Sharp and asked him to locate an ex-directory number. A moment later, he was phoning ‘Sammy’ Samuels at his home.

  “Jake Dillon, we met briefly about eighteen months ago, whilst I was on assignment in Dorset with Fiona Price, and you were still on the force. The Harry Caplin case?”

  “Oh, I remember. You were the knob who let that American get away, weren’t you?

  “You could say that. But he’s now in custody in Florida.”

  “Well that’s all very interesting. But I’m right in the middle of my evening meal; what’s so important that it can’t wait until the morning?”

  “I have Phil McVey’s mobile phone, camera and notebook. He’s the investigator you assigned to watch my apartment building. I’ll send them back in return for the name of the person who hired you.”

  “Are you on something or what? You’ve stolen that property – probably with grievous bodily harm, which makes you nothing more than a common ruffian, Dillon. And as all my incoming calls are automatically recorded, you’ve also openly confessed to the crime.”

  “Once a copper, Samuels. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Well, if you want to play it like that, you’ve blatantly invaded my privacy, and committed out-and-out harassment. Talk to your friends at the local nick, for all I care. But remember this, if it ever got to a courtroom, McVey’s account of what took place would make good tabloid reading. That he had the tools of his trade nicked from him whilst on a simple surveillance job. Sloppy, wouldn’t you say? And your agency having such a high profile image and reputation for being the best. Just think Sammy, how many corporate clients do you think would jump ship?”