Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  He sat with his feet up on the corner of the desk, the bland, windowless office causing mild claustrophobia and numbing his mind. He was thinking about coming face to face with Julian Latimer. De-Luca had never seen the politician, but felt as Dillon did; it had been a close call, and the repercussions would not have stopped with Latimer. As it was, the politician had taken a close look at them both, and would not forget.

  Dillon was also conscious of the fact that he was restricting himself with every move he made, almost like playing chess against a Russian master of the game. He logged onto the firm’s database and opened the file document that held the current assignment data. He slowly scrolled down through each and every page. The only thing that he concluded from it all was that he knew very little about why or how Hart, Trevelyan, Power and Latimer knew each other. What was it that linked them together and for what reason?

  Almost to the hour, Vince came in with the printed images. Dillon thanked the big Australian and studied one of the prints for a moment, satisfied with his handy work with a camera. He left the building and walked back to the parked Ford. It was the back end of rush hour and within minutes he was snarled up in the traffic. So he decided to take the side streets back to The Old Colonial Club.

  In his rooms at the club he examined each page carefully. The list of names and addresses were confusing as they didn’t appear in any particular order and only covered the counties in the south of England, starting with Hampshire and ending up in the remotest part of Cornwall, a number of pages on. There were lists of names against each county; Dorset had two full pages of them. Almost all had names crossed out and others added, and against each was a location but only a few had an actual address. The others were starred – perhaps suggesting that they were lower down in the scheme of things, or that there were addresses elsewhere.

  Dillon went through everything he had, but couldn’t find any additional information or addresses. He gathered up all the copies that he’d placed over the bed, taking them to a writing bureau with a small lamp under which he could study the images more carefully. There had to be more meaning to them than just a list of names and locations. He started on the tedious task of counting the names.

  Hampshire had the highest number with twenty-five, but most had been crossed off, leaving only seven. These were dotted around the south of the county in the New Forest area. Dorset had fifteen original names: they were mostly towards the west. The original locations had been roughly spread out along the coast from Poole to Lyme Regis.

  By the time he’d gone over the copies for the third time, he was tired and very confused. When he checked the time it was well after 11.00 p.m. and he was feeling hungry. He put the copies back into one of his canvas holdalls and went out to find something to eat. Even if it had not been too late for the club’s restaurant he wouldn’t have eaten there – the less contact he had with the other guests, the better.

  The best he could find was a late night bistro around the corner that was happy to make him a tuna-filled Panini, which he smuggled back up to his rooms. Halfway through eating, he decided he should contact Havelock again, perhaps even risk meeting with him. He dialled his number but got no reply. He supposed Havelock was entitled to go out, but why tonight of all nights? He phoned Havelock’s office number but didn’t really expect anyone to answer, and he was right. Havelock didn’t have an answering machine at home, believing that if someone wanted to contact him badly enough they would ring back or try his mobile number. If they didn’t have his mobile number then they obviously weren’t that important to him. This was logical enough, but of little use to Dillon. He dialled his mobile number, which immediately went to voice mail.

  Dillon was tired, increasingly irritable and frustrated. He needed the warmth and softness of Issy’s naked body next to him now, and then wondered for how long she would stay away from her office without him giving her a very good reason why she shouldn’t. She wasn’t stupid, far from it, and would insist on details. Unfortunately, he was fast running out of reasons. He lay on the double bed looking up at the ceiling and could hear the swishing of traffic outside like a lullaby against the quiet of the room’s interior. He was pondering his next move, but within minutes the need for sleep had taken over.

  * * *

  When Jasper Lockhart refused to meet him in any enclosed or quiet place, Dillon realised there was something wrong. In fact, it took every bit of his persuasive powers for Lockhart to agree to a meeting at all. They met mid-morning on the embankment near the London Eye and Jasper even refused to acknowledge Dillon with a handshake, just in case he was seen as knowing him.

  “Nothing personal,” said Lockhart.

  He was wearing a dark blue suit, jacket collar turned up to partially ward off a crisp cutting wind coming across the Thames, a light blue silk shirt and a deep red silk tie with a perfect Windsor knot. They remained at least five feet apart, leaning on the parapet and facing the river so that anyone passing by couldn’t see their faces. Even then, it was obvious to Dillon that Lockhart wasn’t comfortable with the situation.

  “What’s the problem, Jasper? You’re as twitchy as a cat on a hot tin roof,” Dillon said tersely. “I only want to ask a small favour for which I’m happy to pay your outrageously high fees.”

  “The answer is no, Jake.” Jasper kept his gaze on the grey tumultuous water. “Just by coming down here is nothing short of bloody dangerous. But I felt you deserved an explanation, if for no other reason than for old time’s sake.”

  “Look, all I want is the names of two reliable watchers. It’ll only be for a couple of days and I thought you might be able to help. It’s nothing dodgy and with no risk.”

  “I’m afraid that just talking to you is a risk.” Lockhart’s gaze remained transfixed on the river, as if hypnotised by it. He turned to face Dillon, and stated, “There’s an open contract out on you.”

  Dillon looked deep into Lockhart’s eyes.

  “A contract? Have you been smoking dope again or is it something more hallucinogenic these days? What are you saying, Jasper?”

  Dillon continued to fix his gaze on Lockhart. The other man turned as if to walk away, but stopped himself. He leant back against the parapet and said, “What else should I call it? A contract is a contract. A hundred thousand sterling. The word on the street is that there’s already a number of pros out there looking for you.”

  “A hundred grand? The tight bastard. Who’s put it out?”

  Lockhart didn’t answer the question, instead sidestepped it like a professional boxer.

  “It’s no joking matter, Jake. The word has been put out that anyone helping you will be put on the same contract for the same money.I can do without that sort of shit. As one of your oldest mates I thought it best you should hear it from me personally – you know I don’t trust the phones in this city.”

  Dillon looked out across the heaving water of the river for a while. He was disturbed but not only for himself.

  “I never thought I’d see you like this, Jasper. You’re not the man I’ve known for over twenty years. What the hell happened to you?”

  The eyes were sad and reflective. “I can handle most things, you know that, Jake. And, like you, I’ve been around the block a few times. But this is different; the people involved expect to pay out. If I were you I’d leave this rotten country and get as far away as I could.”

  “The thing is, Jasper, I’m not you and I don’t run away from this sort of shit. Is it Tommy Trevelyan?” Dillon tried to penetrate beyond the sea-blue eyes.

  “I inherited a vast sum of money and got married.”

  “Really?” For a moment, Dillon found this more surprising than the threat against him.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sarcastically, and then added quickly, “Sorry, Jasper. I didn’t mean that. What I should have said is that I can u
nderstand why you’re being cautious. But you still haven’t answered my original question. Is it Tommy Trevelyan who’s put out the contract?”

  “He’s the most likely candidate,” Lockhart said. “But that’s one name I really don’t like mentioning. I don’t know how, but he found out about my little reciprocal arrangement with certain Government departments. He let me know that he knew, because at the time he was having a few planning problems with a commercial office block he was building. When I told him to piss off, he sent two of his bloody heavies round to persuade me. I ended up in hospital for four weeks. Thank God for private health cover.”

  “That’s the past, Jasper. Move on and put it down to experience. Look, all I need is someone reliable to give me a hand for a couple of days.”

  At last Lockhart turned. Talking had steadied his nerves a little, but he was still a very worried man.

  “Jake, I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. The word is out and Trevelyan not only controls ‘the word’, but also a very large chunk of this city. So I don’t need to tell you what that means.”

  “Oh, I am taking it seriously, Jasper. But, there’s always a ‘but’, and you’re forgetting one thing: he’s nothing more than an aged hoodlum in a very competitive and ruthless world. He may have put out a contract on me, but he’s got to find me first. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. So thanks mate.”

  “But he’s put the finger on you, Jake, which means that every trigger-happy thug in London will be looking for you, and most likely will have a picture of you, so they can be sure they hit the right bloke. Look, I’ve always liked you, and I know there are many others who feel the same way, but that has to be weighed up against how much they fear Trevelyan and his merry band of misfits.”

  Dillon thought of Max Quinn and Tony ‘Cracker’ De-Luca, both of whom had only recently helped him.

  “When did you hear of this?”

  “Say three hours ago. Before you phoned, anyway. Look, Jake, it’s only just hit the streets. If you’re quick you’ll have enough time to get out of London and disappear for a while; somewhere exotic, where they won’t find you.” Lockhart’s wane smile said it all.

  “Thank God you’re a wealthy man, Jasper. Because in a perverse way it’s somehow reassuring. You and me go back a long way and I need to know who I can trust with my life.”

  “You know I couldn’t do that to you, Jake.” Lockhart looked embarrassed, stared down at an imaginary something on the ground and then added, “You can trust me, you know?”

  “Thanks, Jasper. I do know.”

  Dillon knew he meant it, and that he’d taken a huge risk meeting in such a public place. His mind was already racing ahead, thinking that Trevelyan might have made a tactical error in issuing an open contract. That even the police could hear of it. Still, it wouldn’t help Dillon if someone completed the contract.

  “I’d better start looking over my shoulder then.”

  “Might be wise, given the circumstances. Sorry, Jake. I didn’t mean… Look, have you left any instructions?”

  Dillon smiled, because Lockhart was acting like an undertaker at a hospital bedside. “Why, should my luck run out?”

  “All I’m saying is the odds aren’t good, Jake. Especially if you insist on staying in this city for much longer. Is there anyone who should be contacted if anything goes wrong?”

  “You know, Jasper, you can be a depressingly pessimistic sod when you want to be.”

  “Sorry. Just trying to be pragmatic, that’s all.”

  “Thanks, I’ll remember that when I’m dodging the bullets.”

  “Jake, I really do think you’re a fool for not taking this seriously.” Lockhart looked around nervously.

  “I’ll see you around some time, mate. You make sure you keep that 9 mm clip fully loaded, and your back to the wall.”

  He turned and within moments had wandered down the Embankment and was soon swallowed up by the throngs of people near the London Eye.

  Jasper’s sombre delivery of bad news had been almost funny in a strange way. Dillon knew that his old friend’s intentions had been completely honourable and that he’d only wanted to warn Dillon of the impending danger. Dillon’s response was too flippant for no other reason than to spare either of them any embarrassment or awkwardness. But this wouldn’t make the problem go away. If Trevelyan had put out a contract, it was as serious as anything he could remember happening since he’d left the army intelligence.

  He decided to confirm Lockhart’s warning. He used his mobile phone to call Tony De-luca. De-luca hung up as soon as he heard his voice. He re-dialled the number and this time the answer machine cut in. Dillon thought about leaving a message but didn’t and hung up. To visit De-luca’s home would be asking for trouble and would put him in serious danger. Surprisingly, he found that Max Quinn not only answered his phone, but was happy speaking to him.

  “Who shall I send the Monet to, Jake?”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Max. I’ll come and collect it in due course.”

  To save Max any further embarrassment he hung up. So Jasper had not been exaggerating; Tommy Trevelyan had picked up where Charlie Hart left off, but it must have been by some sort of mutual consent.

  Trevelyan’s business empire spread across much of south London. He had associates all over the country that he could call upon in an emergency. And there were many more foot soldiers that would jump to attention just to do him a favour.

  Dillon rang Vince again at the office to find out if he’d heard anything through the grapevine.

  “The word is on the street, Jake. And they’re coming out of the woodwork in all shapes and sizes to try and find you. If you want my advice, I would take a spot of leave as far away from London as possible.”

  “Thanks, Vince. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He gave him an order for some additional equipment and clothing and told him that he’d wait on the embankment by the London Eye until he arrived. He decided to keep on the move, blending in with the many people milling around the busy attraction. He knew it wouldn’t take the big Australian long to sort out what he’d requisitioned from the stores, but with the heavy traffic he might be a while turning up.

  It was a long thirty-five minutes to wait and during that time Lockhart’s warning and the real threat started to drum home. He spotted Vince lumbering down towards him through the crowd just when the wait was really getting to him. Dillon stepped away from the queue he’d been standing in, genuinely pleased to see the Australian’s happy-go-lucky look on his face.

  Neither of them wanted to hang about in the open with the real danger potentially ever-present. As the two men passed each other, Dillon took the canvas holdall from him and walked on by as if nothing had happened. He went straight back to the loaned Ford Focus and drove back to his rooms at The Old Colonial Club. Once he’d found a space in the underground car park, he used the fire stairs to get up to his floor without being seen.

  He rang Havelock and caught him in his office. He had decided against meeting him anywhere now and briefly told him what he’d found out and asked if Havelock could throw any light on it. It was a strange list by virtue of how many deletions there had been, which suggested that it had been compiled some time ago. Havelock said he would look into it and find out what he could, and asked whether Dillon would send him the hard copies of the prints.

  “Not a wise move, Dunstan. You’ve been sensible so far by not asking me where I got this information from, because you wouldn’t be too pleased if I told you. Think of the security aspect – if someone your end found them you could land yourself in some heavy trouble. One thing I’d like you to do for me: Hart’s son, Daniel, is at Cambridge. I’d like to know where to find him there. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.”

  “I can do that sooner. Give me half an hour an
d a number that I can contact you on.” Havelock looked at the receiver in exasperation. Dillon had already hung up.

  * * *

  Cambridge was not a city Dillon knew well and he was getting increasingly frustrated by the directions given by the sat-nav he’d attached to the Ford’s dashboard. When he eventually pulled up in the car park, he discovered to his further annoyance that the only spaces available were reserved for college staff. He parked in one anyway and walked back to the main entrance of Christ’s College.

  He used the Bateman identity card, not wanting Charlie Hart to find out he had another one so soon. As far as he knew, the Robert King card was still a secret, unless Trevelyan had found out that he’d made a visit to Max Quinn.

  He had chosen late afternoon to visit Daniel Hart and had little difficulty in getting a message to him. He met him outside twenty minutes later. Dillon couldn’t miss the strikingly tanned good looks and pleasant features of Hart’s son who was surprisingly tall. Dillon immediately liked him and Daniel greeted him warmly.

  “An investigator?” enquired Daniel.

  “I work for Worldwide Art Underwriters of London.”

  “So, what’s this all about? And why do you want to talk to me?”

  “Oh there’s no cause for alarm, Daniel,” replied Dillon with a smile. He knew he was taking a dangerously calculated risk in seeing Hart’s son.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Daniel glanced down at the identity card he still had hold of, “Mr. Bateman.”