Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series)

by Andrew Towning

  As I drove, I remembered Charlie’s effervescent smile.

  Chapter 11

  Monday 10.00am I’d slept for barely four hours. The pounding inside my head reminded me that I had downed the best part of a bottle of single malt whisky with exceptional ease. It was a birthday gift from Charlie, given with ceremony, kilt and all. The memory of him standing there at the restaurant, telling me that only the Scots knew how to brew fine malt.

  Tats had let herself into the apartment with her own keys, and was busy in the kitchen. I came through in my bathrobe, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and thinking that LJ had probably asked her to drop by and pamper me.

  “How long have you been here?” The drum in my head beat louder with the effort of speech.

  “About half an hour. You look absolutely awful. Why don’t you go and freshen up, you smell like a distillery. Breakfast will be another ten minutes.”

  She was wearing a dark blue suit of impeccable quality, the skirt cut just the right length, to show off her firm slender legs to best effect.

  I showered, dressed for the office and went back through to the kitchen.

  Warm croissants straight from the oven and freshly squeezed orange juice awaited me and so did the latest news about the explosion that killed Charlie.

  We sat a while, drinking coffee in silence. Tatiana broke the spell. “LJ spoke to one of his old pals at the Yard early this morning. They’ve established that the device used to blow the Range Rover is one favoured by professional contract killers. The detonator is of a sophisticated type, triggered by digital mobile phone or directly wired into the vehicle’s electrical system. On this occasion they think it was detonated remotely by phone, indicating that the person was still within viewing distance of the vehicle. The bomb squad boys can’t be sure of course, due to the extent of the damage caused, but they reckon about a kilo of explosive was used. They will be able to be more specific when they determine what type was used. One thing that’s for sure though, Jake, that bomb was supposed to kill, not just maim whoever was in that car. That someone was without doubt supposed to be LJ, not Charlie.”

  “Why LJ, who would want him that dead do you suppose?” I said, absentmindedly breaking off a piece of croissant and dunking it into my coffee.

  “Oh - I should think we could come up with at least a hundred or so names, of people that he’s used and abused in his time. But seriously, Jake, certain parties think it’s probably to do with either someone or possibly some assignment that he’s been involved with in the past.”

  “By certain parties, you mean the Partners?”

  “Yes, I mean the Partners.”

  “There is something else you need to know, nothing to do with the explosion,” she said, “the blueprint for the new Network.”

  “What about it?” I said, tilting my head forward and frowning at her from across the dining table.

  “The Partners have copies. I’m sorry to say that crusty old fart Morris Drysdale at the Foreign Office is to set up one of his famous little feasibility teams.”

  “Oh hells bells,” I groaned. “I know what that means.”

  “You’re well out of it,” said Tats. “LJ is sitting in for you at present. They will discuss which department will co-ordinate operations.”

  “Power,” I said. “I left the army because of all the crap. LJ wasn’t kidding when I joined the firm.”

  “Even our friends at Thames House are trying to get in on the act.”

  “I thought that might happen, the spooks see this as an excellent opportunity to acquire a brand new Network, gathering all sorts of intelligence, without having to do a damn thing.” I got up from the table and started to pace the kitchen.

  “You should know how it is by now,” said Tats. “If the Partners don’t make a token gesture to them, when it comes to calling in favours they would have no bargaining gambits to play with.”

  “As a diplomat, Tatiana, you are like a fox, cunning and resourceful. You constantly impress with your ability to placate me like a small child. Of course you are right, I should know better by now.” I said, with a wry grin.

  Tats gave me one of her quirky smiles, got up and said, “Hell, look at the time, I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you later.” We kissed; and she left as quietly as she had arrived.

  * * * By the time I reached the firm, organised pandemonium had developed in the department. People everywhere, phones glued to ears, words being spoken rapidly. Computer screens were alive with text and images, eyes fixed on them. Everyone had one thing and only one thing on their minds, to find out who had killed Charlie McIntyre. The word from above was simple; one of our own had been killed. The objective was to pull in all our sources of information and see what came out at the other end.

  I joined LJ and Tats in the conference room. The image that filled the end wall on the screen made my stomach turn and the colour shot of what remained of the Range Rover made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The doors were completely gone and everything inside had been erased by the blast and the ensuing fire. Only the rims remained of the wheels in each corner, all of the rubber was burnt away.

  The roof had been spilt through the middle and the bonnet lay twisted twenty feet away.

  “Charlie knew that something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, you know?” I said to no one in particular while staring at the large screen.

  “I’ve been thinking about recent events. We should take a closer look at dear old loveable Harry Caplin. Something about him is definitely odd.” I sat at the end of the large maple table staring at nothing in particular.

  “What makes you think that he is anything other than what he says he is?” LJ asked, pompously.

  “Call it a hunch,” I said, ignoring his intonation.

  “Um, your hunches have been my embarrassment before, Jake. Give me one good reason why I should concentrate the firm’s resources in this area of investigation. When there is no evidence whatsoever to substantiate my doing so.”

  “For the simple reason that Charlie is laid out in pieces at the local morgue,” I retorted flatly.

  “Don’t be smart. I’m as saddened as you, or anyone else who had the privilege to know him, could possibly be. What makes you so sure that this Harry Caplin had anything to do with the explosion? It was my car that was bombed, so whoever carried out this despicable act was obviously after me and not Charlie. Wouldn’t you agree?” LJ’s face had reddened and sweat trickled off his forehead.

  I got up and moved to the end wall, standing with the projected image behind me.

  “There is evidence,” I said, pausing for effect. “Harry Caplin, George Ferdinand and Robert Flackyard, there is some sort of link between them.”

  “Caplin has been seen entering Flackyard’s house at all hours and frequents a number of his, how shall we say, less reputable establishments. As for George Ferdinand, well he really is rather odd, and he’s exceptionally good at lying. Flackyard; he is a very serious individual, and capable of just about anything. But that is merely my own opinion, of course. As for Flackyard, what do we really know about him? Well, he is extremely wealthy; influential beyond belief, almost certainly has a Cabinet Minister in his pocket. Has been able to elude the boys in blue for many years with his own private army of lawyers, and is an international playboy. That last bit by the way, I firmly believe is nothing more than a charade, a sleight of hand, like a magician creating an illusion. Do you know what the most fascinating thing to date is?”

  “Well, let me tell you. Flackyard is the only one asking for the opium to be given back, but he’s not the one who owns it. It will be the drugs though that will flush the real owner out, and Charlie’s murderer. Because the two are almost certainly linked, and if we’re looking for reasons why he may want you dead, need I say more?”

  I sat down; Tats poured me some more coffee.

  “Oh, I see the pattern as far is it goes, Jake. But let’s not jump to conclusions. I still fe
el that Flackyard would not jeopardise his position.”

  “Especially as he is fully aware of the Partners’ power and far-reaching influence that they can wield if they need to. No, if anyone wants me dead it will be someone whom I’ve really upset in the past. Of that, I’ve got no doubt.”

  “But no matter, we will attend to that in due course and before I forget, I’ve been contacted by former general Franco Santori. He’s now the elected spokesman for our group of Italians. Apparently they’ve sacked the two negotiators whom you met with at Ahmed’s house in Cairo.”

  “They’re saying that the agreement made in Cairo was not legal and that they want the firm to cough up a lump sum of Euros. If you recall the timing of this initial sum of funding was a sticking point in your negotiations. And I’m afraid that you’re going to have to go back to Egypt sooner rather that later, old son, and sort this one out.” LJ’s mobile rang; excusing himself, he went outside into the corridor.

  While he was out of the room Tats informed me from across the table.

  “The Partners won’t hand over the cash you know. Not unless they have the counterfeit Euros that Flackyard has promised them. Do you remember that time Flackyard came to see the Partners? Well he tried to wheedle his way into the action, of course he had no idea that his fake Euros were going to be used to fund another of the firm’s client ventures. All the same he’s not stupid and somehow, God knows how, he’s got wind of something big going down. The outcome as you can imagine is that the Partners told him in their best Eton drawl, to basically crawl back under his stone and to stay there.”

  LJ came back into the room, looking less flustered and more composed.

  “Do you really think that Flackyard or Caplin was involved in the bombing?” he asked.

  “Yes I do,” I said. “Caplin I’m not too sure about, but Flackyard - he definitely has a motive. That is to say, although he is extremely wealthy, he is also extremely greedy too. A man like that is always looking for the next fix to increase his fortune. My personal view is that when the Partners sent him scampering back to Bournemouth full of rejection and anger, he realised that blackmailing the powers upstairs wouldn’t work, so he sent a professional to bomb your car. Why, because he is as evil as any one human being can be and because you are an easy target, unlike the Partners who are watched all the time. That explosion was a carefully planned venture have no doubt about that.”

  “Um, well, you’d better be right about this because I’m going to have to pull in a lot of favours. Tell me what you found out about him when you went to his home.”

  “Well, he obviously speaks perfect English – syntax and inflection is faultless. He dresses conservatively, always a black suit, tailored, not off the peg. I have sat opposite him at the dining table, I can tell you the caviar and Champagne are genuine.”

  “He was an only child; his mother was a Moscow society prostitute, and his father a wealthy Russian aristocrat who defected and came to England when Flackyard was ten. Public school educated at, Bryanston in Dorset, after which he went on to Oxford to gain an honours degree in law. That’s about all I got out of him. His small talk is virtually non-existent.”

  We were all quiet for a moment, then Tats said softly, “I’d like to blow out the brains of whoever murdered Charlie.”

  “I’ll forget that you spoke.” LJ looked at her with eyes like steel for a moment, then said, “If you want to continue working down here you’ll never even think a thing like that, let alone say it. There is no room for heroics, vendettas or associated melodrama in my very efficient department. You make your commitment, take the rough with the smooth and quietly do your job. Suppose, Jake had been full of macho heroism and gone running back to Charlie yesterday. He would have attracted undue attention from any number of reporters that inevitably hang around there. As well as having to answer a barrage of questions from some very inquisitive policemen. Act grown-up Tatiana or I’ll have you frog marched out of here immediately.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Apology accepted, but don’t ever hanker after tidiness. Don’t ever think or hope that the great mess of investigation that forms a large part of our work down here is suddenly going to resolve itself like the last chapter of a whodunit: I’ve-got-you-all-gathered-together-in-theroom-where-the-murder-was-done, kind of scene. Be thankful for odd scraps of information or tip-offs from a source. Don’t desire vengeance, or think that if someone murders you tomorrow, anyone will be tracking him or her down mercilessly. They won’t!”

  “We’ll all be strictly concerned with keeping out of the tabloid newspapers and the Police Gazette.”

  Tats was determined to prove what a master of her emotions she was.

  “Chief Inspector Thomson at New Scotland Yard has sent over a copy of the S.O.C.O. report concerning your Range Rover. He thought it was safer to let you have hard copies rather than e-mailing it to you. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes, he telephoned me earlier this morning. By the way, send him a little something by way of a thank you, for doing such a good job. There’s not so much as a mention in any of the dailies.”

  “Of course,” said Tats, “he did mention that he had his people sending emails to all the editors the minute he found out whose car had been bombed.”

  “Apparently there were at least six cars written off. If the S.O.C.O. people are right in reconstructing the explosion points, it’s almost as if whoever did this wanted the fire to spread.”

  “Really? I said leaning forward. “Where were they?”

  “Under the bonnet, centre of the roof, behind the rear seat, between the front seats.” Her eyes had become ever so slightly red around the edge. She caught me looking at her, giving me a wan smile back.

  LJ went off to compile his report for the Partners. We had agreed that I should return to the rented house in Dorset. The Rumples were still there along with Fiona Price, who, it was decided, could be of use to us for the time being. We walked through the department to my office, closing the door behind us.

  Tats immediately hugged me tightly, sobbing quietly into my shoulder. I gently stroked the back of her head. “Charlie would not have known anything, you know. It really would have been instantaneous,” I offered.

  Blowing her nose, Tats turned and left the room.

  Chapter 12

  Monday 4.45pm The high pitched note of a car horn ripped the afternoon air. Harry Caplin’s old black Mk1 Jaguar was parked in the short stay area of Bournemouth’s beautifully renovated Victorian station. I’d had to train it back from London as both of the firm’s helicopters were being used to ferry the Partners and their guests to and from the races at Royal Ascot.

  “Hi there, Ace, climb into the cart. I told Mr Rumple I’d pick you up. He looked as if he’d got plenty to do, making ready and fussing around that big boat of yours, and as Fiona’s off shopping. So I thought I’d be neighbourly and help out.”

  I wondered by what process of deduction dear old Harry had latched on to the boat being made ready. Was it possible to keep anything secret from him? It made the whole job a little more dangerous. We wove our way slowly across town through heavy traffic. From my relaxed position in the passenger seat, I could view all the many frustrated, over worked people with bland faces sat behind their windscreens fighting their way home through congested roads, but in reality only heading towards prebooked early graves.

  “So what’s the word on the street Harry?” I said, shifting round towards him. Perhaps I should tell LJ to prepare a cover for us in case trouble blew up. We crawled past the sea front and on up the hill towards the west cliff of the town.

  “I just got some new CDs from the States, Ace. Sammy Davis and Frank re-mixed and digitally remastered. Come around for drinks this evening. Get an earful of wax. Ha ha ha.” We were outside the rented house by now. I thanked Harry and he squealed down the road towards his place.

  Rumple let me through the gates and met me at the front door.

  Unfortun
ately for Miss Price she was the next person I saw. She was standing in the kitchen wearing a microscopic black bikini.

  “Well hello Mr Dillon,” she said, putting a sustained accent on the final syllable of each word.

  “Cut the crap, Fiona, I’m really not in the mood.” I said as I threw my bag down.

  “Such skilful alliteration, Jake,” she said keeping her eyes on the magazine that she was flicking through. “What or who has upset you in London and where’s Charlie?”

  “Charlie - is dead - murdered, Fiona.” I said quietly. I was interested to see her reaction, but there was none. I went on before anyone could speak, knowing that this news would devastate the Rumples like myself they had worked with Charlie on many assignments in the past. “So, tell me, why is it too much trouble for a member of this team to come and meet me? And for the record, I really don’t appreciate Harry Caplin informing me that Rumple is making the boat ready to sail.”

  “Making ready the boat to sail? Come now Jake, he didn’t really say that, did he?”

  “Not in so many words.” I said. “He inferred that Rumple was fussing about and making ready the boat. What I want to know is, how he even got to know that. After all, the boat is completely concealed inside the boathouse. What else has been told to him about what we are doing and why we’re here - Miss Price?”

  “Now listen here, sir.” Said Rumple. “He’s just done to us what he’s done to you: mentioned the words ‘making ready’ to see what reaction he got.”

  “What would you prefer us to do? Take him up on it and start playing ‘what’s my line?’”

  “I don’t like it, Rumple. That man should not know about what we are doing here, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, you know, Jake, little us can’t be expected to manage without you.”

  “You shouldn’t have left us all on our own like that,” Fiona said sarcastically.