Salah Al-Gharib gave a curt nod. 'White Elephant,' he said, climbing in after the big man.
Dillon pulled a face at Steve through the window, who returned Dillon's blank look with one of his own. Dog track? Indian restaurant? Mosque?
All the way down the M11 Dillon anxiously watched the red needle of the fuel gauge creeping to within a hair's breadth of Empty. Finally, scared to death they were going to run out, he ordered Steve to pull off at the service station just outside Epping. Luckily the clients were going through some papers, taking no notice; even so, Dillon blocked their view of the petrol pump meter as he carefully measured out £2.72 pence' worth to the drop, then surreptitiously palmed the handful of loose change from Steve. Now they were both skint.
It didn't take them long to find him. Taffy's glass of Murphy's stout was still half-full when the phantom drummer's redheaded older brother, a couple of his mates in tow, walked into the saloon bar. Three customers took one look and shifted rapidly out of the way, leaving Taffy alone on his bar-stool in the corner. Slowly, all the time in the world, Taffy turned his head to look at them. They were a mean-looking bunch but his expression didn't alter, kept its same level, sullen stare, unimpressed by this walking pond-life.
'Oi! You three -' The landlord was across, pushing his rolled-up shirtsleeves further up his arms, pointing at the door. 'Out! Out now!'
Taffy's red head neighbour stopped in the middle of the floor, head lowered like a bull about to charge, eyes glittering. 'Gonna have you,' he murmured softly, just loud enough for Taffy to hear. 'You want to come outside?'
'Police – call the police,' the landlord told the blonde barmaid, who scuttled to the phone. He put both hands flat on the counter and leaned forward. 'Did you hear me? I'm calling the cops. Now – all of you – out. Get out!'
Redhead and his mates stood their ground, a tight little knot of hatred, and as the landlord raised the hatch, Taffy saw a stealthy movement and there was a knife in the redhead's hand.
'No trouble, lads… come on now…'
Taffy stood up. He lifted both hands, palms open, to indicate that he didn't want any trouble either. The red-head came for him. Taffy side-stepped, got an elbow lock on the knife-arm, twisted the redhead round to the bar with his arm up his back, wrist bent double. Taking the knife off him, Taffy dragged his head back by his red hair and slit his throat.
'Put your hat on,' said Steve. 'Get the doors open!'
While Dillon rammed his cap on and fixed his tie his eyes never left the wing-mirror, which he'd been anxiously studying for the past fifteen minutes. He gripped the doorhandle and said, 'You clocked that red Sierra parked at the back of us? They've been around the block twice and come back. They seem very interested in us…'
Steve flicked the air-spray round the back of the car and switched on the engine. He waggled his thumb urgently, indicating that Dillon better attend to the clients, stepping out of the White Elephant after a dinner that probably cost as much as Susie spent on food in a month.
Dillon held the door open, and while they were settling in he glanced sideways under the peak of his cap, attempting to make out the occupants of the Sierra and how many. In the darkened interior he saw the glow of a cigarette, nothing more.
He nipped round and climbed in. 'Back to base is it, sir?' Dillon inquired, glued to the wing-mirror. Steve flashed the indicator and pulled out into Curzon Street, the Sierra's dimmed headlights springing on. It began moving off without indicating.
'Yes,' the secretary replied, polishing his gold-rimmed spectacles. 'Then that's it for today!' His boss, the big man, was dozing off, hands clasped comfortably on the swell of his paunch, recently replenished.
Steve drove up Park Lane, crossing into the right-hand stream to make the approach into Oxford Street. At this late hour, traffic was fairly light, at least by London standards, and Dillon could see the red Sierra merging into the same lane, two cars behind. He spoke quietly, hardly moving his lips, 'Keep your eye on 'em, they're right behind us.'
Steve nodded, the Mercedes surging smoothly forward, whisper-quiet under the power of its three-litre, 140 bhp engine. Dillon, after a minute's private debate with himself, inclined his head to the rear of the car. He kept his voice calm, no sign of agitation.
'Excuse me, sir… we've got someone following us. They were parked outside the Club, and they've been on our tail since we left. It's a red Sierra – take a look for yourself.'
Raoul Al-Mohammed immediately blinked open his heavy eyes and with his secretary turned to stare out of the tinted back window. They turned back, eyes locked together.
'Are you sure they are following?' the secretary asked quietly, leaning forward.
'wE cAN maKe SUre iF yOU liKe
'What did he say?'
'We can drive around a bit,' Dillon explained, 'see if they are really following… Okay?' He glanced behind and got a single, firm nod.
Steve was too expert and experienced a driver to tip off those behind that they'd been rumbled. Besides, this wasn't ideal territory to lose a tail. Better to get them into a warren of back streets they possibly weren't too familiar with – but he was. So in no great hurry he turned into Tottenham Court Road and proceeded at a stately pace towards Euston Road, eyes doing a constant slow swivel from the road to the rearview mirror. Actually, he was starting to enjoy himself. The Merc was a joy to drive, he'd never got his mitts on such a large powerful, beautiful motor before. Plus – and it was a big plus – he felt the old tingling thrill of pitting himself against an adversary. Didn't matter who: it was the enemy, the bad guys, the ones who had to be beaten at all costs. That's what he'd been trained to do, and Civvy Street had no use for his talents and specialist skills. No use for him, period.
Slowing for the traffic lights at the junction with Euston Road, Dillon turned round in his seat. It was make-your-mind-up time, so he called for a decision. 'He's still with us, what do you want us to do?' He raised his eyebrows. 'We head back into Regent's Park and we'll play follow-my-leader all the way back to the house…'
Salah Al-Gharib moistened his lips. 'What is the alternative?' he asked, and now his voice had the suggestion of a tremor in it.
Steve sucked in air, burped, 'I can lose 'em, Frank. No problem.'
'You sure?'
At Steve's nod, Dillon turned back and said tersely, 'He thinks he can lose them, sir.'
The lights changed, and being in the left-hand lane Steve had no choice but to turn left into Euston Road. There was a confab going on in the back, the secretary doing most of the talking, his boss interjecting the odd comment or question now and then. Both men seemed distinctly uneasy, rather fearful in fact, Raoul Al-Mohammed clutching his alligator-skin briefcase to his chest, resting it on his heaving stomach.
At last the secretary leaned forward. Behind the thin gold rims, the whites of his eyes gleamed against his dark complexion. 'If it is possible, lose them. Do what you have to do.'
Dillon touched Steve's arm. He took off his cap and said to the men in the back, 'You want to put your seat-belts on?'
They did so, Dillon pulling his tight. Steve operated central locking, securing all four doors, took a long searching look in the mirror, and put his foot down.
CHAPTER 13
In the illuminated green dial the needle swept smoothly past fifty. Steve kept his foot down, the acceleration pressing them back in their seats… fifty-five – sixty – sixty-five in less than seven seconds, the needle hovering at seventy as they neared Regent's Park.
Through the wing-mirror Dillon had a clear view of the red Sierra, lagging behind but gradually picking up speed to match theirs; nothing in-between them now and very little traffic, so the two cars had virtually this entire stretch of road to themselves.