'Oi! Wipe your feet, I just Hoovered there -' Harry jabbed a finger at Cliff, trailing in with a mop and bucket. 'An' you, take that bucket out into the yard.'
'Need new bog rolls,' Cliff put in. 'Stamps, coffee, tea and sugar, milk, an' we should keep a first-aid kit handy too. Aspirins, liver salts, stuff like that.'
Dillon was at the desk with a clean sheet of paper, pencil in hand. 'With Susie out of action I've got a bit of schleppin' to do with the kids, so I'm workin' out a rota.'
'I don't mind doin' nights,' Harry offered.
'Just a sec' Dillon wanted to start another clean sheet. 'I reckon I've been throwin' me weight around, an' we're all in this together, okay? So if I say somethin' you don't agree with… well…' He gestured vaguely.
'You'll give us a sock in the gob!' Harry grinned.
Cliff laughed and clanked outside with his bucket. Harry looped the cable to the Hoover, watching him go. He said confidentially, 'Hey, Frank, about that other matter. I'm handling it.'
Dillon was writing. Without looking up he gave a small, tight nod. Start afresh, don't look back, what's past is past. The pencil dug into the paper. He looked up sharply.
'Harry…!'
At the door, Harry turned, Hoover in hand.
Dillon stared at him. He shook his head. 'Nothin'.' He went back to his writing.
He'd been heading up a blind alley but now he could see light ahead. Dillon's feeling that things were changing – for the better – grew stronger each day. Work was coming in, they were even building up a small core of regular clients. He had the sense that a watershed had been passed, and that with hard graft and a bit of luck they were going to make it.
The first encouraging proof came just over a week later, and he couldn't get home quick enough to tell Susie about it. She was in the kitchen, putting food away in the fridge. Getting rid of the stockinette sling gave her some freedom of movement, but the cast was still an encumbrance. Dillon waltzed in, waving a folder.
'We're in profit – it's paying the cars, the rent and wages -!'
He swung her round, hugged her.
'You mean you can start paying me a wage?' Susie asked him with an impish grin.
Dillon gave her a look. 'You not workin' for Marway?'
'Just Stag Security-Taxi-Chauffeur,' she said firmly. She gently punched him under the chin with the plaster cast. This'll be off soon.'
Dillon laughed and gave her a smacker. On his way to answer the doorbell he sang out, 'Give you my word, you won't regret it!'
His terrific good mood lasted until he opened the door and saw Harry's face. More exactly, its set, closed expression, eyes fixed on his, unblinking. 'I wanna show you somethin'.' As Dillon's mouth tightened, Harry held up his hand. 'Hey, take it easy. Can I come in?' And when Dillon made no move, just stood there blocking the door, delved inside his jacket and produced two photostat images and held them up.
'These are the suspects. Take a look for yourself.'
Full face, left and right profiles, two men, early twenties, one with sideburns. Dillon barely glanced at them before shoving Harry onto the landing, well out of earshot. Harry caught his drift and had sense enough to keep his voice low.
'Guy on the second page, it's one of them, Frank. Wally's tip-off was legit.'
'Harry – I got to think about this.' Dillon rubbed his face, and then his head shot round as he heard Susie's voice calling, 'Is it Mum, Frank?'
He stuck his head in the door. 'No, love… just Harry,' and carefully pulled it shut.
Harry waited a couple of moments, studying Dillon's face. 'You don't have to get involved,' he said, slow, deliberate, the meaning made stronger because of it. 'But you started this, Frank, not me, you.'
'I dunno.' Dillon looked at the door. 'I don't know, I need time…'
'I don't have it, they could move on any day.' Harry had said his piece, Dillon knew the score, and he turned to go. Dillon grabbed his arm, pulled him round. His whisper was harsh.
'You know where he is?'
Harry looked into Dillon's eyes. He nodded. 'I just needed to be sure.' He thrust the photostats into Dillon's hand. 'Keep 'em, tell me tomorrow,' he said, and went down the stairway.
Dillon leaned against the wall. He rested his eyes for a minute, aware of his heart beating rapidly. Slowly he opened them and stared down at the two faces. Early twenties. Long dark hair. Sideburns: Leather jacket. Dillon leaned over the railings, waiting to see Harry across the courtyard below. He whistled and Harry looked upwards. No words passed between them, Dillon simply gave him the signal to wait.
The closing credits of a cops and robbers series were rolling up as Dillon popped his head into the living-room. He said brightly, 'I won't be too late. Kids are asleep!'
'What is it?' Susie asked, feet propped up on the couch. 'Security work?'
'Yeah!'
'Is it cash or…'
Dillon cleared his throat. 'Cash,' he said decisively. 'Night, sweetheart.' He went out, closing the front door so it didn't slam. Susie flicked the remote control. The chimes of Big Ben boomed out, News at Ten just starting.
Harry had cased the house that afternoon. Couldn't be more perfect, he assured Dillon. Run-down neighbourhood, poor street lightning, gasworks wall at one end so there was no through traffic. Derelict place directly opposite, ideal for cover. They took up positions, peering across the darkened street through a window-frame with a few shards of glass in it. Both were kitted out for night ops: black sweaters, old combat jackets, black woollen ski hats, the faithful Pumas that had seen action on Heartbreak Hill. And Harry had the Armalite, which had seen action with the Gurkhas in Brunei and the Far East. Dillon got the stomach cramps just watching him checking it over, as gentle and loving with it as a mother with her new-born babe.
'If there's anybody in there, they're crawlin' around in the dark,' Dillon decided, straining his eyes to see. He craned forward. 'No they bloody ain't – you see it, front room, right-hand side? Somethin' flickered.'
Harry was already on the move, rifle inside his combat jacket, held by the butt, pointing to the ground. 'Let's take a closer look,' he growled.
A child of six could have picked the back door lock with his Meccano plastic screwdriver. Dillon sidled in, ski mask down over his face, two ragged slits for the eyes. The kitchen was filthy and stank to high heaven. He had to watch where he stepped, there was all sorts of junk littered about the place. More a doss house than a safe house. Harry followed, treading with an incredible feline lightness and agility for such a big man.
In total silence they moved from the kitchen into the short passage leading to the front room. Blue light flickered under the door, and they could hear the muted burble of the television. Dillon touched his chest and pointed upstairs. Harry nodded. He flattened himself against the wall adjacent to the door, the rifle held slantwise across his body. Dillon went up, testing each tread before committing his weight to it.
He trod even more carefully on the bare dusty floorboards of the front bedroom, aware that a single creak would alert whoever was directly beneath him. There wasn't a stick of furniture. He knelt, and using hands as well as eyes, made sure he had it right. Three sleeping bags. A plastic holdall with a broken strap contained tee-shirts, underpants, socks, shaving cream, razor.
The bathroom was a haven for dirty towels. Two on the floor, two more stuffed over a rail, three or four in the bottom of the stained old tub. Lying in the greasy soap residue on the splash rim of the washbasin were three toothbrushes and one tube of toothpaste squeezed to within an inch of its life. He turned away and then paused, aware of a heavy subterranean thudding. It was his heart. His scalp was prickly with sweat. He hissed in a breath and crept out.