'Mr Dillon? I'm Arthur Crook. I've already spoken to Mr Travers and Mr Morgan.'
Dillon pushed the tin tray further along the bed and made space for him to sit on the grey blanket.
'I've been appointed to represent you.' The voice was bland and diffident, as colourless as he was. 'Is this acceptable to you?'
'I have an alternative?' said Dillon, testily.
'If you don't wish me to represent you, that is your prerogative, I can ask for someone else. But I am experienced in criminal -'
'They got no right to hold me here!'
Dillon's outburst set the little man to blinking once again. Almost in a tone of apology, he said, 'Mr Dillon, they have some very tough evidence against you.'
'An' I explained how we came to have it. I told them…' Dillon stared at Crook, his mouth suddenly dry. 'There's nothin' else, is there?'
'I've read your statement, Mr Dillon.' Either Crook didn't understand the question or had chosen to ignore it; Dillon couldn't decide which, and he was frantic to know. 'Unless you are prepared to name the man who you say instigated the robbery, well -' A small shrug of the rounded shoulders. 'If you name him, then we can check out your story.'
Dillon rested his elbows on his knees, hands working restlessly, gazing at the wall opposite. 'I got two kids,' he said in a low, harsh voice. 'I start naming names while I'm in here, who's gonna protect them? You get me bail, then I'll talk.' He swung his head at Crook. 'But I need to take care of my family first!'
Crook opened his briefcase and took out several typed sheets. Dillon watched with hooded eyes as the solicitor looked through them, and then he tried again. 'They're not chargin' me with any thin' else, are they? Just the robbery…?'
'I'd think seriously about giving the name of this man,' Crook advised in his bland legal tone. 'If he's a suspect, the police will protect you…' He had the typewritten sheets in order, placed neatly on the briefcase resting flat on his knees. He cleared his throat. 'Now, I have been asked to tell you that there have been three robberies, all carried out in a similar way, and – the police believe -with military precision.' The pale blue eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, bulged up at him. 'Mr Dillon, they are ail very aware that you and those arrested with you are ex-Parachute Regiment soldiers.'
It was Dillon's turn to blink. He'd been worrying himself sick about the Irishman in the derelict house and suddenly he was being dumped on from a different direction entirely. What the hell was happening?
'Now, these robberies took place in Surrey, Brighton, and Whitechapel.' Crook held out the top sheet. 'I will need to know where you were on these dates.'
Dillon looked at them blankly. He shook his head, thoughts in a whirl, unable to take this in.
'Look, check my diary. We've been runnin' a business. I dunno where I was right off, but the diary gives all the jobs we done.'
Crook took the sheet back. 'They have also found a weapon at your office.' He looked gravely at Dillon. 'You have anything to say about that?'
'You mean the gun used in the hold-up?'
Crook gave a slight nod.
'I can explain that,' Dillon said, starting to feel very sick again.
'Mr Travers, they have the sub-machine gun used in the robbery,' Crook said. 'The same gun had been determined as the one used to damage your security wagon. They have black hoods, they have the wage packets you insist were stolen -'
'I'm not sayin another word. Frank will tell you what went down. Ask Frank Dillon.'
The line-up was already in position, Harry the second man along, as Dillon was led in. His handcuffs were removed and the officer indicated he could stand where he wished. Dillon chose roughly midway and faced the darkened viewing window which reflected the twelve men under the spotlights. Some wore jackets, some were in shirtsleeves like him, but only Harry and himself were unshaven, he noticed. Perm any two from twelve, so long as they got five o'clock shadows, Dillon thought sourly.
'We're in the clear, they don't know nothin',' Harry called to him, and then louder, 'How ya doin', Frank!'
'No talking! Look straight in front, eyes to the front!'
Behind the window, a uniformed inspector ushered in a portly middle-aged man in a smart pinstripe suit.
'Just take your time, sir. You say you got a good look at the man as he approached the bank tellers. If you seen him, want him to turn right or left, just say so.'
The portly man nodded and took his time, studying each face for several seconds. Twice he leaned forward, his gaze lingering, before passing on. He came to the end of the line, and after a brief pause, shook his head.
The inspector spoke into the microphone. 'Thank you, gentlemen. You can go!'
That was the only time he'd seen Harry since their arrest, and he hadn't seen Cliff at all. Obviously, Dillon thought, they were grilling each of them separately, cross-checking their stories, trying to break each of them down. But if the other two said nothing, left it to him, what was there to fear? He could explain everything, given the chance. As for the other robberies, the evidence was purely circumstantial. Wasn't it?
He was taken out to the Black Maria and handcuffed to the iron guard rail which ran along the side of the van above the slatted wooden seat. Two teenage boys, who looked comatosed on drugs or glue or something, sat huddled together in the corner next to the cab. A uniformed officer, a bear of a man with no neck, climbed in and sat opposite Dillon. He pulled the door shut, so the only light came from the two narrow slits in the rear doors.
'How many more line-ups you bastards want me in?' Dillon asked, not expecting a reply, and not receiving one. The officer sat back, folded his arms, and contemplated eternity, or maybe his pension.
By raising himself slightly off the seat, Dillon could see through the slit. Another Black Maria had pulled up in the yard, and Cliff was stepping down, handcuffed to an officer. He seemed more bewildered than frightened, and Dillon wanted to yell out, tell him to keep stum. If the kid lost his nerve, did something stupid, he could land them all in it.
'Sit down,' the bear with no neck said. 'Sit - down!''
Dillon slowly sank back, but then leaned forward sharply. At the wheel of his black Jaguar Sovereign, Newman was rolling to a halt. He slid the window down and reached out his hand, a faint smile on his thin lips. Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins strolled forward. Dillon stared as the two men shook hands. He pressed himself closer to the slit, feeling the flesh of his face tight to bursting, and a large hand shoved him roughly back onto the bench.
'Sit! You deaf?'
Dillon slumped down, his heart trip-hammering in his chest. The door opened and a sheaf of folded release papers was thrust in. The door was closed, the handle locked, and the officer banged on the side to indicate all present and correct. The van jerked forward, dragging Dillon by his handcuffed wrist against the guard rail, and moved off. Dillon hardly felt it. What he did feel was a crawling panic in his bowels. Barry Newman and the cops, all mates together. Was he being fitted up? What was Newman telling them? What the fuck was going on?
CHAPTER 41
'Believe me,' Newman said, 'if somebody had broken in here I'd know it. Besides, who'd want to nick this stuff, weighs a ton.'
Jenkins looked along the aisles, at the racks and racks of artifacts which to his eye were the kind of cheap trash you might see in a fairground, prizes for getting three double-tops in a row or potting clay pipes with a.22 that had had its sights doctored. Three of his uniforms were poking about, but probably they had less idea what they were looking for that he had.