Then there was movement all around him and a man’s voice shouting orders at others, trying to pull the debris off him. Dillon felt a surge of energy flow through him and managed to move a little. It was the site foreman’s determined voice that made Dillon strive further to free himself.
“He’s alive, he’s coming round. Quickly man, go and fetch a coat or something from my office. Oh, and you’ll find a bottle of Jack Daniel’s inside the top drawer of my desk. Bring it with you.”
Dillon slurred, “What the hell was that?”
“It’s okay. There was some sort of explosion just outside the front of the theatre.”
“Explosion?” Dillon pushed away the remaining debris and with a lot of help from the site foreman, heaved himself up off the floor. His memory was returning as quickly as he was finding his balance again.
He gazed blearily around at the devastation in the foyer.
“What a bloody mess. What could have caused such a blast? Has anyone called the emergency services?”
“The fire brigade are already on their way, and so are the paramedics, but no one has called the police yet.”
“And that’s the way I want it to stay for the moment.”
Dillon wandered shakily towards the entrance. Through the haze of dust, he saw the big double doors — one had been blown completely off, the other hanging off one hinge at a peculiar angle.
“I want those doors made good and secured immediately. If they’re still standing, get our own carpenters to do it.”
He felt weak, but his survival instinct was much stronger. He had a bad feeling about what had just happened and reiterated to the site foreman that the doors were to be made good immediately.
Dillon thought, as he stepped out into the narrow side street, that apart from the doors, which could easily be fixed and the general mess caused by the collapsing scaffold, things were not nearly as bad as they first appeared.
He could feel the intense heat even before he could see where it was coming from. The smell of burning rubber from the raging fireball that was ensuing, and smoke still spiralling from the wreckage, made his stomach churn. He surveyed what was left of the Porsche 911 Carrera, sank down on to his haunches and started to take in what had caused the explosion. He looked on in despair and disbelief at the pile of smouldering scrap that had once been his beautiful car. The bomb that had been planted somewhere on the underside must have been of a substantial size to have caused so much damage.
Dillon stood up as he heard the sound of sirens approaching at speed. The fire engine pulled up at the end of the street, not able to enter it because of its size. A moment later, the crew were jumping out and running towards the burning wreckage of the Porsche with hoses trailing behind them. Within seconds, the burning car had been completely submersed under a blanket of thick white foam. The only sound that could be heard was the metal contracting as it cooled off.
For a while, he didn’t move; he was shocked and angry, and was using every ounce of self-discipline that he possessed to control the anger that he could feel rising within him. He eventually walked back inside the theatre to find two carpenters working to put the doors back onto their hinges. The site foreman came up and asked when he was going to call the police. Dillon ignored him, but took out his mobile phone and dialled the firm’s special number that was used for this type of emergency. He hoped that Vince would be there and was relieved when he eventually answered.
“Dillon,” he said quietly. He glanced around the foyer, making sure that no one was within earshot of his conversation.
“My Porsche has been bombed. Blown to bits outside the theatre. Fifteen minutes earlier, and I would have been in it. Now listen carefully, Vince. The police are going to be here in a moment, along with the press; I have no doubt. What should I tell them?”
“Absolutely nothing; is that clear?”
“Okay.”
“Give them Dunstan Havelock’s number at the Home Office and tell them to call him immediately. If they don’t, tell them that the next call you make will be to the Chief Constable.”
Vince gave Dillon the number to call if that became necessary.
“Don’t forget to call Dunstan the minute you hang up.”
“Understood. Thanks, Vince.”
Dillon disconnected and immediately called Dunstan Havelock. He answered almost immediately, and Dillon wasted no time in coming to the point.
“Dunstan, my car has just been blown to bits outside the theatre. I’m okay, but I’m going to have the police crawling all over this place within minutes.”
The question had no sooner been asked when two police cars pulled up and four Constables got out and headed straight for the burnt out wreckage of Dillon’s Porsche. They stood talking to the lead fire fighter for a moment, who pointed towards Dillon and then walked off inside the theatre.
“Do you think it was Hart?” Havelock asked.
“Who else do you think it would be? Look, I don’t mean to be abrupt, Dunstan. But I’ve got two burly coppers heading towards me and they’re going to want some pretty good answers to their questions. Now, do you mind if I give them your direct line number at the Home Office?”
“By all means give them the number. In the meantime, I’ll speak with the Chief Constable and get him to slap a news blackout on the incident. I’m assuming you’ve already updated Edward Levenson-Jones or someone at Ferran & Cardini?”
“Vince Sharp, I phoned him before I called you.”
“Good, because Sir Lucius Stagg will need to be kept in the loop on this one. We’re almost certainly going to need his political clout if Hart starts throwing his weight about with those MPs who think the sun shines out of his arse. I’m very sorry that this has happened, Jake. Now, are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“That’s the best you can come up with, is it? To be blunt, Dunstan, I’m thoroughly pissed off with the way this Charlie Hart thing is evolving.”
“Just stay calm, Jake. The police will be taken care of. Remember, you tell them that you don’t know of any reason why your car would have been blown up. And that you don’t have any enemies, or have had any disagreements with anyone that would warrant such an act of aggression. Simply state the facts as you know them. Oh, and Jake, please don’t think for one moment that if it was Hart who did this he’ll get away with it.”
Dillon disconnected the call and had slipped his mobile phone back into his jacket pocket, just as the two police officers walked up to where he was standing.
“Quite a mess,” the first policeman commented dryly as he gazed back towards the bulk of twisted metal, and then added, “Is that your vehicle, sir?”
“It was,” Dillon replied. “Thankfully, I wasn’t in it at the time.”
Dillon met Havelock at Slinky Joe’s, a club in Soho frequented by the more dubious elements of the London criminal fraternity and located below the offices of a film company, a Chinese restaurant on one side and a lap dancing club on the other. The polished brass plate alongside the film company’s door stated that they were in the business of making movies of an artistic and erotic nature for the discerning client. Havelock, feeling completely out of place, was sitting with Dillon in the furthest, darkest corner of the bar. Realising from the glances cast at him that he was making a few of the regulars feel uneasy, possibly even cramping their style.
The Champagne was remarkably good and so was the coffee.
Dillon said, “Chill out, Dunstan. You will not come to any harm in here. I know most of these people and Joe and I served together in the intelligence corp. He opened this place with the pay-off the army gave him when he took early retirement. He’ll even make sure you don’t get mugged on your way out.”