He sat back in the leather bucket seat and waited for them to come. Two men approached, one from either side and both were armed. Morgan must have warned them about him carrying a weapon. But Dillon remained cool. He didn’t make any move to get out of the Porsche, and instead lowered the window just before it was tapped. “Something wrong, officer?” he asked wearily. “Or is this one of those car-jacks one hears about, where you beat me over the head and steal my wallet and the car?”
Dillon was deliberately playing the fool for his own amusement.
“Open the rear boot, wise guy, or we’ll blow a steaming great hole in it.”
“Oh, goodness, please don’t do that,” Dillon said in mock horror.
He started to get out of the car — his instinct told him to goad them into making their move prematurely. But they waited for him to get out and then ordered him to face the car with his palms flat out on the roof and his legs spread. One of them moved in quickly, pressing the barrel of his 9mm Glock into Dillon’s back whilst he frisked him. They were somewhat surprised to find that he was unarmed.
“Okay. Now open the boot and be very careful how you do it. We know all about you, Dillon.”
He stepped away from the car and unlocked the boot with the remote control on the key fob, and without hesitation they removed the canvas holdall and carried it to the lead car.
“Stop! Come back! Help! I’m being robbed of my baking flour” he called out just as they climbed into their own cars.
Both cars drove off at high speed up The Mall. He watched them disappear and then closed the boot, climbed in and did a u-turn before driving off slowly. He changed direction back towards Knightsbridge along Constitution Hill. As he drove, he smiled to himself. He didn’t know whether they had another tail on him in order to find out where he was staying, but he still phoned Havelock and left a brief message that he was okay and turning in for the night.
He called Issy the next morning and told her, “I’ve uncovered an international drug cartel that looks as if it’s also involved in raising funds for terrorist organisations around the globe.”
He told her because she had a right to know, and as a corporate lawyer would see through any lie. Also, she was tired of his feeble excuses and reassurances of how soon the assignment would be concluded. Dillon was also fed up with having to tell her half-truths about what was going on — she had no idea of how things had digressed from the original issue of the Vermeer painting.
“There’s just one more thing that I need to clear up. It shouldn’t take me more than a day or two and then I’ll sort out that compensation claim you’ve slapped me with. I’m sorry about all of this, Issy, and I’ve really missed you.”
“Does this mean that you’re now out of danger?”
In fact he was in far more danger now than at any time before — Trevelyan would have by now found out about the missing cocaine and, if the Conners had done a runner without their van, might well blame him. As far as he knew, Trevelyan still had the open contract out on him. How the security services rated his well-being was far more difficult to assess, but he wasn’t sure of his survival rate if he continued on. But he had to continue and he knew that would bring danger back to Issy’s doorstep.
“Not quite, but I’m sorting that as well. It was mostly hot air and blustering, to be honest.”
What he wanted to say, was for her to find another place to stay. But that would merely heighten her anxiety and he did not want her worrying, especially as she still had the official protection of MI5, who would know the second she stepped outside.
“Well that’s a relief. Oh, I nearly forgot to mention that I’m back in my office, if you want to contact me during the day. Those nice security service men are never far away, so I feel completely safe and see no reason not to.”
“Good. Well, I’ll call you in a day or two.”
Dillon hung up and pondered on the problem of keeping MI5 sweet for a while longer. Although that might prove tricky, as they had three containers of flour in their safe room at Thames House.
Dillon left his rooms at The Old Colonial Club and drove to Saville Row. He paid an unannounced visit to his personal tailor, Thomas Porter. After fifteen minutes he left again, much to the distress of Thomas, with an off-the-peg navy blue pin-stripe suit, shoes, white double-cuffed shirt, and a tie with the crest of his old regiment on. He then drove back to The Old Colonial and purchased a newspaper from reception before taking a late breakfast in his rooms. All the time he mulled over what his next move was to be. When he had finished his second cup of black coffee, he scanned through the newspaper and a by-line heading on the fourth page caught his eye. ‘Mystery deaths in Dorset woodland.’
There followed a police account of the double shooting of Sheila and Harry Conner, who were discovered dead in woodland near to the couple’s Lyme Regis home. The neighbour, who discovered the bodies whilst out walking his dog, said that the couple were always very polite and friendly, but kept themselves private.
Dillon lowered the paper. He was shocked and disappointed that the Conners had not heeded his advice and got away from the house as fast as possible. Had Sheila not believed her husband about the very real danger they were in, and why was he feeling responsibility for their deaths? He continued to read on to discover that ‘the police investigation was well under way and it was thought that Conner had tied up his wife and then shot her through the head. He then turned the automatic pistol on himself and shot himself through the temple’.
Dillon screwed up the newspaper violently and threw it across the room into a waste paper basket. Harry Conner would have been terrified to the end. Dillon realised he must have missed Trevelyan’s men by a fraction. He genuinely believed that Conner and his wife would have been killed anyway, but the discovery of the missing drugs would not have improved their chances of survival. The cocaine was one thing that the killers could not report back to Trevelyan unless they could somehow blame them for it.
Dillon felt lower than he’d felt in a long time. The Conners were employed as the caretakers, but doubted they ever knew that they were guarding class-A drugs. As far as they were concerned, it was simply stolen works of art and the occasional consignment of gold bullion. They had been small fry and had died because of it.
He went downstairs into the main reception foyer and sat reflecting for a few moments. He needed to contact Estelle Bouchard at Interpol, but that would have to wait until later in the day. Meanwhile, he decided to drive down to Dorset.
The street where he had parked on his previous visit was full of cars and he had to drive around before he could find a space, which left a long walk back. It was nearly lunchtime and the drive down to Bournemouth had been fraught with tailbacks at some of the motorway junctions. When he left the Porsche, he was wearing the new suit, shirt and regimental tie. He reached the high street where Rosie Poulter lived and immediately felt all the usual warnings. He went past the café where he’d observed Charlie Hart sitting in the window, gazing across at the old florist shop. Two doors further on and he crossed the busy street, went to the other side and stood in a derelict shop doorway. He didn’t like the idea of just knocking on the door and hoping for the best, but knew there was a strong possibility that he would have to.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been stood there before the young woman came out. She was fairly well dressed, somewhere in her mid-thirties, carried herself well, and looked vaguely familiar.