The tiny hallway was suddenly filled with bodies as Jimmy swelled the crowd. He swept Steve aside contemptuously and stopped in front of Dillon, his face livid with fury. 'I've just seen that heap of metal they towed… towed into the garage. Thirty grand's worth, completely wrecked!'
Dillon swayed out of reach as Jimmy threw a swinging right, knocked his arm away. It was Dillon's turn to see red. 'We've had the friggin' Flying Squad chase us all over London, and we got arms dealers in the back, thought they were gonna be kidnapped.' He pointed at Steve and himself. 'We thought it was an ambush!'
'Flying Squad? Pull the other one,' Jimmy snorted. He kicked out at Steve, who shied away. 'It was this… this lunatic.' He landed a stinging smack across Steve's head. 'You get pissed – was that it?'
Dillon got between them, held Jimmy off with the flat of his hand, quietly simmering.
'You think if I'd known it was Newman's car we'd have used it? You should have told us!'
'I told you he was in Spain. I was doin' you a favour -'
'Bullshit!' Dillon stuck his finger under Jimmy's nose, his eyes blazing. 'Now he owes us one. You tip him off – he's under investigation.'
'Frank!' Susie said. And then screamed it. 'Frank!'
Dillon snapped, 'Get in the kitchen, get out,' not through with Jimmy by a long chalk. 'We're up for wrecking a patrol car, falsifying records, and that cop you whacked – he was there. He was clocking me. I could go down for this, but by Christ, I'll -'
He wasn't allowed to finish as Susie gripped his arm with both hands and literally dragged him through the doorway.
'Frank – if you don't come in here this minute I'll scream the place down!'
'You got a code book?' Jimmy was rooting on the hall table, scattering the two fat London directories.
'If you're calling Spain, make it collect!' Dillon yelled, vanishing as Susie pulled him into the living-room and slammed the door.
Footsteps marched along the landing and in barged Cliff, sweat covering his black brow, lips twisted in a snarl. 'Thanks lads!' he yelled, and seeing Steve, hurled his chauffeur's cap and jacket at him, hysterical with rage. 'Thanks a bundle, you bastards! You really done me in!'
Dodging round Jimmy, crouched over dialling the international operator, Cliff went for Steve, clipping him on the side of the jaw. Steve crashed against the door, just as it opened and Dillon came through it like a rat out of a trap. He parried a wild lunge from Cliff, who was lashing out in all directions, yelling, 'Eighteen months I've had that job!' taking another wild swing at Dillon for good measure.
There was a deadly calm about Dillon. An icy stillness etched into his face and menacing blue eyes. Almost in slow-motion he swivelled his body, taking the blow harmlessly on his shoulder, and hit Cliff with a short-arm jab to the solar plexus that doubled him over, clutching his stomach.
Dillon took the phone out of Jimmy's hand and Jimmy snatched it back, ready to take a sock at him. But the look on Dillon's face stopped him.
'Shut it – all of you!'
The unmistakable voice of Sergeant Frank Dillon stopped everybody.
'Put the phone down, Jimmy. Taffy Davies has gone AWOL. He's killed a bloke in Cardiff…'
The four ex-Paras looked at one another, all grudges, personal grievances and petty hatreds wiped off the slate.
Dillon said quietly, 'I think he's headin' for Aldershot.'
Taffy jumped from the slippery scaffolding pole and splashed knee-deep through the ice-flecked surface of the water-jump, clawing up the steep muddy bank on all-fours. Breath pluming the air, streaming with sweat, he gritted his teeth and slogged it up the meandering valley set with man-made obstacles and natural hazards. Designed to test heart, lungs and legs to the utmost, every recruit had to do two continuous circuits of the notorious Steeplechase in order to pass 'P' Company selection. But those behind him on the course were young men, not an old campaigner on the downward slope of forty.
Even so, they could run their goolies off and they'd never catch him! He's still beat 'em!
Punishing himself, chunnering to himself, giving himself orders, Taffy ran ahead of the field, maintaining a clear lead. He reached the crest of Heartbreak Hill, not even pausing to glance behind at the straggling figures in red singlets, blue shorts and plimsolls before plunging down the narrow track through gorse and brambles.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -
It was a joyous sound, healthy and pure, the steady pounding rhythm of his own heartbeat.
Dillon came out of the guardhouse and stopped to have a word with one of the MPs at the main gate. He nodded his thanks and walked past the two police patrol cars parked just inside the striped-pole barrier, returning to the others sitting in the Renegade jeep next to the perimeter fence. Jimmy was standing up in the back with field glasses, doing slow sweeps of Browning Barracks and the wooded hillside beyond. He glanced down as Dillon came up, and shook his head.
Dillon leaned against the jeep's wheel cowling, gazing round and tugging distractedly at his moustache. 'Law's been here for hours, nobody seems to know anything. Army's desperate to keep the Press out of it.'
'He could be anywhere, Frank,' Jimmy said gloomily.
Dillon nodded and sighed. He stepped up onto the running board, about to climb into the bucket seat when his eye fell on the old Dakota on its swathe of grass outside the Regimental Museum. Somebody was sitting under the shadow of the wing, hunched against one of the plane's fat rubber tyres which hid him from the main gate. Somebody in a DPM Denison smock and Red Beret.
Dillon stepped down. He said quietly, 'Keep the MPs busy. I'm going over the fence. I've found him… he's by the Dakota.'
Taffy squinted up into the sunshine, hearing the clatter of blades as a Lynx helicopter whirred across the blue sky and vanished beyond the flat rooftops of the barracks. Face caked with mud, hands filthy and scratched from the run, he felt bone-weary. Not just from lack of sleep, and the gruelling punishment of the Steeplechase, but weary deep inside. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wheel, the shrill whine of the Lynx's engine and thudding blades fading away in the distance.
The sound reverberated inside Taffy's head, seemed to expand, become magnified into the thunderous roar of four mighty Hercules engines at full bore. Slipstream howled in the open doorway and swirled inside the C-130's cavernous interior, two rows of heavily-kitted men hanging onto the strops which attached the static lines to the cables running the length of the aircraft. Third man to go, Taffy's eyes were locked on the red light, waiting for the green. He experienced the familiar sensation of a nest of vipers writhing in his stomach. At the head of the line, first man to go, Dillon stood in the doorway, the wind rippling the flesh of his face in waves, eyes slitted against the blast.
'Tell off for equipment – check!' shouted the despatcher. 'Stand by for green, Number One – check! Number Two – check! Number Three – check!'
That was him. Shuffle forward. Left hand gripping the strop. Make sure the static line runs free. Other hand holding the container bag to his stomach. Ready for the despatcher's cuff on the shoulder, telling him to go. Taking a breath, preparing to scream out as you leap into space, 'One thousand… two thousand… three thousand… check canopy!'
Here we go, boys. Showtime. Shit or bust.
Tensing his entire body, Taffy got ready to jump, the roar of engines and howl of wind buffeting his eardrums.
'Taff… Taffy…'
Taffy opened his eyes to silence, sunshine, blue sky. A slight breeze rippling over the grass. 'You come for me, Frank?'
'Yeah, me and a few of the lads.' Standing next to the propellor blade, Dillon edged forward, eyes smiling but wary. 'Don't want the wankers in blue takin' you in.'