Civvies

But Sawyer-Smith wasn't listening, glancing instead to a man staring in through the glass panel in the door, studying Dillon hard. Dillon met his eyes and quickly turned his head away, recognising him as the detective who had followed him and Jimmy the day they delivered the diamonds. Whom Jimmy had clobbered and cracked his skull in the gutter.

'Oh shit,' Dillon muttered, closing his eyes.

'I hope you will co-operate fully, as this has been an exceedingly long night. Firstly -'

'It was all a misunderstanding,' Dillon was at pains to explain.

'My clients have been released,' continued Sawyer-Smith smoothly, 'without any formal charges being pressed. Furthermore -'

'What about me and Steve? We've been here all night – your clients got us into this!'

'No, you are mistaken,' Sawyer-Smith contradicted him gravely, his baggy-eyed stare perfectly level. 'The reason the police followed the Mercedes driven by your associate Mr Steven Harris was because the car is owned by a man currently under police investigation.'

Dillon slowly leaned forward into the light, the scar on his left cheek a thin cruel crevice. 'What…?'

But the lawyer had it signed and sealed, all stitched up.

'Clearly you were working for my clients under false pretences, fraudulently using documents which they believed were from the Samson Security Company – a company that denies all knowledge of either hiring you or the driver of the vehicle, Mr Harris.' Having his man on the floor, Sawyer-Smith put the boot in. 'Mr Harris, who by-the-by has no licence, no insurance, and was given a suspended sentence in January of last year…'

'But…' Dillon's hands came up, clutching thin air. 'I wasn't driving…'

'No doubt the security company will take this matter up personally.' Sawyer-Smith got to his feet, picking up a somewhat shabby briefcase with a broken clasp. He looked down on Dillon. 'As far as my clients are concerned, they have agreed to forget the whole embarrassing episode.'

'But what about the damage to the Merc?' Dillon was half-out of his seat, blinking rapidly. 'It's not mine – who's gonna pay for that?'

For the first time Alastair Sawyer-Smith permitted himself a fleeting chilly smile. 'I would say that is the least of your problems, Mr Dillon,' and was gone, leaving Dillon with a dazed expression and two smoking stubs in the metal ashtray.

A shave, a bath, ten hours' kip, that's what Dillon wanted, but it wasn't what he got. Immediately he entered the flat, Steve shambling behind, it was bedlam. He ignored the phone ringing in the hallway and was confronted with Susie's distraught face as she came charging through from the kitchen.

'Where in God's name have you been?' Susie jabbed at the phone. 'You'd better answer it, Frank, they've been calling all morning – half the night.'

Dillon turned haunted, red-rimmed eyes on Steve. 'Jimmy couldn't know about the Merc yet, could he?'

'Frank, answer it.' Susie gave him a shove. 'It'll be the police!'

'We just come from them, we got bail -' Dillon tried to grab her as she brushed past. 'Don't answer it… Susie!'

Somebody hammered on the front door. Susie held her arms out. 'Don't answer, don't open the door,' she warned Dillon, but it was too late, Steve already had. He took one look and slammed it shut.

'It's Jimmy!'

'Open this door, you bastards!' The door shook under the onslaught of kicks and thumps. 'Open it or I'll smash it!'

Dillon said wearily, 'Let him in…'

Susie shook her head at Dillon, her eyes large and fear-filled, as the phone finally stopped ringing. 'Frank, you should have answered that.'

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!