Dillon closed his eyes, just for a second, to keep his sanity. Knowing Malone for the devious bastard he was, he sussed out what must have happened. Malone had been giving Griffiths some bullshit about how he'd organised the operation, got the radio and the latest sophisticated weapons, smooth-talked him that he was masterminding the whole show. The estate manager had swallowed the story, and forked out seven hundred to defray Malone's out-of-pocket expenses. Only Malone hadn't paid a red cent for the gear – Jimmy had, or Jimmy had made deals – didn't matter how they had come by the gear, the point was they had done it without Malone.
Somehow Jimmy had caught Malone bragging that he had pulled it all in, dogs, flares, radios, weapons, and the piece of shit was collecting a rake-off on the sly, as usual crapping on his mates from a great height. Dillon couldn't even pretend he was surprised: par for the course.
He said, 'You catch him at it up at the office then?'
'Yeah!' Jimmy was totally fired up. Reaching into the back of the jeep, he grabbed a pair of shears, snapped them under Dillon's nose. 'I'll cut his balls off!'
Half-an-hour later, when they returned to the compound, Malone hailed them. Dillon sniffed more trouble. A police car was parked outside the wooden office building, and over by the tanks Griffiths was talking with two uniformed officers and doing a lot of gesticulating.
'What's going down?' asked Dillon as Malone strode up, looking thunderous.
'That bloody wimp Griffiths, he's shittin' in his pants -' Malone's black brows met in the middle as he glared towards the tanks. 'He wants all the weapons in his office… the kids reported us to the cops.'
Still boiling about the money, Jimmy snapped at him, 'That was down to you, Malone!'
'I'm doin' my job,' Malone rasped through his teeth, and Dillon half-expected him to stick one on Jimmy. 'You don't like the action, you know what -'
Jimmy cut his short. 'Gettin' well-paid for it, are you!' – his voice like a whipcrack, and Dillon had to act fast. He had the jeep in first, spun the wheel and shot off even before Malone could bunch a fist.
Griffiths was standing by the desk, talking on the phone, when Dillon walked in. Dillon hesitated, but Griffiths gestured him in, a casual twitch of the wrist, nodding and saying, 'Thanks… fine, and I'll see you first thing in the morning. 'Bye.'
He put the phone down and blew out a satisfied gust of air, smacking his palms lightly together. 'That's a relief! They've bought the entire stock…'
His pleased expression wilted into one of consternation, even alarm. Dillon had dumped a large canvas holdall on the desk and was taking out a small armoury of handguns, rifles, night sights, ammo, CN canisters, commando knives in leather sheaths.
'Good God! Any of you hold licences for these?' He held up his hand. 'Second thoughts – don't answer.'
'You mind if I give you some advice?' asked Dillon, watching as Griffiths stacked the weapons in a cupboard with a heavy padlock. 'Get shot of Malone. You've got a good man in young Don, he knows the land and he's got military training for security. Give him Malone's job and hire a few of the locals on a permanent basis. Pay them enough so they won't have to poach. Lot of unemployment up here.'
Griffiths shut the cupboard and secured the padlock. Straightening up, he glanced guardedly at Dillon through his fair eyelashes. 'Not as easy as you think.' He hesitated, then went on in his educated drawl, 'Most keepers, you know, supplement their wages. So I give the butcher a few rabbits and he gives me a steak, eggs and so on…'
Dillon waited, knowing there was more to come as Griffiths went over to the window and looked out at the wooded hillside, pulling at the lobe of his ear.
'Sometimes during the pheasant shooting season a couple of the protected birds get clobbered. I mount them and sell them off in Edinburgh. Malone brought me a couple of falcons, said he'd found them after the shoot, and we split the profits. It's illegal, and I obviously knew to start with he wasn't simply finding them…' He gave a slight shrug, cleared his throat. 'Now? Well, I'm in a Catch-22 situation. If he goes to the landowner, that's me out of a job and a cottage, so I doubt I could get him to leave without a hell of a fight.'
Dillon nodded, getting the picture, and smoothed his fingertips along the line of his scar. 'There's one on the cards, sir,' he said almost inaudibly.
Griffiths looked over his shoulder, and he got the picture too, seeing the dark, threatening shadow in Dillon's eyes. Maybe there was a way they could each do the other some good.
He turned then, and said softly, 'You get Malone out of here and I'll see it to it you get a bonus on top of your wages, and Don will take over… Deal?'
They shook hands.
CHAPTER 18
Dillon couldn't make head nor tail of it. First off, it wasn't Susie who had answered the phone, it was her mother; then Helen was going on about the boys, something about being feverish, poorly. Leaning against the reception desk, one hand pressed flat against his ear, he tried to make sense of what the cold, clipped voice was telling him – as it always was, of course, that same austere, snide tone, whenever she had occasion to speak to her son-in-law. Dillon tried again.
'Well, where is she? What? She's what?' Even more mystified now. Why was Helen rabbiting on about minicabs? Had Susie gone off somewhere in one? 'What did you say? Mumps? Hang on!' He fished in his pocket as the beeps sounded, pushed a fifty-pence piece into the metal slot.
'Hello? Look, I'm gonna gave to go… what? No, I dunno when I'll be back. Just tell Sue I called.' Dillon glanced up, aware of a presence, Sissy MacFarland standing in the entrance to the bar, one hand holding the edge of the doorway. She hung back a little, waiting for him to finish his call.
Dillon said, 'Well, maybe it's a good job, it's catching, isn't it? Look, just tell her I called, okay, and… hello?'
Hung up on him. Bloody typical. Dillon banged the receiver down and pushed his hand through his hair. He could never get a straight story out of that woman. All the time she had that icy, accusing tone to her voice, as if she was blaming him for something. As if he'd made a hash of things, couldn't provide for his own wife and kids.
'Could you give me a hand?' Sissy asked diffidently. She pointed behind her. 'Only I want to close the bar…'
Dillon followed her through. Head down on the table amongst a collection of pint glasses and whisky tumblers, hair hanging over like rats' tails, Steve was gently snoring, the breath rustling and gurgling from his open mouth. One hand trailed on the floor. Dillon's lips tightened, and he shot a glance of apology at the girl, who returned a tiny shrug.
'Has he been drinking all morning?'
'I'm not sure… Dad was doing the bar, I've been in the kitchen.'
She didn't sound annoyed, more concerned than anything, Dillon thought, standing there with a small anxious frown. She looked as fresh as an advert, like a dairy maid, wearing an old print dress with coloured buttons down the front, and the hem half hanging down at the back. There was a small hole by the waist, maybe it had once held a belt, but it wouldn't have mattered, it was not the dress he was interested in.
'I tried to haul him up myself, but he's too heavy, if you knew how many times I've half carried the old man up to bed, but…' Sissy laughed. She was so free and easy and he noticed she wore no stockings, just small slip-on sandals, her legs still tanned from the summer.
Together they hauled Steve upright in his chair, both got an arm around him and hoisted him up. He was well out of it, eyes swivelling, legs like rubber and it took the two of them to get him to the stairs. He swayed, hands up to say he could make it, but then Dillon caught him as he was about to fall flat on his face.