“Jake Dillon, we met briefly about eighteen months ago, whilst I was on assignment in Dorset with Fiona Price, and you were still on the force. The Harry Caplin case?”
“Oh, I remember. You were the knob who let that American get away, weren’t you?
“You could say that. But he’s now in custody in Florida.”
“Well that’s all very interesting. But I’m right in the middle of my evening meal; what’s so important that it can’t wait until the morning?”
“I have Phil McVey’s mobile phone, camera and notebook. He’s the investigator you assigned to watch my apartment building. I’ll send them back in return for the name of the person who hired you.”
“Are you on something or what? You’ve stolen that property — probably with grievous bodily harm, which makes you nothing more than a common ruffian, Dillon. And as all my incoming calls are automatically recorded, you’ve also openly confessed to the crime.”
“Once a copper, Samuels. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Well, if you want to play it like that, you’ve blatantly invaded my privacy, and committed out-and-out harassment. Talk to your friends at the local nick, for all I care. But remember this, if it ever got to a courtroom, McVey’s account of what took place would make good tabloid reading. That he had the tools of his trade nicked from him whilst on a simple surveillance job. Sloppy, wouldn’t you say? And your agency having such a high profile image and reputation for being the best. Just think Sammy, how many corporate clients do you think would jump ship?”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Exactly. Like I said, if that’s how you want to play it. So, what about it? I’d say it was a fair trade-off?”
“You bastard! You know I can’t break a client’s confidence. It would be unethical and tantamount to committing commercial suicide. I’ll tell you what, you send the stuff back and I’ll forget it ever happened.”
“I don’t think so, do you? Let me put it another way. I know who it was who hired you and I simply want it confirmed.”
“No way.”
“Okay, if that’s how it’s got to be. Let’s play the name game and the best bit is that you don’t have to say anything. Simply remain silent for ten seconds if I’m right. Charlie Hart.”
Dillon watched the second hand of his Omega sweep round, knew that Samuels was still there and said, “Thanks, Sammy. You’ve be very obliging. I’ll send the stuff back by motorcycle courier first thing in the morning.”
“You can keep your thanks. Because I wouldn’t have said anything whatever name you’d have given me. You really are grasping at straws, Dillon. Now be a good chap and return the stuff you stole from my man. And I hope for your sake that you haven’t done him any serious injury, or you’re going to be in deep shit, my friend.”
Dillon ended the call and immediately rang Hart. Mrs. Pringle answered the phone and Dillon had to wait.
“What do you want? You’re interrupting my dinner.”
“I won’t keep you long. That private investigator you sent to keep an eye on me must have cost you. But I’m afraid your money has not been put to good use. He had to be carried off the field of play. Early.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dillon found himself cut off, but felt extremely satisfied. Hart had sounded rattled. And that was exactly how he wanted him to be. As he went back through to the living room, he was more concerned for Issy’s safety, and that of Havelock. If McVey had remembered the car registration numbers, Hart would be able to quickly trace them. He could protect Issy and didn’t really think that she would be in any immediate danger. But Havelock would be traced back to the Home Secretary, and Hart might just put two and two together, and come up with three. As far as Dillon knew this was not a political issue. Havelock was definitely not capable of looking after himself in any physical way, and wondered if he should update him with what he’d just discovered.
Issy looked up and closed the file she’d been reading just as Dillon walked into the room. She immediately saw that he had something on his mind.
“Anything wrong?”
“I think that Hart has managed to get hold of Havelock’s car registration number. And what’s worse, he may connect him with my visit to Dorset. Should I tell him, do you think?”
“With my lawyer’s head on I have to say that for an innocent man, Hart has certainly made some strange moves, and appears to have taken this whole affair badly. Furthermore, I’ve seen men like him many times before and he’s showing all the classic signs of someone who has something to hide. If he thinks that Dunstan has been the one who initiated an investigation into his private collection of paintings, well, there might be a development. But that is only my opinion. Dunstan has never been in the firing line before, has he?”
Issy stood up, went across the room to Dillon and placed her arms around him, stroking the back of his neck with the tips of her manicured fingers.
“If Hart has Dunstan’s number then he’ll have mine.”
“Well, if he does I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll treat our relationship for what it is. Why should you be involved with any of this? But Dunstan is completely different and has connections that might worry Hart.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going any further with this when Dunstan asked you to fly to Delhi. You’re starting to make it sound like it may turn into some kind of war or something.”
“That depends on whether Hart is protecting his privacy or something else. And to be honest, Issy, I really didn’t want to get involved. Or that was the general idea, anyway. But it might not be something I can let go of now, because Hart won’t believe I’ve let it go. I think I’d better phone Dunstan and warn him.”
He walked back to the study and dialled Dunstan Havelock’s private number.
Dillon woke early the next morning. Issy was still asleep. He went to the kitchen, ground a handful of Columbian coffee beans and placed them into the cafetiere. Whilst the kettle was coming to the boil, he went down in the lift to the lobby to collect the mail from his private post box. By the time he had returned, Issy was in the kitchen pouring the coffee into brightly-coloured mugs. He sifted through the familiar bank statements and bills; tossing the volumes of junk mail unopened into the waste bin and everything else onto the table top. Amongst the pile of envelopes was a small white Jiffy bag, the address handwritten in thick black marker pen and one end sealed with brown packing tape.
Dillon’s golden rule of survivaclass="underline" treat unexpected packages with extreme caution if they arrive through the post. He had to curb his impatience and hide his anxiety for Issy’s sake, and was relieved when she’d left for her office. The first thing was to carefully and very slowly peel back the tape that was holding the seal down with a pair of tweezers. Suddenly, he noticed the thin bare wire that had been woven across the seal beneath the brown tape. He gingerly turned the package around and peeled back the bottom flap instead.
Part of Dillon’s army intelligence training had involved the basic understanding that many letter bombs are activated by the top flap being ripped open, or by the contents being removed. Both of these methods can be assessed by opening the bottom of the package.
The contents of the Jiffy bag were safely pulled free and consisted of nothing more than a brand new deck of playing cards that were still in their cellophane wrapper. Once he’d taken the wrapper off, he discovered to his amazement that all fifty-two cards were the same: the Joker! Dillon slowly cut away at one side, which exposed the workings of the device and allowed him to see how it had been put together. It was a classically built and yet simple low-yield bomb that at the very least would have blown his hand off and almost certainly have left him permanently blind. The trigger had been made by using a tiny electronic switch, the same type that musical birthday or Christmas cards have inside them. The music mechanism had been replaced with a detonator and a small amount of C4 explosive. Dillon cut the wire connecting all of these, and immediately let out a huge sigh of relief.