Dillon stood up, finished his drink and slowly placed the glass down on to the side table by the chair.
“Ah, now there you have me, Charlie. It’s true to say that I’ve drawn a bit of a blank where you’re concerned. But I see it like this. In your crusade to, how shall I put it, persuade me to give up, I’ve learnt a lot about you and far more than you give me credit for.”
As he crossed the room, he said, “Thanks for the drink. That’s an excellent bourbon.” Almost at the door, he added, “I believe your son is at Cambridge?”
Hart’s cobalt blue eyes hardened; his manner became wooden.
“You stay well away from my son; he has nothing to do with any of this. You’d do well to remember that.”
“And the same rule applies to Isabel Linley. So you had better remember that. If anything happens to her, I’ll come after you one way or another.”
Hart quickly recovered his composure. “You don’t impress me, Jake. And neither does the Glock you carry under your right arm. In fact, it’s a bit of overkill, isn’t it? After all, you’d hardly be stupid enough to use it in here, now would you?”
“Why not? It’s as good a place as any.”
“I have no doubt whatsoever that you would kill me if you had to. But not with Mrs. Pringle around. I’m sure that you would find that quite impossible to do. So I am perfectly safe. Why do you think I let you keep the weapon? But you couldn’t resist letting me see it, could you? Tucked in its holster under your arm. It’s all becoming rather boring and pathetic, Jake.”
Dillon grinned. “I have to admit to you, Charlie, I did like the way that your tame gunman showed me his in the London pub. I thought very much the same as you.”
By now, they had reached the hall downstairs.
Dillon said, “There is one thing though, Charlie. I’ll stake my reputation on the fact that I’m a bloody better shot than either of you. Now I wonder if your researchers managed to dig that up.”
When Dillon drove out through the gated entrance he was expecting Hart’s men to follow him, and he wasn’t disappointed — a dark blue Vauxhall Astra two-door coupe with two rough-looking characters sitting inside. As he made his way along the sea road with the other traffic heading off the peninsula towards Poole, he made no attempt to lose his followers, but did decide to take them through the streets of Canford Cliffs, Westbourne, around Bournemouth and out in the general direction towards Ringwood and the M27 Motorway, taking turn-offs at a whim and keeping to the speed limit all the way. He took such an erratic route that he guessed the driver of the following car would by now have decided that his presence was known. It was always disconcerting when a tail knew that, because they didn’t know whether to pull back, keep on following, or give up. They decided to stay with him until he deliberately lost them.
Dillon knew Bournemouth and the surrounding area well from his last visit. He zigzagged his way across town, taking side roads that were so narrow the Porsche only just squeezed through. He chose his area — a complication of one-way streets that would confuse even a local driver. At a crossroad, he used the sports car’s powerful 3.2 litre engine to its full effect with a burst of speed. He shot across the busy main road, leaving startled drivers to brake abruptly, curse and blow their horns in his wake. Dillon glanced up in the rear-view mirror and grinned. He turned up another side road, came back down another, and, a moment later, was sitting right behind the Vauxhall Astra’s tail. He could see the drivers head turning this way and that as he tried to locate Dillon’s car in one of the turn-offs.
Dillon made a note of the car’s number and then took the next turning left; heading back towards Poole and the rented apartment at Salterns Marina in Lilliput. He took the long route back towards the coast, constantly looking in his rear-view mirror for the Vauxhall Astra. It had disappeared; the driver had obviously lost interest. Dillon came to the crossroads at Penn Hill, turned left and found himself travelling along tree lined roads with multi-million pound luxury properties sitting behind gated entrances; the norm in this affluent suburb of Poole.
After two or three minutes, he joined the peninsula road again, and, a moment later, was pulling into the covered parking space that went with the waterside apartment. Dillon stepped out of the Porsche and took a minute to take in the view of the harbour, the nearby marina and hotel facilities. He locked the car, went into the modern building and used the lift to take him up to the fourth floor. The apartment was not as big or expensively furnished as his own, but it had the luxury of its location and was not too far from the Sandbanks peninsula and Charlie Hart.
He went into the darkened hall, switched most of the lights on and then used his mobile phone to call Dunstan Havelock at his home. Rachel answered and they chatted as old friends do when they’ve not seen each other for some time. There was a bond between them. Dillon had been the one who had helped her overcome a cocaine addiction that nearly ended her life. Had introduced her to Havelock, who fell hopelessly in love and ended up marrying her six months later. The drug addiction was something which was never mentioned, but Rachel knew what an immense thing he’d done for her and would never forget it. She took down the mobile number he gave her and assured him that Havelock would be in touch. Dillon’s next call was to Vince Sharp at Ferran & Cardini. He read out the Astra’s registration number and Vince told him he’d phone back as soon as he’d located the details. In the meantime, Dillon made himself a strong black filter coffee. Ten minutes later, Vince was reading out the information that Dillon had asked for.
Dillon looked at his wristwatch, early enough for what he had in mind, he thought. He left the apartment and went down to the Porsche. He turned left at the main road, heading towards the old part of Poole and passing the civic centre on his way. Five minutes later, he was crawling at a snail’s pace along the quayside looking for a parking space, he found one and walked back to where the Vauxhall Astra was parked. It was almost outside of the address that Vince had given him. He tried the car doors, not surprised to find them locked, looked up at the converted warehouse, saw lights on at one of the ground floor windows and went up the steps. He pushed the doorbell for the ground floor apartment.
An attractive woman in her late thirties opened the door on a security chain. Dillon produced a false police ID card and asked if he could see Mr. Robert Norton.
“He’s only just got home from work. Can’t you come back later? He’s having a shower.”
“No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I don’t mind waiting, and I promise not to take up too much of your evening.”
Dillon was shown into a small cramped living room, where a fifty-inch plasma television seemed to take up most of one wall and looked ridiculous in the tiny room. The woman switched it off as she caught Dillon looking closely at it.
“Don’t worry, I’ve not come to nick you for having such a big TV,” Dillon said with good humour, but the woman didn’t find it in the least bit funny.
“Have a seat; I’ll go tell Bob to hurry up.”
She went through to the back of the apartment, returning a moment later.
“I’m his wife, Elaine. Anything I can do to help? I mean, what does your lot want with him?”
“Routine enquiries, that’s all. I’ll need to speak with your husband in private, if that’s okay with you?”
“Oh, of course. I’ll make myself scarce when he comes in here.”
Norton took his time, which told Dillon that he’d obviously had dealings with the police in the past; innocent people wanted to find out quickly. When he did eventually come in, it was with an abundance of arrogance and swagger, until he saw Dillon sitting on his blue leather sofa, smiling up at him, and his expression changed to one of utter shock.