He was dressed expensively but lacked taste and coordination, just like the property’s interior decor. Dillon was immediately drawn to his dark brooding eyes and clean shaven head — he put him somewhere in his early forties.
“What the hell do you want with me?” His tone was hostile, although laced with uncertainty. By this time, Elaine had left the room.
Dillon produced the fake police ID card. “Didn’t your boss tell you who you were following?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, copper. And, I haven’t been following anyone.”
“But you recognised me and were surprised to see me sitting in your living room. Surely Bob, you can be more original than that?”
“Well you’ve got it wrong, haven’t you?” Norton didn’t sit down, in the hope that Dillon would get up and leave.
Dillon pulled a small black notebook from his jacket pocket, turning the blank pages as if they were full.
“That’s your car out front and your registration number. I ran it through the system. You followed me from the moment I drove out of Charlie Hart’s place on the peninsula. Have you told dear old Charlie that you were given the run-around all over Bournemouth, only to end up being given the slip? I’ve no doubt whatsoever that he wouldn’t be too pleased about that. Why would you want to follow me, Bob? What were your instructions?”
Norton was starting to regain his confidence. He came further into the small room and sat down on the arm of the only chair.
“I don’t know anyone by the name of Charlie Hart and I wasn’t following you. If we happened to be travelling along the same route it was purely coincidence. Got it? As far as I’m aware, there’s no law against that.”
“Ah, now that’s where it gets a little tricky for you, Bob. You see, you followed me from the minute I left Hart’s house, and then all over Bournemouth and out onto the motorway — now that’s what we call harassment. And it’s my word against yours. But, of course, I’m a police officer, and you’ve almost certainly got an existing record. Good God man, it was only your carelessness that gave me the opportunity to lose you at that busy crossroad and by the time you’d managed to get to the other side, I’d gone round the block and was following you. That’s how I was able to get your registration number. Now, tell me. Are you working for Charlie Hart or are you one of Sammy Samuels’ boys?”
The arrogance that Norton had entered the room with was back with a little more truculence thrown in for good measure. He knew that what Dillon had said so far couldn’t be proved and saw nothing to gain by answering his questions. Instead, he switched on the television and made out he was going to watch it.
Dillon got up and went and stood between Norton and the television. Norton found this amusing, was still sitting on the arm of the chair.
“Going, are you? Or are you now going to start on me with the rough aggressive stuff?” Norton said with a sneer.
“Why don’t you just piss off and leave us alone?”
Dillon pulled the Glock and pointed it at Norton’s head. With his free hand he produced a silencer, and as if it were second nature, had screwed it on in the blink of an eye. If Norton was going to make a move on Dillon it had to be then, but for the second time that evening the man had an expression of incredulity; his eyes bulging with fear.
“How perceptive of you, Bob. You’re right, of course. If, at first, I don’t get the answers I want… well, I try again, only a little harder and with my friend here for company.”
Dillon nodded at the Glock still pointed at Norton’s head.
“Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Don’t move a muscle, or I’ll blow the top of your head off,” Dillon said it casually, but his tone made sure that there was little room for doubt about whether he’d do it or not.
He waited for Norton to adjust to this shock, and then added, “I can tell you’ve worked it out, and you’re absolutely right — I’m not really a police detective. Now, are you going to answer my questions or do I start putting holes in you? Like they say, you know how it is, Bob, if a job’s worth doing and all that bollocks. So I promise to take my time.”
“I don’t work for Charlie Hart. I was told to wait outside his place on Sandbanks and was given a photo of you. All I had to do then was follow you wherever you went. That’s it, and I don’t give a toss about this bloke Hart. He’s not my boss.”
“If he’s not, who is?”
“Jack Fox. I do the odd job for him from time to time.”
Well, this one was odd, that was for sure. Dillon had heard of Jack Fox. He’d been employed by Robert Flackyard to look after his security and the well-being of his lap dancing clubs across the South coast. After Flackyard had had to flee the country in a hurry, Fox had taken over the day-to-day running of the clubs, even lived in Flackyard’s Canford Cliffs mansion. He was into most things but nothing heavy, so he kept out of trouble. From what Dillon had heard, he appeared to keep the Flackyard empire running, and in the process had amassed a small fortune of his own.
“Have you told him that you lost me in light traffic?”
“Piss off.”
“Have you?” Dillon repeated, sliding the safety catch off.
Norton hesitated for a second, weighing up Dillon and the Glock that was still pointing at his head, and then answered, “I phoned him the minute I got in.”
“Okay, that’s good, Bob. Now, I already know where that scumbag lives. But what’s his phone number?”
Norton was scared; his eyes gave him away easily, “I can’t do that.”
“Look, all you have to do is tell me what his ex-directory number is and I’ll leave you alone. Or I could put a bullet directly into the joint of your right wrist. It would hurt. Damn, would it hurt. And then there’ll be the constant nagging pain that would be with you until the day you die. It’s your choice, Bob. Anyway, Fox isn’t the type to blow your head off for failure. He’s far too smart and if nothing else, he knows a loyal employee when he sees one. Write it down and I’ll be on my way.”
Norton took the notebook from Dillon and scribbled on a blank page before handing it back to him.
“Thanks,” said Dillon, rising. “You’re not likely to say anything to Jack, but don’t tell anyone you’ve had a visitor. You followed me; you lost me; end of story. After all, you’d not want anyone to know that you’ve given Jack Fox’s ex-directory number out, would you?”
“You stuck-up bastard.”
“It’s been said before, Bob,” Dillon said with a grin. “But it’s no good being the big brave man now. Don’t get up; I’ll see myself out.”
Jack Fox lived in a multi-million pound mansion, located along one of the most expensive tree lined avenues in Canford Cliffs. It was just after two in the morning, and the roads were quiet. Dillon was in no particular hurry, but was finding it difficult to park the Porsche somewhere suitably discreet and out of view of prying security cameras. In the end, he managed to park in a side road just off the village centre, about a quarter of a mile away from Fox’s place. He walked back to the impressive Mediterranean style residence, thinking about the last time he’d had reason to come to this place and about the man, who then, had tried to outsmart him — Robert Flackyard.
From the other side of the road, Dillon could see that there were still a number of houses that had lights on, but Jack Fox’s was in total darkness. Luckily, the street lamps were poor, throwing long deep shadows that afforded a good degree of cover. And there was something eerie about the place at this late hour — the road was understandably empty, except for the occasional car passing by. Dillon walked casually, but confidently, across the wide road, and straight up to the gated entrance. He pushed the intercom button, keeping the tip of his forefinger in place for what seemed like many seconds.