The Mercedes 4x4 had been reported stolen in London earlier that day, and had been found abandoned near Bournemouth train station. This confirmed Dillon’s surmise that the gunmen had come down from the city, but this really meant nothing, except to suggest where they had returned to.
The news on Julian Latimer was more interesting. Although not a very prominent Member of Parliament, he was thought to be wealthy. He was from old money in the city and had a healthy portfolio of investments, though no directorships that had been disclosed. And he had interests in India. He had been there on numerous occasions and had money invested in the State Bank of India. It was also believed that he had lost a great deal of money on October 19, 1987, ‘Black Monday’, when the UK Stock Exchange plunged to an all time record low. But had recovered most of it over recent years by shrewdly investing in emerging markets.
“Where on earth did you get all of this information from?” asked Havelock.
“Vince Sharp. Just point him in the right direction and let him go. I’d have asked you to dig this stuff up, but I knew you’d have told me I was abusing the Home Office and your generosity.”
“That’s as may be. But he has quite obviously hacked into the parliamentary computer system, yet again, and delved around the members’ database with his pudgy little fingers. This cannot, and will not, be tolerated!”
“Dunstan, you know as well as I do that Vince wouldn’t do that.” Dillon laughed.
“It’s not a laughing matter, Jake. If he didn’t get the information from there, then he must have got it from one of his pals over at MI5.”
“Are they watching Latimer?”
“Goodbye, Jake. And another thing, please do not contact me on this number unless it’s a matter of life or death.”
Dillon smiled to himself. Havelock had a warped sense of humour and it definitely helped to know that when dealing with him.
As Dillon put down the phone, he was feeling more and more frustrated with the assignment, but was now in too deep to back off. Going into the kitchen, he made a fresh pot of filter coffee and was about to take it outside onto the balcony when the intercom buzzed in the apartment. It was a driver coming to collect the hired Porsche and take it for repair, and at the same time leave a rather dirty-looking Ford Focus for Dillon to use. After ignition keys had been exchanged, the bullet-holed Porsche was put on the back of the transporter and taken away. Dillon went back up to the apartment and dialled Issy’s mobile phone number. He was immediately diverted to voicemail and although he wanted to leave her a message, he didn’t. Instead, he hung up, went and packed an overnight bag. He checked Paul Hammer’s address, and twenty minutes later, was heading out of Bournemouth towards St John’s Wood.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Charlie Hart wasn’t a man to dwell on trivial matters and, true to his nature, he had put Jake Dillon out of his mind the moment he left his Sandbanks house. The unwelcome intrusion into his business affairs and disruption of his normal everyday life was, in his opinion, no longer there. It was not a problem or of any concern to him anymore. He went to bed that night, alone in his opulent waterside mansion, except for Mrs. Pringle, who slept in her own private apartment on the ground floor.
Hart woke suddenly from a troubled sleep. He’d been sweating, the silk pyjamas he was wearing felt clammy and clung to his skin. It had not been as bad as this for many years. His head felt like it was going to explode, his mind in turmoil like a bubbling cauldron — full of bad thoughts and memories that wouldn’t let him rest, not even for his own sanity’s sake. When the torment came, it came from deep within his subconscious — like a hydra-headed monster sent to destroy him during the hours of darkness. He sat up in the bed trembling, not able to stop the fear that he could smell and feel, just as if it were there in the room with him.
He got out of bed and stripped off in the adjacent dressing room. The clock on the side table showed a little after 3 a.m., but, in spite of this, he went into the en-suite wet room and showered. The water hammered at his head but the anguish and total isolation that he felt, remained. He ran the water cold for a few minutes and this torture calmed the tangled mess of thoughts inside his head. By the time he finished he was shivering rather than trembling, but his head felt clearer and more focussed. He towelled off, put on fresh pyjamas and returned to his bedroom.
Instead of going back to bed he went over to the panoramic window. The mansion’s central control automatically parted the drapes on his voice command. He stood looking out across the harbour at the rolling mist hugging the surface of the black, still water. He remained there for several minutes. Only then did Jake Dillon return to his thoughts.
This whole affair had really started when he had allowed his son to bring a girlfriend and her bodyguard to view the collection. He comprehended, however, that no one could have known that the girl would be so well-acquainted with the Dutch painter, Johannes Vermeer. Hart didn’t know himself, not the full context, so it was difficult to blame his son or anybody else. However, the events that followed her visit, and the repercussions thereof, had already been enormous.
Hart knew the problem would not go away. If he handed over the painting to the Boston Museum, he would only bring more suspicion upon himself and even more speculation as to how he had come to own it in the first place. Whatever he now did, the damage was unfortunately already done and somebody’s interest was sufficiently aroused to employ the talents of Jake Dillon. Why not the police, or even the security service? If it was thought that it was in any way something that would embarrass the Government on an international scale? Which is probably what the Americans would think. He thought he knew why and felt sorry for Dillon.
Thinking like this was something he hadn’t done for many years, but he now found himself having been unwillingly drawn into a situation from which there was no escape, and which he thought he’d left way back in his past. Sitting down on the nearby reclining chair he dozed for a while, but the problem wouldn’t leave him alone. His only relief was that there was only one subject occupying his mind and not the crammed clutter of information from years gone by.
Hart had not felt so totally alone and isolated as he did now. There wasn’t anyone that he could talk to about the old times, because no one would want to remember them. But that was not the only reason. The past was best left dead and buried and here he was bringing it back to life.
He didn’t want to go back to bed, wasn’t tired anymore and decided to take another shower and shave. He went down to breakfast in his dressing gown. Outside the sun was rising in a cloudless sky and he was feeling much happier with the world. But in the dark recesses of his mind he knew that he was being pulled away at a time when he should be strong-willed and totally focussed. Or suffer the consequences for this distraction.