“He’ll kill you. You do know that, don’t you, Stella? My way we all get what we want and live happily ever after. For you the money, for me the information. And Paul Hammer is none the wiser about our little meeting. Jason won’t say anything, because he doesn’t know anything.”
“I’ve already said far too much.”
“You’ve said nothing, and you know it.”
He didn’t want to push her too far, and if he did she might just cave in on him. Instead he said, “Look Stella, I’m hardly likely to tell him we’ve met and I’m pretty sure that you won’t. I mean, apart from anything else, he might just think that you turned a trick with me just to keep your hand in, and a man in Hammer’s position would definitely throw a tantrum about that. So we both keep quiet.”
He was now confident that he’d found a connection between the men. It was a start. He crossed to the window and looked carefully up and down the street. A silver Lexus saloon was parked on double yellow lines opposite Stella’s house. Inside one of Gideon Lihiri’s faithful followers was sitting behind the wheel of the luxury car, talking to another man in the passenger seat. As Lihiri’s office was at least three miles away, his presence was suspicious to say the least.
He kept his back to Stella. “Do you have a back way out?”
“Why?” She shot up in alarm.
Dillon turned to face her casually. “No particular reason, except to make it safer for you. After all, you wouldn’t want someone telling Paul that you’ve had another man in here. So if there’s a back way out of here, I’ll take it.”
“There’s a gate in the rear wall, and a path that runs all the way along the mews to the road at the other end. You go through the kitchen, but I keep the gate locked. The key is on a hook by the back door.”
“I’ll find it,” he said, picked up the remainder of his money from the table and moved off towards the kitchen. The next moment Stella heard the back door click shut as Dillon gently closed it.
He slowly cracked open the gate, just in case there was someone watching the path on the other side. Satisfied that there wasn’t, he stepped out, pulled the gate shut, and walked casually away from Stella’s house towards the main road. He decided to head off in the opposite direction to where he’d parked the Ford Focus, which took him through back streets and alleys. His senses were on high alert. Every few paces, he looked over his shoulder to see if Lihiri’s men were following him. All the time he was running through the events that had led up to arriving at Stella’s house. Lihiri’s men had not been there when he had arrived, so it left the question of whether Stella was been watched for whatever reason. If Paul Hammer was a jealous man he might have kept an eye on her, might even have had a driver and car at her disposal so that he could monitor her movements. But why use Lihiri’s men, which meant Charlie Hart’s? Or was Hart watching everyone in the hope that Dillon would turn up and place himself in the target zone?
CHAPTER TEN
Adam Finch was enjoying the job of minding Dillon’s apartment, especially as it had all the latest gadgets built in — the complete opposite to his own tiny one-bedroom flat that he rented in a less fashionable part of town. Another major benefit was that it was closer to the Ferran & Cardini building, which meant that he didn’t have to get out of bed so early. Adam had been with the firm for just over a year. He had graduated from Oxford with an honours degree in criminal law and was now a junior case officer with the firm. In real terms this was someone who had to carry out mundane tasks that the more senior personnel didn’t want to do. Finch was in his late twenties, with a ready smile and a sharp mind. Some people found him irritatingly charming, but he and Dillon had hit it off from the start. They had similar backgrounds, one tried to hide it, the other never did; it was something they understood about each other.
Finch never got home much before eight each evening. The elderly-looking lady from the first floor apartment across the road waved to him from her armchair near the window. Finch already knew about her, as she did him, from Dillon, or he would most likely have considered her a little eccentric. On the second night he arrived home, he placed Dillon’s spare keys on the hook in the kitchen and went to the sink, washed his hands, and then went into the living room to pour himself a drink. As he walked into the darkened room he knew at once someone was in there with him.
Finch had none of Dillon’s highly developed instincts, nor had he lived anything like so dangerous a life, but he knew something was wrong. He was certain when the door was closed behind him without him touching it. He spun round and a tough-looking man, somewhere in his late fifties with a wide, friendly smile, leant against the door with his arms folded across his chest. When Finch turned back to face the room, another man was sitting in one of Dillon’s leather chairs.
“Where’s Dillon?” asked the seated man. His accent was distinctly East London.
“Dillon? Dillon who?” Finch was not trying to be obtuse, but was starting to fear for his safety.
The seated man was much smaller in build to his friend, who seemed to fill the entire doorway with his bulk. He shrugged, “So I’ll ask you again. Where is Jake Dillon?”
Finch had not found himself in this kind of situation before and no matter how well schooled and qualified, text books could never replace experience. He tried to be brave and without conviction replied, “I don’t know. He simply asked me to house sit whilst he’s away for a few days.”
“So he didn’t tell you where he was going or give you a number to contact him on?”
“Spot on, you’ve got it.”
“Are you taking the proverbial out of me sonny? Because if you are…”
“Absolutely not. And I really don’t know where he’s gone,” Finch cut in quickly.
He could feel cold sweat running down the centre of his back, and his shirt was now starting to cling to him in an uncomfortable way.
“Did you hear that, Bull-Dog?”
The man behind Finch said, “Yeah. You believe him, Neville?”
Neville, still seated, smirked. “No I don’t. But I reckon he does though. Give him something that will make him remember, Bull-Dog.”
Finch’s legs felt like they were turning into jelly with just the thought of any pain. And with the first crunching blow to the back of his neck, he momentarily blacked out before his knees gave out and he collapsed on the floor, unconscious.
Neville jumped up out of the chair. “That wasn’t Dillon you hit, this one’s straight out of school, he’s a softie. I reckon you’ve gone and bloody well killed him!”
Bull-Dog stepped forward to where Finch was lying.
“I only gave him a little tap. I’ll go and get some water.”
He went through into the kitchen and came back with a jug full and tipped it over Finch’s head. A puddle immediately collected on the stripped oak flooring. Neither man thought to check Finch for a pulse but as it happened, he stirred, groaned and then lay still again. They hauled him up to his feet and dragged him to the nearest chair where Neville slapped him about his face a couple of times in an effort to bring him round.
Finch remained out cold for a few moments and they started to get worried. When he did finally come round he was soaking wet, trembling and a nervous wreck. He felt as if his head had just been severed and then stuck back on again; the pain in his neck was excruciating. He heard them asking him question after question, over and over again, but the pain was so bad that he wasn’t even sure whether he was answering them or not.
He must have passed out again; a tide of blackness washing over him, and with it came the blissful evaporation of all pain until light began to penetrate his lids. And this time he was much more aware of being conscious. He didn’t want to wake up, he could hide forever behind the darkness, but they were not going to let him. He had a much clearer picture now of what had happened. And yet a strong loyalty made him determined not to tell them about Dillon’s whereabouts.