Bull-Dog worked with an incessant fervour dealing him a brutal beating; relentlessly raining heavy blows to Finch’s face and body. All that Finch could recollect was that he was babbling and had no idea what he was babbling about. As Finch’s resistance had held up, Neville, in spite of his earlier criticism of Bull-Dog’s initial heavy handedness, had joined in. What they had considered to be an easy in-and-out routine job had proved to be anything but. Finch had held up like a seasoned professional and they suddenly realised that they had gone too far.
They went through his pockets, found nothing, and then left him lying on the floor whilst they hastily ransacked Dillon’s study before leaving the apartment by the private lift.
From her first floor apartment the old lady had seen the two men appear across the street — she had kept watch from behind the curtains. She knew that Finch and Dillon worked together and were good friends. Dillon had told her before he’d left that a friend would be staying in the penthouse whilst he was away on business. And there was no reason why he shouldn’t have visitors. But she didn’t like the look of them.
She didn’t know that Dillon’s friend was out. She was in the kitchen making herself a cup of tea when he’d pulled up in his car. But she had caught sight of him when she’d returned to her chair by the window, just as he was going through the front door. She then realised that the two men must have let themselves in. This worried the retired school headmistress and she was further worried when she saw the two men leave hastily twenty minutes later. She grabbed her binoculars, a notebook and a pen, and watched the two men hurry off up the street and get into a car. She wasn’t able to see the number plate immediately, as other cars were obscuring it. But the moment they pulled out in to the street she wrote the registration number down.
She didn’t know what to do then. She didn’t want to interfere with something that wasn’t any of her business and was most likely completely innocent anyway. So she sat and thought about what she should do for a few minutes, and then dialled the emergency number that Dillon had given her. It was Vince Sharp who answered the phone, and without interruption let her pour it all out to him. Within five minutes, the big Australian was pulling up outside Dillon’s building with a spare set of keys. He looked across the street and saw the old lady standing at her first floor window.
As he came out of the lift, he immediately saw Finch lying prone on the floor. The chair he’d been sitting on was upturned next to him; credit cards and old till receipts strewn across the oak floor. He kneeled down and checked Finch over without touching him at first. He’d been badly beaten, but he was able to see that the younger man was still alive. Using his mobile phone he called for an ambulance. As for the police: he’d let LJ deal with them later.
Whilst he waited for the ambulance to turn up, Vince went around the apartment and checked the other rooms. Dillon’s study had been completely trashed. Computer monitors had been smashed and were on the floor; hard drives had been ripped out in an amateurish fashion from the processors. Files and books were strewn everywhere, drawers and cupboards had been emptied in a hurry as they’d searched for whatever it was they had been looking for. Everyone in the firm knew that there were risks involved with every assignment, but it was never easy seeing a colleague lying in a pool of blood. He went back to where the still unconscious Finch was laying. He checked his pulse again and then sent a text message to Dillon. This wouldn’t allow anyone monitoring his mobile phone to fix his location.
He went back into Dillon’s study and looked up and down the street for anyone who may be watching; the old lady was still standing by her window. She looked across and saw him, gave a wave which he returned before giving her the thumbs up, which he knew wasn’t strictly true. But she had done her bit and had most likely saved young Finch’s life. She’d also given him a written description of the two men and their registration number. All he had to do now was get hold of Dillon before these two characters found him and attempted to hand out some of the same treatment as they’d given to Finch.
He drove across town to the firm’s safe-house where Dillon was staying — all the time aware that there may be a tail on him. He took a number of detours and drove past the property twice from both directions. Satisfied that he’d not been followed, he found a parking space up the road and walked back to number twenty-seven. He punched in the pin number for the door entry system, the electromagnetic lock released and he went inside. He just stood inside the hall taking in the chaos and destruction that was everywhere. Then he moved quickly through each room, stepping over pieces of broken furniture and glass, all the time thinking that whoever had smashed the place up had done it with a professional thoroughness, and had obviously been really pissed off at not finding Dillon home. The question of how they had got past the security system was something the firm would have to seriously look into.
In the master bedroom, the scene was still one of destruction, but with a macabre twist. Sprawled across the double bed was the dead body of a half-naked young woman somewhere in her mid-twenties. She’d been shot once in the head; the bullet wound dead centre between unseeing eyes that stared blankly up at the ceiling. Vince immediately phoned Edward Levenson-Jones and described the scene to him. LJ told him to get out of the building as quickly as possible.
Whilst he was walking back to where he’d parked his car, three police cars and two white transit vans pulled up outside of number twenty-seven. He carried on walking, not wishing to get caught up in what was about to ensue. He slowly drove away in the opposite direction, up the road and around the corner, and at the first opportunity found another parking space. The old lady who lived opposite Dillon’s apartment answered her telephone after only two rings. He asked her if there had been any developments after Finch had been taken away by the paramedics. She told him that the police had arrived about ten minutes ago, had sealed off the street, and that they were still there asking questions about whether the man now in hospital was the owner of the property. Before hanging up, Vince thanked her for her trouble and reassured her that Dillon was safe and unharmed, and that he’d be home in a few days’ time.
Only Adam Finch knew if he’d given away the safe-house address. Although the likelihood of talking to him in hospital was unlikely, even if he was in a fit condition to talk. And the police would almost certainly have posted a uniformed officer outside his room. He went back to his office.
Dillon hadn’t checked his mobile phone for any missed calls or messages. He had been working hard throughout the day; looking up and hustling some of his old contacts in the area with only limited success. He parked the Ford and walked back towards the safe-house. As he rounded the corner at the end of the street, his pace slowed. The police were still blocking off the street either side of number twenty-seven and an ambulance was parked directly in front, lights still flashing. A small crowd had gathered, which took any attention off of him standing at the end of the street alone.
The ambulance drove off. There was no siren and no flashing lights, which Dillon found ominous. The police were multiplying and there was already a number of Scene Of Crime Officers in white overalls moving around outside and in the building. An unmarked Lexus drove up and two men, who were obviously detectives, climbed out. Two uniformed officers were pushing back the crowd.