Bull-Dog just managed to stop himself from striking Dillon. He had sufficient sense to grasp that he was being deliberately set up to be knocked right back down again, and then a question entered his mind.
“Who are you really working for, Dillon?”
Dillon ignored his question, and asked, “Look, I don’t know who would want to employ trailer trash like you. But you’d better understand that you’re going to take the rap for carrying out someone else’s orders. Was it Tommy Trevelyan?”
“Don’t be stupid. Tommy Trevelyan wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
For Dillon that was tantamount to an admission. “Perhaps one of his associates then?”
Bull-Dog came closer. “You’re not very smart, are you? I didn’t beat anybody up. And if you go round talking of Tommy Trevelyan like that, you’ll be making a premature departure from this world. Now piss off.”
“Okay. But, the moment I leave here, I’m going to start spreading it around in certain circles that you’ve been accusing Tommy of setting you up for a spell inside. Now that should make him really happy.”
Dillon had been waiting for it from the moment the big man had regained his confidence. Bull-Dog swung a blow at his head and Dillon responded in the way he’d been taught over many years. Bull-Dog struck air and something hard hit him in the stomach with immense force, leaving him curled up in a great deal of pain, face down and barely able to get his breath. Dillon roughly flipped him on to his side with his foot.“Was it one of Trevelyan’s people?”
But Bull-Dog was still not capable of talking; he was still curled up and groaning with pain.
Dillon stood back from him, watching carefully for any feigning. When his breathing became more regular he asked again, “Was it one of Trevelyan’s crowd?”
When there was still no answer, Dillon squatted on his haunches and pulled out the Glock again. He tapped Bull-Dog’s broken nose with it, just hard enough to draw blood.
“The bloke you beat to a pulp is a good friend of mine. Now you’re in the frame for actual bodily harm, but if he dies, it’s murder. That’s along with the murder of that unfortunate young woman. That should get you at least two life sentences and definitely no possibility of release. Ever. However, if I don’t get an answer now then I’m going to blow your brains out, because I don’t trust the courts and nobody is going to be bothered by your death.” He toyed with the Glock.
The big man’s eyes flickered with fear. He started to say something but gagged and Dillon waited, moving away again.
Bull-Dog was trying to think clearly as he came out of the pain. Before he was able to say anything Dillon added, “Before I put a bullet in your thick skull I’m going to make you suffer even more by slicing off both of your ears. You’ll beg me for the bullet before it comes; it’ll be merciful, an end that you’re not really worthy of. But I’m feeling generous today.”
“If I tell you I’m going to get a bullet anyway, so what does it matter?”
“Why should he know? Take a holiday for a while. Or would you rather be tucked up inside?”
Bull-Dog tried to sit up. The movement brought the pain back.
“What the hell did you hit me with?”
“A full-on back kick. I wasn’t trained to fight clean or fair. So tell me, was it Trevelyan’s people?”
Bull-Dog nodded slowly. He struggled to his feet, held on to the edge of the sofa to steady himself. As he stood upright he put every last ounce of strength into a back-handed swing that would have almost decapitated Dillon’s head had it struck him. But Dillon wasn’t standing where Bull-Dog thought. He wasn’t in the room or the building. The big man was thrown off balance as he spun round and it was then that he started to have the first pangs of fear start to grip him. His mind was racing with a jumble of disjointed thoughts. He was sweating profusely; his instinct was already telling him to get as far away from London and as quickly as possible.
He went through to the bedroom, crammed some clothes into a suitcase and after cleaning himself up as best he could, he left. He dared not leave a note.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dillon was already outside the building when Bull-Dog made the back-handed swipe at him. He’d satisfied himself, beyond doubt, that there was a positive link between Charlie Hart and Trevelyan, and reckoned that Paul Hammer and Julian Latimer were also involved. Stella had boasted during their little chat that Hammer was fairly well-acquainted with someone in politics. Latimer was certainly that, although he wasn’t one of the well-known politicians of the day who were constantly in the media lights. According to Havelock, they’d been trying to get rid of him for some time. Latimer was in a political vortex and unlikely to stand at the next election.
It was an odd mixture. A top villain, a politician, a hotel tycoon who was something of a recluse, and Charlie Hart, the enigma, whom it was difficult to place in any particular group, but who might just be the most dangerous of them all.
Everything stemmed from Hart, yet Dillon had difficulty in believing that he had sanctioned the thugs who’d roughed up Adam Finch and then murdered the young prostitute. Trevelyan had almost with certainty provided the street level thugs to dish out the violence. The pattern was familiar but with such a strange liaison, what were they protecting? Trevelyan would not be involved in any petty crime venture — it was way beneath his status. It would have to pay in a big way to attract his interest.
Hart and Trevelyan might have been involved in similar rackets and their paths had possibly crossed at some time, and they’d gone on to do the occasional deal together. As for Latimer and Hammer: these two men were the odd ones out. If he could find out the common denominator he’d be able to figure out what the central racket was.
Dillon phoned Vince Sharp and gave him an account of his conversation with Bull-Dog, and asked how Adam Finch was fairing in hospital. He’d been told that Finch’s condition was improving and that he’d been moved out of intensive care, which was a huge relief.
He had settled up the B&B and so had nowhere definite to stay. He couldn’t compromise any more of Ferran & Cardini’s staff, no matter how enthusiastic they were to get field experience. And he was sure that the word would have been put around the small hotels and guest houses by Trevelyan’s men; there was no going back and they wouldn’t stop now.
Vince arranged for a motorcycle courier to deliver a canvas holdall to Dillon who was waiting in a side street not far from Docklands.
He rang Issy again, reassured her that everything was going to plan and then drove into town to see his tailor for a complete change of clothes, which on this occasion would have to be off the peg. Although tempted, he considered even a brief visit to his home too risky. He then drove to The Old Colonial Club and managed to book a suite and underground car parking. He’d belonged to the club for a few years under the name of James Wentworth, the Earl of Waverley, with the help of Havelock who had supplied proposal and seconding letters. He had also created Dillon’s legend and had seen to it that the Earl had been listed in all of the appropriate places. Dillon used it only in a crisis and as a relatively safe haven. He had no interest in making friends during his infrequent visits, being standoffish and aloof to discourage approaches.
Once he’d checked into his suite, he phoned Vince and had him look up Julian Latimer’s private London address and telephone number on the intelligence network database. He thought it rather odd that the four men he was now investigating were all so easily traceable when they apparently had so much to hide. Perhaps their apparent openness was itself a clever disguise.