“You devious bugger, you knew all along that I wouldn’t be able to resist the challenge once you got me here. But it’s going to cost you over and above for this favour. Now drive me back to my place; I need to pick up one or two items of kit.”
Dillon couldn’t help worrying about the time passing by and could only hope that Latimer was going to be indisposed for the duration of the committee sitting. De-Luca lived in Parsons Green and Dillon took him in the Ford using the back streets to avoid the bulk of the early afternoon build-up. However, delays were inevitable, and by the time they got back to Chelsea, it was almost 3.00 p.m. Dillon was pleased to see that De-Luca had retained his professionalism by keeping a kit bag ready to go at the drop of a hat.
They walked casually up the street towards the front entrance — always mindful of the CCTV camera positioned high up on the corner of the building. Dillon kept a discreet watch over the street whilst De-Luca went to work on the electromagnetic lock fitted to the front door. Luckily, there were few people around at that time of the day. Within seconds, the bolt released, he casually looked up and then pushed the door open. He removed the tiny device that had done the job from the lock case and moved inside. Dillon followed.
“Well, thank God for cheap locks,” De-Luca said with a wide smile.
The two men closed the door behind them and headed straight for a fire door and the stairwell beyond. They mounted the concrete steps two at a time, although there was a lift that serviced all the floors including the penthouse. The lift hummed when they were just rounding the first floor landing and they halted until it had descended. The door opened and closed again, someone wearing hard-soled shoes walked across the polished limestone floor of the hall to the front door.
They continued up to the top floor. Before moving out of the stairwell and onto the penthouse landing, they checked for any signs of a security camera in the hallway. There wasn’t one. Latimer’s front door was made of solid oak with a spy hole peering at them. The lock had a digital keypad at shoulder height which made Cracker uneasy.
Unless Latimer returned, they were much safer up here. Dillon stood guard whilst De-Luca went to work on the door. The lift was not operated again, but from time to time they heard the faint sound of the front door being released and thought how lucky they’d been at street level.
They were making good progress — it was thirty minutes since they’d entered the building. But Cracker was finding Latimer’s door lock to be a lot more troublesome than the front door. Dillon knew that he dare not break Cracker’s concentration whilst he dealt with the lock. He’d placed a flat device over the keypad which covered it completely and lighted up with four flashing zeros in red boxes when it was activated.
“This lock is a problem, Jake.”
“What do mean, ‘a problem’?”
“It has a built-in safeguard to ensure no one tampers with it. If it senses that there’s an intrusion it throws shoot-bolts out at the top and bottom. But there’s something else, these things are usually programmed to alert the police.”
“Fuck. I knew this was going too well.”
“Oh, don’t look so worried. The problem will be solved, eventually. My little friend there is running through millions of different numeric permutations. At some stage, it will find the right one, and then we can tap in the four number code and gain access.”
“I don’t like the thought of ‘eventually’. And why can’t we just pick the lock?”
“There is no lock to pick. Everything is inside, except for the keypad. We just have to be patient; it shouldn’t take long.”
After what seemed like many minutes later, all four boxes were glowing green. Cracker studied the device and then tapped the numbers into the digital keypad on the door. When they got in, they gently closed the door behind them and immediately felt the quiet aura of the apartment. As they moved from room to room, both men were impressed by the tasteful contemporary furnishings and subtle decor which somehow did not match up with what Dillon understood of Latimer who, Dillon surmised, must have used professional interior designers.
A wide circular stainless steel and glass spiral staircase led to the upper floor and the bedrooms, one of which had been converted into a small gym. The layout memorised, and the clock ticking all too quickly, Dillon said, “You find the safe and I’ll look around.” They separated, De-Luca searching for a place where he would expect a safe to be.
Dillon went back down to the study to find everything locked; desk and all of the cabinets. He had to get De-Luca to use up some of his precious time in opening the locks, but Dillon wanted to leave no obvious trace of a break-in. He carefully went through every document in the drawers, only to find nothing more than parliamentary correspondence, including many unanswered letters from some of his constituents who desperately needed his help. Shame on him for not replying, Dillon thought. The cabinets were no more forthcoming with anything of any interest and housed old copies of political newspaper clippings and magazine articles. It was De-Luca who found the interesting stuff.
De-Luca had located the safe in the master bedroom, hidden in the wall behind a full-length dressing mirror. The mirror itself could be released from the wall by pressing a concealed catch in the side of the frame. This automatically allowed it to swing out into the room on concealed hinges. After that, to De-Luca, it was child’s play. The safe was relatively small but of the latest design and specification, and he had gone straight to work on the combination.
By the time Dillon reached the top of the spiral stairs De-Luca had the contents laid out on the floor for Dillon to go through. There was a couple of thousand pounds in cash and no jewellery — much to Cracker’s relief, for it took away temptation. There was a leather-bound diary with a few loose sheets inside the back cover, and various legal documents, including the deeds to the penthouse. In addition to these were various share certificates and a number of bank statements. Dillon collected them from the floor and took them to a long side dressing table, which had wall lights above it. He produced a small digital camera and photographed each and every document in turn before allowing De-Luca to replace them in exactly the same position as he’d found them inside the safe.
Dillon opened the diary to the first page, lined up the camera and started to work his way through the twenty or so pages where entries had been made. Every few minutes, he would glance at his watch, very conscious of the time and that they had yet to restore everything in the bedroom to how they had found it. The time was 4.45 p.m.
Julian Latimer had to fight off the urge to doze off to sleep. He was totally bored with the time-wasting and futile in-fighting taking place around him. It was like watching a group of very small children throwing their toys out of their prams. He could find much better ways to fill his time rather than to endure the political jockeying and drivel about an issue which had once interested him but now left him stone cold. It was obvious that some of the committee members were playing devil’s advocates and that some were just being bloody-minded for effect. Politically he couldn’t give a toss what they decided; whichever way it went suited him.
He made his excuses and quietly slipped out of the room, informing the chairperson that he would return later. He knew he was taking a risk. That, if caught out, he would be leaving himself wide open for some serious criticism by those senior members who disliked him enough to leak his dereliction of duty to the press. Especially if he wasn’t in the room when the final vote was eventually taken. It didn’t really matter to him, except for the adverse media attention that would be focussed on him and the party. And certain acquaintances outside of politics might also take a dim view if he generated too high a profile.