Havelock sounded nervous and tired. Before he could say anything more, Dillon vented his anger down the line.
“What the hell is going down here, Dunstan? My life is on the line and you suggest exerting caution. Unbelievable.”
“Look, Jake. All I’m saying is that there’s something going on that we’re not aware of, and that until we do know, we should tread very carefully. LJ says Marriott didn’t show any particular interest in the names and addresses initially and that it wasn’t until a few hours later when he called him back that he became very cagey. It could be that it’s political or something equally as sensitive. But one thing is for sure, LJ was told to back off. Not in those words, of course, but that’s what Marriott meant. Apparently it’s an old file, but it’s still classified. Interesting that he wants to have a chat with you, though. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Sounds like we might have hit a nerve. Best I stay unobtainable then — as if I haven’t got enough aggro as it is.”
“Are you going to give me this mobile number? At least then I can keep you informed about what they’re up to. We’ve got to try and stay one step ahead of them, Jake. And please don’t ring this number again — it’s more than likely tapped.”
“Answer me honestly, Dunstan. You’re certain that you don’t know what this is all about? No inclining as to what might be the reason for their interest?”
“Absolutely none whatsoever. I wish I did know, Jake. At least then we would know what we’ve got ourselves into. Marriott gave LJ the impression that this was something that happened at least twenty years ago. I’ll take a close look at the archive files. After all, the original enquiry would have come from this office. I’ve got no doubt whatsoever that many of those who would know anything will most likely be retired by now, and those who are left won’t want to go against the security service. So it’s best that I keep it as low-key as possible.”
“We’ve got to keep digging, Dunstan. We can’t let Trevelyan and all the other rubbish like him frighten us off. As for Marriott, it would be a complete waste of my time speaking to him. He won’t believe a word I say because of his firm, yet unfounded, belief that I’m a habitual liar.”
“Are you sure about that, Jake?”
“Of course I’m not bloody sure, Dunstan. But that’s completely irrelevant. If they’re involved, then it starts to take on an entirely different shape, bearing in mind what they’re up against. Hart, Trevelyan and the others.”
“Whatever it, is?”
There was a silence between them for a few moments, and then Dillon added, “Perhaps they’re all in it together.”
There had been a time when Havelock would have hotly contested that such a thing could be, but now he had no reply except to say, “How do I get in contact with you?”
“Better we don’t from here on in. I think you’ve gone as far as you can and if I need you again I’ll get LJ to make contact. It’ll be much safer for you that way. Give my love to Rachel, and thanks, Dunstan.”
When Havelock met with the Home Secretary the next morning he gave his report and assessment of the recent developments concerning Dillon’s investigation into Charlie Hart, the sudden MI5 interest in the situation, and about them wanting a chat with Dillon. Havelock knew better than to criticise or accuse the security service of having ulterior motives for this request. Home Secretaries had to rely on their Security Chiefs. Instead he asked for his authorisation to ask them to clarify their reasons for wanting to talk with Dillon. Later that day he received the reply he had been expecting. Dillon was requested to attend an informal interview relating to an ongoing MI5 enquiry and that it would be of mutual benefit to both MI5 and Dillon to exchange information about certain people involved. As Dillon had said, perhaps they’re all in it together.
The Victorian house stood in private grounds approaching two acres of prime West Dorset countryside, fairly isolated and away from the main Lyme Regis road which leads down to the coast. The property was approached up a narrow lane and Dillon could see where deer had worn cut-through paths in the dense hedgerows. There was pastureland, which largely surrounded the house, and twenty-foot high poplars running in a straight line along the rear boundary, which eventually merged with a small coppice wood a little further from the house.
With so many trees around, it would be a simple job keeping an eye on the place. And with so much open ground close to the house it was impossible to approach it without being seen. Dillon saw no easy way in except by night — something he hadn’t allowed for.
He parked the Ford Focus about half a mile away, well out of sight of the property, and then jogged back along the narrow lane. He had the Glock in its holster under his right arm; it was the first time he had really felt the need for a weapon. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck were bristling as he rounded the last corner and caught sight of the front of the house a short distance away.
There was no one about. This made him edgy — his instincts on full alert as he noticed an upstairs window open, suggesting that someone was at home. As he moved around to the side of the house, he could see a stable block with two horses peering out over their stalls that looked up as he approached.
He was feeling uneasy mainly because of what Havelock had told him about MI5. It had introduced a new dimension and he didn’t trust an organisation which had once tried to eliminate someone he had known simply to cover up a badly bungled operation and save face. At least with Hart and Trevelyan he knew where he stood. It was particularly annoying, because no one was more for getting to the truth than Dillon. Havelock at least knew him as someone with unquestionable integrity and discretion through and through.
The unease increased as he drew nearer to the door at the back of the house, which he could now see was ajar. Dillon stood taking in his surroundings on aged moss-covered flagstones, weathered smooth over time. It was so still, not so much as a light wind. Even the natural sounds of the countryside seemed to be much quieter. Then dogs started to bark somewhere near. It wasn’t an aggressive sound, and no dogs came bounding round the corner at him.
He walked away from the building, retracing his footsteps into a lightly wooded area at the side of the gravel driveway. At the front of the house he kept to the edge of the driveway and went straight to the main door. Instead of pulling on the braided rope hanging under a tarnished antique bell, presumably so it could be heard from the stable yard at the rear, he went down the other side of the house, past a large brick-built garage, and could see where two large dogs were running on long chains. There were two sizable green-houses further on, but there was nobody in sight.
Crouching low, he moved slowly, ever closer towards the rear of the house and the chained dogs. Both animals charged toward him; fangs bared, hackles up, the chains bringing them to an abrupt halt some five feet from where he was standing. Dillon backed away from them and returned to the front door where he rang the bell.
A man appeared as if he’d been standing behind the door waiting. He looked at Dillon and said, “Was that you I saw snooping around outside?”
“I’m sorry if I startled you, I saw that the back door was ajar, but couldn’t see anyone around. So I came around to the front door.”
Dillon found himself staring into the watery eyes of a tall thin man of sixty-odd years, who was wearing a light check shirt unbuttoned at the collar and brown corduroy trousers that had seen better days. The thinning grey hair was slicked back in place.