He entered the room, flicked on the light switch and the overhead fluorescent strip light flickered on. Apart from the heavy metal door he’d just entered through, the only other was a trapdoor in the ceiling at one end. He studied it for a brief moment, and then pulled it down, only to reveal a tunnel on the other side, which was circular and built of bricks and mortar. It went straight up, about twenty feet, and was covered in cobwebs and spiders.
An involuntary shudder ran through his body. The torch beam cut through the black to reveal a wooden cover at the very top.
A disused well, he thought, and then remembered that he’d seen it earlier when he’d called on Conner. He’d not taken much notice of it in the rear garden because it was virtually derelict and partially overgrown with brambles. He pushed the door back up into place and stood looking around the room. Occupying at least two thirds of the space were more wooden crates similar to those in the garage — some large, some small. All of them appeared to contain something, were numbered and their lids screwed down securely. As he scanned the room he noticed the six metal cases of the type the military use to transport ammunition around, lined up against the wall at the far end. On closer inspection he noticed that each had a heavy padlock protecting its contents. Dillon attempted to lift one of the boxes, almost gave himself a hernia and decided on another course of action. The first lock opened after only a few seconds of working the thin pick around the mechanism. He let the padlock fall to the ground.
As he lifted the lid a faint, musty locked-away smell reached him. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but rather one that you experience when you enter a room that’s been closed up for many years. He shone the torch inside and carefully peeled back the layer of hemp-like material to reveal what was underneath.
There were at least twenty gold bars neatly arranged in the bottom of the case. Dillon picked one up, turning it over and over in his hands. The density of gold is about 0.698 lb per cubic inch, and he guessed that the brick he was holding measured approximately 6 x 3 x 2 inches, or thirty-nine cubic inches. Mathematics was never one of his strong points, but he knew that the average gold bar weighed in at around 400 troy ounces and that its worth was something like £195.00 pounds sterling an ounce. Meaning that this brick at today’s price was worth around £76,500.
Twenty gold bars to each case, and a net worth of £1,500,000 each, he thought. So, if the other cases held the same amount they totalled nine million, give or take a few hundred thousand. All six cases had exactly the same contents. He took one bar out, wrapped it in a piece of the hemp and then closed all of the crates up again and replaced the padlocks; ensuring that they were positioned as they were before. He moved his attention to one of the wooden crates. He hunted around for something to prise off the lid and found a narrow length of flat steel bar thrown behind the boxes along with an ancient screwdriver. He spent the next ten minutes carefully removing all of the brass screws that held it down. Carefully packed inside was everything from oriental carvings to priceless works of art. By painstakingly sorting through the objects, Dillon estimated that there were forty ivory carvings and five paintings by two artists whom he had never heard of.
It was impossible to go through every crate individually and the boxes were all firmly screwed down. But when he tried to lift a few of them he was in no doubt that they all contained something. Each box had a three digit number branded into the wood, running consecutively, and Dillon made a mental note of the first and last crate numbers. It would take more time than he could risk to open every one of them, but what he did open merely confirmed his theory that they all had priceless works of art inside.
He went back through the tunnel to the small anti-room, carefully swung the concrete door back into place and was still surprised at how easily it moved considering how heavy it must be. The door was now the end wall again, and making certain that nothing was out of place he stood for a moment, and considered what he had discovered. It was certainly odd. Priceless art and gold bullion… it was the gold that was confusing him. Who had gone to so much trouble to hide these things, and why?
He went back up the steps and replaced the trapdoor, ensuring that the wooden crates were put in exactly the same positions as before. All the time he was mulling over the contents of the room below. He climbed back out through the rear window, dissatisfied and puzzled. As he crossed towards the house he heard the wounded man in the kitchen calling out.
Inside the house he switched on every light as he went from room to room so that finally the house was a blaze of lights. He started upstairs, searching for anything that might fill the gaps in his thinking. He decided to discard being careful and simply tipped drawers out onto the floor. He rummaged through the contents but found nothing of any significance.
There was nothing in the house, not even a shotgun. He could not believe that Harry Conner did not know what was in the garage — he was definitely involved in whatever was going on, most likely as a caretaker. Dillon looked around the room at the mess he’d created everywhere. Sheila would have something to say about that and Harry would be ordered, in regimental fashion, to clean it all up.
Serves him right, he thought.
Dillon found a small study downstairs and literally ransacked the place — smashing open anything that was locked. Again he found nothing that would explain why there was gold bullion and priceless works of art in a concealed room underground. The question why kept eluding him. He didn’t even find a list like the one he had taken from Julian Latimer’s apartment.
The one thing they would not know was whether or not he had discovered the trapdoor in the garage, for he had repositioned every crate as he’d found it there.
The house had proved nothing, which explained why there was no alarm installed. But it was apparently unimportant that the television and DVD player along with the other electrical goods around the house might be stolen. This in itself told a small story.
But there was no explaining why millions of pounds worth of art and gold, which admittedly would keep whoever it belonged to in a luxury and privileged lifestyle, should warrant five trained men being sent down from London to protect it. And, whilst here, erase Dillon in the process. It simply didn’t add up.
Dillon glanced down at his Omega Seamaster. It was just after 3.15 a.m. on a mild early-summer morning. He had been there for well over six hours. He unstrapped the Uzi from his shoulder, released the clip and quickly ejected every cartridge from the chamber. He replaced the clip into the weapon and walked back through to the kitchen where the two men were still tied up. As he entered the room, the one he’d shot in the shoulder was still in a sitting position staring up at him malevolently. He had obviously got a second wind and had been trying to free himself.
“I’m bleeding to death, you bastard! Call the doc, like you said you would.”
The words came in a snarling flurry, but made little impact on Dillon who simply stood over him. The urge to put a bullet between his miserable eyes was almost too strong to resist.
“Where’s this doctor got to come from?”
“London. Where the fuck do you think?”
“He’ll be too late. It’ll take him at least two and half hours to get here. By which time you’ll be dead, old son.”