The two luxury sports cars wound their way across Bournemouth in the light traffic. Hart was driving well, heading generally east towards Christchurch. Dillon didn’t allow himself to get any closer than two cars’ distance; whilst he was part of the flow of traffic, he was relatively safe from being spotted, and could think of no point on these roads where it would ease up, unless Hart intended to head for the motorway.
Dillon kept the Porsche tucked in behind a large white van, just able to see Hart up ahead. Hart drifted to his left and put on his left indicator. Dillon mirrored his actions; three other cars ahead of him were also turning. Dillon closed the gap up as much as he could.
Hart appeared to be in no particular hurry as he drove the Jaguar past The Royal Bath Hotel towards the Lansdown. Here he went on towards Boscombe centre. By now there was nothing between Dillon and Hart and Dillon drove on past, eventually found somewhere to park, and ran back to the corner of the street. At first he couldn’t see where Hart had parked the Jaguar, and then he saw him climb out of the driver’s side and make sure that the door was locked before walking off towards the high street. He followed him at a distance, conscious that the street wasn’t all that busy, forcing him to hang back.
After they’d been walking for two or three minutes, Dillon decided that Hart had walked this route before. At one point he had to duck into a shop doorway as Hart rounded a corner and he had to jog to it in an attempt to keep up with him. Dillon was no stranger to tailing people but as he came around the same corner, Hart had disappeared and was nowhere to be found.
The street in its day would have been a fine example of Victorian architecture. But all that was left today were poorly maintained shop premises that had shabby flats and bed sits over them; some occupied and others that were standing empty, boarded up, their doorways only frequented by tramps looking for shelter. Dillon walked along slowly, scanning both sides. He was just about to give up when he spotted Hart sitting at a table inside a small café. Dillon darted into a newsagents diagonally opposite, and thumbed through a few magazines whilst keeping an eye on Hart, who appeared to be fixated on something holding his attention on Dillon’s side of the street.
Dillon left the newsagents and walked up the street on the fringe of a group of students. He turned into a shop doorway, took out a cigarette and cupped his hands to light it. All the time keeping his attention fixed on the café doorway
Hart was still sitting at the window drinking coffee from a mug and staring across the street, oblivious to everything that was going on around him. Dillon realised that he was so preoccupied that he doubted if he would notice if he went right up to him.
Dillon resisted the temptation to move position to get a better view of Hart’s expression, and it was a full five minutes later that Hart showed any sign of leaving the café. An older woman came out of a building along the street about ten doors away. Hart stood up, went and paid his bill, and a moment later, stepped out onto the pavement. As the woman moved off up the street, Hart followed on the opposite side, a short distance behind.
Dillon was intrigued. He watched Hart keep the woman in sight and decided not to follow. Instead he walked back to the doorway where the woman had emerged from. There was nothing to say who might live there. There wasn’t even a number on the door although there was a wall-mounted entry system with a name next to each of the flat numbers. Dillon thought it slightly odd for such a rundown building to have such a system. He looked back up the street and was just in time to see the woman cross the road as Hart slowed his pace when she’d disappeared around the corner. He followed her. When they had both disappeared, Dillon pressed one of the bell pushes. He didn’t really expect anyone to answer but rang each bell in turn. No one answered until the last but one.
It was a man’s voice who gruffly answered and sounded as if he’d just woken up, or had been woken up. Either way Dillon knew that he wasn’t going to be much help. But, as luck would have it, a moment later, the door opened and a couple in their mid-twenties came outside.
“Excuse me,” said Dillon with an apologetic smile. “I work for a local charity in the high street. A lady who lives in this building kindly gave us a bag of clothing to sell in our shop.”
The young couple looked at him as if he were talking Penguin.
“You see, she left some money in one of the pockets and I’m simply trying to return it to her. I was wondering if you knew the names of your neighbours so that I could trace her.”
“What does she look like mate?” The young male had piercing blue eyes and spoke with a west-country accent.
“About late fifties, maybe sixty something. I’m afraid she was only in the shop for a few seconds, so no one really paid much attention to her.”
“Well there’s only one woman of that description living here — Rosie.”
“Rosie? I don’t suppose you know her surname?”
“I think it’s Rosie Poulter. She lives in flat three on the second floor. Everyone around here knows her. A little bit odd, but harmless enough though. But I don’t think she’s in at the moment.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. I’ll call back later. And thank you,” Dillon said, and without hesitation walked off up the road in the direction he’d come from.
He walked back to the Porsche, got in and sat thinking about Rosie Poulter and what her connection to Charlie Hart was. A minute later he drove off up the road, and was surprised to see the convertible Jaguar just pulling out. Hart had really spent very little time here, so why had he made the trip?
Hart was asking himself the very same question as he drove back to his home on the Sandbanks peninsula. Every time he made the trip to Boscombe, he came away feeling inadequate and ashamed of what he’d become. And then there was the anger he felt for being so foolish and completely obsessive about visiting that part of Bournemouth. It was completely pointless to go there and yet it seemed he had no control over it.
On this occasion he had not followed the woman as far as he usually would have. After she’d got on a bus he had simply wondered around the backstreets for a while. As he walked he considered the previous night’s events and had reluctantly developed a strange kind of respect for Dillon — there were qualities in the man he not only recognised but understood only too well. He would much rather have him as a friend than an enemy. Hart felt somewhat saddened about what he saw as the inevitable outcome. Men like Dillon were extremely rare these days — one-offs. It was a gross miscarriage of justice that he had to be terminated. Yet, however regretful. It had to be done.
Dillon rang Issy from the apartment in Lilliput hoping that she would be in. She was, but just about to go out to lunch with a friend.
“Issy, I just wanted you know that there have been developments with the assignment.”
But before he could say anymore she exploded down the line and told him what he could do with the assignment, adding, “I’m sorry, Jake, but I am not prepared to be hidden away for a moment, longer, and I will be back in my office first thing tomorrow morning whether you like it or not. It’s been long enough and I’ve had enough.”
“Issy, they’ve put an open contract out on me. They want me dead and they’re willing to pay for it.”
He had not wanted to tell her, but it was now necessary to keep her safely tucked away and out of harm’s way.
“That’s a dirty trick, Jake. Made more so because I know that you’re not going to expand upon it.”
She didn’t want to believe him, at the same time knew it must be true — under normal circumstances he would not want her to know such facts. Even though she was aware that this was definitely not the first time his life had had a price put on it.