“You know that I wouldn’t bullshit you over something like this, Issy. Of course I’m aware that being cooped up must be driving you nuts. But I’m also sure that your other partners are coping just fine, especially as you’re still working, albeit from home.”
“Are you thick, Jake? The world doesn’t only revolve around you, you know? I want my life back because I’m fed up with being locked up like a caged bird.”
“Look, it won’t be for much longer, I promise. And when this is over we’ll get away. Somewhere hot and peaceful.”
There was a long pause before Issy asked tearfully, “Where?”
Dillon was taken aback by the bluntness of her reply, but thought quickly of a place they’d both spoken of in the past.
“South Africa?”
“Not bad, Dillon. Can you be more specific?”
“How about the master suite at Pezula Castle?”
Her voice brightened, the tears had all but gone. She knew it was shallow, but why shouldn’t she take advantage of this fabulous offer which she knew would be a once in a lifetime holiday. It was as much as she could do to contain the rising excitement that she was now feeling.
“Pezula Castle?”
“Yeah, overlooking Plettenberg Bay. Now will that stop you going into that damned office of yours for a few more days?”
“Oh, I think I can stay put for a little while longer.”
Dillon hung up and using the secure line on his mobile phone, dialled the special projects department of Ferran & Cardini.
“Vince, I want you to take this name down. There’s a ‘Rosie Poulter’ living in Christchurch Road, Boscombe, Bournemouth. She lives alone but has one daughter, who may be at university. The woman is somewhere in her late fifties, or possibly early sixties. See what you can dig up for me. Everything you can find out about her from the minute she was born. But be extra careful that you don’t leave a trail behind you. We can’t be too sure about who may be monitoring us, and this woman has some sort of connection to Charlie Hart.”
“I’ll send the info in email form to your phone, but it will take about twenty-four hours. Oh, there is one more thing, Jake.”
“What’s that?”
“Dunstan Havelock’s home and his private Whitehall phone lines are both being monitored by the security services.”
“Are you positive?”
“One hundred percent. As luck would have it, I intercepted an email confirming it to one of the monitoring departments at GCHQ. It grabbed my attention because it was so heavily encrypted, but not so much that I wasn’t able to decipher it within ten minutes though.” The big Australian chuckled out loud.
“Why are they so interested, Vince? And why are they so keen to talk to me? Something is all cock-eyed about this whole affair and I reckon they know that I’m getting very close to finding out what it is.”
“Well it might have something to do with what you found down in Dorset. I’ve been reading the report you sent to LJ. I’m sure that they know nothing about the gold or the other things you found, and it’s best kept that way. But I’ve no doubt whatsoever, they have their suspicions.”
“What makes you think that?”
“As you know, every now and then I go snooping around in the security service archive files. Electronically, that is.”
“And?”
“It may be nothing, but about twenty-five years ago three tons of gold were stolen from the Brinks Mat warehouse near Heathrow Airport. Or, to put it another way, 6,800 bars were put into seventy-six boxes and have never been found.”
Vince let Dillon take this in for a second and then continued.
“The police files state that it was a South London gang at work, but that it was no ordinary robbery. They handed it over to MI5 because there were rumours that it might be linked to the IRA.”
“And you think that there might be a connection?”
“What I think, mate, is that MI5 was told by our illustrious leader, LJ, about the list of names and addresses that you lifted from Latimer’s place. They were extremely quick in telling him to forget about it, as it was nothing of any importance. So LJ asked me to take a look at their internal email system and this was crammed full with urgent emails about, none other than, Tommy Trevelyan. I’ll leave you to work that one out. As for the old woman, I’ll contact you when I find out anything about her.”
“Thanks, Vince.”
Dillon hung up, and thought about phoning Dunstan Havelock. But he decided that it would put the home secretary’s personal aide in too much danger to contact him, given what Vince had just told him about the security service.
He went out onto the balcony and stood taking in the view of the harbour. A light breeze was blowing in off the ocean, the sun high in a sky of unbroken blue. And as he gazed across the water at Brownsea Island, he remembered what Stella, Paul Hammer’s lover, had said. She had recalled the words said in a moment of drunkenness, ‘There’s blood in the harbour’. Dillon went back inside and got the canvas holdall, extracted a nautical chart from one of the side pockets, and took a close look at an area of channel on the southern side of the National Trust Island. There it was, Blood Alley. Using his mobile phone he pushed the speed dial button and was immediately connected to Vince Sharp.
“Vince, can you get me everything ever written about the Brinks Mat robbery and email it all to my laptop?”
“It’ll be with you in an hour or so.”
“Thanks mate, I really appreciate it.”
Dillon hung up, thinking he had better get some sleep.
He slept for several hours and it was dark when he awoke. Dillon went through to the open plan living room and booted up his laptop, immediately opened his mailbox, and discovered that one message had been received. Vince had sent the information he’d asked for about the Brinks Mat robbery. A moment later, his mobile phone started to ring — it was Vince’s mobile number.
“Do you know how many Poulters there are in the United Kingdom? How many Rosemary Poulters? I hope I never see that name again. Mrs. Rosemary Poulter, nee Clarke. Born May 11, 1946, lived in an orphanage in the east end of London until the age of seventeen. At that time she was sent down to Brighton to work as a chambermaid in one of the big hotels. She met Leonard Poulter whilst working there, and they married a year later, after she became pregnant. Nine months later, she gave birth to a daughter, Sarah. The records show that the marriage was dissolved five years later on the grounds that Leonard had been adulterous. Seems like Rosie brought up the baby on her own and did a pretty good job too, by the looks of it. Sarah left school with outstanding exam results. The records also show that she obtained an Open University degree and graduated with honours four years later. She now teaches media studies at Bournemouth University. Rosie Poulter moved to Bournemouth about six years ago.”
“Anything else?”
“Only that Rosie Poulter has been a registered drug addict for many years and has a police record as long as your arm.”
“This just gets more interesting by the day. Let me guess: heroin?”
Vince confirmed this and then said, “Heroin and she was picked up and charged with soliciting. But surely she’s a bit old for all that malarkey.”
“Um, well it fits perfectly with the area she lives in now and the way she looks. But what the hell is the connection to Charlie Hart?”
“Haven’t got a clue mate. I’ll leave you to work that out.”
“Thanks. See what else you can dig up, keeping in mind the angle with Hart.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as anything turns up.”
Dillon left the apartment around eight that evening, walked the short distance to Salterns Hotel, and made directly for the main bar. Just as LJ had said, Frank Gardner was there and Dillon immediately recognised him from his description. Slender build with a beer belly, somewhere in his mid-to-late fifties with cropped fair hair, tanned skin and wearing a polo shirt with denim jeans and a pair of tatty old deck shoes. The former MI5 spy was sitting by a window overlooking the marina and reading a newspaper. He briefly looked up as Dillon sat down on the chair opposite him and placed his drink down on the small, circular table.