“Frank Gardner?” Dillon enquired.
Gardner lowered the newspaper a fraction, peering at Dillon through tortoise-shell framed reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“You must be Jake Dillon then.”
He neatly folded the paper and placed it on an empty seat nearby. Emptied his pint glass and pushed it towards Dillon.
“Mine’s a pint of Best Bitter, then.”
Dillon returned a moment later, and as he sat down Gardner said, “Thanks.”
He raised his glass and proceeded to empty a good third of it before placing it back down onto the table.
“LJ said you’d most likely be in touch at some time. Been expecting a visit, see?”
“Is that your boat down there?” Dillon pointed at a fifty foot power cruiser, which was tied up alongside one of the pontoons in the marina.
“It’s not only my boat, it’s my home as well, see. Her name is The Napster, after the Internet network site Napster. Inc — one of the most notorious file-sharing websites ever, see?”
Gardner saw the look of puzzlement on Dillon’s face.
“LJ obviously didn’t tell you what department I ended up being attached to, then. The Cyber Crime and Anti-Terrorism Unit. And before you say anything, I make no apologies for being a computer nerd. Much better than just sitting behind a desk pushing paper around, see?”
“I’m glad to hear that you’re a computer nerd.”
Gardner smiled. “So what is it you have in mind, then?” And then took another sip of his beer.
“I need you and The Napster for one night soon.”
“Sounds like it might be interesting. What for, then?”
“I may want to do a spot of diving to check out a hunch I have about something to do with my current assignment.”
“Diving, eh? Where?
“The harbour. And before you ask, it’s better that you don’t know where for the time being.”
“Fair enough, I understand. But you won’t want The Napster — she’s too big, see? Much better in the rib, that’s about sixteen feet, shallow keel and very fast, see? Just right for this type of job, and there’s plenty of room for the equipment and air-tanks, see?”
Frank finished his beer and pushed the empty glass towards Dillon. “Better have another, eh?”
Dillon went up to the bar thinking that he may have made a mistake about Gardner. He obviously drank too much, had an annoying habit of ending every sentence with ‘then’, ‘see’ or ‘eh’. But, in his favour, the former spy was an amiable type who, according to LJ, had been an excellent field operative in his day. Dillon knew that he was becoming far too judgemental, but he’d always gone with his gut feelings and they’d never let him down. Although having doubts about Gardner, he would cut him a bit of slack for the time being, especially as he’d only just met him. Dillon’s mobile phone started to ring. It was Vince calling him back about the woman, Rosie Poulter, in Boscombe.
“Vince, what have you got for me?” Dillon walked out onto the deck overlooking the marina.
“Cut straight to the chase, why don’t you? Whatever happened to ‘Hello Vince, how’s it going up there in the grime city?’, or something like that.”
“Sorry, mate. How’s it’s going up there in the big smoke?”
“As to be expected, really. But thank you for asking. How’s it going down in sunny Dorset-by-the-sea?”
“Okay. I’ve made contact with Frank Gardner, LJ’s old buddy from his security service days.”
“What. The Frank Gardner?”
“What do you mean the Frank Gardner?”
“Strewth, mate you must know who he is?”
“He’s one of LJ’s old cronies, isn’t he?”
“That may be, mate. But he was also one of the best computer hackers in the business. Or he was until he went straight and joined MI5.”
“Well, that’s all very interesting. But what have you found out about the Poulter woman?”
“Rosie Poulter had a brother about the same age as her who never went to the orphanage where Rosie lived. Instead he was adopted at the age of two and taken to live with a couple in London. I checked them out, but they’re now both dead. The address where they lived came up on the official records as not existing. So I did a local authority search which showed that the entire area where the terraced house originally stood was bulldozed and completely re-developed back in the late seventies.”
“So what does all of this tell us?”
“Good question. To be honest, Jake, I’m not really sure why you’re so interested in this Poulter woman. She doesn’t appear to be connected in any way to Hart, Trevelyan, Hammer or Latimer.”
“So why does Charlie Hart drive across Bournemouth, sit in a café drinking coffee and then follow her at a distance so as not to be seen? It simply doesn’t make sense.”
Dillon thanked the big Australian for the information he had obtained for him and hung up. As he strolled back inside he wondered why he was concentrating on the Poulter woman and not on Hart himself. Because whatever he knew, Hart must surely know already. It was clear that Rosie Poulter had had a pretty rough life. Perhaps the brother held the key? What had happened down the years to make this happen now?
As Dillon waited for the drinks at the bar he at first thought that Hart must be the brother, suddenly awakening with a conscience. But it was difficult to accept this and, anyway, he had been born in India. And what did any of this have to do with his current assignment? And yet, Dillon felt there was a connection — not an obvious one, but it was there and it was strangely strong, leaving him with an odd feeling of unease.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dillon walked across the hotel’s car park to the apartment. He went through to the kitchen and poured himself a good measure of single malt whiskey. Standing in the near dark for a moment, mulling over what Vince had found out and then went outside onto the balcony. The cool late night air washed over him, instantly calming his mind. He raised the tumbler and drank the smooth, light amber-coloured spirit; the effect was instantly warming. The night sky was unusually clear — the inky blackness speckled with millions of tiny stars that captivated and held his gaze for a moment or two. The spectacular view of the harbour wasn’t registering whilst his mind was so anchored on the history of Rosie Poulter. He knew the beginning and the end but nothing of the middle. Why was she so important?
The only person who could tell him was probably Rosie herself. Or Charlie Hart. But what did this have to do with the gold bullion bars and stolen art cache in Lyme Regis? Several killings, the loss of his own Porsche and the near destruction of the one he’d hired. The hiding away of Issy and, to a lesser degree, of Dunstan Havelock who now had to be wary of making even the most innocent of telephone calls, which raised questions about any part MI5 might be playing in all of this. The Vermeer painting, whether a fake or the original, had long since lost importance.
Dillon considered going straight to Rosie Poulter, but immediately discarded this idea as far too dangerous. And to what end? He couldn’t pin point it, and his instinct told him to stay well clear of the woman for the time being. He had the distinct feeling that he might be stirring up something personal and private that was best left well alone. It was a difficult decision, but one that he felt was right, given that she might still be using drugs and he would not want to add to her problems by stirring up the past.