Dillon sometimes thought he was chasing shadows. There were so many things that could not be clearly assessed, not least Hart himself, who was particularly difficult to place in context. His association with Trevelyan was strange; as was that of Latimer, but Hammer was a wealthy man and money always made the way easier.
The next morning Dillon weighed up his options. After some deliberation and rummaging around in the canvas holdall, he pulled out a pair of white trainers, blue overalls, and a wig. From a pocket on the side he took a small leather-bound file and flicked through the plastic inserts until he found what he was looking for. The forged identity card had a photo of him wearing the wig on one side of it, and the name of a telecom engineering company down the other. The telephone number shown went straight through to a maze of options offered by the automated switchboard number at Ferran & Cardini.
Dillon left his rooms at The Old Colonial Club and went down to the car park. He put on the disguise he had chosen in the car and five minutes later drove off towards Julian Latimer’s apartment. He parked the Porsche in a multi-story car park two streets away and walked the remaining short distance to Latimer’s apartment block. It took him only a few minutes to locate the main terminal box for all of the apartments in the building. And only a few seconds for him to access it and disable the phone line to Latimer’s penthouse apartment. He pushed the intercom button and then stood back and waited for a reply.
“Peverill Telecom, Mr. Latimer. Our system has detected that you have a faulty line, sir. I’ll need to come up and check that everything is okay with your installed devices.”
“There’s no problem here. I’m afraid you’ve been sent on a fool’s errand. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Dillon jumped in quickly, “I think you will find that your phone line and broadband are both down, sir. It will only take up a moment of your time.”
Latimer huffed down the intercom, went and tried his phone and then came back. Dillon could hear him pick the handset up again.
“Damn and blast it. You appear to be right — the bloody thing is completely dead. Bloody inconvenient.”
There was a short buzzer sound and then the front door catch was released. A moment later, Dillon entered the familiar entrance hall. The heavy door closed automatically behind him and it was a stark reminder of the risk he was taking by trapping himself in this way. He took the lift all the way up to the top floor and Latimer’s penthouse. As the door slid back he remained inside, listening for any noises that shouldn’t be there, but it was uncannily quiet. Anyone who worked would already be out by this time, but Dillon had taken the chance that Latimer would not leave for the House until later that morning, if he went at all.
The front door to the penthouse was ajar, but Dillon still rang the bell and then stood well back from the door. Latimer pulled open the door and stood there in a silk dressing gown, his right hand tucked in a pocket, in which Dillon was convinced he was holding a small handgun.
“Identity card,” Latimer asked bluntly, holding his free hand out. He studied it carefully, looked up once to verify the image on the card matched up with the man stood in front of him. And then after a moment said, “I’ve never heard of this company and they are most certainly not my telecom supplier.”
Dillon thought quickly.
“We’re contracted to carry out emergency repairs for this building by the freeholder. All I was told was to get myself down here as fast as the traffic would allow, and fix the problem. Time is money, see?”
Dillon remained calm and nonchalant, however he seriously suspected that his cover had been blown, and that Latimer had suddenly recognised him from their brief encounter before.
“Well, as far as I’m aware no one has informed me or the residents’ committee about this arrangement. But I suppose you’d better come in and do whatever it is you do,” Latimer said, his hand shifting in the pocket of the silk dressing gown.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dillon remained in character and gave the politician no indication that he’d spotted the weapon pointing at him as he was shown into the kitchen. Latimer opened the door of one of the wall cabinets to expose the penthouse control and distribution server unit which was located inside. Dillon went through the motions of taking off the cover and checking the connections with a small amp meter. All the time Latimer was watching him intently over his shoulder. Two minutes later Dillon told him that everything appeared to be okay, and that once the main junction box outside was reset the phone and broadband would come back on line.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Latimer. The office will send you a conformity notice that will tell you what work was carried out and give you a reference number should anything go wrong in the future.”
Latimer made no comment, except for a derisory huff of dismissal.
Dillon saw an expression of contempt and distain cross the politician’s face, but he became more relaxed at the front door as he realised Dillon was leaving after such a short time. Dillon knew he would not get another opportunity. He moved forward quickly, hit Latimer hard on the jaw and then caught him as he collapsed. He pulled the unconscious body inside the hall and closed the door before pulling the handgun from Latimer’s dressing gown pocket.
He dragged the politician into the living room and man-handled him onto a chair. He then went to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a jug of cold water which he threw in Latimer’s face, and then sat down on a dining chair opposite and waited for him to come round.
Latimer shook his head and gasped for air as he started to come round. The colour had drained from his face and his jaw had started to swell; the immaculate Latimer suddenly looked more than his age and his usually well-groomed silver-coloured hair was now thoroughly soaked, clinging partially to his scalp. His eyes were glazed, unable to focus on Dillon who thought the older man was going to be sick. Latimer had always lived a comfortable life, had never been on the wrong side of violence and was now finding it an extremely uncomfortable and painful experience. He tried to pull himself upright and at the same time his right hand delved into the dressing gown pocket.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
Dillon held up the small Russian PSM pistol, holding it by the trigger guard between forefinger and thumb.
“I hope you’ve got a licence for this thing. Or did dear old Tommy Trevelyan supply it from what, one can only imagine, would be his considerable armoury? But I do congratulate you on your choice of weapon, Latimer. The PSM, or Pistolet Samozaryadnyi Malogabaritnyj to give its full name, is one of the thinnest small calibre self-defence guns ever made. As favoured by the KGB plain clothes operatives back in the bad old days when Mother Russia had them standing on every street corner.”
“You must be Dillon. My God, you’re a distasteful piece of slime.”
The words were slightly slurred and it must have been extremely painful for him to talk.
“That’s right, Latimer. But if I’m distasteful, I’m not sure what you’d be. But priceless, you are. It’s rich coming from someone who takes the taxpayers’ hard-earned money and gives so little in return. You’re a rotten apple, Latimer. Everybody knows that you’re a waste of space and as corrupt as they get, but I’m the one who can bring you down and in the process, I’ll stamp on your head — hard.”