He went out to the local delicatessen for a sandwich and a coffee and returned to the club, reluctant to keep placing himself in public view. But all the time conscious that he had to continue the momentum.
He turned on the television and started to flick through the news channels, searching for any reports and was shocked to hear on the local BBC news round-up that Julian Latimer had been found shot dead in his penthouse apartment by unknown gunmen. An official Common’s press photo of Latimer was being shown in the top left-hand corner of the screen. The reporter was standing outside the apartment building speaking to a neighbour, who was telling her that she had seen nothing but how awful it was to have that sort of violence in such a wealthy area of the city. The camera cut back to a high ranking police officer who was just about to make an official statement. He said that the place had been ransacked and valuables stolen to the value of many thousands of pounds, and that the safe had been broken into and cleared out. Dillon stood in front of the screen, not able to believe what he was hearing. Had Trevelyan decided that Latimer had become a liability and that this morning’s fracas was too good an opportunity to miss out on? He’d most likely been shot whilst he still lay unconscious on the living room floor. Trevelyan would not be disappointed anyway — he had probably got rid of an increasing liability and his profits would now be that much higher.
No mention was made of the front door having been holed or the three dead men, so Trevelyan must have sent in a clean-up team before the police got anywhere near. Dillon felt that the odds had just got shorter against him. He wondered if there was any point in driving down to Dorset and Hampshire to investigate the other addresses on the list. If there had been anything hidden in any of them they would almost certainly have been cleared out and moved to other more secure locations by now.
He phoned Vince and asked him to check the home telephone number of Brendon Morgan. It came as no surprise to either of them that he was not listed and even with Vince’s sophisticated software searching all of the Government databases, nothing came up for the MI5 section head. Dillon rang the mobile number that Havelock had given him, hoping that Morgan might be at home and that if he answered he would be happy to meet him there. He knew it was a long shot as he dialled the number, and waited for a reply. The voicemail cut in and Morgan’s voice instructed the caller to leave him a message and he would get a call back. He hung up without leaving a message and immediately called Havelock’s private Whitehall number.
“I’m surprised you’re not taking tea and cakes at this time of the afternoon, Dunstan. I’m trying to find Brendon Morgan’s address — he’s obviously not going to be listed in any of the publicly accessible databases, so I was wondering if you mind getting it for me?”
“For your information, I do not have the time to indulge in tea and cakes on any afternoon. And I can’t simply ask for his address without them finding out. Active personnel details are held on a database that is kept securely in a vault inside their building, as you well know.”
“What about the telephone companies, surely you must have the weight of office to be able to get them to help you?”
“Jake, I sometimes wonder what sort of contacts you think I have. I’m not in the security service or the police or any of those things. You’ve got more chance of Vince Sharp finding out. I really can’t help you.”
He then added quickly, “Or maybe I can. I have a top police contact who owes me a bit of a favour. Ring me back in an hour on this number and we had better hope that this line is not being monitored, because I’m sure the one at home is. Now I must get on. Goodbye, Jake.”
Dillon sat in the Porsche at the end of the street, parked on double yellow lines across an entrance to some allotments because it was the only space he could find. It was 8.15 p.m., and just starting to get dark. He’d been sitting there for about twenty minutes, and was not wearing a disguise. Morgan could have been at home for some time, of course — it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption that he might have entered his home through a back door. Dillon decided to give it a while longer, because he did not relish the prospect of actually calling on him at his home.
East Finchley appeared to be a quiet affluent area, with few cars or people passing along the road where Dillon was parked. The station was no more than half a mile away and so Dillon had to use his judgement on when to make his move. The street was almost clear of cars; the people in the allotments had left whilst it had still been daylight, and the residents all had driveways and garages. Dillon decided to park closer to Morgan’s house which lay hidden behind a tall beech hedge at the end of a gravel driveway. Before getting out, he looked up and down the street to see if there were any suspicious vehicles around. Satisfied that there weren’t, he climbed out and stood for a moment, by the side of the car.
It was almost 9 p.m., and Dillon was starting to feel dampness in the night air when a car approached, slowed, and then turned into Morgan’s driveway. Dillon quickened his pace as he crossed to the other side of the road. The tail lights of the Mercedes saloon went out and a moment later, the driver’s door opened. Dillon was already crunching his way up the gravel driveway and called to the man as he climbed out of the car.
“Are you Brendon Morgan?”
In the gloom Dillon watched as the figure stiffened and slammed the car door. “I’ve heard that voice before.” He turned to face Dillon.
“Jake Dillon,” Dillon said, holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to disturb you at your home. But I need to talk to you.”
“You’d better come inside then,” Morgan said, and walked off towards the front door. A security light came on as they approached the porch, giving Dillon the opportunity to make a quick appraisal of the spook. He was tall and slim, somewhere in his mid-forties with greying hair, was wearing a well-cut light grey business suit and carried a black leather laptop case.
“I’d rather we talk in my car.”
“Okay. I’ll just pop inside and tell my wife, or she’ll wonder where I am.”
“She’ll have to wonder. Come on, let’s get this over with. I don’t have all night.”
“I was told that you’re an unreasonable and surly bugger. It won’t take me more than a few seconds.”
“I know that. But I would imagine that she’s not only a credit to you, but very competent as well. I’m almost certain that she would be raising the alarm as we speak.” Morgan stepped closer — his eyes glinting in the harsh tungsten light, and just for a second there was a hint of aggression, and then it was gone.
“How did you get hold of my home address?”
“I have my sources, but I will admit that I had to use up a few favours to get it. Now, come on, Brendon, don’t make me threaten you, because I’m getting tired of doing that. Just a short chat and I’ll be on my way.”
“All right. May I drop my case in the porch first?”
“Yes. But I’ll be watching.”
“Trusting, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Well don’t worry yourself, I’m not going to summon up a team of agents out of thin air,” Morgan said in derision as he crunched his way to the porch with Dillon two steps behind him.
Morgan placed the case inside the porch and they walked back to the Porsche and got in. Morgan wasn’t used to the low head height and bucket seats of the sports car, caught his foot on the threshold plate and unceremoniously slumped down in the seat.