“It’s too soon to return to Dorset. I was bloody lucky the first time, but I can’t expect to get away with it again.”
“But you found the gold and the other gear, why should you want to go back?”
“Because I’m not satisfied. There’s another angle on Hart that I’m following up, but it may come to nothing. There’s something not quite right with him being associated with Trevelyan and if it came to choosing who would come out on top between those two, I would put my money on Charlie Hart. There’s a lot of experience there. And that makes him a formidable man.”
“What kind of experience?”
“Well that’s the question, isn’t it? What about Issy?”
“After this chat I think we have no option but to let her go. I don’t see how we can justify holding her now if you’re working with us. But we can arrange some protection. By the way, just how did you get involved with this in the first place?”
“Sir Lucius was approached and I was asked to do a favour for the Americans. A simple thing, really. But I discovered something that I shouldn’t have, and from that point on I was treading on toes that I didn’t know were there. I knew that the assignment was going to be far from simple when Hart had my Porsche blown up and I received a letter bomb the next morning. When Issy became involved, I wanted to put the brakes on the assignment. LJ agreed and so did the partners of Ferran & Cardini. Hart and Trevelyan had other ideas and that wasn’t one of the options. I tried talking to Hart, but it was too late, I’d discovered too much and they had too much to hide, but at that time they didn’t know what I’d found out. In fact, at that stage I knew damn all. Latimer was the only one who knew that I’d found the gold and works of art. A secret I’m confident he wouldn’t have been able to divulge before they killed him.”
“Can you be certain of that?”
“Pretty certain. Before I left his penthouse this morning he was deeply unconscious from the blow to the back of the neck I’d given him. My guess is that Trevelyan’s boys went back in and finished him off before he’d regained consciousness.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Morgan blew his nose loudly and then sat contemplating what Dillon had just told him.
“Did you kill Latimer?”
“Do you think I’d tell you if I had? No. He was either killed by a stray bullet meant for me, or the order was given and the opportunity too good to miss to get rid of him once and for all. I genuinely think that he had served his usefulness to Trevelyan. Furthermore, whether his death was an accident or by design, Trevelyan won’t be unhappy about it.”
Morgan nodded in the darkness of the car’s interior.
“Okay, you’ve proved your point. You can do things we dare not try.”
“Bollocks. What you’re saying is it doesn’t matter if I get caught. Look, Brendon, it’s been nice talking but I’ve got to get back.”
They both climbed out of the sports car. Morgan slammed the passenger door closed and Dillon walked him back across the road to the entrance of his driveway.
Morgan turned to Dillon. “So we still don’t know how to contact you.”
“Better that way, don’t you think? Take the phone tap off of Dunstan Havelock’s home number. He’s about to complain to the Home Secretary and as the original enquiry stemmed from that office, you’d better tread carefully. You wouldn’t want your funding to be suddenly cut.”
“Tut-tut. You’re assuming that we have it tapped. Do keep us posted on any major developments, Jake. It’s been most enlightening to meet you at last.”
The two men shook hands and Dillon was just about to walk back to his car when he said, “Do you see Charlie Hart as a security risk?”
Morgan stood thinking about the question for a moment, before replying, “That’s the question, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ll be able to find out.”
Dillon reached the Porsche, pausing for a moment, and briefly glanced back towards Morgan’s house before climbing into the car and immediately checking his rear-view mirror. The road was quiet, there were no strange vans or cars parked, and he felt strangely pleased that Morgan had kept the conversation fairly light and pleasant. But he did have some doubts as to why he was driving away with far more knowledge than he had imparted. They had gone to great lengths to find him for so little in return, particularly when Havelock had told him that they could not tell him anything because it was so highly classified. What had changed to allow Morgan to declassify what he’d just told him?
Dillon drove off slowly, glancing in his rear-view mirror every now and then. He turned a corner and then another before he stopped on double yellow lines. He sat there with the engine idling whilst he waited for a car or a van to cruise by. Nothing happened. He decided that he was becoming paranoid and that his basic distrust of the security service was such that he could only find negativity with them. He saw nothing wrong with that, but did accept that even with the resources of the firm he could not work alone on this assignment. He needed the intelligence information just given to him, and he might need their help in other ways as well.
He drove back into the city with the sedate reverence of an old lady, at speeds he believed the Porsche engine management system would never allow. He entered the underground garage of The Old Colonial Club and parked the car, went up to his rooms and phoned Grace. Issy answered and his spirits immediately lifted with joy. He talked with her without once mentioning that he’d struck a deal to ensure that she was looked after. The minders would be positioned outside in the street by now, which made Dillon feel much more comfortable about telling her that she could return to something as near to a normal life as was practically possible. She enthused about the lavish suite of rooms that she had been staying in and that she’d been pampered like a film star. Even down to the luxury Mercedes that had brought her back home. They talked as old friends and lovers do, and when finally they hung up Dillon had to admit to himself that Morgan had not only kept his word, but had been exceptionally quick about it.
Although late, he went in search of something to eat and found a small Italian restaurant around the corner with an amiable chef willing to knock him up a bowl of pasta. The meal was enjoyable and the glass of red wine went down nicely. When he returned he discovered that there was a message to ring a Mr. Sharp at a London number. He called back immediately.
“Rosie Poulte, this could simply be a coincidence and that there are two Rosie Poulters. But according to a document I’ve just found on a very old database at central archives, a woman by this name was recorded by the coroner’s office as having died in 1978. Death by drowning due to misadventure. Is that helpful?”
“No. Not in the least bit. Why wasn’t that picked up on the first search?”
“Too far back and the original database had been placed into an archived programme that doesn’t reveal itself unless specifically asked for.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where did she die?” Dillon felt as if a piece of the jigsaw had just fallen into place.
“According to the record, Brighton.”
“So there is the possibility that the woman in Bournemouth is an impostor, using a dead woman’s identity?”
“What is her connection to Hart, though?”
“That’s what I need to find out.”
“You coming into the office tomorrow?”
“No. Tell LJ that I’ll email him a report of all recent events. Oh, and Vince, good work, mate.”
Dillon hung up, glanced down at his Omega Seamaster watch, and decided to fly to New Delhi on the first available flight into Indira Gandhi International Airport the next day.
CHAPTER TWENTY