At first Dillon was angry at Khan’s response, but quickly saw that he was right. The Indian community was a very close-knit one, and even if someone knew her it was highly unlikely that they would tell. He dwelled a little on a woman who had had a child and had then simply dumped it on the father’s doorstep because she did not fit into Hart’s wealthy world, and he now felt a little less respect for Hart. But then, that was the whole problem — he knew nothing of the circumstances that had led to such a situation. The fact that Hart had gone with a singer in a bar at all, made no sense. And it was some twenty odd years ago. To try to find Daniel’s mother would be hopeless.
He said, “How far back can you remember Charlie Hart?”
Khan waited whilst the coffees were put down and stared thoughtfully at them. He was sitting on the stool with his legs crossed, his wiry body turned slightly away from Dillon, his gaze shrewdly roaming the reception area and bar.
“That’s difficult to say, specifically. You see, as I recall, Hart was always something of a loner, didn’t mix a great deal. I seem to remember that he would attend those functions where it would look odd if he didn’t, but he never stayed long. A wealthy young man, but that’s nothing new in this place. Millionaires are common place nowadays. That’s why I never became one.”
Dillon smiled. “So how did he make his fortune?”
Khan swivelled round. “Jake, my new friend, you should know that is not the sort of question one asks in New Delhi.”
“You don’t know, or you won’t tell?”
“I’ll give you this. You’re persistent. I’m warming to you, but that doesn’t mean I know, or if I did, that I would wish to tell you.”
“Then you’re wasting my time. I need this information, and I need it now.”
“Look Jake, you’re asking about someone who left India over twenty years ago; whom nobody knew well, because he kept to himself, and who was never my personal friend. I do not know how he made his money, only that he was never short of it. What I do know is that he definitely didn’t get it from his parents.They were comfortable by the standard of those days, but had nothing like the money Hart had.”
“Are you saying he used to flash it around?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Jake. After all, he lived in a red-bricked mansion surrounded by twelve foot high walls in what was, and still is, one of the most affluent of areas in Delhi. This was probably why he bought it. It was nothing short of enchanting, but very few people ever got to go there, except to one of Hart’s rare parties. And before you ask, yes, I was there once. Even then he did not put in too much of an appearance. I remember that because everyone was so surprised he held a party at all. Some speculated that he would sit in his study and observe his guests on CCTV cameras that were strategically placed all over the building. But it was only speculation.”
“Was this shortly before he left India?”
Khan raised a brow, sensing a trap in the question.
“I’m afraid that my memory is not that good on remembering such fine detail, Jake.”
“You have the type of memory,” Dillon said picking up his coffee cup, “that the security services in London rate highly or they wouldn’t be picking up the bill for a five-star hotel and a business class return airline ticket. Nor would they have recommended that I come and talk with you. Was it?”
“As I recall, it could have been, but I believe he left a few weeks later. Simply sold up everything and left. Sold out to a Russian tycoon who now lives in the mansion. His parties are much more frequent. What is it that’s playing on your mind?”
Dillon looked around the busy bar, but there appeared to be no one near to them. “Hart has a UK passport, presumably because his parents were British citizens. But does anyone know anything about Hart’s parents?”
“I believe they came here in 1947, or there about. Hart was born in 1951, went to a British school here in Delhi, and by the time he was sixteen, I believe the saying goes, wheeling and dealing his way to his first fortune. By the time his twentieth birthday came, he was already a millionaire.”
“What was he trading in?”
“Anything that he could get his hands on easily.”
“Drugs?”
“One couldn’t dismiss the idea. After all, opium is a readily available commodity in these parts.”
“Were his parents really murdered by kidnappers?”
“The official police and embassy reports at the time state that they were both killed when the British Imperial Company refused to pay a second ransom. Charlie Hart appeared to take their deaths very badly. So much so, that shortly after he sold up and left India for good.”
“Appeared? Why appeared to take their deaths badly?”
“Some say that Hart owed a large sum of money to, let’s call him, ‘a merchant’ and that his parents were snatched because of this, and that Hart did eventually hand over the money. However, the merchant decided to raise the stakes and also demand a ransom from the company and that the British Consul advised that no payment should be made to the kidnappers. As far as I can see the company was not short of money when the demand was made.”
Dillon gave Khan a cynical look.
“The term ‘merchant’ can cover a multitude of sins and tells me absolutely nothing.”
He finished his coffee and put down the cup.
“Although, it would not be unreasonable to assume that Hart would hold a grudge and believe that the British Consul was to blame for the death of both his parents. Is that everything you know about him?”
“Just about. There is a man, a local, who was Hart’s right-hand man. He’s over in the old part of the city.”
He handed Dillon a small, folded piece of paper with a name and address written on it.
“I can take you to see him, although I doubt that he’ll help you. If Hart is half the businessman I think he is, he’ll most likely still be receiving a generous cheque payment each month.”
“Okay. But we won’t know until we knock on his door, will we?”
“You must understand, Jake, loyalty comes at a high price here.”
“You mean there’s no such thing as bribery here?”
Dillon was quietly laughing. “For a sceptic, and I would have said cynic, you’ve suddenly gone all naive, old son.”
“Well, I suppose if the sum of money is large enough it will catch the attention of the most loyal person. It’s very late. We’ll drive across to see him in the morning. How does six-thirty sound?”
“Early. But, I’ll see you out front six-thirty prompt.”
The two men shook hands and Dillon stood for a moment, watching Khan walk across the foyer, stop briefly at reception to hand over an envelope and then out through the rotating doors of the hotel. There was a nagging doubt in the back of Dillon’s mind about Khan’s integrity, which made him a little uneasy.
By the time Dillon had got back up to his room, he was beginning to feel a little jet-lagged. He took off his clothes and put them away in the wardrobe. Then went and showered off the sweat of travelling. He lay on the bed in the white complimentary bath robe and thought it had been a long way to come for what little he had learnt so far from Khan.
He unfolded the piece of paper with the address Khan had given him: Devdas Shah Zafar, Chandni Chowk, Gurdwara, Sisganj. He returned it to his jacket pocket. Khan was probably right — he could expect very little from someone who had worked for Hart, unless he had a reason to dislike him.
There was a small discreet knock on his door.
Dillon called, “Who is it?”
A male voice on the other side of the door informed him that it was room service. Dillon got up off the bed and unlocked the door; his left hand gripped the Glock inside his robe pocket. He opened the door and moved back to allow the porter to come in with a trolley on which was a bottle in an ice bucket, a splendid floral arrangement, and caviar and small flat biscuits.