He kept to the wooded area at the front of the house, staying to the cover of the trees for as long as possible. When he was almost upon the house, he paused for a moment, taking a pair of small binoculars to look for any noticeable movement around the property. Sure that it was safe, he removed the Glock from its holster, made sure the safety was off, replaced it, then moved out of cover to the front porch. He gazed around under the porch — nothing seemed to have changed. The police, having found no bodies, had probably lost interest as nothing had actually been stolen. He rang the bell and turned his back to the door, spinning round only when he heard the bolt slide back and the door open.
A woman faced him, and although he hadn’t really seen her he immediately recognised Harry Conner’s wife, Sheila. It was lucky that she didn’t know him, but she was highly suspicious after recent events.
“Is Harry in?” Dillon asked, casting his gaze over her shoulder to the hallway beyond.
A flicker of recognition touched her eyes as she heard his voice. She started to open her mouth to cry out when Dillon said amiably, “Please don’t scream. I’m really not in the mood for using this today.”
Sheila Conner stared down the silenced barrel, in wide-eyed astonishment, at the Glock pointing at her and Dillon thought that she was going to pass out. Instead she lurched forward with her fist drawn back, ready to hit him. He managed to sidestep the blow as it grazed his cheekbone, and before she had a chance to yell out he’d caught her just behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. Not hard enough to knock her out completely, but merely to stun, giving him enough time to push her back inside the hallway.
Whilst she was still dazed, he spun her round against the wall, and gagged her with the tea towel that she’d had tucked into her apron. He pulled out a length of thin rope from the rucksack and quickly bound her wrists, trailing the rope down to her ankles and doing the same to them, so that both hands and feet were joined together with the same piece of rope. He was just pulling the knots tight when Harry Conner called out, “Who is it, luv?”
The voice came from upstairs which Dillon mounted two at a time, slowing down as he neared the landing. He crouched down behind the balustrade as he saw the faintest shadow moving around in what looked like the master bedroom, just to the left of the stairs on the opposite side of the landing.
“Sheila!”
The alarm in the tone suggested that Conner had already guessed that there was trouble. Dillon remained in a low crouch as he moved cautiously towards the doorway. He could see the shadow recede deeper into the room and he now caught the sound of a telephone keypad being used. He knew what was happening and dashed the remaining few steps, burst into the bedroom where he almost caught a bullet in the head. Stopping dead he threw himself flat on the floor. Conner had the phone in one hand and a gun in the other. He was about to fire again, but Dillon was already rolling and aiming, shouting quickly, “Don’t be a fool, Harry. Think of Sheila.”
Conner hesitated, clearly not comfortable with a gun, saw the steadiness with which Dillon held the Glock, felt the gun waver in his hand, and almost burst into tears from the frustration.
“Drop the gun and kick it towards me, Harry. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Conner dropped the gun, kicked it across the floor towards Dillon and then put down the phone slowly onto the bed. Dillon slipped the pistol into his jacket pocket and stood up.
“You should be proud of Sheila — she almost had me with a perfect right hook.”
He walked over to a chair and sat down.
“I’m afraid that she’s going to have a bit of a bruise just behind her left ear, but otherwise she’ll be fine. I had to restrain and gag her too. Now get downstairs and I’ll be right behind you. No heroics. If you’re sensible no harm will come to either of you.”
Conner went down the stairs with Dillon following and went straight to Sheila as soon as he saw her on the floor. She was already struggling fiercely to get free, didn’t stop for a second even when she caught sight of Dillon who had little trouble in persuading Conner to be sensible and tell him where the security system switch for the garage alarm was. He wasted no more time, gagged and bound Conner, dragged him, and then his wife, into the living room, and tied them together with the last piece of rope from his rucksack.
He quickly went round the house, checking that all the other rooms were empty. He found the switch for the alarm behind a small panel by the front door and took his rucksack out to the garage where he used a set of picks to unlock the door at the rear, entered and switched on the light. The van was missing.
He went back into the house feeling uneasy. The Conners were at home, but the white van was missing. So where was the van? He went back into the living room where he found Sheila almost free of the rope bindings. She was becoming tiresome, and Dillon made sure that she knew it as he roughly bound her wrists and ankles again. He undid Harry Conner’s gag and asked him where the van was. Sheila shot a look of warning, but Conner didn’t have the same courage as his wife.
“I let a friend borrow it.”
“When is it due back?”
“I haven’t got a clue. I told him to keep it as long as he wanted. His car is in the garage for work, see?”
Conner was trying his best to put on a show in front of Sheila, knowing he would pay for it later if he didn’t.
Dillon dragged Conner by the feet into the kitchen and closed the door. He pulled out the Glock.
“Now then, Harry. Sheila can’t hear us talking in here. Have you anything to add or do you want your left elbow shattered into a million tiny pieces?”
“I’m telling you the truth. The van has been borrowed.”
Dillon immediately picked up on the shift of emphasis.
“It’s not a friend, is it? So it must be one of Trevelyan’s men. When’s he due back?”
“I haven’t got a clue. Look, when Tommy Trevelyan finds out about this he’ll come after you, mate.”
“I’m not your mate, Harry. And quite frankly, Trevelyan doesn’t frighten me in the least. He’s nothing more than a decrepit old thug whose time on this planet is very limited. Do I make myself clear?”
Conner nodded.
“Good, because I want you to tell him that as well. I’ll be back.”
Dillon left Conner trussed up on the floor in the kitchen and closed the door behind him. He ran back through to the garage, not sure how much time he had. He moved the empty crates away from the trapdoor in the garage floor and went down the steps to the small anti-room. He went straight to the far side and rested his shoulder against the secret door, which moved effortlessly on its pivot hinge as it had done before. He switched on the torch he’d brought with him in the rucksack and shone its beam into the passageway beyond. At the other end he pushed opened the door to the main storage room, but as the torch beam darted and danced over the walls, he sat back on his haunches and cursed out loud. The room was empty.
He went inside to make absolutely sure. Everything had gone and the floor had been freshly painted so that it appeared that nothing had ever been there. Disappointment was an understatement; he had taken the risk of returning for nothing. He backed out of the room, moving quickly along the passageway, closed the heavy concrete slab and went up the steps. He replaced the empty crates over the trapdoor and went back to the house.