Part 6 (2/2)
”Isn't that a problem?”
”For Josef with all his wealth? For a man with no love of the British? The locals have embraced him like one of their own. He goes back a long way with Kelly.”
”And you? Do they embrace you as well?”
”Of course. My natural charm.”
She smiled. ”Now what?”
”I'll give you a nice dinner.”
”And Dillon?”
”Oh, he'll be well taken care of.” He waved for a pa.s.sing taxi.
5.
At the bar at the Dorchester Ballroom, they were finis.h.i.+ng the champagne. Hannah said, ”You were a bit heavy, sir.”
”Oh, I intended to be. Luhzkov hung himself. Now we all know where we are, which is how I prefer it.”
”You ould devil. What you're looking for is a reaction,” Dillon said.
”Something like that. I spoke to Roper earlier. Told him to compute a report on Belov. Everything there is. I expect you two to read it thoroughly.”
”Of course, sir,” Hannah said.
”Good. On our way, then.”
They paused at the cloakroom to get coats, and it had started to rain slightly when they went out on the pavement and the Daimler coasted in.
”I'll drop you off,” Ferguson said.
”Not me, if you don't mind,” Dillon told him. ”I feel like the walk.”
”In the rain, dear boy?” Ferguson opened the door for Hannah. ”You'll have to excuse him, Superintendent. It's an Irish thing, the rain.”
”Sure, and your sainted mother, being a Cork woman, would have agreed with you.”
”Take care, you rogue, and stay out of trouble.”
”Always do, General.”
Dillon watched the Daimler drive off, then walked away, his collar up against the rain. He went across the entrance of the hotel and made his way down through Mayfair in the general direction of Shepherd's Market.
That he was being followed had been obvious since leaving the ballroom. Two men, one in a reefer coat and knitted cap, the other in an anorak and baseball cap. Stupid, really, and they'd stuck out like a sore thumb among the kind of people leaving the Dorchester.
Just before reaching Shepherd's Market, he paused on a corner to light a cigarette, then turned into a narrow side street of old town houses, fronted by Victorian spiked railings, with steps leading down to bas.e.m.e.nt areas. He quickened his pace, then dashed down a flight of steps and waited in the darkness.
There was a sound of running steps. A voice said, ”Where's he gone, for Christ's sake?”
Dillon came up the steps and stood behind them, hands in the pockets of his raincoat.
”So there you are, lads,” he said. ”I was beginning to give up on you.”
”Why, you little squirt.” The man in the reefer coat turned to his friend. ”Leave this to me.”
He took a length of lead pipe from one pocket. Dillon said, ”Very old-fas.h.i.+oned.”
”Is that so?”
The man made a sudden rush, arm raised to strike down. Dillon swayed to one side, stamped against the side of one of the man's knees so that he lurched past him, head down, and Dillon put a foot to his backside and sent him headfirst down the steps to the bas.e.m.e.nt.
The man in the baseball cap took a knife from his pocket and sprang the blade. ”You little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I'll show you.”
”Well, let's be having you, then.”
The knife swung, Dillon caught hold of the wrist, turned it and the arm like a steel bar, then ran him headfirst into the railings. The man slumped to the pavement, his nose broken, blood on his mouth.
Dillon crouched beside him. ”Now then, who sent you?”
”Get stuffed,” the man moaned.
”You've got b.a.l.l.s, I'll give you that.” Dillon was carrying a Walther PPK in his waistband at the rear under his jacket, and now he produced it. ”But I've got this, and where I come from we find a bullet through the kneecap cures most ills. A crippling experience, mind you.”
”Okay.” The man put a hand up. ”It was Charlie Harker put us on your case. Gave us a grand to cripple you.”
”Harker? And who would he be?”
”He runs everything on the river, from here down to the Isle of Dogs.”
”Really?” Dillon reached inside the man's anorak, found a wad of notes and took them out. ”A thousand quid from this Charlie Harker.” He shook his head. ”It gives me more pleasure to leave it with you than to take it.”
”Screw you,” the man said.
”I said you have b.a.l.l.s. Not many brains, though. Now, if I were you, I'd call an ambulance.”
He walked away, and stood on the corner thinking about it. Charlie Harker who ran everything on the river down to the Isle of Dogs? The name didn't mean a thing to Dillon. On the other hand, he knew someone to whom it very probably did. He flagged down a pa.s.sing cab, told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street and got in.
He was thinking of Harry Salter, once one of the most feared men in London, a very old-fas.h.i.+oned gangster, now a multimillionaire from the warehouse developments he'd built on the side of the Thames. The relations.h.i.+p between Harry, his nephew Billy, and Dillon and Ferguson had become close, tested in the fire on a number of occasions. If anyone knew about Harker, it would be Harry Salter.
At the same moment, Charlie Harker was in a pub called the Red Lion in Kilburn in London, sitting reading the Evening Standard Evening Standard and enjoying a pint. Most people stayed well clear of him, well aware that it was best for their health. A large, heavily built man in a dark suit leaned against the wall behind him. His name was Mosby and he was Harker's minder. and enjoying a pint. Most people stayed well clear of him, well aware that it was best for their health. A large, heavily built man in a dark suit leaned against the wall behind him. His name was Mosby and he was Harker's minder.
Harker's mobile went. He answered it and found Ali Selim on the other end. ”Mr. Harker, I must see you.”
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