LITMIR.BIZ

       6

      Later that afternoon at Ferguson’s flat, the General sat by the fire, listening to Hannah Bernstein’s account of the trip. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You seem to have behaved with your usual ruthless efficiency, Sean.’

      ‘Ah, well, the man needed it.’

      ‘So what happens now?’

      ‘She won’t let it go. It’s like one of those old Westerns. The villain comes out of the saloon to meet the hero for a gunfight in the street.’

      ‘An interesting parallel.’

      ‘She won’t be able to resist a face-to-face.’

      ‘And where will this event take place?’

      ‘Where we’ve met so often before – the Piano Bar at the Dorchester.’

      ‘When?’

      ‘Tonight. She’ll be expecting me.’

      Ferguson nodded. ‘You know, you could be right. I’d better come with you.’

      ‘What about me, sir?’ Hannah asked.

      ‘Not this time, Superintendent. You’ve had a strenuous day. You could do with a night off.’

      She bridled. ‘You know, I did pass a stringent medical exam before Special Branch allowed me to return to duty. I’m fine, really I am.’

      ‘Yes, well, I’d still prefer you to take the night off.’

      ‘Very well, sir,’ she said reluctantly. ‘If you’ve no further need of me, I’ll get back to the office and clear a few things up. Are you coming, Sean?’

      ‘Yes, you can take me to Stable Mews.’

      Ferguson said, ‘Seven o’clock about right, Sean?’

      ‘Fine by me.’

      She dropped him at his cottage, but Dillon didn’t go in. He waited until the Daimler had turned the corner, rolled up the garage door, got into the old Mini Cooper he kept as a run-around, and drove away.

      He was thinking about Harry Salter. Salter was a very old-fashioned gangster, now reasonably respectable, but not completely so, and he and his nephew, Billy, had been involved as much as anyone else in the feud that had led to the death of Kate Rashid’s brothers.

      Traffic was as bad as London traffic usually is, but Dillon finally reached Wapping High Street, turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments, and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. He parked outside the Dark Man, Salter’s pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.

      The main bar was very Victorian, with gilt-edged mirrors behind the mahogany bar, and porcelain beer pumps. Bottles ranged against the mirror seemed to cover every conceivable choice for even the most hardened drinker. Dora, the chief barmaid, sat on a stool reading the London Evening Standard.

      At that time in the afternoon, before the evening trade got going, the bar was empty except for the four men in the corner booth playing poker. They were Harry Salter; Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, his minders; and Harry’s nephew, Billy.

      Harry Salter threw down his cards. ‘These are no bleeding good to me,’ and then he looked up and saw Dillon and smiled.

      ‘You little Irish bastard. What brings you here?’

      Billy turned in his chair and his face lit up. ‘Hey, Dillon, great to see you,’ and then he stopped smiling. ‘Trouble?’

      ‘How did you guess?’

      ‘’Cos you and me have been to hell and back more times than I can count. By now, I can tell the signs. What’s up?’

      There was an eagerness in his voice and Dillon said, ‘I’ve been the ruin of you, Billy. You never used to be so willing to put yourself in danger. Remember when I quoted your favourite philosopher: “The unexamined life is not worth living”?’

      ‘And I said that to me it meant the life not put to the test is not worth living. So what’s up?’

      ‘Kate Rashid.’

      Billy stopped smiling. They all did. Harry said, ‘I’d say that calls for a drink. Bushmills, Dora.’

      Dillon lit a cigarette and Billy said, ‘Let’s hear it.’

      ‘Remember Paul Rashid’s funeral, Billy?’

      ‘Don’t I just. No mourners, she said, but you had to go anyway.’

      ‘And you said, “Is that it then?” and I said, “I don’t think so.” And then when we ran into her at the Dorchester, she sentenced us all to death.’

      ‘Well, she can try,’ Harry said. ‘As I told her then, people have been trying to knock me off for forty years and I’m still here.’

      Billy said, ‘Look, what’s happened, Dillon? Let’s be having it.’

      Dillon swallowed his Bushmills and told them everything. They’d worked with him and Blake Johnson in the past, knew all about the Basement, so there was no reason to hide anything. He finished by telling them what had happened at Loch Dhu and what he intended to do.

      ‘So you think she’ll be there tonight?’ Harry Salter asked.

      ‘I’m certain of it.’

      ‘Then Billy and I will be there, too. We’ll have another drink on it,’ and he called to Dora.

      A little while later, Dillon punched the doorbell at Roper’s place. The Major said over the voice box, ‘Who is it?’

      ‘It’s Sean, you daft sod.’

      The electronic lock buzzed, and Dillon pushed open the door. Roper was seated at his computer bank in his wheelchair.

      ‘I’ve had Ferguson on the line. He told me about Loch Dhu, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

      Dillon lit a cigarette and told him. ‘So there you are. Pretty much as we thought.’

      ‘So it would appear.’

      ‘What have you got? Anything new?’

      ‘Well, I thought I’d see if I could trace Kate Rashid’s travel patterns. She uses a company Gulfstream, so I can access times easily enough – air traffic slots have to be booked – and I can ascertain when she’s been on board through Passport Control and Special Branch.’

      ‘Any significant pattern?’

      ‘Not much. She’s only been up to Loch Dhu once recently. Used the same old airstrip you did. Here’s something that might be interesting, though: she went to Belfast last month.’

      ‘Now that is interesting. Any thoughts on where she went?’

      ‘Yes. She landed late afternoon and had a slot booked back to Heathrow the following afternoon, so that seemed to indicate a hotel for the night. So I started with the Europa, accessed their booking records, and there she was.’

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