Day of Reckoning

Dillon drove down Horse Guards Avenue in the green Mini Cooper.

Blake said, 'So Harry's still working the rackets.'

'Oh, sure, it's in his blood. But like I was saying, it's all smuggling — booze, diamonds, that kind of thing — no drugs. He's an old-fashioned family man, in values, anyway.'

'Aren't we all?'

They reached Wapping and pulled up outside the Dark Man. It was a typical London pub; the painted sign showed a sinister individual in a black cloak.

It was early for the drink trade, noon an hour and a half away, but it was open. They went into the main bar, which was very Victorian, the bottles ranged against mirrors, an enormous mahogany bar smelling of polish, the porcelain beer handles waiting for action.

Three men were in the corner booth, drinking tea and reading newspapers: Billy Salter, Harry's nephew, and Joe Baxter and Sam Hall.

'What's this, a thieves' kitchen?' Dillon asked.

Billy looked up, and a delighted smile appeared on his wicked face. 'Dear God, it's you, Dillon, and our American friend, Mr Johnson. We remember you.'

Baxter and Hall laughed, and Billy said, 'Well, we're not in the nick, and I suppose that's one good thing. What brings you here?' He smiled eagerly. 'Could it be trouble?'

'Why, are you getting bored, Billy?' Dillon asked. 'Let's see Harry and decide.'

'He's down at the boat.'

'The Lynda Jones?'

'Sure. Refurbished. His pride and joy. I'll show you. Let's take a walk.'

They went along the wharf, passing a few boats, one or two old barges sunk into the water. It started to rain as they reached the boat. Harry Salter was sitting at a table under an awning, reading The Times. Dora, the chief barmaid from the Dark Man, was pouring tea. He patted her ample rear.

'I've said it before, Dora, you've got a great arse.'

'Now, isn't that the poet in him?' Dillon said. 'Such a majestic choice of language.'

Salter looked up and took off his reading glasses. 'Christ, Dillon, it's you.' He glanced at Blake. 'And the bleeding Yank again. Here, what's going on?' The blue eyes hardened in the well-lined face. 'Trouble?'

'Well, let's put it this way. You owe me, and this is payback time. You'd have been dead meat when the Hooker mob had you if Blake and I hadn't stuck an oar in.'

'No problem. I always pay my debts. Anyway, I like you, Dillon. You remind me of Billy here. I mean, you don't give a stuff. Mad as a hatter.'

'Seeking death, you mean,' Dillon asked.

'That's it,' Billy said. 'You and me both, Dillon, brothers under the skin. Have we got a problem?'

'Well, if it is, its name is Jago.'

Billy's face turned pale. 'Harold and Tony, those two bastards.'

'You don't like them?'

Salter said, 'Dillon, we're friends, right? I'm doing well on the cigarette run from Europe. There are big profits, with the tax differential. But I've had three cargoes hijacked in two months. I know it's the Jagos, but I can't prove it. So what's your problem?'

A guy called Jack Fox fronts for the Solazzo family.'

'The Colosseum?' Billy said. 'Hey, we know about them. The Jagos have been running with him. In-and-out jobs, security trucks.'

'Always cash,' Salter said. 'What's your interest?'

'Fox had Blake's wife murdered. She was a reporter who got close, too close, so he had her wasted.'

'Jesus,' Salter said. 'The fucking bastard.' He turned to Blake. 'Look, what can I say?'

'That you'll help us, will do.'

'Well, you can bloody well count on that. What's going on?'

'Fox needs cash flow. You won't have heard yet, but we closed the Colosseum and the betting shops down last night.'

'And how in the hell did you do that?'

Dillon said to Blake, 'Go on, tell him,' which Blake did, and Salter and his boys fell about laughing.

'Dear God,' Billy said. 'I mean, that's beautiful.'

'Yes, but the Jagos were there, and we know Fox needs a big tickle. Eyes and ears, Harry, see what you can find out.' 'We certainly will.' Salter rubbed his hands together. 'Life suddenly becomes interesting again, eh, Billy?'

Billy looked wolfish. 'It certainly does.' He turned to Dillon. 'I'm reading this paperback on philosophy. Pinched it from the hairdresser. Better than a novel. This guy Heidegger. Have you heard of him, Dillon?'

'German. A great favourite of Heinrich Himmler, I believe.'

'Never mind that. This Heidegger says that life is action and passion, and that a man fails to take part in the action and passion of his times at the peril of being judged not to have lived.'

'That's really very erudite, Billy.'

'Don't take the piss out of me, Dillon. I didn't get much schooling and I know I'm a tearaway, but I've got a brain. I like books and I know what erudite means, which is that I'm a clever bastard.'

'I never doubted it.' Dillon took out a card and scribbled numbers. 'My house, my mobile, Ferguson at his Cavendish Square flat. Do what you can, Harry.'

'Sure will, my old son.'

Dillon and Blake went to the gangplank and Dillon noticed

some air bottles. 'Hey, Billy, you're still at the scuba diving?' 'Master diver now,' Billy said. 'Are you a master diver?' 'As a matter of fact, I am.'

'Oh, go and stuff yourself, Dillon. We'll be in touch,' and Billy went back to his uncle.

The Gulfstream did not carry RAF roundels, so when it landed at Dublin Airport it was simply directed to an area that handled private planes. Flight Sergeant Madoc got the door open. Like Lacey and Parry, he wore the kind of navy blue uniform used by flight crews throughout the world. He put an umbrella up against the driving rain.

'There's a limousine by the hangar,' Madoc said, and led the way towards a black Mercedes.

But there was another vehicle waiting there, a Garda police car, a uniformed officer at the wheel, a large man in a fawn Burberry trenchcoat and tweed cap sitting beside him.

He got out, smiling. 'Dan Malone, Special Branch, chief superintendent. We've never met.'

'Ah, you outrank me, sir.'

'Heard they've put you up to Super. I bet the boys at Special Branch at Scotland Yard didn't like that.'

'Malone? That's a good Irish name. We have a Detective Sergeant Terry Malone in Special Branch.'

'My nephew. English mother, born in London. Can we have words, away from the pride of the RAF here?'

They moved out of the rain into the hangar, and he took a cigarette from a crumpled pack. 'Do you use these things?'

'No.'

'Good for you. You'll live longer than me. Listen, we're all together these days, what with Europe and the peace process. And I know all about you, Superintendent, just like most of Dublin Special Branch. Your reputation precedes you. Ferguson's and Dillon's, too.'

'What are you trying to say?'

'That we're not looking the other way where the IRA is concerned. On the other hand, if Ferguson's sent you over, something's up. I'll be honest with you. I leaned on your driver, who told me he was to take you to Kilrea, and that means only one thing. You're going to see Liam Devlin, the old sod.'

'Ah, you like him, too?'

'Yes, damn you, I do. So — is there something I should know about?'

'I'm seeking information.'