Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 1: Eye of the Storm, Thunder Point, On Dangerous Ground

‘That depends on your definition of the term. There’s plenty he got away with, or his people did, in the old days. What you might call old-fashioned crime.’

‘Oh, you mean nothing nasty like drugs or prostitution? Just armed robbery, protection, that sort of thing?’

‘Don’t be bitter. He has the casinos, business interests in electronics and property development. He owns half of Wapping. Nearly all the river frontage. He’s extremely legitimate.’

‘And still a gangster?’

‘Let’s say, he’s still the governor to a lot of East Enders. The Yank, that’s what they call him. You’ll like him.’

‘Will I?’ She looked surprised. ‘And when are we going to meet?’

‘As soon as I can arrange it. Anything that moves in the East End and Harry or his people know about it. If anyone can help me catch Sean Dillon, he can.’ The waiter appeared and placed bowls of French onion soup before them. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now let’s eat, I’m starving.’

Harry Flood crouched in one corner of the pit, arms folded to conserve his body heat. He was naked to the waist, barefooted, clad only in a pair of camouflage pants. The pit was only a few feet square and rain poured down relentlessly through the bamboo grid high above his head. Sometimes the Viet Cong would peer down at him, visitors being shown the Yankee dog who squatted in his own foulness although he’d long since grown used to the stench.

It seemed as if he’d been there for ever and time no longer had any meaning. He had never felt such total despair. It was raining faster now, pouring over the edge of the pit in a kind of waterfall, the water rising rapidly. He was on his feet and yet suddenly it was up to his chest and he was struggling. It poured over his head relentlessly and he no longer had a footing and struggled and kicked to keep afloat, fighting for breath, clawing at the side of the pit. Suddenly a hand grabbed his, a strong hand, and it pulled him up through the water and he started to breathe again.

He came awake with a start and sat upright. He’d had that dream for years on and off, ever since Viet Nam and that was a hell of a long time ago. It usually ended with him drowning. The hand pulling him out was something new.

He reached for his watch. It was almost ten. He always had a nap early evening before visiting one of the clubs later, but this time he’d overslept. He put his watch on, hurried into the bathroom, and had a quick shower. There was grey in his black hair now, he noticed that as he shaved.

‘Comes to us all, Harry,’ he said softly and smiled.

In fact he smiled most of the time, although anyone who observed closely would have noticed a certain world-weariness to it. The smile of a man who had found life on the whole, disappointing. He was handsome enough in a rather hard way, muscular with good shoulders. In fact not bad for forty-six which he usually told himself at least once a day if only for encouragement. He dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned at the neck without a tie and a loose-fitting Armani suit in dark brown raw silk. He checked his appearance in the mirror.

‘Here we go again, baby,’ he said and went out.

His apartment was enormous, part of a warehouse development on Cable Wharf. The brick walls of the sitting room were painted white, the wooden floor lacquered, Indian rugs scattered everywhere. Comfortable sofas, a bar, bottles of every conceivable kind ranged behind. Only for guests. He never drank alcohol. There was a large desk in front of the rear wall and the wall itself was lined with books.

He opened French windows and went onto the balcony overlooking the river. It was very cold. Tower Bridge was to his right, the Tower of London just beyond it, floodlit. A ship passed down from the Pool of London in front of him, its lights clear in the darkness so that he could see crew members working on deck. It always gave him a lift and he took a great lungful of that cold air.

The door opened at the far end of the sitting room and Mordecai Fletcher came in. He was six feet tall with iron-grey hair and a clipped moustache and wore a well-cut, double-breasted blazer and a Guards tie. The edge was rather taken off his conventional appearance by the scar tissue round the eyes and the flattened nose that had been broken more than once.

‘You’re up,’ he said flatly.

‘Isn’t that what it looks like?’ Flood asked.

Mordecai had been his strong right arm for the best part of fifteen years, a useful heavy-weight boxer who’d had the sense to get out of the ring before his brains were scrambled. He went behind the bar, poured a Perrier water, added ice and lemon and brought it over.

Flood took it without thanking him. ‘God, how I love this old river. Anything come up?’

‘Your accountant called. Some papers to sign on that market development. I told him to leave them till the morning.’

‘Was that all?’

‘Maurice was on the phone from the Embassy. He says Jack Harvey was in for a bite to eat with that bitch of a niece of his.’

‘Myra?’ Flood nodded. ‘Anything happen?’

‘Maurice said Harvey asked if you’d be in later. Said he’d come back and have a go at the tables.’ He hesitated. ‘You know what the bastard’s after, Harry, and you’ve been avoiding him.’

‘We aren’t selling, Mordecai, and we certainly aren’t going into partnership. Jack Harvey’s the worst hood in the East End. He makes the Kray brothers look like kindergarten stuff.’

‘I thought that was you, Harry.’

‘I never did drugs, Mordecai, didn’t run girls, you know that. Okay, I was a right villain for a few years, we both were.’ He walked into the sitting room to the desk and picked up the photo in its silver frame that always stood there. ‘When Jean was dying, for all those lousy months.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing seemed important and you know the promise she made me give her towards the end. To get out.’

Mordecai closed the window. ‘I know, Harry. She was a woman and a half, Jean.’

‘That’s why I made us legitimate, and wasn’t I right? You know what the firm’s net worth is? Nearly fifty million. Fifty million.’ He grinned. ‘So let Jack Harvey and others like him keep dirtying their hands if they want.’

‘Yes, but to most people in the East End you’re still the governor, Harry, you’re still the Yank.’

‘I’m not complaining.’ Flood opened a cupboard and took out a dark overcoat. ‘There’s times when it helps a deal along, I know that. Now let’s get moving. Who’s driving tonight?’

‘Charlie Salter.’

‘Good.’

Mordecai hesitated. ‘Shall I carry a shooter, Harry?’

‘For God’s sake, Mordecai, we’re legit now, I keep telling you.’

‘But Jack Harvey isn’t, that’s the trouble.’

‘Leave Jack Harvey to me.’

They went down in the old original freight elevator to the warehouse where the black Mercedes saloon waited, Charlie Salter leaning against it reading a paper, a small, wiry man in a grey chauffeur’s uniform. He folded the paper quickly and got the rear door open.

‘Where to, Harry?’

‘The Embassy and drive carefully. A lot of frost around tonight and I’ll have the paper.’

Salter got behind the wheel and Mordecai got in beside him and reached for the electronic door control. The warehouse doors opened and they turned on to the wharf. Flood opened the paper, leaned back and started catching up on how the Gulf War was progressing.

The Embassy club was only half a mile away, just off Wapping High Street. It had only been open six months, another of Harry Flood’s developments of old warehouse property. The car park was up a side street at the rear and was already quite full. There was an old negro in charge who sat in a small hut.

‘Kept your place free, Mr Flood,’ he said, coming out.

Flood got out of the car with Mordecai and took out his wallet as Salter went off to park. He extracted a five-pound note and gave it to the old man. ‘Don’t go crazy, Freddy.’

‘With this?’ The old man smiled. ‘Wouldn’t even buy me a woman at the back of the pub these days. Inflation’s a terrible thing, Mr Flood.’

Flood and Mordecai were laughing as they went up the side street and Salter caught up with them as they turned the corner and reached the entrance. Inside it was warm and luxurious, black and white tiles on the floor, oak panelling, oil paintings. As the cloakroom girl took their coats, a small man in evening dress hurried to meet them. His accent was unmistakably French.

‘Ah, Mr Flood, a great pleasure. Will you be dining?’

‘I should think so, Maurice. We’ll just have a look round first. Any sign of Harvey?’