Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter

‘It’s almost as if they don’t take sides,’ Hannah said.

‘No, I don’t buy that.’ Dillon shook his head. ‘I don’t think it’s as random as it looks. I think there’s a purpose.’

‘It beats me.’ She stood up. ‘Do you feel like some lunch?’

‘Give me ten minutes. I just want to tap a few more facts in.’

She went back to her desk and busied herself with some papers. After a while he came in. ‘How do you fancy some pub food in Wapping?’

She sat back. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Remember the gangster who was shot in Highgate Cemetery, Sharp, along with that KGB man, Silsev?’

‘What about him?’

‘According to the file, his chauffeur found him, a man named Bert Gordon.’

‘So?’

‘He said he didn’t see or hear a thing, said he sat in the car at the cemetery gates reading the paper until so much time had gone by he got worried.’

‘So he went and found them,’ Hannah said. ‘I read that file, too.’

‘Yes. He said his boss had a meet, but he didn’t know who with or what it was about.’

‘So?’

‘Oh, I’ve a suspicious nature. I’d imagine he knows more than he’s said. I mean, an East End hood meets the Head of Station KGB for London in Highgate Cemetery in the rain and they both get wasted. Come on, girl dear, there’s got to be a good reason.’

She nodded. ‘You think you can get this Bert Gordon to tell you what he wouldn’t tell Scotland Yard?’

‘I can be very persuasive.’

‘All right.’ She stood up. ‘Where do we find him?’

‘He runs a pub in Wapping called the Prince Albert.’

She picked up her shoulder bag. ‘We’ll take the car. Come on,’ and she led the way out.

As they went downstairs she said, ‘Knowing how you operate I think police presence very sensible. You drive while I talk to Central Records Office at Scotland Yard. I might as well find out all there is to know about Mr Bert Gordon.’

The Prince Albert was at the end of a wharf in Wapping, overlooking the river. It looked in good order, brightly painted in green and gold. They got out of the car and Hannah looked across the cobbled street.

‘It’ll be like a grave at lunchtime and shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar tonight.’

‘And how would you be knowing that?’ he asked.

‘I did my time on the pavement as a constable in Tower Bridge Division. Lots of pubs like this down there. One fight a night and two on Fridays, we used to say.’

‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘A nice Jewish girl like you and Friday night the start of the Sabbath.’

‘Very funny,’ she said and led the way in.

There was a long mahogany bar, with mirrors on the wall behind fronted by bottles. Tables were scattered here and there and there were three booths by the window. The only customers were two very old men sitting on high stools, pints of beer in front of them while they stared up at a television set suspended from the ceiling in a corner.

The barmaid looked up from the newspaper she was reading. She was middle-aged, with hair that had obviously been dyed black and a careworn face.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Mr Bert Gordon,’ Dillon said.

There was something in her eyes as if she sensed trouble. ‘He isn’t here. Who wants him anyway?’

Hannah produced her ID and held it up. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Bernstein.’

‘So tell him to come out like a good boy,’ Dillon told her.

He’d been aware of the door slightly ajar at the end of the bar. Now it opened and Gordon stepped out. Dillon recognized him from his photo in the file.

‘It’s okay, Myra, I’ll handle it.’ He took Hannah’s ID card and examined it, then passed it back. ‘Nice Jewish girl in a job like that. Disgraceful. You should be married with two kids. I’m Jewish myself.’

‘I know, Mr Gordon. You changed your name from Goldberg years ago.’

‘Anti-semitism used to be a problem when I was a kid.’

‘Yes, well, a change of name didn’t keep a nice Jewish boy out of prison. I calculate you’ve done fifteen years when you add it together.’

‘So I did my time. What is this anyway?’

‘We want a little information,’ Dillon said. ‘About the killing of your old boss in Highgate Cemetery.’

Gordon shrugged. ‘I told the police everything I knew. I gave evidence at the inquest. It’s all in the record.’

‘I wouldn’t say all was the right word,’ Hannah said. ‘In fact you were rather sparse on facts, so let’s talk.’

‘All right,’ he said reluctantly and raised the bar flap. ‘Follow me.’ He led the way out through the door.

‘Anyone like a drink?’ he asked. He and Hannah were sitting on either side of a large cluttered kitchen table.

‘No thank you,’ Hannah answered.

‘Well, I’ll join you,’ Dillon told him, ‘just to stay friendly.’

‘You don’t look to me as if you’ve ever been friendly to anyone in your life, my old son,’ Gordon said. ‘Scotch all right?’

He splashed whisky into two glasses and handed Dillon one. The Irishman went and stood by the door.

Hannah said, ‘Albert Samuel Goldberg, known as Gordon. I checked you out. Quite a record. Bookie’s runner as a kid, professional boxer, nightclub bouncer, then you were mixed up in that gold bullion robbery at Heathrow in March, seventy-three. You served three years.’