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

Grant examined it quickly and handed it back. ‘You could handle either of these two, but I’d rather come myself, just to make sure.’

‘No problem,’ Dillon said smoothly. ‘It’s the West Country I was thinking of. Cornwall. There’s an airfield at Land’s End.’

‘I know it well. Grass runway.’

‘I’ve got friends near there. I’d probably want to stay overnight.’

‘That’s fine by me.’ Grant switched off the lights and they walked back to the Nissen hut. ‘What line are you in, Mr Hilton?’

‘Oh, finance, accountancy, that sort of thing,’ Dillon said.

‘Have you any idea when you might want to go? I should point out that kind of charter’s going to be expensive. Around two thousand five hundred pounds. With half a dozen passengers that’s not so bad, but on your own …’

‘That’s fine,’ Dillon said.

‘Then there would be my overnight expenses. A hotel and so on.’

‘No problem.’ Dillon took ten fifty-pound notes from his wallet and put them on the table. ‘There’s five hundred down. It’s a definite booking for sometime in the next four or five days. I’ll phone you here to let you know when.’

Grant’s face brightened as he picked up the bank notes. ‘That’s fine. Can I get you a coffee or something before you go?’

‘Why not?’ Dillon said.

Grant went into the kitchen at the far end of the Nissen hut. They heard him filling a kettle, Dillon put a finger to his lips, made a face at Angel and crossed to the charts on the desk. He went through them quickly, found the one for the general English Channel area and the French coast. Angel stood beside him watching as he traced his finger along the Normandy coast. He found Cherbourg and moved south. There it was, St Denis, with the landing strip clearly marked, and he pushed the charts back together. Grant in the kitchen had been watching through the half-open door. As the kettle boiled, he quickly made coffee in three mugs and took them in.

‘Is this weather giving you much trouble?’ Dillon said. ‘The snow?’

‘It will if it really starts to lay,’ Grant said. ‘It could make it difficult for that grass runway at Land’s End.’

‘We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.’ Dillon put down his mug. ‘We’d better be getting back.’

Grant went to the door to see them off. They got in the Mini and drove away. He waved, closed the door and went to the desk and examined the charts. It was the third or fourth down, he was sure of that. General English Channel area and the French coast.

He frowned and said softly, ‘And what’s your game, mister, I wonder?’

As they drove back through the dark country lanes Angel said, ‘Not Land’s End at all, Mr Dillon, it’s that St Denis place in Normandy, that’s where you want to fly to.’

‘Our secret,’ he said and put his left hand on hers, still steering. ‘Can I ask you to promise me one thing?’

‘Anything, Mr Dillon.’

‘Let’s keep it to ourselves, just for now. I don’t want Danny to know. You do drive, do you?’

‘Drive? Of course I do. I take the sheep to market in the Morris van myself.’

‘Tell me, how would you like a trip up to London tomorrow morning with me, you and Danny?’

‘I’d like it fine.’

‘Good, that’s all right then.’

As they carried on through the night her eyes were shining.

9

It was a cold, crisp morning, winter on every hand, but the roads were clear as Dillon drove up to London, Angel and Danny Fahy following in the Morris van. Angel was driving and more than competently. He could see her in his rear-view mirror and she stayed right on his tail all the way into London until they came to the Bayswater Road. There was a plan already half-formed in his mind and he got out of the Mini Cooper, parked it at the kerb and opened the doors of Tania’s garage.

As Angel and Danny drew up behind him he said, ‘Put the Morris inside.’ Angel did as she was told. When she and Danny Fahy came out, Dillon closed the doors and said, ‘You’ll remember the street and the garage, if you lose me, that is?’

‘Don’t be silly, Mr Dillon, of course I will,’ Angel said.

‘Good. It’s important. Now get in the Mini. We’re going for a little run round.’

Harry Flood was sitting at the desk in his apartment at Cable Wharf checking the casino accounts from the night before when Charlie Salter brought in coffee on a tray. The phone rang and the small man picked it up. He handed it to Flood.

‘The Professor.’

‘Martin, how goes it?’ Flood said. ‘I enjoyed last night. The Tanner lady is something special.’

‘Is there any news? Have you managed to come up with anything?’ Brosnan asked.

‘Not yet, Martin, just a minute.’ Flood put a hand over the receiver and said to Salter, ‘Where’s Mordecai?’

‘Doing the rounds, Harry, just like you asked him, putting the word out discreetly.’

Flood returned to Brosnan. ‘Sorry, old buddy, we’re doing everything we can, but it’s going to take time.’

‘Which we don’t really have,’ Brosnan said. ‘All right, Harry, I know you’re doing your best. I’ll stay in touch.’

He was standing at Mary Tanner’s desk in the living room of her Lowndes Square flat. He put the phone down, walked to the window and lit a cigarette.

‘Anything?’ she asked and crossed the room to join him.

‘I’m afraid not. As Harry has just said, it takes time. I was a fool to think anything else.’

‘Just try and be patient, Martin.’ She put a hand on his arm.

‘But I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this feeling and it’s hard to explain. It’s like being in a storm and waiting for that bloody great thunderclap you know is going to come. I know Dillon, Mary. He’s moving fast on this. I’m certain of it.’

‘So what would you like to do?’

‘Will Ferguson be at Cavendish Square this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s go to see him.’

Dillon parked the Mini Cooper near Covent Garden. An enquiry in a bookshop nearby led them to a shop not too far away specialising in maps and charts of every description. Dillon worked his way through the large-scale Ordnance Survey maps of Central London until he found the one covering the general area of Whitehall.