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.’
‘Ancient history.’
‘Grievous bodily harm, assault with a deadly weapon. Armed robbery in seventy-nine. You got ten years and served seven. Lately you’ve been Frank Sharp’s chauffeur and minder. He always looked after you, didn’t he? But then he wasn’t the one who went to prison. It was idiots like you.’
‘Frank was good to me. He was good to all his boys.’ He swallowed his Scotch. ‘But like I said, all ancient history, so what is this?’
‘You said you didn’t know who your boss was meeting at Highgate and that you’d no idea what the meet was about?’
‘That’s what I told those guys from Scotland Yard and that’s what I told the coroner’s inquest.’
Hannah leaned back in her chair. ‘Then why is it I don’t believe you?’
‘Fuck you, darling,’ Gordon told her. ‘And mind you, that’s not a bad idea.’
‘Naughty, that,’ Dillon said. ‘Bad language to a lady brings out the worst in me.’
‘Well fuck you too,’ Gordon said and reached for the whisky bottle.
Dillon’s hand came out of his trenchcoat pocket, clutching the silenced Walther. There was a dull thud and the whisky bottle shattered in Gordon’s hand.
‘Jesus Christ!’ He jumped up, soaked in whisky. ‘What’s going on here? I didn’t count on shooters. What kind of police are you?’
He reached for a kitchen towel and Dillon said, ‘Just keep thinking Gestapo and we’ll get along. I’m very good with this thing. I could shoot half your right ear off.’
He levelled the Walther and Gordon put up a hand and cowered away. ‘For God’s sake, no!’
‘Dillon, stop it!’ Hannah ordered.
‘When I’m finished.’ He lowered the Walther. ‘I could say you’re going to tell me the truth because Frank Sharp was a friend of yours and you’d like to see the people responsible pay.’ Gordon mopped himself shakily with the kitchen towel. Dillon continued, ‘But we’ll forget about loyalty, morality, all that good old English rubbish. We’ll say you’re going to speak up in the next five seconds because if you don’t I really will shoot your ear off.’
‘Dillon, for God’s sake,’ Hannah said.
Gordon put up a hand defensively. ‘Okay, I give in. Just let me get another drink. I need it.’
He found another bottle of Scotch in a cupboard and opened it.
Dillon said, ‘You knew it was this Russian Silsev that Sharp was meeting in the cemetery?’
‘Yes, Frank told me. The meet was at the Karl Marx statue. I asked if he wanted me along, but he said no.’
‘And you knew what the meeting was about?’ Hannah said.
‘It was to do with drugs. Frank said this Silsev geezer was KGB working in London but he had connections with this Moscow Mafia.’
‘And what are we talking about?’ Hannah asked.
‘Heroin. Frank said a street value of maybe a hundred million.’
‘I see.’ She nodded. ‘And
