luck so far. He moved from Kilburn a few years ago to a house in Finchley. Only stayed there a year and moved again. That’s where I’ve drawn a blank. But I’ll find him, I’ve got someone on his case.’
‘You must. It’s essential. Does KGB’s London station still have a forgery department?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ He took out his Jersey driving licence. ‘I want a private pilot’s licence in the same name and address. You’ll need a photo.’ He slipped a finger inside the plastic cover of the licence and pulled out a couple of identical prints. ‘Always useful to have a few of these.’
She took one of them. ‘Peter Hilton, Jersey. Can I ask why this is necessary?’
‘Because when the right time comes, time to get the hell out of it, I want to fly and they won’t hire a plane to you unless you have a licence issued by the Civil Aviation Authority.’ He helped himself to some more tea. ‘Tell your expert I want full instrument rating and twin-engine.’
‘I’ll write that down.’ She opened her handbag, took out an envelope, slipped the photo inside and made a note on the cover. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Yes, I’d like full details of the present security system at Number Ten Downing Street.’
She caught her breath. ‘Am I to take it that is your target?’
‘Not as such. The man inside, but that’s a different thing. The Prime Minister’s daily schedule, how easy is it to access that?’
‘It depends what you want. There are always fixed points in the day. Question time in the House of Commons, for example. Of course, things are different because of the Gulf. The War Cabinet meets every morning at ten o’clock.’
‘At Downing Street?’
‘Oh, yes, in the Cabinet Room. But he has other appointments during the day. Only yesterday he did a broadcast on British Forces Network to the troops in the Gulf.’
‘Was that from the BBC?’
‘No, they have their own headquarters at Bridge House. That’s near Paddington Station and not too far from here.’
‘Interesting. I wonder what his security was like?’
‘Not much, believe me. A few detectives, no more than that. The British are crazy.’
‘A damn good job they are. This informant of yours, the one who got you all the information on Ferguson. Tell me about him.’ Which she did and when she was finished he nodded. ‘You’ve got him well and truly by the cobblers then?’
‘I think you could say that.’
‘Let’s keep it that way.’ He got up and buttoned his coat. ‘I’d better go and book in at this hotel.’
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘I have a suggestion. Just along from the hotel is an excellent Italian restaurant, Luigi’s. One of those little family-owned places. You get settled in at the hotel and I’ll walk along to the Embassy. I’ll check on what we have on the Downing Street defences and see if anything’s turned up on Fahy.’
‘And the flying licence?’
‘I’ll put that in hand.’
‘Twenty-four hours.’
‘All right.’
She got a coat and scarf, went downstairs with him and they left together. The pavements were frosty and she carried his briefcase for him and held on to his arm until they reached the hotel.
‘I’ll see you in an hour,’ she said and moved on.
It was the sort of place which had been a thriving pub and hotel in late Victorian times. The present owners had done their best with it and that wasn’t very much. The dining room to the left of the foyer was totally uninviting, no more than half a dozen people eating there. The desk clerk was an old man with a face like a skull who wore a faded brown uniform. He moved with infinite slowness, booking Dillon in and gave him his key. Guests were obviously expected to carry their own cases.
The room was exactly what he’d expected. Twin beds, cheap coverings, a shower room, a television with a slot for coins and a kettle, a little basket beside it containing sachets of coffee, teabags and powdered milk. Still, it wouldn’t be for long and he opened his suitcase and unpacked.
Among Jack Harvey’s interests was a funeral business in Whitechapel. It was a sizeable establishment and did well for, as he liked to joke, the dead were always with us. It was an imposing three-storeyed Victorian building which he’d had renovated. Myra had the top floor as a penthouse and took an interest in the running of the place. Harvey had an office on the first floor.
Harvey told his driver to wait, went up the steps and rang the bell. The night porter answered.
‘My niece in?’ Harvey demanded.
‘I believe so, Mr Harvey.’
Harvey moved through the main shop with coffins on display and along the passage with the little chapels of rest on each side where relatives could view the bodies. He went up two flights of stairs and rang the bell on Myra’s door.
She was ready for him, alerted by a discreet call from the porter, let him wait for a moment, then opened the door. ‘Uncle Jack.’
He brushed past her. She was wearing a gold sequinned mini-dress, black stockings and shoes. ‘You going out or something?’ he demanded.
‘A disco, actually.’
‘Well, never mind that now. You saw the accountants? Is there any way I can get at Flood legally? Any problems with leases? Anything?’
‘Not a chance,’ Myra said. ‘We’ve gone through the lot with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing.’
‘Right, then I’ll just have to get him the hard way.’
‘That didn’t exactly work last night, did it?’
‘I used rubbish, that’s why, a bunch of young jerks who didn’t deserve the time of day.’
‘So what do you intend?’
‘I’ll think of something.’ As he turned to the door, he heard a movement in the bedroom. ‘Here, who’s in there?’ He flung the door open and revealed Billy Watson standing there, looking hunted. ‘Jesus!’ Harvey said to Myra. ‘Disgusting. All you can ever think of is a bit of the other.’
‘At least we do it the right way,’ she told him.
‘Screw you!’ he said.
‘No, he’ll do that.’
Harvey stormed downstairs. Billy said, ‘You don’t give a monkey’s for anyone, do you?’
‘Billy
