Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) by Andrew Towning Read Free Book Online

seven-thirty in the evening, there was a chilled wind coming off the sea, and it had started to drizzle. Dillon glanced up in to his rear-view mirror and immediately realised that a security guard was stood watching him from behind the gateway of a nearby house. In an area like this any suspicious-looking character, no matter what exotic sports car they were driving, would attract attention, and suddenly it seemed a bad idea to hang around any longer.
    He pulled away slowly, looking back in the side view mirror and saw the guard talking into his radio, most likely reporting the Porsche’s registration number to whoever was at the other end. Dillon knew what he had to do, and stopped with a squeal of brakes, reversed back up the one-way road and pulled up outside Charlie Hart’s property. He got out of the car and waited. The guard at the nearby property had already disappeared, much to Dillon’s annoyance. He walked up to the high electric gates and stood pondering at the entrance intercom screwed to the wall. Almost immediately the speaker crackled into life. Dillon looked up into the camera’s lens, and a man’s voice asked politely, “Are you lost or looking for a specific house?”
    Dillon recognised the voice at once, but he had to say something or arouse suspicion and possibly the police being called.
    “I’m thinking of buying a similar property and was just sounding out the area.”
    “I don’t think there is another property like this one for sale. And I doubt that you could afford to buy one on an investigator’s salary.”
    So Hart had recognised his voice as easily as he had Hart’s. He should have attempted to disguise his, but on the other hand, he had set out to stir things up a little and couldn’t complain if he’d succeeded.
    “Well, they say it never hurt anyone to dream, I suppose,” he replied casually.
    “Why don’t you come in, Mr. Bateman. Have a coffee with me and a look around. After all, that is why you’ve come down here.”
    The invitation was pleasant enough, but Hart wasn’t inviting him in to discuss his interior colour schemes. What the hell? What could happen to him in Sandbanks? Dillon got back into the Porsche, went through the entrance and up the driveway to the main house. He pulled up in front of the impressive three-storey contemporary residence to be greeted by a stern-looking woman with greying hair that was raked back away from her face and tied in a tight bun at the back. The dark grey skirt and black blouse buttoned up to the neck gave her an air of fearless authority, which obviously came naturally to her. Dillon got out of the sports car and looked up at the impressively large oak front door. The woman of fortitude turned out to be Mrs. Pringle, the housekeeper who, with a scornful glare, begrudgingly moved aside as Dillon came up the steps and who had obviously been hastily told to let him in and direct him to the first floor drawing room.
    As the heavy oak door was swung closed behind him, Dillon made his way up the magnificent sweeping staircase to find Charlie Hart dressed in a track suit and trainers waiting for him on the landing.
    “I’ve been expecting you. I didn’t think you would leave it at a phone call,” said Hart, who led the way into drawing room. “I’ll give you credit; you’re quick off the mark, but that show out in the road earlier was very clumsy for a pro.”
    “It was meant to be. I wanted to get your attention,” said Dillon, sitting in a proffered chair that was side on to the wall of glass with breathtaking views of the harbour beyond. “Or perhaps I’m losing my touch for subtlety.”
    He had to take things easy with the man who now sat opposite him, or fall at the first fence. But he had to admit, he was finding it hard to know exactly what to talk about.
    “I think not. Subtlety takes on many guises and men like you do not lose their touch, as you say. So tell me, what is your name, and who employs you?”
    Hart’s