Constantine Legacy (Jake Dillon Adventure Series) by Andrew Towning Page B

tidiness. Don’t ever think or hope that the great mess of
investigation that forms a large part of our work down
here is suddenly going to resolve itself like the last chapter
of a whodunit: I’ve-got-you-all-gathered-together-in-theroom-where-the-murder-was-done, kind of scene. Be
thankful for odd scraps of information or tip-offs from a
source. Don’t desire vengeance, or think that if someone
murders you tomorrow, anyone will be tracking him or
her down mercilessly. They won’t!”
“We’ll all be strictly concerned with keeping out of
the tabloid newspapers and the Police Gazette.”
Tats was determined to prove what a master of her
emotions she was.
“Chief Inspector Thomson at New Scotland Yard
has sent over a copy of the S.O.C.O. report concerning
your Range Rover. He thought it was safer to let you
have hard copies rather than e-mailing it to you. Have
you seen it?”
“Yes, he telephoned me earlier this morning. By
the way, send him a little something by way of a thank
you, for doing such a good job. There’s not so much as a
mention in any of the dailies.”
“Of course,” said Tats, “he did mention that he
had his people sending emails to all the editors the minute
he found out whose car had been bombed.”
“Apparently there were at least six cars written
off. If the S.O.C.O. people are right in reconstructing the
explosion points, it’s almost as if whoever did this wanted
the fire to spread.”
“Really? I said leaning forward. “Where were
they?”
“Under the bonnet, centre of the roof, behind the
rear seat, between the front seats.” Her eyes had become
ever so slightly red around the edge. She caught me
looking at her, giving me a wan smile back.
LJ went off to compile his report for the Partners.
We had agreed that I should return to the rented house
in Dorset. The Rumples were still there along with Fiona
Price, who, it was decided, could be of use to us for the
time being. We walked through the department to my
office, closing the door behind us.
Tats immediately hugged me tightly, sobbing quietly
into my shoulder. I gently stroked the back of her head.
“Charlie would not have known anything, you know. It
really would have been instantaneous,” I offered.
Blowing her nose, Tats turned and left the room.

Chapter 12
Monday 4.45pm
    The high pitched note of a car horn ripped the
afternoon air. Harry Caplin’s old black Mk1 Jaguar was
parked in the short stay area of Bournemouth’s beautifully
renovated Victorian station. I’d had to train it back from
London as both of the firm’s helicopters were being used
to ferry the Partners and their guests to and from the
races at Royal Ascot.
    “Hi there, Ace, climb into the cart. I told Mr
Rumple I’d pick you up. He looked as if he’d got plenty
to do, making ready and fussing around that big boat of
yours, and as Fiona’s off shopping. So I thought I’d be
neighbourly and help out.”
    I wondered by what process of deduction dear old
Harry had latched on to the boat being made ready. Was
it possible to keep anything secret from him? It made
the whole job a little more dangerous. We wove our
way slowly across town through heavy traffic. From my
relaxed position in the passenger seat, I could view all the
many frustrated, over worked people with bland faces sat
behind their windscreens fighting their way home through
congested roads, but in reality only heading towards prebooked early graves.
    “So what’s the word on the street Harry?” I said,
shifting round towards him. Perhaps I should tell LJ
to prepare a cover for us in case trouble blew up. We
crawled past the sea front and on up the hill towards the
west cliff of the town.
    “I just got some new CDs from the States, Ace.
Sammy Davis and Frank re-mixed and digitally remastered. Come around for drinks this evening. Get an
earful of wax. Ha ha ha.” We were outside the rented
house by now. I thanked Harry and he