“This is it,” Dillon said. “Let’s go.”
He pushed open the door and entered the saloon. There were no customers, the place totally deserted. At that moment, the door at the rear of the bar opened and the barmaid came through, a trim blonde in her forties, her hair swept up from a face that was heavily made up. She was called Dora, and Dillon knew her well. She looked upset.
“It’s you, Mr. Dillon. I thought the bastards might have come back.”
“Take a deep breath, Dora. Where is everybody?”
“The customers all made themselves scarce and who can blame them? Harry and the boys were in the corner booth having shepherd’s pie half an hour ago when Sam Hooker and four of his men came in with sawed-off shotguns.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’s working the river these days like Harry, pleasure boats as a front. Wanted a partnership, but Harry told him to stuff it.”
“So what happened?”
“They took Harry, Baxter, and Hall. Billy put up a fight, but they knocked him unconscious. I’ve just been seeing to him in the kitchen. Come through.”
She lifted the bar flap and led the way into the kitchen. Billy Salter sat at the table drinking Scotch, a pump action shotgun in front of him. He was twenty-six, a hard young man who’d done prison time for assault and affray. Just now, the left side of his face was bruised and swollen. He glanced up.
“Dillon, what in the hell are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to see your uncle. I need his help on something, only it looks more like he could do with mine.”
“Fucking Sam Hooker, I’ll do for him myself.”
“All on your own with that shotgun? Don’t be a silly boy, Billy. According to Dora, Hooker has four goons with him. Who do you think you are, Dirty Harry? It only works in the movies because the script makes it work.”
Billy poured a little more whiskey into his glass and looked at Blake. “Who’s your friend?”
“If I said he was former FBI you wouldn’t believe me. Blake Johnson.”
“Your face doesn’t look too good,” Blake said. “Maybe a cracked cheekbone. I’d say you need the casualty department of your nearest hospital.”
“Stuff that. What I need is Sam Hooker’s head on a platter.”
“Well, you won’t get that standing here,” Dillon told him. “Where did they take him?”
“Hooker usually operates from a pleasure boat called the Lynda Jones. He ties up at the old dock at Pole End. That’s half a mile downriver from here.”
Dillon turned to Blake. “Look, this is personal, you don’t need to get involved.”
“For Christ’s sake, don’t let’s stand around talking,” Blake said. “Let’s do it,” and he led the way out.
• • •
Pole End was a desolate place, a symbol of the decay of what had once been the greatest port in the world, rusting cranes etched against the night sky. Dillon braked to a halt some distance away and they got out, Billy carrying the shotgun, and approached the dock.
“Damn it to hell,” Billy said. “Will you look at that. They’ve moved her. That’s the Lynda Jones out there.”
There were two arms to the docks stretching out into the river, the area between about three hundred yards across, and the Lynda Jones was anchored in the center.
“You’re sure that’s where your uncle will be?” Blake asked.
“Where else? Another thing, why move out there to the middle of the dock?” Billy said. “I’ll tell you. Because it’s impossible for anyone to get out there without them knowing.”
“Not quite,” Dillon said. “I introduced you to scuba diving the other year, Billy, remember? And didn’t Harry see the possibilities? I happen to know you went to Barbados on holiday and got your diving certificate.”
“So what?”
“Come on, Billy, you’ve been working a new racket. Diamonds from Amsterdam dropped overboard with a floating marker from ships passing upriver. You go out later underwater and retrieve them. That means you have the diving gear at the Dark Man, right?”
“Okay, so you’ve got me, but what are you getting at?”