She had blond hair topped by a black beret and wore a black plastic mac and plastic boots in the same color. “Sure you’re not looking for me?” she asked.
“No. Mr. Berger,” Dillon told her.
She locked her door. “Sorry, I thought it might be business. He’s out most of the time. Lives on his own since his wife left him. Does he owe you money?”
“Jesus, no,” Dillon said. “We’re just clients. He’s our lawyer.”
“Well, he usually goes to Gio’s Restaurant in the evenings. Turn right at the end and it’s a hundred yards.”
“Thanks very much,” Dillon told her, and she walked away very quickly, high heels tapping.
“Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten,” Blake said.
“Then Gio’s it is. There’s only one problem. We know my cottage in Stable Mews was bugged with directional microphones. Maybe Berger was personally involved, maybe not, but there’s a chance he knows me, so you’ll have to eat alone.”
“Poor old Sean, you’ll starve,” Blake said. “But I see your point.”
Gio’s was a small Italian family sort of place with checked tablecloths, lighted candles, and one or two booths. Dillon stayed back and Blake stood and consulted the bill of fare in the window. He turned his head and said quietly, “He’s alone, second booth from the window, reading a book and eating pasta. He’s heavily into the book. You can look.”
Dillon did as he was told, recognized Berger for himself, and dropped back. “In you go. I’ll just hang around. When he leaves, we’ll take him in Hawk’s Court.”
“You mean follow him into his house?”
“No, he probably has good security, with the kind of clients he’s got. It could be messy. We’ll take him up to that churchyard and have words there.”
“See you later, then.”
Blake went inside, to be greeted by a waiter who showed him to a table on the other side of the room from Berger. The American ordered a glass of red wine from the bar and spaghetti with meatballs. Someone had left a newspaper on the chair next to him and he started to read it, one eye constantly on Berger.
Dillon went into the general store two doors down where they had a selection of sandwiches. He chose ham and tomato on French bread, obtained tea in a plastic cup from a machine, and went back outside. It was raining slightly and he stood in the doorway of a shop that had closed for the night and ate the sandwich and drank the tea. Then he had a cigarette and strolled past the window of Gio’s.
Berger still had his nose in the book, but seemed to have reached the coffee stage, while Blake was halfway through his spaghetti. The rain increased in volume and Dillon walked back to the car, opened the door, and checked inside. There was a folding umbrella on the shelf by the rear window. He opened it and went back along the pavement, passing Gio’s in time to see Berger settling his bill. As the waiter turned away, Blake waved him over.
Berger stood up, went and got his coat from a wall peg while Blake was still settling, then he picked up his book and made for the door. Dillon stood back. Berger paused, turned up his collar, and stepped into the rain and Dillon followed, keeping him a few yards ahead. As they turned the corner into Hawk’s Court, Blake caught up and they walked on, side-by-side, until Berger reached his gate.
As he opened it, Dillon called, “Mr. Brown?”
Berger paused and turned. “I beg your pardon?”
“George Brown?” Dillon said cheerfully.
“Sorry, you’ve made a mistake. My name is Berger—Paul Berger.”
“Sure, we know that, but you called yourself Brown when you visited Dermot Riley in Wandsworth Prison,” Blake Johnson said.
“Don’t deny it,” Dillon advised him. “We’ve got you on the security video, so we know who you are, just as we know you’re a Maccabee, one of dear old Judas’s merry band of brothers.”
“You’re mad,” Berger said.
“I don’t think so.” Dillon had a hand in the right pocket of his raincoat and he pushed back the flap to disclose the Walther. “As you can see, this is silenced, so if I shoot you now, no one will hear a thing.”