Kill Maker

By Trevor L. White

Dalton and Oriel had been living together for
over two years. They had met after the Wimbledon
tournament where Oriels doubles partner had
tested positive to drugs and both players were
taken in for questioning. During an interview with
Dalton advice came through that, Oriels tests had
proved negative. In a show of courtesy, he took
her to the police canteen and there over a cup of
tea a mutual attraction between the two started.
Possibly, it wouldnt have gone any further as
touring tennis players never stay long enough for
lasting relationships. Fortunately, for Dalton and
unfortunately for Oriel in her next tournament she
broke her ankle ending her professional career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Jul 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477146248

Trevor L. White

n/a

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Trevor L. White.

ISBN:          Ebook                                      978-1-4771-4624-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0800-891-366

www.xlibris.co.nz

[e-mail]

700378

Contents

Acknowledgements

About the author’s other books

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Acknowledgements

To Beverley Beetham many thanks for sparking an idea to start a story.

My appreciation and thanks go to Cynthia Adams and Judith Baddeley, for their assistance, also to Jeanette Galpin, an experienced writer, my thanks for your input into the story and for your encouragement. To Conor Quinn, my sincere thanks for adding motivation: for dealing with the tricky bits and for suggesting enhancements to the story.

Thanks to the Australian Financial Review, that publishes interesting feature articles on terrorists and weapons for killing people and Osama bin Laden thugs. My special thanks to Christopher Jay’s article of 22 June 2006 about the Redback.

To Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia for the précis detailed facts on the two London bombings of 7 and 21 July 2005 and thanks are due to the Figu Society U.S.A.’s bulletin 13, volume 4, February 1998 for some unbelievable information that adds spice to this book.

Finally, to Ron Escreet WW2 prisoner of war who has given me an insight into a POW’s view of money.

About the author’s other books

Dangerous Dollars

ISBN 0-473-09072-4

Criminals couldn’t wait to get their hands on the new Euro dollar. Britian’s Croad brothers gang were already organised to do do. Scotland Yard detective Dalton was being assisted to catch them by Interpol’s top man or was he? Dalton relying on his own hunches to solve the case, finds himself on a whirlwind investigation centred in Europe, dodging bullets, and ambushes, surviving car chases and death threats, to finally solve the case and win his lady.

Cowboy to Freedom

McCoy’s sales yard brought thousands of longhorn cattle to Sabilene to start the Chisholm Trail drive to northern markets. Sheriff Dan Lyons and his two deputies Travis and Deighton had to deal with hundreds of wild cowboys. And with the cowboys came the saloons, the booze, the girls, the gamblers, the gunfighters, stage coach robbers, bank robbers and rustlers.

Death at the Post

A racing crime novel based on the doping of racehorses with the anabolic steroid trenbolone, to build muscle, stamina and speed, to gain the winners share of stakemoney by Australian trainers … but this story is mostly fiction.

Chapter One

A torpedo of orange flame squirted black smoke across the road, followed instantly by an almighty explosion’s ear piercing boom. A thousand pieces of the building is cascaded into the air. Flames and smoke stretch for the sky. The frontage peels off the building and smashes to the macadam. Roof fragments hurtle skywards. Thunderous cracks lash the ears from twisting, snapping, cracking, concrete and timber. The six storey building collapses into a billowing cloud of red-orange flames, black smoke and dust. Death of a building now shrouded from view.

Dalton stood petrified. His ashen face engraved in horror and shock.

His parents were in that building.

He awoke sweating, ripped away the bed blankets and looked about. Yes, it was a hotel room. Dalton rubbed his head. It was years since he had the last of those flash-backs. For fifteen years, the tragedy had tormented him. His revenge unfulfilled. Perhaps the strange bed that had given him the restless night, he showered, dressed and breakfasted ready for another conference day.

‘Police! Open up in there.’

The Meriton hotel door room rattled under multiple hard knocks.

Dalton sighed, ‘What now!’ and hurried to open the door.

‘Just a second, no need to break the door in!’ he yelled. The door flew open the instant Dalton turned the handle and the man on the other side almost fell forward into Dalton’s arms.

‘I say, steady on! I’m not Liverpool’s keeper you know.’ Dalton gave the intruder a hard shove backwards, which set him upright in a hurry.

Carter scowled and brought his gangling frame erect. He brushed down his tunic and focused his eyes on the tall athletic build of the fair haired Englishman whose touch of humour had just passed him by.

‘Your name Dalton?’ he growled out.

‘Detective Sergeant Warren Dalton, U.K. Drug Squad. And you are?’

‘Inspector Carter of the Australian Federal Police, Missing Persons Unit,’ the gaunt police officer said, toning his voice down a shade, as it dawned on him this man was a fellow serving officer.

‘I must be missing something here. What do you want with me?’ Dalton queried. ‘Come in Inspector Carter.’ He stepped aside but Carter held firm.

‘Rather not. Would you mind coming down town to the office and telling us what you know about Mrs. Beverley Hill. We have serious concerns for her safety.’

During the ride in the police car Dalton, thought back over the meetings he had with Mrs. Beverley Hill. He had to admit she was a charmer. Her wavy strawberry blond hair, fulsome figure, dazzling white teeth and charming personality all had triggered sinful daydreams. At that first meeting, he’d heard of a tabby kitten bringing into the house small poisonous cane toads. The kitten was playing with lethal opponents. One spot of poison in the right place and it was dead. His Latte coffee and ham croissant had remained untouched. The covert glances of males passing by also made him feel good. His attention had grown by the minute as her story became more interesting.

The next day she told him another story that he found rather odd. Dalton did not realise then just how involved his interest in Beverley Hill’s other story was to become!

It was two days after those meeting that he read in the Sydney Morning Herald news of the concern held for her safety following reports of her disappearance. What in truth made him sit up and take notice was that her husband had disappeared in mysterious circumstances three months earlier.

Charles Hill had been a former Member of Parliament. Following his defeat at the polls, he had remained a prominent figure in political circles and served as a director of a number of public companies. The newspaper hinted that his disappearance involved drugs and gun smuggling to international terrorist groups.

After her husband’s mysterious departure Beverley Hill had taken over conference hosting duties for the Australian Federal Police Commissioner. Dalton, as Scotland Yard’s representative, had come to Sydney for a series of narcotic briefings with the Australian Federal Narcotic Enforcement Agency. He had been socialising at a cocktail party sponsored by the Commissioner when he heard the kitten with the toad story. The puzzling story began when he had taken her to lunch at the Sydney Tower’s revolving restaurant.

Now here he was in the Missing Persons Unit office facing Inspector Carter who was fiddling with the cassette recorder. Dalton thought that Sherlock Holmes probably fiddled with his office tools of trade, the rubber eraser and pencil sharpener.

‘She’s a flamboyant storyteller’ Dalton began after getting a nod from Carter. ‘I took her out for lunch five days ago. I heard about her life.’

Carter gave a get-on-with-it shrug of the shoulders. This was his thirtieth interview and the ninth and last this shift. His chrome swivel chair creaked as he leant back. As with others he’d interviewed he’d asked that they tell him all they knew about Mrs. Hill. Only this time he hoped to learn something that may be useful to the investigation. Otherwise, he had listened to a lot of useless twaddle. He sighed, hoping her life story wouldn’t be too long.

Dalton began. ‘She lives alone in a wooden two-storey mansion within large grounds that require regular maintenance and she has part-time domestic help. Her financial position, while not precarious short term, was particularly disadvantaged by her husband’s long-term mortgage commitment—on a property that was acquired just prior to his disappearance.’

A what-the-hell-is-he-on-about look came over Carter’s craggy face. He squared up a manila file and pushed it a little closer to the edge of an aging work desk. He took a good look at the tall, flaxen haired, blue eyed Englishman with his deep red tie and silver Marks and Spencer single breasted suit. Not a nutter.

‘She becomes scared at nights, she told me, and said the mansion moans and groans a lot.’

Sounds like my boss thought Carter.

‘Sometimes it seems another perpetually occupies the house—she actually shivered, put her hand to her mouth and… ‘ Dalton looked at the Inspector hoping to see a glimmer of interest… not a sign.

‘She never put the answer into words. She confessed she was terribly lonely in the big house. She had come to the conclusion if she was to survive both mentally and physically she had to sell the property.’

The dark haired Inspector Carter again shifted his tall frame. The chair creaked again. He shuffled another desk file, toyed with his tie and then rubbed his tapered forehead. How long have I got to listen to this crap? He glanced at his watch. Not long. Only five more minutes to lunchtime. Then his early morning duty shift would finish. He scratched his lengthy nose. Why the hell doesn’t this Pommie bastard get on with it?

‘My Chief only wants time fixes on her movements,’ he warned Dalton. Perhaps he should tell the Pommie he wanted to schedule her movements. But he didn’t. His wife always said he’d rather listen than talk. He shrugged.

Dalton continued. ‘A month ago Beverley had been approached by one of her husband’s business colleagues, an Irishman, to look after his property while he was overseas. It was an odd sort of an arrangement, and she really didn’t know why she bothered. It only involved a drive of thirty kilometres out of the city, up into the hills to this big expensive home overlooking the city. Beverley goes in through the front door, turns off the security alarm, looks into every room, then locks up and returns home. It’s all so odd, she said.’

‘H’mm,’ grunted Carter. Three minutes to go.

‘Why odd? I asked her. And she said. He has a close neighbour. I don’t know why he particularly picked on me to do it for him. I don’t even know if I am to be paid.’

‘She can’t be an Australian, then,’ Carter let slip.

‘A Kiwi,’ Dalton replied about to continue.

‘That explains a lot.’ Again Carter chipped in. Two minutes. The chair creaked as he gripped both armrests in readiness to rise to his feet. But still the Pommie detective took no notice, so engrossed was he in his tale.

‘What’s his name and address? I asked. Do you know what he does?’

Carter, exasperated by the long explanation, could not hold back any longer. ‘Look here Dalton—what’s all this leading up to? Most of what you have told me is on our records. As you would know,’ he crisply emphasised.

‘Just a moment more Inspector,’ said Dalton. ‘I’ve nearly finished. She said Henry Logan was his name: an import-export agent. She gave me the address. I waited for her to elucidate further. You think I am daft don’t you? Beverley said, and crinkled up her nose.’

I’m getting the scenic version thought Carter.

‘She had done some typing for Henry Logan and once arranged a small business conference in the city. He paid well, asked her out to dinner and spoke about offering her a public relations job on his return from overseas. When he asked her to look after his house she accepted without giving it much thought as she was unemployed and bored.’ Dalton paused.

Inspector Carter gritted his teeth for a moment, thinking Beverley wasn’t the only one who was bored. He looked at his wristwatch and was about to give the Pommie short shrift. He was becoming agitated. Not an uncommon experience lately. He had been like this for what three years? It had been three years ago when his wife and two boys had been killed. He had that nightmare again last night. He had seen the little plane on its scenic flight over and away from the Sydney air show plunge to the ground taking his wife and kids with it. He could still hear her last words, ironic now, and his anger toward the universe almost palpable. You’re too homely, Carter. Let me give the boys something to talk about when they go back to school. The boys seven and nine had been goggling at all the planes and were then clinging to his hands and yelling. Please Dad! The plane had a full load so he stayed behind to watch. He rubbed his moist eyes and was going to say something.

But, before he could Dalton persisted and even raised his voice a few decibels as if to force Carter down further in his chair.

‘When does this Henry Logan return? I asked and she didn’t know. That’s about it Inspector, as we were interrupted from more conversation by Beverley inviting an acquaintance of hers to share our table.’

‘H’mm-yes-ah-well-interesting,’ muttered Carter. ‘Though not telling me a lot. Unless she was being coerced somehow to visit the out of town property, just to get her out of her own house. Anyway thanks for your assistance. I’ll institute further enquires,’ he said, falling back to an old hackneyed phrase for dealing with nincompoops. He lent back in his chair. ‘Thanks for coming in Detective Sergeant Dalton. I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Australia.’

‘Would you mind if I made some independent enquires as I’m only here for two more days?’

Carter’s jaw clenched and his eyes surveyed the wall above Dalton.

‘Hardly seems worthwhile,’ he said.

Dalton nodded, but not in agreement. ‘No harm in me perusing the case file then?’

Carter made immediate eye contact, testosterone levels increasing. Neither Carter nor Dalton moved for more than a minute. It seemed like ten.

‘I’ll make a copy,’ Carter offered, finally.

‘Thanks,’ said Dalton.

Carter left the room and Dalton remained standing in the same position until he returned.

‘I’ll know where to find you?’ Carter stated, showing Dalton the door. He held the copied file folder firmly in his right hand and did not offer it as Dalton approached.

The testosterone levels in the room rose again, momentarily.

Half of Dalton’s mouth curled into a smile and he held out an open hand. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

Carter gave him the folder. His gaze followed Dalton out the door, until darker thoughts penetrated his mind and his eyes closed.

At the car rental firm Dalton procured a district map to find the whereabouts of Henry Logan’s expensive home. Driving out of the city, he let his mind run over the meeting with Carter with a tinge of embarrassment. He had wanted to help Beverley Hill—not because of her good looks. No. He convinced himself it was because she was in trouble. Although she did have the brownest eyes he had ever looked into—chocolate brown eyes, a button nose, sensuous red lips and a cleavage that excited. She must have been a smash hit when she was younger and even now at the age of… say forty-two? Seven years older than me, he thought. She could still turn male heads. He grinned like a schoolboy.

When she was telling him about Logan’s odd house minding arrangement, Dalton had very nearly expressed a concern. However, that passed when Beverley stated she had dined with Logan. Dalton then had thought the pair might have forged an attraction to each other. Now Beverley was missing. He should have said something. He owed it to her to at least make some enquiry even if it was to allay his original concern.

The forty-five minute drive in bright sunshine was a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of city traffic. The brown countryside the ever present gum trees, askew fence battens held up by rusted barbed wires, sparse grass, and stabbing outcrops of rock on the slopes suggested to Dalton that the battling Aussie farmers were having a hard time of it. He had read in the papers that Sydney was facing another drought—continuous requests to preserve the use of water packed the media—and wondered how the property owners he was passing were faring. At least for a stranger he appreciated the good tar-sealed roads that were well marked and signposted for the winding drive into the hills.

He came to a stop when he arrived at the export man’s expensive house perched on a rise, with a concrete drive leading to it flanked by parallel rows of camellias. He didn’t immediately alight. A neighbour was walking toward his front gate as Dalton slammed shut the Mitsubishi’s saloon car door and began to walk up the drive.

‘Nobody home there,’ the man shouted. Dalton turned and saw an old timer ambling to his letterbox. Dalton walked his way over across a meagrely grassed lawn to the elderly man. The man’s face was deeply creased, weathered like tanned leather. He was smoking a pipe that skewed out from brown teeth and tight lips. A floppy tan sun hat was pushed back from a bush of grey hair.

‘Mr. Logan is away still, is he?’

‘Never been a Logan there, friend. I should know. I was here before it was built,’ he responded grudgingly, removing and poking his pipe with a smoke-tanned finger, while looking towards the light blue coloured Spanish styled mansion that shimmered in early afternoon sunshine.

‘I was informed by a lady who comes here often that Henry Logan owned the house.’

‘Well if he does now, he’s never lived in it.’ He gave the stranger a quizzical look. ‘Are you referring to the good looking lady who comes here three times a week? She’s a real peach. I thought she was a real estate agent.’ His eyes twinkled with the faintest touch of humour. He struck a match, cuffed it near the bowl and sucked several times, heaving out pungent smoke. The removal of the pipe brought on a fit of coughing and tears to his eyes, and he removed those with a handkerchief retrieved from his trouser pocket.

Dalton moved a little upwind while waiting for him to recover before asking, ‘Who do you think owns the house?’

‘I don’t think—I know who owns the house,’ he said gruffly, trying to regain composure. ‘A foreigner does. He calls himself Mister Jibril Behari.’ The old man now spoke firmly and sucked more sedately on the pipe.

‘An Asian is Jibril Behari?’

‘Don’t know what he is, could be an Indonesian—got small dark eyes if that’s what you mean.’

‘Big chap is he?’

‘No. Never are… are they?’

‘When do you expect him back here?’

‘Couldn’t say, keeps to himself… like me.’

‘Still in the country, is he?’

‘Used to be, not now,’ he continued cryptically, secretly enjoying stringing along the Pom. ‘Don’t know where.’

‘Been away long, has he?’ I should have been a dentist thought Dalton. Extracting teeth would have been easier than getting information from this non-cooperative son-of-a-bitch.

‘Over a month,’ confirmed the man, after closing his letterbox. He placed his exhausted pipe into the top left pocket of the safari suit, and slipped on a pair of glasses. He began thumbing through his mail, peering at some items closely through the thick lenses.

‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Dalton, turning away to return to his hired car. ‘Are you aware that the lady who comes here is now missing?’ he fired over his shoulder.

‘No. Have you tried the hospitals?’ came back a sharp retort.

Dalton whirled round to face the man. ‘Why should I?’

‘It was three days ago.’

Dalton edged closer and waited, finally saying, ‘Go on.’

‘Two fellows drove up here,’ he pointed to the house. ‘And she shows them into it. When they came out, she was walking funny like. It seemed me as if she was being held up by one of them. At least he had his arm around her waist. Left her car here she did. Later that day a bod comes. Drives it away he did. And he didn’t have to break in. He had the key for it.’

‘What did this person look like?’

‘Like any other Asian.’

‘Another Asian,’ Dalton said softly. ‘The two who went up to the house with her, were they Asians?’

‘Don’t think so. Although I couldn’t be sure, but they weren’t small,’ he replied trying to thumb open an envelope.

‘H’mm,’ mussed Dalton. ‘You had better contact Inspector Carter of missing persons right away. He’ll need all the information you’ve told me together with descriptions. I am Detective Sergeant Warren Dalton from Scotland Yard. And you are?’

‘Des Fergusson.’

‘Mr. Fergusson, you have important information. Be sure to ring Inspector Carter right away.’ Fergusson began waddling up the path to his front door, whistling through stained teeth.

Dalton noted the house number on Fergusson’s letterbox before going to his car to record the information in the file. He then drove to the nearest library to scan through local business and phone directories but failed to find any listings for Jibril Behari or Henry Logan.

Returning to his hotel, he parked the rental in the Meriton Hotel’s basement and took a lift directly to his floor. In his room, he pulled back the drapes to let the light in, flipped off his shoes, settled the pillow and lay on the bed to read the Hills’ police file.

Charles David Hill had directorships on several public companies. One of particular note caught Dalton’s attention—a company manufacturing small arms and ammunitions. Further, into the file there was an inference that Hill had been seen among drug and arms merchants with possible terrorist connections, although nothing concrete could be pinned on him. The file concluded that Hill had left the country of his own free will for London.

At the request of the police the Australian London Embassy had looked for him but hadn’t tracked him down, and that was several months ago. At the bottom of the file, someone had added a pencil note with an underscored question mark. Has wife gone to join him?

The coloured file photo of Charles Hill showed him in a business suit, features noticeably dark, medium height, grossly overweight with a large potbelly, swept back dark hair and a smiling face conveying a politician’s confidence. Beverley’s photo showed off all her outstanding qualities of good looks and charm.

The next morning at nine Dalton drove against Sydney’s immense in-flowing city traffic, arriving at the armament factory mentioned in the Hill file. A WW2 eight-pounder field gun fronted the brick-sheaved entrance. The bespectacled elderly woman receptionist led him to the Secretary’s office after phoning through. Dalton introduced himself to the small dapper Secretary, who had a trimmed moustache, and told him that he was continuing police enquires into the disappearance of the company’s director, Charles Hill.

They commiserated over the untimely disappearances of Mr. and Mrs. Hill and Dalton told him about the queer circumstances involving Beverley Hill’s out of town house minding visits.

‘It’s as though someone wanted her out of her own house… perhaps to search the place. She may even have been later kidnapped.’ Dalton suggested, capturing the interest of the Secretary. ‘Any happenings out of the ordinary occurred here recently?’ he asked nonchalantly.

The Secretary considered the question. ‘Yes there was one. We lost a container of small arms and ammunition in heavy seas off the coast of Pakistan. Mr. Hill dealt with the matter.’

Dalton gave him a quizzical glance so he elaborated further. ‘There was a dispute between the shipping company and our insurers. It was resolved to our satisfaction but it took a lot of Hill’s time. That happened quite recently. Shortly after that Hill disappeared somewhere in London and we haven’t heard from him since.’ He thought for some time, absent-mindedly tweaking his moustache. ‘There’s nothing else that comes to mind.’

‘Had he resigned his directorship?’

‘No. Nor had he asked for leave of absence. Bit of a nuisance really,’ he muttered more to himself than to Dalton.

‘Was a replacement order sent?’

‘Oh yes. Would you be interested in looking over the factory?’

‘I would, thank you.’

‘I’ll have someone show you around.’ He picked up the phone, pressed two buttons and explained to the recipient that a Scotland Yard detective would like to look through the factory. A little later, a dark curly headed man with one front tooth missing, and in blue overalls, stepped into the office.

‘What would ya like to see?’ he cheerfully asked after introductions, and as they ventured down a passage towards the factory proper.

‘I’d like to see the type of weapons that were being shipped in the container that was washed overboard near the Pakistan coast.’

‘Washed overboard!’ the factory man exclaimed with a hint of excitement. ‘That’s a good one. Ya mean the one that Slippery Hill sold to the Iraqis is more like it. What else did the secretary tell ya?’ he enquired inquisitively.

Dalton told him.

‘Yeah typical, ya were given the official office version. Do ya want to hear the factory floor version?’ he whispered, and a mischievous smirk followed.

‘Yes please.’

‘Come in here, Limey,’ curly hair invited, opening the door to an office revealing a clutter of blueprints, slide-rulers, pencils, computers, calculators and numerous other drafting items. ‘Take a pew,’ he motioned to a chair as he closed the office door and then seated himself behind his desk. He took up a pencil and began doodling on the desk pad to get his thoughts in order. ‘I am going to give it to ya straight Limey but if ya make trouble, I’ll deny everything. Okay?’

‘Sure, off the record, eh.’

The man blinked a couple of times then the penny fell. ‘Yeah off the record it is Limey,’ he confided, looking at the tall athletic build of the flaxen haired Englishman, wondering if he ever played cricket. ‘A few months back a very tall individual, over two metres tall I reckon, came into the factory and looked over our latest weaponry. He was impressed and selected numerous items and the factory was expecting a large order. The fellow’s name was Osama bin Laden… the Saudi Arabian radical.’ He looked at Dalton for acknowledgement.

‘I have heard of him, a pretty ruthless character by all accounts.’

‘Our Australian Secret Service and Government thought so, and word came through that no export licence would be granted. This amounted to a huge loss of work for the factory floor and sales money to the company. That should have been the end of the matter but Slippery, alias Charles Hill our illustrious director, becomes involved. Slippery had contacts in Pakistan and let that be known here to Osama bin Laden’s Australian representative. Sometime later, a fearful cut-throat looking individual by the name of Jibril Behari—representing a Pakistan importer—came to the factory and coincidentally purchased the same goods chosen by Osama bin Laden! Amazing wasn’t it!’ His eyebrows shot upwards and the lines around his eyes inched into a smile.

Dalton’s instincts came to full alert as the name Jibril Behari registered with him. ‘Truly amazing,’ Dalton agreed, giving the man every encouragement to continue.

‘Slippery of course was in his element rubbing his hands together, fawning all over this cut-throat looking Jibril Behari. And I reckon he received a big back-hander, because soon after he had made the sale he began negotiating to buy that big mansion of his, ya know.’

Dalton nodded pondering why Slippery Hill would need mortgage money if he had enough from a back-hander to buy his mansion outright. It was either a small back hander or a high priced mansion. ‘Whereabouts is this mansion situated exactly?’

‘Aw,’ the other hesitated. A frown formed as he was trying to remember. ‘It was close to town, in Ranwick’s posh area. I think.’

‘Go on, didn’t mean to interrupt,’ said Dalton hoping he hadn’t broken the man’s line of thought.

The factory man gave a chuckle. ‘‘Their friendship didn’t last, No sir. It all ended when Slippery arranged for a photographer to film the signing of the purchase contract.’ He laughed out loud and rocked back in his chair just thinking about it. Then he came forward. ‘Well the shit hit the fan that day! I can tell ya.

‘Jibril Behari bashed the photographer. Smashed his camera. Threw a punch at Slippery. Hit him a beauty on the side of the head. Knocked him down on his arse and was about to put the boot in when we intervened. Hell, it was funny as a fight!’ he chortled away, showing his gums and the open space of missing teeth.

‘Things were never quite the same between the pair of them. Slippery can be very spiteful and it was no surprise to any of us down here on the floor when the first shipment wasn’t delivered.’

‘Wasn’t delivered? How do you mean wasn’t delivered? Wasn’t it washed overboard?’ queried Dalton.

‘We reckon it was hijacked. And we don’t reckon it was hijacked by force.’

‘Oh.’

‘No sir.’

Dalton, catching on fast, concurred. ‘Lots of pirates are working that coast. Given away by arrangement do you suppose?’

‘Yeah. Word from the wharf was that Slippery arranged with Captain Sligo to give the arms to the Iraqis. He’d got his own back on the Pakistani, Jibril Behari alright.’

‘How do you know it went to the Iraqis?’

‘Who else?’

Dalton ignored the posed question. ‘I take it that the replacement shipment was delivered without a hitch?’

‘It went forward after Slippery went missing.’

‘You said this Jibril Behari was a cut-throat looking character. Did he have anything noticeable like a scar… or something?’

‘No-well-no,’ the factory man replied uncertain. His eyes closed trying to recall. ‘Wait. Part of his upper lip was kinda curled back. Yeah—gave him a permanent sneer. He was short-arsed, dark with black hair, and fancied himself.’

‘What were the circumstances surrounding Slippery’s disappearance?’

‘It happened very soon after the first arms shipment was, as ya say, washed overboard—and not long after the settlement of the insurance claim. He just disappeared.’

‘Did the Pakistan importer make further orders?’

‘Yeah—we’ve dispatched several orders since, and also to the Iraqis.’

‘And was Jibril Behari involved?’

‘Seemed to be. He was the one selecting the armaments. But a Mr. Logan selected for the Iraqis.’

Dalton’s eyebrows shot up, ‘An Irishman by any chance?’

‘Yeah, do you know him?’

‘No, just heard of him. Could you give me a description?’ After that was given Dalton was shown the factory’s impressive arsenal of manufactured weapons. Then a strange thing happened. As Dalton was about to drive away, the factory foreman came hurrying out to his car.

‘A Scotland Yard detective doesn’t come out here just to investigate a cargo of arms that have gone overboard. No Sir. You’re on to something that’s worth millions, right?’ His head swivelled to see if he was being watched.

Dalton was flummoxed and didn’t say anything.

‘You’ll find the top secret specifications of the Red-Back with Slippery Hill,’ he spouted out, turned abruptly and hurried back into the factory before Dalton could question him.

What the hell is the Red-Back, thought Dalton as he motored away from the factory. Certainly, nothing to do with drugs that he knew of. Dealing in armaments… that’s not for us. That’s Secret Service stuff. They would be on to it. Wouldn’t they?

Before flying back to London, he reported to Carter, returned the police file asking if Des Fergusson had made contact.

‘Yes, Ferguson rang and we are making inquires.’

‘I’ve also made some notes you might care to follow up on, in particular merchants called Jibril Behari and Henry Logan who may have known Charles Hill.’

Carter took the file but made no effort to glance through it or even say thanks. Dalton walked away to fetch a taxi to Sydney airport, thinking another mystery was to remain unsolved.

How wrong he was.

A few days after Dalton’s arrival back in London he saw Beverley Hill coming out of a Regent Street hotel with a man in a business suit and wondered whether it was her husband Charles Hill, or Henry Logan the importer/exporter. Certainly, it was not the Asian, Jibril