“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?”

“You hurry back to the pub, pick up an inflatable, a tank, fins, and a mask and get back here fast. Don’t bother with a diving suit.”

“You mean you’re going to swim out there?”

“Can you think of anything else to do?”

“But there’s five of them.”

“Well, that means with the way I’m loading my Walther, I’ll have two rounds for each of them. On your way, Billy, and don’t forget a dive bag. Here are the keys.”

Billy hurried away and Blake went to the edge of the dock and peered down through the shadows. He straightened. “Not even a rowboat down there. Are you sure about this, Sean?”

“Why not? All I need to do is hold them up, free Salter and the other two, and bring the boat in.”

“You sure as hell make it sound easy.”

They looked out toward the lights of the boat. There was a burst of laughter. “People on deck,” Dillon said.

“I make it three, and one of them’s going down the ladder,” Blake said. “It’s kind of dark down there, but I think there must be a boat.”

Which there was, for an engine roared into life and a speedboat moved across the water toward the dock. Dillon and Blake stayed in the shadows by a crane.

“You’re bigger than me, so get him from the rear, hand over his mouth and not a sound, while I have words,” Dillon said.

“You’re on.”

Strange, but standing there in the shadows, Blake Johnson felt more alive than he’d done in years, and he flexed his hands, waiting, as the speedboat coasted in to the stone steps. The man behind the wheel got out and came up. As he reached the dock, Blake moved fast and grabbed him.

Dillon put the barrel of the Walther under the man’s chin. “Not a sound or I’ll kill you. This is a silenced weapon. They won’t hear a thing. Do you understand?” The man nodded, Blake removed his hand. Dillon said, “Salter and his boys are out there with Hooker – right?”

The man was terrified. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“In the main saloon.”

“Nicely tied up?” The man nodded and Dillon said, “Hooker and three others, so what are you doing here?”

“There’s a Chinese restaurant on the main road. Hooker phoned an order through to them. He sent me to get it.”

“Considerate of him. That’s a nice tie you’re wearing.” Dillon pulled it off and passed it to Blake, who tied the man’s wrists.

“Are you thinking what I am?” Blake asked.

“I presume so. The minute you see me board at the stern, you and Billy come out in the speedboat. Hooker will think it’s his man with the Chinese.” He grinned. “Shows you where greed gets you.” He shook the man fiercely. “Where’s your transport?”

“Over there in that old warehouse.”

Dillon marched him over and found a Ford van parked in the darkness. Blake opened the rear doors and Dillon shoved the man in. “Not a sound or I’ll come back, and you know what that will mean.”

They closed the doors and returned to the edge of the dock.

Billy arrived a few minutes later, engine off, coasting down a slight incline over the cobbles. He switched off, got out, and went and opened the trunk of the car.

“Everything okay?”

“Tell him, Blake,” Dillon said, opened the rear door of the car, sat on the seat and undressed down to his underpants, slipping his glasses into a jacket pocket.

He pulled on the inflatable jacket, then clamped the tank to it. “Give me five minutes. The light under the awning at the stern is bright enough for you to see me go over the rail, then you two come out in the speedboat like I said.”

“Bloody cold out there,” Billy told him.

“Not for long.” Dillon put his Walther in the dive bag and hung it around his neck, then he went down the steps, sat on the last one and pulled on his fins. He adjusted his mask, reached for his mouthpiece, and slipped into the dark waters.

Billy was right, it was bitterly cold, but he kept on going, surfacing once to check his position, then going back under. He surfaced again by the anchor line, dumped the inflatable, the tank, his mask, and the fins, then pulled himself up to the anchor chain port. He peered through cautiously. The stern deck under the awning was empty, the sound of laughter coming from the saloon and then a cry of pain. Dillon hauled himself through, took the dive bag from around his neck and produced the Walther. He waved to the dock, and as he moved toward the saloon, the speedboat started up.

There was another cry of pain and he peered in through the porthole in the door. Salter and his two minders, Baxter and Hall, were seated on three chairs, arms bound behind them. A large man in a dark suit, presumably Hooker, was holding a butane cylinder, the kind of thing used for stripping paint. His brutal face had an expression of joy on it as he touched the flame to Baxter’s left cheek.

Baxter yelled in pain, and Harry Salter said, “I’ll do for you, I swear it.”

“Really?” Hooker said. “I don’t think so, because by the time I’ve finished you’ll be a well-done hamburger. How’s this for starters?”

The trouble was there were only two of his men there, laughing, glasses in their hands, so where was the third? But Dillon couldn’t afford to wait, and as Hooker advanced on Salter, he flung open the door and stepped in.

“I don’t think so.”

Hooker stared stupidly at him. “What in the hell have we got here? Take him, boys.”

One of them slipped a hand inside his pocket and Dillon shot him in the thigh.

Salter leaned back and laughed out loud. “Dear God, Dillon, you little Irish bastard. I don’t know what you’ve done to yourself, but I recognize the voice.”

Dillon said to Hooker, “Just switch the burner off and put it on the table.”

“Fuck you!” Hooker told him.

“What a pity,” Dillon said and shot off part of Hooker’s left ear.

Hooker screamed and dropped the burner, which for some reason went out. Hooker had a hand at his ear, blood pouring between his fingers, and Dillon nodded to the one man left undamaged.

“Cut them loose.”

He wasn’t aware of any movement behind him because the door stood open, only the barrel of a shotgun against his neck. He turned his head slightly and saw, in the mirrored wall, a small, gypsy-looking man with dark, curling hair, holding a sawed-off.

The man reached for the Walther in Dillon’s hand and Hooker snarled, “Kill him! Blow his bleeding head off!”

In that moment, Dillon saw the door at the other end of the saloon open, and Blake Johnson, Billy behind him, stepped in. Dillon dropped to one knee, Blake’s hand swept up holding the Beretta, a perfect shot that caught the gypsy in the right shoulder, spinning him round as he dropped the sawed-off.