Robbie grinned and pumped his fist in the air.
"Yes!" he said. It had been more than two months since Robbie had seen his father.
He stuffed the phone back into the sports bag and headed for the school gates. He looked around nervously but there were no teachers in the playground. It was lunch break and everyone was rushing towards the refectory. Robbie walked purposefully through the gates and broke into a run, his sports bag banging against his leg.
He was sweating and out of breath by the time he reached his house. His mother's silver-grey Range Rover was parked in front of the house. Next to it was a dark green Jaguar, its engine still clicking under the bonnet. Robbie ran his finger along the paintwork. His dad didn't like British cars: he said they were always breaking down and that you couldn't beat the Germans for quality engineering. Robbie walked down the side of the house and through the kitchen door. There were two bulging Marks and Spencer carrier bags on the counter top next to the sink and two mugs by the kettle.
"Dad!" There was no answer.
Robbie put his sports bag on the kitchen table and ran through to the sitting room. Empty. He went back into the hall.
"Dad?" His voice echoed around the hallway.
Robbie went up the stairs, one hand on the banister. He could hear voices coming from his parents' bedroom. Robbie broke into a run and pushed open the bedroom door, grinning excitedly. He froze when he saw the two figures on the bed. Two naked figures. His mother on top, sitting down, her spine arched and her head back. She turned to look at him, a look of horror on her face.
"Robbie?" she gasped.
Time seemed to stop for Robbie. He could see the beads of sweat on her back, a stray wisp of blonde hair across her face, a smear of lipstick on the side of her mouth.
The man on the bed was lying on his back, trying to sit up.
"Oh shit," he said. He put a hand up to his forehead.
"Shit a fucking brick."
Robbie recognised the man. It was Uncle Stewart, but he wasn't really an uncle, he was a friend of his father's. Stewart Sharkey. His father always looked serious when Uncle Stewart came around to the house, and they'd lock themselves in the study while they talked. The only time Dad wasn't serious with him was when it was Christmas and Uncle Stewart came around with presents for Robbie and his parents. He always brought really good presents. Expensive ones.
"That's my mum!" Robbie shouted.
"That's my fucking mum!"
"Robbie…" said his mother, pleadingly.
"Shit, shit, shit!" said Sharkey, holding his hands over his eyes and banging the back of his head against the pillow.
Robbie's mother wrapped the duvet around herself and twisted around to face him.
"Robbie, this isn't ' "It is!" he screamed.
"I know what it is! I can see what you're doing! I'm not stupid."
Robbie's mother stood up, and the man grabbed a pillow and held it over his groin.
"What are we going to do?" he asked.
Robbie's mother ignored him. She took a step towards Robbie, but he moved backwards, holding his hands up as if trying to ward her off.
"Don't come near me!" he yelled.
"Robbie. I'm sorry."
"Dad's going to kill you. He's going to kill both of you!"
"Robbie, it was an accident."
Robbie pointed at her.
"I'm not stupid, Mum. I know what you're doing. I'm going to tell Dad."
"Vicky, for God's sake, do something!" hissed Sharkey.
Vicky turned to him.
"Stay out of this, Stewart."
"Just handle it, will you?"
Robbie backed out of the bedroom and rushed down the hallway. His mother hurried after him.
"Robbie! Robbie, come back here!"
Robbie stumbled at the top of the stairs and his hands flailed out for balance. His sports bag swung between his legs and he fell forward, his mouth working soundlessly, panic overwhelming him.
Vicky ran into the hallway just in time to see her son pitch headlong down the stairs. She screamed and let the duvet slip from her fingers.
Robbie banged down the stairs in a series of sickening thumps.
"Robbie, no!" yelled Vicky, as she rushed towards the top of the stairs. Behind her, Sharkey called out, wanting to know what was wrong.
The hallway seemed as if it were telescoping away from Vicky as she ran. She couldn't see Robbie, but she could hear the thuds as he tumbled down. Thump. Thump. Thump. What horrified Vicky was Robbie's silence as he fell. No groans, or shouts or curses. Just the gut-wrenching thumps. Then silence. The silence was a million times worse than the sound of the fall.
Vicky reached the top of the stairs. Robbie was lying at the bottom, face down, his head turned to the side. There was blood on his mouth.
Vicky felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
"Please, God, don't let this be happening," she whispered.
She hurried down the stairs two at a time and crouched next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.
"Robbie, love? Robbie?" His chest moved as he took a breath, and Vicky said a silent prayer of thanks.
Robbie's eyes flickered open.
"Robbie, love, are you all right?" Vicky asked.
His face screwed up into a snarl.
"Don't touch me!"
"Robbie, love "Get off me," he said.
"I saw you. I saw what you were doing."
"Robbie…"
He pushed her away and got to his feet. He wiped his mouth and stared at the blood on his hand.
"You look ridiculous," he said.
Vicky realised that she was naked and she moved her hands to cover her crotch.
"I hate you," said Robbie.
Sharkey appeared at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt.
"Has he calmed down?"
Robbie pointed up at Sharkey.
"My dad's going to kill you!" he shouted venomously.
"Robbie," said Vicky, 'please don't say that."
She reached out to touch him but Robbie hit her hand away.
"And you!" he shouted.
Sharkey started downstairs.
"There's no need to be stupid, Robbie," he said.
Robbie backed away.
Vicky looked over her shoulder.
"Stewart, leave this to me. Please."
"If he says anything to Den…"
"Shut the hell up!" she shouted.
"I'm just saying…"
"Don't say," she yelled.
"Don't say anything. You've caused enough…" Before she finished the sentence she heard Robbie fumbling with the lock on the front door.
"Robbie!" she shouted.
"Robbie, come back."
She dashed towards the door but Robbie was too quick for her. He pulled the door open, slipped out and slammed it behind him. Vicky scrabbled at the lock, but by the time she got the door open Robbie was already sprinting along the pavement. The strength drained from Vicky's legs and she slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sharkey walked slowly down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
"Shit," he said quietly.
"What are we going to do now?"
The wind blowing off the Caribbean Sea tugged at Den Donovan's hair and flicked it across his eyes. He brushed it away and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The waves of the turquoise sea were flecked with white and Donovan could taste the salt on his lips.
"Thought I might get a boat, Carlos," he mused, staring out across the water.
"What do you think?"
Carlos Rodriguez shrugged.
"I always get seasick," he said.
"I was thinking a big boat. Stabilisers and that. Save me flying between the islands. I could travel with style."
"I still get sick," said Rodriguez.
Donovan started walking down the beach, his sandals digging into the sand. In the distance a line of loungers were shaded by pink and green striped umbrellas. Rodriguez hurried after him.
Donovan looked across at the road to his right. Barry Doyle was leaning against Donovan's silver-grey Mercedes, his arms folded across his massive chest. Doyle gave Donovan the merest hint of a nod, letting him know that everything was clear on the road. Donovan looked over his shoulder. The nearest person was a hundred yards away, and that was an obese woman in a too-small bikini, who was paddling with her toddler son and yelling at him in German every time he went out too far into the sea.
A small jet banked overhead and turned towards Bradshaw Airport. More well-heeled tourists, thought Donovan, probably booked into a suite at the Jack Tar Village Beach Resort or the Four Seasons Resort on the neighbouring island of Nevis, where a quarter of the island's workforce slaved away to make sure that the everyday inconveniences of life on a Third World island didn't intrude into their five-star compound. St.
Kitts wasn't one of Donovan's favourite places, but it was an ideal setting for a meeting with one of Colombia's biggest cocaine suppliers.
"How's everything?" Donovan said, keeping his voice low.
"The freighter is leaving Mexico this evening," said Rodriguez.
"And the consignment?"
"The fuel tanks of the yellow ones."
"The yellow ones?"
"We thought they'd be easier to spot."
"Every yellow one?" asked Donovan.
Rodriguez nodded.
"Every one."
"Isn't that a bit… predictable?"
Rodriguez grinned.
"Less risk of confusion. You'd prefer we used engine or chassis numbers? You want to go down on your hands and knees with a flashlight?"
Donovan chuckled. The cocaine Rodriguez was supplying had been transported from Colombia into Mexico, where there was a factory manufacturing Volkswagen Beetles, the cult car that was still in demand around the world. Up to four hundred Beetles a day rolled off the production line in Puebla, and many went overseas. Rodriguez had bought up a consignment of sixty of the cars and had arranged to ship them to the United Kingdom.
"Don't worry, Den," said Rodriguez.
"Palms have been well greased at both ends. Yellow, green or rainbow coloured, no one is going to be going near those cars."
"Sweet," said Donovan.
"And my money?"
"I'll put the first tranche in this afternoon."
"And the rest on arrival?" said Rodriguez.
"Soon as we've got the gear out." Donovan slapped the Colombian on the back.
"Come on, Carlos, have I ever let you down?"
"Not yet, my friend, but a little bird tells me that you have been talking to Russians."
"Carlos, I talk to a lot of people."
"Russian pilots. With transport planes. Staying at a hotel in Anguilla. Not far from your villa, in fact."
Donovan raised an eyebrow.
"I'm impressed, Carlos."
"Knowledge is power," said the Colombian.
"I thought money was power."
The two men stopped and faced each other, the warm sea breeze rustling their clothes.
"Knowledge. Money. Power. They are all connected," said the Colombian.
"These Russians, they have been flying Soviet weapons into Colombia for FARC, you know that?"
Donovan nodded. FARC was the initials of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, the country's biggest rebel group.
"Not these guys. But they're friends of the guys you're talking about."
"Guns in, cocaine out. It's a dangerous game, my friend. We wouldn't want the rebels becoming too strong. We have friends in the Government, you know that."
Donovan nodded. It was one of the reasons that the Rodriguez cartel had been so successful.
"I've no interest in their cocaine, Carlos. You have my word. I'm talking to them about some business on the other side of the world.
Poppy business."
Rodriguez smiled.
"Be careful, Den. The Russians are not to be trusted. They are vicious thugs who will kill you at the drop of a hat."
Donovan laughed and patted the Colombian's shoulder.
"Carlos, they say exactly the same thing about the Colombians."
The Colombian laughed along with him.
"And maybe they're right, my friend. Maybe they are right."
Donovan heard his name being called from the road. It was Doyle, waving Donovan's mobile phone in the air. He never carried it himself, and he never discussed business on it. He was all too well aware of how easily the authorities could listen in to cell phones, which was why he'd arranged to meet Rodriguez on the beach. Anyone trying to eavesdrop would be easy to spot, and the wind and the crashing surf would make long-distance electronic surveillance difficult if not impossible.
"I think your associate is trying to attract your attention," said Carlos dryly.
Donovan glared over at Doyle who was now walking across the sand in their direction, still waving the mobile phone like a conductor trying to energise an orchestra.
"You'd better push off, Carlos," said Donovan.
"I'm going to have a quiet word with Mr. Doyle."
"It's always difficult to get good people," said the Colombian.
"I could tell you stories. Another time, though." He walked away down the beach, the cream linen trousers of his suit cracking in the wind like the sails of a racing yacht.
Donovan strode towards Doyle.
"What the fuck are you playing at?" he yelled.
"I told you to stay on the road. And if that fucking phone is switched on I'll shove it so far up your arse that your teeth'll vibrate when it rings."
"It's Robbie," said Doyle, so quietly that his Scottish burr was almost lost in the wind.
"He sounds hysterical. Something about Vicky."
"Oh Christ," said Donovan. He grabbed the phone out of Doyle's hand and slammed it to his ear.
"Robbie, what's wrong?"
As Robbie explained what had happened, the colour drained from Donovan's face. He walked to the water's edge as he listened to his son, occasionally whispering quietly into the phone, barely noticing the waves that lapped over his Bally loafers.
When Robbie had finished, Donovan told him not to worry, that everything would be all right, that he'd take care of it.
"Dad, you have to come home. Now."
"I will, Robbie. I promise."
"Now," Robbie repeated.
"A day or two, Robbie. I've got to get a flight and stuff. Where are you?"
Robbie sniffed.
"I don't know," he said.
"What do you mean, you don't know?"
"I'm near school. I ran away. But I don't know where to go."
"Call your Auntie Laura. Right now. She'll pick you up."
"I don't want to go home, Dad."
"You don't have to. You can stay with your aunt until I get there."
Robbie said nothing and for a moment Donovan thought that he'd lost the connection.
"Robbie, are you there?"
"Yeah, I can hear you," said Robbie. There was another long silence, with Donovan listening to nothing but the crackle of static.
"Dad?" said Robbie eventually.
"Yes?"
"Are you going to kill them?"
"Don't be silly, Robbie," said Donovan.
"Look, hang up and call Aunty Laura. Tell her what's happened and that I'll call her."
"Okay, Dad."
"I love you, Robbie."
"I love you too, Dad."
The line went dead. Donovan threw back his head and screamed obscenities into the wind.
"Kill them?" he yelled.
"I'll rip them limb from fucking limb when I get my hands on them!"
Stewart Sharkey put his hand on Vicky's shoulders.
"It'll be okay," he said.
Vicky shook her head fiercely.
"How the fuck's it going to be okay?
Tears trickled down her cheeks. Sharkey tried to brush them away, but Vicky threw up her hands and forced him back.
"Leave me alone!" she shouted.
"This is all your fault."
Sharkey looked hurt by her outburst.
"That's not fair, Vicky," he said.
"Fair! Den's not going to care what's fucking fair!" she hissed.
Sharkey reached out a hand to hold her arm but Vicky took a step back.
"Look, maybe Robbie won't say anything," he said.
"He's got a mobile. He'll call Den."
"We can say he's confused."
"Oh, grow up, will you, Stewart? He saw us in bed. Where the fuck's the confusion?" She slammed her hand against the wall.
"You shouldn't have come around. I always said never here, didn't I?
Your place or hotels, that's what we agreed. I said never here, didn't I? But you had to do it in the bed. Den's bed. Like a dog pissing on another's territory."
Sharkey sat down on the stairs.
"It takes two, Vicky," he said quietly.
She whirled around and raised her hand as if to slap him, but then she shuddered and began to cry, great heaving sobs that wracked her slim body. Sharkey stood up and held her and this time she didn't try to push him away. He stroked her hair.
"I'm sorry, love," he said.
"He'll kill us," she sobbed.
"Stewart, you know what he's like. Oh God, how could I have been so stupid?"
"We want to be together, you know we do. He was going to have to know some time."
"But not like this. Not with Robbie…" She started to cry again.
Sharkey rested his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes. He knew that she was right. He more than anyone knew what Den Donovan was capable of.
"We've got time," he said.
"Time?"
"To move. To make plans. For a new life."
"What about Robbie? We have to take Robbie with us."
"Later," said Stewart.
"He's my son," protested Vicky.
"Of course he is," said Sharkey.
"But he's Den's son, too. He'll lead Den to us."
Vicky looked up at him, her cheeks wet with tears.
"I can't leave him," she said.
"He hurt himself when he fell down stairs."
"He was fine, Vicky. He ran out of here like a bat out of hell."
"But I don't even know where he is."
"He'll go around to a friend's house," said Sharkey.
"Or he'll call Den's sister. And he'll be on the phone to his father.
Don't worry about Robbie, Vicky. Worry about yourself "I want to be sure that he's okay."
"We don't have time, love," said Sharkey.
"We're going to have to go now."
"Go where?"
"I've got an idea," said Sharkey, smoothing her hair with the flat of his hand.
"Just trust me."
Vicky began to sob again and Sharkey held her tightly.
Donovan called his sister from a call box close to a beachfront cafe.
Barry Doyle stood by the car looking uncomfortable. Laura answered on the fifth ring.
"Den, thank God. I can't believe this," she said.
"Have you got Robbie there?"
"He's watching TV with my kids," she said.
"He's in a right state, Den."
"Let me talk to him, yeah?"
Laura called Robbie to the phone and handed the receiver to him.
"You okay, Robbie?"
"When are you coming home, Dad?"
"Soon, Robbie. Don't worry. You can stay with Aunty Laura until I get there, okay?"
"I guess. What about school? Do I still have to go?"
"Of course you do."
"But it's miles away."
"Aunty Laura'll drive you. Just be a good boy for her, yeah, until I get things sorted."
"What are you going to do, Dad?"
"I'm gonna get a ticket and then I'll come and see you."
"I meant about Mum. And him."
"I'll get it sorted, Robbie, don't you worry. You can stay with me, I'll take care of you. Chin up, yeah?"
"Okay, Dad."
"Put your aunty on, will you?"
Robbie handed the phone to Laura.
"Thanks, Laura."
"Anything I can do, Den, you know that. Can't believe what the stupid cow's gone and done."
"Yeah, you and me both. I need a favour, Laura."
"Anything."
"Can you go around to the house? Robbie's passport's in the safe in the study. You got a pen?" Donovan gave her the combination of the safe.
"Get the passport, and there's cash there, too. And a manila envelope, a biggish one. In fact, clear everything out, will you?"
"What if she's there, Den?"
"It's my house, and Robbie's my son. I don't want her doing a runner with him. I said Robbie could go to school but I'm having second thoughts."
"You can't keep him off school Den. There's laws about that."
Donovan rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah, you're right. Can you run him there and pick him up? Make sure he gets inside. And have a word with the headmistress. Vicky's not to go near him."
"She's his mother, Den, they won't…"
"Just do as you're fucking told, will you!" Donovan shouted, and immediately regretted the outburst.
"I'm sorry, Laura. I didn't mean that."
"It's okay, Den. I'll talk to the school, explain the situation to them. But you're going to have to come back and talk to them yourself.
You're his dad, I'm just his aunt."
"I'll be back, don't worry about that. Are you okay looking after him for a while?"
"You don't have to ask, Den. You know that."
Donovan cut the connection and dialled again. A man answered. Donovan didn't identify himself, but told the man to get to a clean phone and call him back. Donovan gave him the St. Kitts number. The man began to complain that he didn't have enough coins to make an international call from a phone box.
"Buy a fucking phone card, you cheap bastard," said Donovan, and hung up.
Donovan paced up and down as he waited for the man to ring back.
Laura's husband, Mark, drove her over to Donovan's house. She'd asked a neighbour to sit in with the children, who were so engrossed in the Cartoon Channel that they didn't even ask where Laura and Mark were going.
"We've met this Sharkey guy, haven't we?" asked Mark, accelerating through the evening traffic.
"Yeah. That barbecue last time Den was over. He's an accountant or something."
"And she was in bed with him?"
That's what Robbie said."
"Stupid bitch."
"Yeah."
"Fancy doing it in her own bed."
Laura flashed him a withering look.
He grimaced.
"I meant she was a stupid bitch for doing it in the first place. But if you're going to have an affair, you don't shit on your own doorstep, do you?"
"Well, I'll bear that in mind, honey," she said, frostily.
"You know what I mean. How did Den sound?"
"Angry."
"He'll kill her."
"I hope not."
"You know what your brother's like. What he's capable of."
"Yeah. And so does Vicky."
"Christ, what a mess."
They drove the rest of the way to Kensington in silence. Mark pulled up outside Donovan's house. Vicky's Range Rover was parked outside.
"Shit," said Laura.
"She's still home."
"Maybe not," said Mark.
"She might have left in his car."
"Leave behind a Range Rover? Come on. Vicky's not the sort to say goodbye to a thirty-thousand-pound car."
"She can't take it overseas. And even if she could, it'd make her a sitting duck."
Laura realised that her husband was probably right and she relaxed a little. Despite her brother's assertion that the house belonged to him, Laura wasn't sure how well she'd be able to cope with a confrontation with Vicky. She took the house keys from her bag and climbed out of the car.
Laura opened the front door. She had the combination of the burglar alarm, but there was no bleeping from the console so she figured that Vicky hadn't set it. She was about to step inside when Mark put a hand on her shoulder.
"Best let me go in first, kid," he said.
"Just to be on the safe side."
Laura smiled at him gratefully and moved to let him go inside.
Mark quickly walked down the hall, checked the two reception rooms and the kitchen, then came back into the hallway, shaking his head.
"No one here," he said. He looked up the stairs.
"Vicky?" he shouted.
"She'll be well gone," said Laura.
They went upstairs to the master bedroom. The duvet was thrown over a chair by the window and two pillows were on the floor at the foot of the bed. Laura opened the doors to the fitted wardrobes. Among the clothes still hanging there were more than two dozen empty hangers.
Laura walked into the en suite bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and ran a hand over the medicines and toiletries.
"She's left him," she said.
Mark came up behind her.
"How do you know?"
"No contraceptive pills. No razor. No toothbrush."
"You should have been a detective," said her husband.
"She'll have to run a long bloody way to escape from Den."
"Can you get some clothes from Robbie's room?" asked Laura.
"There's something Den wants me to do."
As Mark went along the hallway to Robbie's bedroom, Laura headed downstairs. She opened the door to the study and walked over to a large oil painting hanging behind an oak desk. It was of two old-fashioned yachts sailing into the wind, and a similar one hung on the wall opposite. Laura reached for the ornate gilt frame and pulled the right-hand side away from the wall. Behind was a gunmetal-grey safe with a circular numbered dial in the centre. She'd written the combination on the back of a Marks and Spencer receipt, but it took her several goes before she could get the door open. The safe was empty.
Laura swore under her breath. She wasn't looking forward to giving her brother the bad news.
Chief Superintendent Richard Underwood buttoned up his coat and pushed open the door. He walked out of Paddington Green police station and nodded at two Vice Squad detectives before walking down Harrow Road. He turned up his collar against the wind that always seemed to whip around the station, no matter what the season.
He walked past the first two phone boxes, the old-fashioned red types, the insides littered with prostitutes' calling cards. The third was about half a mile from the station, on Warwick Avenue, close to the canal. Underwood tapped in the pin number of his phone card, then the number in St. Kitts. It rang out for so long that he thought maybe he'd taken down the wrong number, but then Donovan answered.
"You'd better be quick, Den, there's only twenty quid on this card."
"Yeah, put it on the tab, you tight bastard," said Donovan.
"Look, I need to know what my position is back in the UK."
"Fucking precarious, as usual."
"I'm serious, Dicko. I'm going to have to come back." He told Underwood what had happened.
"Hell, Den, I'm sorry." Underwood had known Donovan for almost twenty years and Vicky Donovan was the last person he'd have expected to betray her husband.
"Yeah, well, I need to know where I stand."
"You're Tango One. So far as I know, that's not changed."
"It's been four bloody years since I left."
"Memories like elephants. They'll be all over you like a rash if you come back."
"Check it out, will you?"
"If that's what you want, Den, sure. I'll call you tomorrow. This number, yeah?"
"Nah. I'm getting a flight back this afternoon."
"Bloody hell, Den. Don't get manic about this. Softly, softly, yeah?"
"Don't worry, Dicko. I'll stop off in Europe. Germany maybe. I'll call you from there."
"Just remember Europol, that's all. You're Most Wanted all over Europe."
"I'll be okay. One more thing. I want you to get Vicky and that bastard Sharkey red-flagged. They leave the country, I want to know."
"You're not asking much, are you?"
"I'm serious, Dicko. If they run, I want to know where they run to."
"Don't do anything stupid, Den."
"You can do it, yeah?"
Underwood sighed.
"Yeah, I can do it."
"Cheers, mate. Let's talk again tomorrow."
The line went dead in Underwood's ear. He felt his stomach churn and he popped a Rennie indigestion tablet into his mouth.
Donovan walked over to the convertible Mercedes. Doyle had the door open for him.
"You okay, boss?" he asked.
Donovan didn't reply. He tapped on the dashboard with the palms of his hands as Doyle climbed into the driving seat.
"Where to, boss?" asked Doyle.
Donovan's hands beat even faster on the dashboard as he tried to collect his thoughts. He'd flown to St. Kitts purely to meet the Colombian, but his return flight was to Anguilla, and that didn't get him any closer to London. He needed a ticket, he needed to speak to his sister, and he needed to confirm the collection of the several hundred kilos of Colombian heroin that was on its way to Felixstowe.
Doyle watched him nervously. Donovan hadn't explained what the problem was, but he'd overheard enough of the conversation with Robbie to realise that it was personal and that he had better tread carefully. He started the car and blipped the engine.
Donovan stopped beating a tattoo and his forehead creased into a deep frown.
"Oh shit," he whispered.
"Boss?"
"Shit, shit, shit." Donovan turned to stare at Doyle, but there was a faraway look in his eyes as if he was having trouble focusing.
"I need a computer. Now."
"The resort, yeah?"
Donovan nodded. The Jack Tar Resort Hotel was supposedly for movers and shakers who wanted to escape from the trials and tribulations of the world of commerce, but it had a fully equipped business centre that was often better attended than the pool. Donovan leaned back in the cream leather seat and massaged his temples with his fingertips.
The mobile phone rang. Doyle had put it on the console by the gear stick and he grabbed at it with his free hand.
"Yeah?" He handed it to Donovan.
"It's Laura."
Donovan listened in silence as his sister told him what had happened at the house. And how the safe had been emptied. Donovan cursed.
"Everything, yeah? No passport? No envelope?"
"The cupboard was bare, Den. Sorry."
"Okay, look, Laura, I think you'd best keep Robbie away from school until I get back. If she's got his passport she might try to get him out of the country. Just tell the school he's sick or something."
"Will do, Den."
"And you know what to do if she turns up at your house?"
"She'll get a piece of my mind if she does, I can tell you."
Donovan smiled to himself. He'd seen his sister in full flow, and it wasn't an experience to be relished.
"Do me another favour, Laura. Call Banhams in Kensington. Get them to change all the locks and reset the alarm with a new code. Any of the paintings missing?"
"Bloody hell, Den, how would I know?"
"Gaps on the wall would probably be a clue, Laura. Hooks with nothing hanging from them."
"I'm so pleased that you haven't lost your sense of humour, brother-of-mine. I didn't see any missing, no."
Donovan considered asking his sister to arrange to put the paintings into storage, but figured they'd probably be safe enough once the house was secured. The last time he'd had them valued was five years ago, and they'd been worth close to a million pounds in total. The art market had been buoyant recently and Donovan figured they'd probably doubled in value since then. Vicky didn't share his love of art and he hadn't told her how much the paintings were worth.
"I'll call you later, Laura. And thanks. Tell Robbie I love him, yeah?"
Donovan cut the connection and tapped the phone against his chin.
Changing the locks and resetting the alarm was all well and good, but Donovan knew that he was shutting the stable door after the horses had well and truly bolted.
Doyle drove into the hotel resort, giving the uniformed security guard a cheery wave, and pulled up in front of Reception.
"Wait here," said Donovan. He walked quickly through the huge reception area, his heels clicking on the marble floor. He jogged up a sweeping set of stairs and pushed open the door to the hotel's business centre.
A pretty black girl with waist-length braided hair flashed him a beaming smile and asked him for his room number. Donovan slipped her a hundred-dollar bill without breaking his stride.
"I'll just be a couple of minutes," he said. He sat down at a computer terminal in the corner of the room and said a silent prayer before launching Internet Explorer and keying in the URL of a small bank in Switzerland. He was asked for an account number and an eight-digit personal identification number.
Donovan took a deep breath and prepared himself for the worst as he waited for his account to be accessed. The screen went blank for a second and then a spreadsheet appeared, listing all transactions for the account over the past quarter. Donovan sagged in the leather armchair. There was just two thousand dollars left in the account.
He left the bank's site and tapped in another URL, this one for a bank in the Cayman Islands. Ten minutes later and Donovan had visited half a dozen financial institutions in areas renowned for their secrecy and security. His total deposits amounted to a little over eighty thousand dollars. In total sixty million dollars was missing.
Mark Gardner flicked through the channels but couldn't find anything to hold his attention. Reruns of old comedy shows that he half-remembered watching, films that he'd already seen on video, and shows about cooking or decorating. He looked up as Laura came into the room holding two mugs of hot chocolate.
"He's asleep," she said, handing him a mug and sitting down on the sofa next to him. She swung her legs on to his lap and lay back, resting the mug on her stomach.
"What do you think he's going to do?"
"Robbie?"
"Your brother."
Laura ran a finger around the lip of her mug.
"He'll look after Robbie. You know how much his son means to him."
"I thought he wasn't allowed in the UK. I thought the cops were after him."
"He was under surveillance."
"He was Britain's most wanted," said Gardner.
"Tango One, they called him."
"Tango just means target. It means they were looking at him, it doesn't mean he's done anything wrong."
"There's no smoke without fire."
"Yeah, and an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Are we going to swap cliches all night? Den's Den and that's the end of it."
"I know, love, and I think the world of him. And Robbie. But I don't want us to get caught up in the middle of something."
Laura took her legs off her husband's lap and sat up.
"Like what?"
"I don't know what. But Vicky's got a temper and you know what Den's like."
"What, you think they're going to come in here with guns blazing?"
"You know that's not what I mean, but there's going to be one hell of a court battle over Robbie. They'll both want custody."
"She got caught sleeping around, Mark. It'll be open and shut."
"It's never open and shut in British courts. It'll be a dirty fight, thousand-pound-an-hour lawyers at thirty paces."
"That's not our problem."
There was a scuffling at the doorway and they both jumped. Laura's hot chocolate slopped over her knees.
It was Robbie, rubbing his eyes.
"I can't sleep," he said.
Laura put her mug on the coffee table, and went over and hugged him.
"What's wrong, Robbie?" she asked.
"I had a bad dream," he said.
She led him over to the sofa. Mark shuffled over to make room for them. He put a hand around Robbie's shoulder.
"You'll be okay, Robbie."
"Where's Dad?"
"He's coming," said Laura.
"I want my dad," said Robbie, and the tears started to flow again.
"I know you do," said Laura. She looked across at Mark and he shrugged. There was nothing either of them could say or do to make things any easier for Robbie. All they could do was to wait for Den Donovan.
Laura put her cheek against the top of Robbie's head and whispered softly to him. After a while the tears stopped and a few minutes later he was snoring softly. Laura smiled at her husband.
"I'll put him in Jenny's room. I don't want him sleeping on his own tonight."
"Good idea," said Mark.
"Shall I take him up?"
Laura shook her head.
"He's not heavy." She carried him upstairs. Seven-year-old Jenny was fast asleep on top of her bunk bed. Jenny had shared a room with her sister until Julie had declared that she was too old to be sharing and had insisted on a room of her own. At the time Julie had been all of four years old and Jenny had been three. Jenny had insisted on her own list of demands including keeping the bunk bed for herself, and a change of wallpaper.
Laura eased Robbie into the lower bunk and pulled the quilt up around him. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead.
"Sleep well, Robbie," she whispered.
As she straightened up, the phone rang. There was an extension in the master bedroom, but Laura headed downstairs, knowing that Mark would pick it up. As she walked into the sitting room, he had the receiver to his ear.
"Is it Den?" she mouthed.
Mark shook his head.
"You'd better speak to Laura," he said into the receiver, then held it out to her.
"It's Vicky, he said.
Laura took the phone.
"You've got a damn cheek, calling here," she said coldly.
"Is Robbie there, Laura? I've been trying his mobile but it's switched off."
"He's asleep."
"For Christ's sake, Laura, I just want to talk to him."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I'm his mother, for God's sake!"
"He's had a bad day. He needs to sleep. He's in a state, Victoria. I don't think you talking to him is going to help. Where are you anyway?"
There was a brief pause.
"I can't tell you. I'm sorry."
"You're in London, right? I went around to the house but you weren't there."
"What were you doing at my house?" Vicky asked quickly.
"First of all it's Den's house. Second of all, it's none of your business. Whatever rights you had you forfeited when you screwed Sharkey in Den's bed."
"Will you stop saying that!" shouted Vicky.
"You make it sound so bloody sordid."
"Victoria, it was sordid. Sordid and stupid."
"You've spoken to Den, haven't you?"
"What if I have?"
"What did he say?"
"What do you think he said?" asked Laura.
"He's coming back, isn't he?"
"No, Victoria, he's going to stay out in Anguilla for a few months. Of course he's coming back. Like a bat out of hell."
"What am I going to do? This is a nightmare."
"Why did you empty the safe?" asked Laura.
"I didn't steal anything. The money was for me, for running the house."
"And Robbie's passport? Why did you take that?"
"What the hell's going on, Laura?" shouted Vicky.
"Why were you in my house?"
"Den wanted Robbie's passport. And the money. He knows you cleared the safe, and he told me to change the locks. He doesn't want you back in the house, Victoria."
"He's planning to take Robbie back with him to Anguilla, isn't he?"
"I'm going to hang up now," said Laura. Mark stood in front of her, trying to listen in, but Laura twisted away from him. She hated her sister-in-law for what she'd done, but she didn't want Mark to hear how upset she was.
"Please, Laura, let me speak to him. I just want him to know that I love him."
"No. Not tonight. Call again tomorrow."
"Laura…" sobbed Vicky.
Laura replaced the receiver. Her hand was shaking and her knuckles had gone white. She hadn't realised how tightly she'd been gripping the phone. Mark put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, love," he said.
She rubbed her head against his.
"If I ever catch you in bed with your accountant, I'll disembowel you with my bare hands," she whispered.
"And that's a promise."
Donovan chartered a small twin-engined plane to fly him and Doyle back to Anguilla. Donovan went into the charter firm's offices and made arrangements for another flight later that day. He booked a private jet and left a deposit in cash and then walked over to the terminal building where he made three calls from a payphone while Doyle went to pick up the car.
The first call was to a German who had access to passports and travel documents from around the world. Not forgeries or copies, but the genuine article. He wasn't cheap but the goods he supplied were faultless. The German gave Donovan a name and Donovan repeated it to himself several times to make sure he'd memorised it. The second call was to the agent who made most of Donovan's travel arrangements. He was far from the cheapest on Anguilla, but he was the most secure.
Donovan explained what he wanted and gave him the name that he'd memorised. The third call was to Spain, but it wasn't answered. An answer machine kicked in and Donovan said just ten words in Spanish and hung up.
Doyle arrived in the Mercedes, and Donovan climbed in the back and sat in silence during the drive to his villa. It wasn't just that he had a lot on his mind. The DEA and British Customs, and whatever other agencies were operating in the millionaires' paradise, weren't above planting any manner of surveillance device in the vehicle while it had been parked at the airport. Until it had been swept, the Mercedes was as insecure as a mobile phone conversation.
Doyle stayed in the car while Donovan went into the villa and packed a Samsonite suitcase and a black leather holdall. He wasn't over-concerned with what went into the luggage: it was merely part of the camouflage. A man in his thirties flying alone into the UK from the Caribbean without any luggage would be guaranteed a pull by Customs. From the wall safe in the study of the villa, Donovan took a bundle of US dollar bills and stuffed them into the holdall. On the way out he picked up a Panama hat and shoved it into the holdall.
He threw the bags into the back of the car, then got into the front with Doyle.
"I'd better see the Russians first," he said.
"Then we'll go and see the German."
Doyle drove to a five-star hotel about a mile from Donovan's villa.
They found the Russians sitting by the pool. Gregov was the bigger of the two, broad shouldered and well muscled with a tattoo of a leaping panther on one forearm and the Virgin Mary on the other. His grey hair was close cropped, thick and dry, and his weathered face was flecked with broken blood vessels. He looked in his early fifties, but Donovan knew that he was only thirty-five.
Gregov stood up and pumped Donovan's hand.
"Champagne, huh?" he asked, gesturing at a bottle of Dom Perignon in a chrome ice bucket beaded with droplets of water. The two Russians had been on the island for five days and Donovan had never seen them without an opened bottle of champagne within arm's length.
"No can do," said Donovan.
"I've got to get back to the UK."
"Who are we going to party with?" said Gregov's partner, Peter, who stayed sprawled on his lounger. Peter was the younger of the two men, a six-footer with a wiry frame. Like Gregov, his hair was cut close to his skull, but his was a fiery red and there was a sprinkle of freckles across his snub nose. His face was red-from sunburn and his legs and arms tanned, but his chest remained a pasty white. Below his left nipple two bullet wounds were visible, star-shaped rips in his chest that had healed badly leaving uneven ridges of scar tissue.
"From what I've seen, you don't need me to help you two party," laughed Donovan.
"You really have to go?" asked Gregov.
"I'm afraid so."
"But we can do business, yes?" asked Peter, swinging his legs off the lounger and putting his bare feet on to the tiles.
"Definitely," said Donovan.
"Because we can go elsewhere," said Peter.
"Not that we want to," said Gregov, flashing his partner a warning look.
"Den, we want to do business with you."
"And I with you, Gregov. I've got a personal matter to take care of back in London, but then I'll get back to you and we'll do a deal."
"This personal matter. Can we help? We have connections in London."
Donovan shook his head.
"Nah, that's okay. I'm on top of it." He clapped Gregov on the back.
"Look, your bill's taken care of. Anything you want, it's on me. I've got your UK office number and the number of your office in Belgrade.
They'll be able to get in touch with you?"
Gregov nodded.
"We are backwards and forwards between the UK and Turkey three times a week but we check in every day. The earthquake relief charities are paying us thirty thousand dollars a flight to take in their people and equipment. Good money, huh? Famine and earthquakes are good money makers for us, Den. Not quite as profitable as your business, but a good living, yes."
"You've done well, you and Peter. The Russian Army's loss, yeah?"
Gregov nodded enthusiastically.
"Yes, their loss, our gain. Fuck Communism, yes?"
"Definitely," said Donovan. He made a clenched fist and pumped it in the air.
"Capitalism rules."
The two Russians laughed then took it in turns to hug Donovan and Doyle.
After they'd said their goodbyes to the Russians, Doyle drove Donovan to the far east of the island, where the German lived in a villa three times the size of Donovan's. It was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high wall topped with razor-sharp anti-personnel wire first developed for the Russian gulags. The two men were checked out by closed-circuit television cameras and then the twin metal gates clunked open. Doyle edged the Mercedes slowly up the curving gravel led driveway. They passed two more cameras before pulling up in front of the German's palatial villa. Doyle waited in the car while Donovan got out and went to find the German.
Helmut Zimmerman greeted Donovan at the front door, grasping him in a brutal bear hug and then slapping him on the back.
"Next time I could do with more notice, Dennis," he said. He was a big man, almost six inches taller than Donovan's six feet, with broad shoulders that strained at his beach shirt and muscular thighs that were almost as wide as Donovan's waist. Everything was in proportion except for Zimmerman's hands, which were as small and delicate as a young girl's, almost as if they'd stopped developing at puberty.
"This isn't by choice, Helmut."
"You have time for a drink?"
"I haven't even had time to take a piss," laughed Donovan.
"I've got to be back at the airport by six."
Zimmerman took Donovan along a marble-floored hallway, either side of which stood alabaster statues of Greek warriors. Above their heads electric candles flickered in a line of ornate crystal chandeliers.
At the far end of the hallway hung a massive gilded mirror, twice the height of a man. Donovan grinned at their reflection.
"Helmut, you live like a Roman fucking emperor," he said.
"You like it, huh? I'll send my interior designer around to see you.
Your place is so… stark. Is that the word? Stark?"
"Yeah, stark's how I like it."
To the left of the mirror was a white door with a gilt handle.
Zimmerman opened it with a child-like hand and led them down another corridor to a windowless room with white walls, a huge Louis XIV desk and decorative chairs. A tapestry of a goat herder playing pipes to his flock hung on one of the walls, and a collection of antique urns was displayed on glass shelves on another. Behind the desk a bank of colour monitors was linked to CCTV cameras inside and outside the villa. On one of the monitors Donovan could see Doyle sitting in the Mercedes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
"He is not going with you?" asked Zimmerman, sitting down at the desk.
It was at least ten feet wide but the German's bulk dwarfed it.
"Not this trip," said Donovan.
Zimmerman pulled open one of the desk drawers and took out three passports. All were European Union burgundy. He handed them to Donovan one at a time.
"One United Kingdom, one Irish and one Spanish. As requested."
Donovan checked all three carefully, even though he knew Zimmerman never made a mistake. Donovan's picture was in all three passports, though each had a different name and date of birth. The passports were genuine and would pass any border checks. Zimmerman had a network of aides across Europe who made a living approaching homeless people and paying for them to apply for passports they'd never use. The passports were then sent to Anguilla, where Zimmerman replaced the photographs with pictures of his paying customers.
"Excellent, Helmut, as always." Donovan took an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. Thirty-six thousand dollars.
Zimmerman put the envelope, unopened, into the drawer and shut it.
Donovan smiled at the open demonstration of trust, well aware, however, that if he ever tried to cheat the German, it would take just one phone call to Europol to render the passports useless.
"So," said Zimmerman, placing his hands flat on the desk and pushing himself up, 'until next time, Dennis."
Donovan put the passports into his jacket pocket, and the two men shook hands before Zimmerman showed Donovan out of the villa.
Doyle already had the door of the Mercedes open. They drove in silence to the airport. Doyle parked in the short-term car park and they walked together to the terminal.
"I should come with you, boss."
"Double the chance of us being flagged, Barry. Better you take care of business here."
They walked into the terminal building, the air conditioning hitting them like a cold shower. A brown envelope was waiting for Donovan at the information desk. Inside was the return segment of a charter flight ticket from Jamaica to Stansted Airport in the name he'd given the travel agent, the name that was in the UK passport, and a Ryanair ticket from Stansted to Dublin, Ireland. It too was in the UK passport name.
As they walked back to the general aviation terminal, Donovan ran through a mental checklist of everything that needed to be done. He didn't appear to have forgotten anything, but he knew that the devil was always in the details.
"Okay, boss?" asked Doyle.
"Sure," said Donovan.
"You know how I hate small planes." It wasn't flying that was worrying Donovan, it was what Carlos Rodriguez would do when he discovered that his money hadn't been paid into his account. Doyle would bear the brunt of Rodriguez's fury, but if Donovan told Doyle to make himself scarce it would be a sure sign of guilt. Doyle would have to stay and face the music.
The pilot and co-pilot were already warming up the engines by the time they reached the sleek white Cessna Citation. Doyle took Donovan's luggage from the boot of the Mercedes and the owner of the charter company came out to help load it into the plane. Donovan shook hands with Doyle, then hugged the man and patted him on the back.
"You take care, you hear," said Donovan.
"Sure, boss," said Doyle, momentarily confused by the sudden show of affection.
Donovan shook hands with the owner of the charter company, and then climbed into the back of the plane. The co-pilot closed the door and two minutes later they were in the air, climbing steeply over the beach and banking to the west. Donovan peered out of the window. Far below he could see the Mercedes heading back to the villa. Donovan flashed the car a thumbs-up.
"Be lucky, Barry," he whispered. He settled back in the plush leather seat. It was a two-hour flight to Jamaica.
Marty Clare strained to lift the bar, breathing through gritted teeth, sweat beading on his brow. A large Nigerian stood behind him, spotting for him, his hands only inches from the bar: this was Clare's third set, and he was lifting his personal best plus a kilo.
"Come on, man, one more," the Nigerian urged.
Clare roared like an animal in pain, his face contorted into a snarl, his arms shaking, his knuckles white on the bar, then with a final explosion of air from his chest the bar was up and on its rests.
The Nigerian patted Clare on the back as he sat up.
"Good job."
Clare grinned and took a swig from his water bottle.
A young, blond guard walked over to them. He was barely out of his teens, his pale blue uniform several sizes too big for him.
"Mr. Clare? Visitor for you."
Clare nodded, amused as always at the politeness of the Dutch guards.
"I was going to shower," he said.
"I was told to bring you now, Mr. Clare," said the guard.
The guard led Clare out of the gym, across a garden being tended by a dozen inmates, and into the main building, where he showed Clare into an interview room. A notice on one wall warned of the dangers of drugs, and offered prisoners free counselling or places in drug-free units. The DFUs were a soft option and Clare had applied to be admitted when he'd first been sent to the detention centre. His application had been refused, however, because prisoners had to be able to speak Dutch, and Clare had never bothered to learn the language.
There was no point: every Dutch person he knew spoke perfect English.
Unlike the furniture in the British penal system, the Formica-topped table and four orange plastic chairs weren't bolted to the floor. Clare pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat on it with his back to the wall. He crossed his legs and waited. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heart rate. He'd started to study meditation techniques from a couple of books he'd borrowed from the detention centre library.
He heard someone walking down the corridor outside the room and Clare concentrated on the sound. The footfall was uneven, one leg seemed to be dragging slightly. The door opened but Clare kept his eyes closed.
The visitor walked into the room and closed the door.
"I could come back later if it's a bad time," said the man.
Clare opened his eyes. Standing in front of him was a man in his mid thirties wearing a long belted leather jacket with the collar turned up, dark blue jeans and Timberland boots. He was short, probably under five six, thought Clare, and he didn't look as if he worked out. He had thinning, sandy hair and bright inquisitive eyes. His face was weasly, Clare decided. It was the. face of an informer. A grass.
The face of a man who couldn't be trusted.
"Though frankly, the way your life is turning to shit, I think today is about as good as your life is going to get for the foreseeable future."
"And you would be?" asked Clare, putting his hands behind his neck and interlocking his fingers.
"I would be the bearer of bad news," said the man.
"A harbinger of doom." He walked over to the table and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. His right leg was the one that was causing him trouble. It gave slightly each time he put his weight on it.
"Would it be asking too much for you to show me some identification?" asked Clare.
"Indeed it would, Marty," said the man, mimicking Clare's soft Irish burr.
Clare unlocked his fingers and leaned forward, his eyes hard.
"Then what the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.
The man returned Clare's stare, unfazed.
"I'm your last chance, Marty. I'm giving you the opportunity to dig yourself out of the pile of shit you've got yourself into."
Clare grinned and waved his arm dismissively.
"This? This is a holiday camp. I've got a room of my own, a five-star gym, a library, three meals a day, cable TV, including satellite porn shows. I get the Daily Mail and the Telegraph and I can get CDs and videos sent in. Hell, I might book a place here every summer. Might even bring the family. The kids'll love it."
"Yes, but you're not going to be here for ever, Marty."
Clare snorted.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into a Dutch prison?
There's only twelve thousand cells in the country, it takes six months to get on the waiting list for a transfer from a detention centre to a real prison. And that's after a guilty verdict. It's easier to get a hip replacement on the NHS in the UK than it is to get a cell in a Dutch prison."
"Got it all planned, haven't you?"
"A: if was only marijuana. B: I never went near the stuff. C: my lawyers are shit hot. D: I'm as innocent as a newborn babe. E: worst possible scenario, I stay here for a year or two, work out and eat well. Probably add ten years to my life."
Clare smiled confidently at his visitor, but the man said nothing, and just shook his head sadly at Clare, as if he were a headmaster being lied to by a sulky schoolboy.
Clare stood up.
"So if you're thinking about playing some sort of mind game with me, forget it. I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself "The Americans want you, Marty." The man said the words slowly as if relishing the sound of each one.
"Like fuck."
The man smiled, pleased that he'd finally got a reaction from Clare.
"So far as they're concerned, you're a Class iDEA violator."
"Bullshit."
"Why would I make up something like that, Marty?"
Clare ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his workout.
"Who are you? A spook? Mi6? Customs?"
"Sit down, Marty."
Clare stood where he was.
"Sit the fuck down."
Clare sat down slowly.
"One of those containers was on its way to the States. New Jersey."
"Says who?"
"Says the ship's manifest. See, it's all well and good not going near the gear, Marty, but that does mean that sometimes the little details can be overlooked. Like the ultimate destination of the consignment.
One container was to be dropped off at Southampton, the other was to stay on board and be taken to New Jersey."
Clare sat back in his seat and cursed.
The man smiled.
"Someone trying to rip you off, Marty? Whatever happened to honour among thieves?"
"You should know. You had someone undercover, right?"
"Nothing to do with me, Marty. I'm just the bearer of bad news."
Clare forced himself to smile, even though he had a growing sense of dread. His visitor was too confident, too relaxed. Clare felt as if he were playing chess with someone who could see so far ahead that he already knew how the game would end, no matter what moves Clare came up with.
"The Dutch'll never extradite me to the States."
"Maybe not, but they'd send you back to the UK. And you know about the special relationship, don't you? Labour, Conservative, doesn't matter who's in power, when the US shouts "jump", we're up in the air with our trousers around our knees."
"I'm Irish," said Clare.
"Northern Irish," said the man quietly.
"Not quite the same."
"I'm an Irish resident."
"Some of the time. Your Irish passport won't save you, Marty. The Dutch will send you back to the UK, then you'll be extradited to the US. The DEA will go to town on you. A container full of top-grade marijuana bound for the nation's high-school kids? You'll get life plus plus. And they'll seize every asset you've got in the States.
That house in the Florida Keys. What did that set you back? Two million?"
"That's not in my name. It's a company asset."
"Well, gosh, Marty, I'm sure the DEA'll just let you keep it, then."
"This isn't fucking fair!" shouted Clare.
The man smiled triumphantly, knowing that he'd won.
Clare felt his cheeks flush and he wiped his mouth with his hand. His throat had gone suddenly dry.
"I want a drink," he said.
"Don't think even the Dutch'll run to a Guinness," said the man.
"A drink of water," said Clare.
The man pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. He opened it and said something in Dutch to a guard standing in the corridor, then closed the door and went back to his seat.
"Why would you want the Americans to have me?" asked Clare.
"Who said I did?" asked the man.
"You didn't seem too upset at the prospect of me being banged up in a Federal prison."
"Doesn't affect me one way or the other, Marty."
"Nah, you've got an agenda," said Clare.
"You're taking your own sweet time to get to it, but you've got something on your mind."
"If you're so smart, how come you let an undercover agent get so close that you're facing a life sentence?"
Clare's face tightened.
"So you have got someone on the inside?"
"Oh grow up, Marty. How else do we get you guys these days? Diligent police work? Bloody contradiction in terms, that is, and we both know it. Grasses and undercover agents, that's how we get you. We turn your people or we put our own people in. How we got you doesn't matter what matters is that we've got you by the short and cur lies and the DEA is baying for your blood."
There was a knock on the door and the young guard appeared carrying two paper cups of water on a cardboard tray. He gave a cup to Clare and put the tray and second cup in front of Clare's visitor. The man thanked the guard in Dutch. He waited until the guard had closed the door before speaking again.
"You know what your best option is, don't you, Marty?"
Clare groaned.
"You are so transparent," he said.
"You want me to grass, right?"
"Want is putting it a bit strong, Marty. Whether or not you decide to co-operate isn't going to affect me one way or the other. My life won't change: I'll still go out, get drunk, get laid, watch TV, one day retire to a cottage in the country and catch trout. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I'd be just as happy thinking of you growing old in a windowless cell wearing a bright orange uniform and eating off a plastic tray. Oh, you'll get TV, but I don't think they'd let you within a mile of a porn channel."
"I'm not a grass. If you know anything about me at all you'd know I never grass." Clare sipped his water.
"And I admire that, Marty. Really, I do."
"I'll get so lawyered up that they'll never get me out of here. There's the European Court of Human Rights. I'll take it to them. I'll fight it, every step."
"That's the spirit, Marty. Exactly how were you planning on paying for this expert legal representation?"
Clare frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Lawyers. Money. Sort of go together like… well, like drug dealers and prison."
Clare sniggered contemptuously at his visitor.
"What do you make in a year?" he asked.
"I get by."
"You get by? You don't know what getting by is. Whatever you earn in a year, multiply it by a thousand and I've got more than that tucked away. Think about that, you sad fuck. You'd have to work for a thousand years to get the sort of money I've got."
The man took a slow drink from his paper cup, then placed it carefully on the table.
"And that, Marty, brings me to my second order of business, as it were."
Clare felt a chill in his stomach, suspecting that things were about to take a turn for the worse. He tried to keep smiling, but his mind was racing frantically, trying to work out what was coming next.
"Your money situation might not be quite as clear cut as you seem to think," said the man.
"What the fuck do you know about my money situation?"
"More than you'd think, Marty."
"Who the hell are you? And don't give me that bringer of bad news crap. You're a Brit, so you've no jurisdiction here. I don't have to talk to you."
"Do you want me to go, Marty? Just say the word and I'll leave you to your weights and your porn channel until the men from the CAB pay you a visit. But by then it'll be too late."
"What the hell would the CAB be wanting with me?"
"Take a wild guess."
Clare took another drink from the paper cup. His hand was shaking and water slopped over his arm. He saw his visitor smirk at the show of emotion and Clare hurriedly put the cup down on the floor. The Criminal Assets Board was an Irish organisation, set up to track down the assets of criminals living in Ireland. Their initial brief had been to run drug dealers and other criminal undesirables out of the Irish Republic, and they had been so successful that their remit had been expanded to cover tax evaders and white-collar criminals. Their technique was simple they tracked down assets and put the onus on the owner of the assets to prove that they were acquired by legitimate means. Homes, land, money, bonds. And if the owner couldn't prove that the assets weren't connected to criminal activities, the CAB had the right to confiscate them.
"All my stuff in Ireland's legit," Clare said.
"It's in your wife's name, if that's what you mean. But that's not quite the same as legit, is it? And what about the property development in Spain? And the villas in Portugal? You probably thought you were being really clever putting ownership in an Isle of Man exempt company, but CAB are wise to that."
Clare swallowed. His mouth had gone dry again but he didn't want to pick up the paper cup. He folded his arms and waited for the man to continue.
"They found your accounts in St. Vincent and they're homing in on your accounts in Luxembourg. Then there's your Sparbuch account. Do you know where the name comes from, by the way?"
Clare shook his head. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. The man's voice seemed to echo in Clare's ears, as if he were talking at the end of a very long tunnel.
"From the German, Sparen, which means save, and Buck, which means book.
Brilliant concept, isn't it, for guys in your line of work? An anonymous account operated under a password. No signature, no identification, completely transferable. He who has the passbook and codeword has the money. Got yours just before the deadline, didn't you? Smart boy, Marty. Austria stopped issuing Sparbuch accounts in November 2000. You had the inside track on that, I bet. You can still get them in the Czech Republic, but Austrian schillings are so much more confidence-inspiring than Czech crowns, aren't they?"
Clare slumped in his chair. He felt as if a strap had been tightened across his chest and every breath was an effort of will.
"Are you okay, Marty? Not having a heart attack, are you? Though I have to say, the Dutch do have an excellent health care system."
"Who grassed me up?" gasped Clare, his hand on his chest.
"Who do you think?"
Clare frowned. Sweat was pouring down his face. He rubbed his hand across his forehead and it came away dripping wet.
"By the way, I think you were being a tad optimistic on your figure of a thousand times my annual salary. I reckon at best you've got five million quid salted away and CAB know where pretty much all of it is."
Clare's mind was in a whirl. The only person who knew about the Sparbuch account was his wife Mary, and he trusted her with his life.
The realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.
"Mary."
The man grinned.
"Ah, the penny has finally dropped, has it? She was none too happy with your arrest situation the two Slovakian girls…"
Clare closed his eyes and swore. The man with the camera.
"You bastard," he whispered.
"The women, plus the fact that CAB were prepared to cut her a deal on the house and the Irish accounts pretty much puts your balls on the fire, Marty."
Clare opened his eyes.
"What the fuck do you want?" he asked.
"A chat, Marty."
"About what?"
"Den Donovan."
Donovan spent the night at the Hilton Hotel in Kingston. He checked in wearing a Lacoste polo shirt and slacks, but when he checked out of the hotel in the morning he was wearing baggy denim jeans, a T-shirt that he'd bought in a gift shop in Rasta colours with "I Love Jamaica' spelled out in spliffs, and a woollen Rasta hat. If the receptionist thought his attire incongruous for a business hotel, she was professional enough to hide her opinion behind a bright smile of perfect teeth.
Donovan knew that he looked ridiculous, but then so did most of the Brits returning home after two weeks of sun, sand and sex in Jamaica.
The worst that would happen was that he'd get a pull by Customs at Stansted, but they'd be looking for ganja, not an international drugs baron.
He settled his account with American dollars and tipped the doorman ten dollars for opening the back door of a taxi and putting his suitcase and holdall in the boot. It was a thirty-minute ride to the Norman Manley International Airport. Donovan had no idea who Norman Manley was, or why the Jamaicans had named their airport after him, and he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was that it was a relatively easy place to fly to the UK from.
He put on a pair of impenetrable sunglasses and joined the hundred-yard-long check-in queue for the charter flight. Honeymooning couples who were just starting to think about what married life meant back in dreary, drizzly England; middle-aged holiday makers with sunburned necks, keen to get back to good old fish and chips; and spaced-out fun seekers who were biting their nails and wondering if it really had been a good idea to tuck away their last few ounces of Jamaican gold into their wash bags There was a sprinkling of Rasta hats, several with fake dreadlocks, and lots of T-shirts with drugs references, so Donovan blended right in.
It took almost an hour to reach the front of the queue. He handed over the passport and ticket and flashed the Jamaican girl a lopsided grin.
"Wish I could stay longer," he said.
"Honey, you can move in with me any time," laughed the girl, 'but you'd have to lose the hat."
"I love my hat," he said.
"Then it's over, honey. Sorry." She checked the passport against the name on the ticket. Donovan's travel agent had worked wonders to get him a seat on the charter flight. A scheduled flight would have been easier, but there'd be more scrutiny if he arrived at Heathrow.
Holidaymakers returning to Stansted would barely merit a second look.
The agent must have had a pre-dated return ticket issued in the UK and then Fed-Exed it out to Kingston. It had arrived first thing that morning as Donovan had been eating his room service breakfast. The unused Stansted-Jamaica leg section of the ticket had already been discarded. It was that sort of creativity that merited the high prices the agent charged. Donovan was paying more for the cramped economy seat to Stansted than it would have cost to fly first class with British Airways.
The check-in girl ran him off a boarding card and handed it back to him with the passport.
"I'd wish you a good flight but it looks like you're flying already," she laughed.
Donovan bought a pre-paid international calling card and phoned the number in Spain. The answer machine kicked in again and Donovan left another message. The Spaniard could be difficult to get hold of at times, but that was because his services were so much in demand.
Vicky Donovan put her hands up to her face and shook her head.
"I can't do this, Stewart. I can't."
Sharkey reached over and massaged the back of her neck.
"We don't have any choice, Vicky. You know what he's capable of "But running isn't going to solve anything, is it? He'll come after us." A car horn sounded behind them and Vicky flinched.
"Relax," said Sharkey.
"He's miles away."
"He'll be on his way. And if he isn't, he'll send someone." She looked across at Sharkey, her lower lip trembling.
"Maybe if I talk to him. Try to explain."
"He was going to find out some time, Vicky," said Sharkey.
"We couldn't carry on behind his back for ever."
"We were going to wait until Robbie was older, remember?" Tears welled up in her eyes.
"I can't leave Robbie. I can't go without him."
"It's temporary."
"Den won't let us take him, Stewart. You know how much he loves him."
Sharkey shook his head.
"He left him, didn't he? He left both of you."
"He didn't have a choice."
"We all have choices." Sharkey took her hand. He rubbed her wedding ring and engagement ring with his thumb. The wedding ring was a simple gold band, but the engagement ring was a diamond, and sapphire monstrosity that had cost six figures. Sharkey knew its exact value because he'd been with Donovan when he'd bought it from Maplin and Webb with a briefcase full of cash. Vicky had shrieked with joy when Donovan had presented it to her, down on one knee in a French restaurant in Sloane Square. Now Sharkey hated the ring, hated the reminder that she was Donovan's woman.
"He'll calm down eventually," he said soothingly, even though he knew that it would be a cold day in hell before Den Donovan would forgive or forget.
"I'll get a lawyer to talk to him. We'll come to an arrangement, don't worry. Divorce. Custody of Robbie. It'll be okay, I promise."
Sharkey stroked Vicky's soft blonde hair and kissed her on the forehead. She wasn't wearing make-up and her eyes were red from crying, but she was still model pretty. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes with irises so blue that people often thought she was wearing tinted contact lenses, and flawless skin that took a good five years off her real age. She would be thirty on her next birthday, a fact that she was constantly bringing up. Would Sharkey still love her when she was thirty? she kept asking. Would he still find her attractive?
"We shouldn't have taken the money, Stewart. That was a mistake."
"We needed a bargaining chip. Plus, if we're going to hide, that's going to cost."
"You'll give it back, won't you?"
"Once we've sorted it out, of course I will." He smiled and corrected himself.
"We will, Vicky. We're in this together, you and me. I couldn't have moved the money without your authorisation. And I'm the one who knew where it was. And where to put it."
Sharkey pulled her towards him and kissed her on the mouth. She opened her lips wide for him and moaned softly as his tongue probed deep inside. He kissed her harder and she tried to pull away but Sharkey kept a hand on the back of her neck and kept her lips pressed against his until she stopped pulling away and surrendered to the kiss. Only then did Sharkey release her and she sat back, breathing heavily.
"Christ, I want you," said Sharkey, placing his hand on her thigh.
"We've time. We don't have to check in for our flight for three hours."
"Stewart.. said Vicky, but he could hear the uncertainty in her voice and knew that he'd won. He pulled her close and kissed her again and this time she made no attempt to pull away.
Donovan stayed air side when he arrived at Stansted. It had been the flight from hell. The teenager occupying the seat in front of him had crashed it back as soon as the wheels left the runway and didn't put it upright until they were on final approach to land in the UK. Donovan had downed several Jack Daniels with ice, but the seat was so small and uncomfortable that there was no chance of sleeping. Plus, there was the small matter of the four-year-old sitting behind him who thought it was fun to kick the seat in time with badly hummed nursery rhymes.
He collected his luggage and went through Customs without incident, still wearing his sunglasses and Rasta hat. Like most UK airports, Stansted had installed a video recognition system during the late 'nineties. Closed-circuit television cameras scanned passengers departing and arriving, cross-checking faces against a massive database. The system, known as Mandrake, was still in the test phase, but Donovan knew that his photograph, along with all other top players in the international drugs business, was in the database. The technology was almost ninety-five per cent accurate, final checking always had to be done by a human operator, but it could still be fooled by dark glasses and hats. Donovan had been told by one of the high-ranking Customs officers on his payroll that once the system had been debugged and was running smoothly, the airport authorities would insist that all head coverings and sunglasses be removed in the arrival and departure areas. They were already working out how to avoid the expected flurry of lawsuits from Sikhs and others for whom a covered head was an act of religious expression.
There were only two uniformed Customs officers in the "Nothing To Declare' channel and they were deep in conversation and didn't seem in the least bit interested in the charter flight passengers. Donovan knew that the lack of interest was deceptive the area was monitored by several hidden CCTV cameras, and Customs officers behind the scenes would be looking for passengers who fitted the profile of drugs traffickers. Donovan's Rasta hat and druggie T-shirt would actually work in his favour it would mark him out as a user, but no major drug smuggler would be wearing such outlandish garb.
Donovan passed through without incident. He shaved and washed in the airport toilets and changed into a grey polo neck sweater and black jeans. He kept his sunglasses on and carried a black linen jacket. He dumped the Rasta hat and T-shirt in a rubbish bin.
He had two hours to kill before his Ryanair flight to Dublin, so he stopped off at a cafeteria for a plate of pasta and a glass of wine that came out of a screw-top bottle, and read through The Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail.
His seat on the Ryanair jet was if anything smaller than his charter seat, but the flight took just under an hour. There were no immigration controls between the UK and Ireland, so there was no need for Donovan to show his passport.
He collected his Samsonite suitcase, walked through the unmanned blue Customs channel and caught a taxi to the city centre. Donovan was a frequent visitor to the Irish capital. It was the perfect transit point for flights to Europe or the United States. From here he had the option of travelling to and from the UK by ferry, or of simply driving up to Belfast and flying to London on what was considered aUK internal flight.
The taxi dropped Donovan at the top of Grafton Street, the capital's main shopping street. It was pedestrianised and packed with afternoon shoppers: well-heeled tourists in expensive designer clothes rubbing shoulders with teenagers up from the country, marked out as the Celtic Tiger's poor relations by their bad skin, cheap haircuts and supermarket brand training shoe. Careworn housewives pushing crying children, groups of language students with matching backpacks planning their next shoplifting expedition, all remained under the watchful eyes of security guards at every shop front whispering to each other in clunky black transceivers.
Donovan carried his suitcase and holdall into the Allied Irish Bank, showed an identification card to a uniformed guard and went down a spiral staircase to the safety deposit box vault.
"Mr. Wilson, haven't seen you for some time," said a young man in a grey suit and a floral tie. He handed a clipboard to Donovan, who put down his suitcase and holdall and signed in as Jeremy Wilson.
"Overseas," said Donovan.
"The States."
"Welcome back to the land of the living," said the young man. He went over to one of the larger safety deposit boxes and inserted his master key into one of its two locks, giving it a deft twist.
"I'll leave you alone, Mr. Wilson. Give me a call when you're done."
Donovan waited until he was alone in the room before putting his personal key into the second lock and turning it. He opened the steel door and slid out his box. It was about two feet long, a foot wide and a foot deep and heavy enough to make him grunt as he hefted it up on to a teak veneer desk with partitions either side to give him a modicum of privacy.
The single CCTV camera in the vault was positioned behind Donovan, so no one could see what was in the box. He lifted the lid and smiled at the contents. More than a dozen brick-sized bundles of British fifty-pound notes were stacked neatly on the bottom of the box. On top of the banknotes lay four gold Rolex watches, four passports and two burgundy-coloured hard-back account books. They were Czechoslovakian Sparbuch accounts, one with a million dollars, and the other containing half a million. With the appropriate passwords, they were as good as cash.
Donovan placed his holdall next to the metal box and packed the money into it, then put the passbooks and passports into his jacket pocket.
He put the UK passport that he'd used to fly from Jamaica into the box, then replaced the box in its slot and locked the metal door.
He pressed a small white buzzer on the desk and the young man came back and turned the second lock with his master key. Donovan thanked him and carried his suitcase and holdall upstairs.
Donovan walked to St. Stephen's Green and along to the taxi rank in front of the grand Shelbourne Hotel. A rotund grey-haired porter in a black uniform with purple trim took the suitcase from him and loaded it into the boot of the lead taxi. Donovan gave him a ten-pound note and kept the holdall with him as he slid into the rear seat.
"Airport?" asked the driver hopefully.
"I want to go to Belfast," said Donovan.
"You up for it?"
The driver grimaced.
"That's a long drive and my wife'll have the dinner on at six."
"Use the meter and I'll treble it."
The driver's eyebrows shot skywards. He nodded at the holdall.
"Not got drugs in there, have you?"
Donovan grinned.
"Chance'd be a fine thing. No. But I've got a plane to catch. Do you wanna go or shall I give the guy behind the biggest fare he'll have this year?"
"I'll do it," said the driver, 'but the wife'll have my balls on toast."
"Buy her something nice," said Donovan, settling back into the seat.
"Usually works for me."
The driver laughed.
"Yeah, wives, huh? What can you do with them? Can't live with them, can't put a bullet in their heads." He laughed uproariously at his own bad joke and started the car.
Donovan looked out of the window, tight lipped. Flecks of rain spattered across the glass. It always seemed to be raining when he visited Dublin, and he couldn't remember ever seeing blue skies over the Irish capital.
The taxi pulled into the afternoon traffic and Donovan closed his eyes.
He'd forgotten to call the Spaniard, but he could do that when he reached Belfast.
Stewart Sharkey nodded towards the bar.
"Do you want a drink?" he asked Vicky. Their flight hadn't been called and the boarding gate was only a short walk away.
Vicky shook her head.
"It's a bit early for me. You go ahead, though. I'm going to use the bathroom."
"Are you all right?" asked Sharkey, putting his hand on her shoulder.
Tears welled up in her eyes.
"I don't know, Stewart. I don't know how I feel. I'm sort of numb, it's like I'm going to faint or something. Like I keep stepping outside my own body."
"Good sex will do that every time," joked Sharkey, but she pushed his hand away.
"This isn't funny," she hissed. They'd checked into one of the airport hotels, and the sex had been quick and urgent, almost frantic. Sharkey hadn't even given her chance to get undressed and there had been no soft words, no caresses. Just sex. It was as if he'd wanted to show that she was his. That he could take her whenever he wanted. She'd wanted him, too, but not like that. She'd wanted to be held, to be comforted, to be told that it was all right, that he'd protect her.
"I know it isn't," soothed Sharkey, 'but there isn't much else I can do just now except try to lighten the moment, right? We've got a plane to catch, then we can plan what we do next."
Vicky forced herself to smile.
"Okay," she said.
Sharkey hugged her and she rested her head against his chest. He nuzzled his face into her. He could smell the cheap shampoo from the hotel room.
"You know I love you," he whispered.
"You bloody well better," she said, slipping her arms around his waist and squeezing him.
"I wouldn't want to go through all this for the sake of a quick shag."
"It's going to work out, trust me."
She squeezed him again, then released her grip on him and wiped her eyes.
"I look a mess," she said.
"Go get your drink. I'll see you in a couple of minutes."
She walked away quickly, her skirt flicking from side to side. It was one hell of a sexy walk, thought Sharkey. Vicky Donovan was a head-turner, and that might turn out to be a problem down the line. Men looked at stunning blondes with impressive cleavages and shapely legs, and the more men who looked at her, the more chance there was of someone recognising her.
Donovan thrust a handful of fifty-pound notes at the driver, making sure that he couldn't see inside the holdall.
"Sterling okay?" he asked.
"I don't have any Euros."
"I suppose so," said the driver, carefully counting the notes. His face broke into a smile when he realised how much money he was holding.
He reached into the taxi's glove compartment and handed a dog-eared business card to Donovan.
"You need a lift again, you call me, yeah? The mobile's always on."
"Sure," said Donovan.
"Pop the boot, yeah?" The driver unlocked the boot and Donovan pulled out his suitcase. He walked into the terminal building and bought a business class ticket to Heathrow at the British Airways desk.
Before checking in he took his holdall and suitcase into the toilets and pulled them into a large cubicle designed for wheelchair access. He put most of the money into the suitcase, since it was less likely to be noticed there than in the holdall. He wasn't committing an offence by flying from Belfast to London with bundles of fifty-pound notes, but he didn't want to attract attention to himself. He kept one passport, one of the UK ones, in his jacket pocket and hid the rest in a secret compartment in his wash bag.
He washed his hands and face, checked his reflection in the mirror, and put his dark glasses back on. Belfast Airport was saturated with CCTV cameras, and like all British airports was equipped with the face-recognition system that he had successfully evaded at Stansted. He took the Panama hat from his holdall and put it on his head at a jaunty angle.
He checked in for the flight and winked at his suitcase as it headed off on its lonely journey down the conveyor belt.
He bought aUK telephone card and called the Spaniard from a payphone.
This time the Spaniard answered.
"Fuck me, Juan, where the hell have you been?"
"Hola, Den. {Que pa saT "I'll give you que pasa, you dago bastard. My world's going down the toilet tit first and you're sunning yourself on some bloody beach."
"I wish that were true, amigo. I have only just got back from…" the Spaniard chuckled to himself… 'wherever I was," he finished.
Like Donovan, Juan Rojas had a serious distrust of the telephone system.
"You will no doubt read about it in the papers, manana. So what can I do for you, my old friend?"
"Same old, same old," said Donovan.
"I'd like a face to face."
"Amigo, I am only just off a plane," said Rojas.
"Don't fucking give me amigo, you garlic-guzzling piece of shit, are you gonna help me or do I have to call the Pole? The way the currency is, he's a lot cheaper than you are."
"If this is your idea of romancing me, I have to tell you, old friend, it's not making me wet between the legs." He paused, but Donovan knew that he'd got the Spaniard's attention so he said nothing. Eventually Rojas broke the silence.
"Where?" he asked.
"Remember the last time we met in the UK?"
"Vaguely. My memory isn't what it was."
"The park."
"Ah. Where the animals were."
Donovan frowned. The animals? They hadn't met at the zoo. It had been on Hampstead Heath. Then he smiled. It was the Spaniard's idea of a joke. They'd seen several cruising homosexuals, and when they'd walked past one, Rojas had pulled Donovan close and planted a noisy wet kiss on his cheek.
"Yeah, Juan. The animals. Tomorrow, okay? Same time as before, plus two, okay?" Nine o'clock at night. Dark.
"I will be there, amigo, with a huge hard-on for you."
Donovan laughed out loud and hung up.
He sat in the business class lounge sipping a Jack Daniels and soda until his flight was called.
Vicky splashed water over her face and then stared at her reflection in the mirror above the washbasins. She looked terrible. Her eyes were red from crying and her skin was blotchy around her nose. She put her hands on her cheeks and pulled the skin back. The wrinkles vanished as the skin tightened across her cheekbones. Twenty-nine going on fifty is how she felt. She hated what she saw in the mirror. She looked tired and scared and hunted.
She took a lipstick from her handbag and carefully applied it, then brushed mascara on to her lashes. She put her face close to the mirror and admired her handiwork. Even if she looked like shit, she might as well look like shit in full warpaint. She stood up straight and pulled her shoulders back, then turned her head right and left. Twenty-nine.
Thirty next birthday. God, how could she be thirty? Thirty was halfway to sixty. She shuddered at the thought of grey hair and mottled, wrinkled skin and receding gums and brittle bones. Or maybe not. Maybe with a good plastic surgeon and if she ate right and gave up smoking and drinking she could put off the decay for a further decade.
She walked out of the ladies'. To her left was a rank of public phones. She stopped and stared at them. No calls, Stewart had said.
Calls could be traced, and he'd insisted that they both throw away their mobiles before leaving for the airport. She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out her purse. She had a British Telecom card that still had several pounds on it. She picked up the receiver of the phone in the middle of the row and slotted in the card, then tapped out the number of Robbie's mobile. It rang through immediately to his message bank and she cursed.
It was three o'clock, so he was probably still at school, and the teachers insisted on penalty of detention that all phones were switched off in class. They were the new must-have accessory and had long passed the stage of being a status symbol. Virtually every pupil now had a phone, so status came from having the latest model, and Robbie's was state of the art, a present from Den.
She was about to hang up, but then she changed her mind.
"Robbie, it's Mum. I just called to say hello. You I know I love you, don't you?" She paused, as if expecting an answer.
"I am so sorry about what happened, love, I really am. If I could turn back the clock…" She felt tears well up in her eyes and she blinked them back. A family of Indians walked by, chattering loudly: an old man in a grubby turban and a bushy beard, a young married couple with three young children and a grandmother bringing up the rear, all dressed in traditional Indian garb. She turned away from them, not wanting them to see her pain.
"I'm going away for a few days, Robbie. Not far, I promise. But I'm going to see you again soon, I miss you so much…" The answering service buzzed and the line went dead. Vicky put a hand up to her eyes and cursed quietly. She replaced the receiver and pulled out the phone card.
"What are you doing, Vicky?"
Vicky jumped and almost screamed. She whirled around to find Sharkey standing behind her.
"What the hell are you doing creeping up on me like that?" she hissed.
"Who were you phoning?"
"It's none of your business who I was phoning," she said, trying to push past him.
"You shouldn't be spying on me."
He put a hand on each shoulder and lowered his head so that his eyes were level with hers.
"I wasn't spying, I just came to see where you were," he said quietly.
"I didn't creep up on you, you had your back to me. And in view of our situation, I think I do have a right to know who you were phoning. You know as well as I do how easy it is to trace calls."
"We're at the fucking airport, Stewart. We've left the car outside.
He's going to know we were here, so one call isn't going to make a difference."
"That depends on who you called."
"I didn't call Den, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm not worried, I just want to know, that's all."
She glared at him for several seconds.
"I was calling Robbie."
"I told you, no calls. No fucking calls!"
"I wasn't going to tell him where we were going!" she protested.
"Vicky, you can't tell him anything. Period. Okay?"
"I just want to talk to him." Her voice was a tired croak, almost a death rattle. She sounded at the end of her tether.
Sharkey kissed the top of her head.
"And you will do, Vicky. I promise, but let's get ourselves sorted first. Let's make sure we're not vulnerable. Then we can approach Den from a position of strength."
He straightened up and put an arm around her shoulder.
"Come on, you need a stiff drink."
He half pushed, half led her towards the bar. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her, and once she stumbled and Sharkey had to grab her to stop her falling. He guided her to the bar and helped her on to a stool before ordering her a double vodka and tonic. She drank it with shaking hands, almost in one gulp, and he ordered another for her.
As Vicky Donovan was downing her third vodka and tonic and Stewart Sharkey was anxiously looking at his watch, Den Donovan was less than a hundred yards away, collecting his suitcase from the carousel in Terminal One. Even though he was wearing his Panama hat and sunglasses, he kept his head down until he was out of the terminal building. The sky was a leaden grey, threatening drizzle if not an outright shower. Donovan joined the queue for a black cab, and forty-five minutes later he was being driven down the Edgware Road. He told the taxi driver to drop him in front of a small rundown hotel in Sussex Gardens. The reception desk was manned by a bottle-blonde East European girl with badly permed hair and a large mole on the left side of her nose. She had a pretty smile and spoke reasonable English. She told Donovan that they had a double room available and that she'd need to see a credit card.
Donovan told her that his credit cards had been stolen while he was on holiday, but he had a passport and was happy to leave a large cash deposit. She seemed confused by his request, but after she'd spoken to her manager on the phone she nodded eagerly.
"He say okay. Three hundred okay for you?" Three hundred pounds was just fine. Donovan never used credit cards if he could possibly help it they left a clear trail that could be followed. He gave her six fifty-pound notes and she held up each one to the light above her head as if she knew what she was looking for. He checked in under the name of Nigel Parkes, which was the name on one of the UK passports he was carrying.
Once in his room, Donovan opened his suitcase and took out a reefer jacket and an old New York Yankees baseball cap and put them on. He peeled off several hundred pounds in fifties from one of the bricks of banknotes in his suitcase and shoved them into his wallet. Then he put his sunglasses on, locked his door and went out with the door key in his pocket.
He walked down Edgware Road past the packed Arab coffee houses and the banks with camels and squiggly writing on the front. Little Arabia, they called it, and Donovan could see why. Three quarters of the people on the streets were from the Middle East: fat women covered from head to foot in black, grizzled Arabs in full desert gear, teenagers dripping with gold wearing designer gear and shark-like smiles. Not a pleasant place, thought Donovan. You never knew where you were with Arabs. He'd almost lost an eye in a shoot-out with three Lebanese dealers in Liverpool when he was in his late teens, and he'd refused to do business with Arabs ever again. Arabs and Russians. You couldn't trust either.
He walked into an electrical retailer's and bought eight different pay-as-you-go mobile phones and two dozen Sim cards. A CCTV camera covered the cash register, but Donovan kept his head down and the peak of the baseball cap hid virtually all his face as he handed over the cash.
"You gotta lot of girlfriends?" asked the gangly Arab behind the counter.
"Boyfriends," said Donovan. He leered at the shop assistant.
"What time do you finish, huh?"
The shop assistant took a step back, then looked at Donovan quizzically, trying to work out if he was serious.
"You make joke, yes?"
"Yeah, I make joke," said Donovan.
The shop assistant laughed uneasily, put the phones and Sim cards in two plastic carrier bags, and gave them to Donovan. Donovan walked back to the hotel. He stopped off at a news agent on the way and bought five twenty-pound phone cards.
There were four power points in the room, and Donovan put four of the mobile phones on charge before heading for the shower.
Barry Doyle stretched out his hand for his beer and took a sip from the bottle, keeping his towel over his eyes. He was lying by the side of Donovan's pool, recovering from a two-hour workout in his boss's gym.
The staff of three a maid, a handyman and a cook stayed in a small house on the edge of the compound and were available around-the-clock even when Donovan was away, so Doyle figured he might as well take advantage of the amenities on offer. The cook was superb, a rotund Puerto Rican woman in her late fifties who knew her way around a dozen or more cuisines and who could whip up poached eggs and beans on toast just the way Doyle liked them. Just the way his mother used to make them.
He heard footsteps and Doyle smiled under the towel. It would be Maria, the maid. Twenty-two years old, an hour-glass figure and a Catherine Zeta-Jones smile. Doyle had been lusting after Maria ever since she started working for Donovan, and he'd told her to bring him a fresh iced beer every half an hour.
"Thanks, Maria," he said, spreading his legs apart to give her a good look at the bulge in the front of his swimming trunks.
Rough hands grabbed both arms and yanked him up off the sun-lounger.
The towel fell to the floor and Doyle blinked in the sudden sunlight. A squat man stood in front of him, brown skinned with a thick moustache and heavy eyebrows. Doyle squinted and his eyes slowly focused. Carlos Rodriguez.
"Where is he?" asked Rodriguez.
"He's not here," said Doyle.
Rodriguez slapped him, hard.
"Where is he?"
"What the fuck is your problem?" spat Doyle. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth and he winced as he ran his tongue over a deep cut inside his cheek.
Rodriguez slapped him again and the men on either side of Doyle tightened their grip on his arms.
"He flew to Jamaica yesterday," hissed Rodriguez.
"Why?"
"Look, Carlos, what's going on? There's no need for this. If you've got a problem with Den, you'll have to talk to him. I'm not his fucking keeper."
Rodriguez stepped forward and grabbed Doyle's throat. He had long fingernails and they dug into Doyle's flesh as he squeezed.
"I want to talk to him, you piece of shit. That's why I need to know where he went." Doyle tried to speak, but Rodriguez's grip was too tight and he couldn't draw breath. He started to choke and Rodriguez took his hand away. Doyle coughed and blood splattered over Rodriguez's cream linen suit. Rodriguez looked down at the spots of blood disdainfully.
"Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?" he said quietly.
"Any idea at all?"
"I'm sorry," gasped Doyle.
Rodriguez dabbed at the blood spots with a white handkerchief.
"He flew to Jamaica and then he disappeared. I'm assuming he's not lying on the beach smoking ganja, so where the fuck is he?"
Doyle heard a scraping noise behind him and he twisted his head around.
A fourth man in his twenties, thickset with a neatly trimmed goatee beard and weightlifter's forearms, had pulled the large umbrella from its concrete base. He grinned at Doyle and tossed the umbrella on to the tiled floor. He knelt down next to the umbrella base and took a length of chain from the pocket of his chinos.
Rodriguez grabbed Doyle by the hair.
"Don't look at him, look at me. He's not your problem, I am."
Doyle's eyes watered from the pain and he glared at the Colombian.
"Good," said Rodriguez soothingly.
"Anger is good. So much more productive than fear. Anger makes the body and the mind work more efficiently, but fear shuts everything down. So how is your mind working now? Your memory returning, is it?
Where is he?"
Doyle felt hands running around his waist but when he tried to look down Rodriguez jerked his head up.
"How deep do you think the pool is at this end?" asked Rodriguez.
"What?"
"The pool? Twelve feet, do you think?"
Doyle swallowed nervously.
"This is stupid."
Rodriguez let go of Doyle's hair and slapped him twice, forehand and backhand. He had a chunky diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand and on the second blow it sliced through Doyle's cheek.
Doyle felt the flesh part and the blood flow but he wasn't aware of any pain. It was as if his whole body had gone numb. Rodriguez was right.
Fear was totally unproductive. His body was shutting down. Preparing for death.
"Are you calling me stupid?" hissed Rodriguez.
"No." Doyle tried to touch his injured cheek but the man on his right twisted his arm up behind his back.
"There must be something wrong with my ears, then, because I thought I heard you say I was stupid."
"I said it was stupid. The situation."
Rodriguez smiled without warmth.
"The situation? That's what this is, a situation?"
The man with the weightlifter's forearms knelt down in front of Doyle, his face level with Doyle's crotch. He had the chain in his hands and he passed it around Doyle's waist and fastened it with a small padlock.
The man leered at Doyle as he stood up.
"I meant that it's pointless getting heavy with me. Den's the one you want."
"Which is why I'm asking you for the last time. Where is he?"
"London."
Rodriguez frowned.
"London? He said he was wanted in England. He said he couldn't go back."
"His wife's been screwing around. He's gone back to sort it out."
Rodriguez started to chuckle. So did the man with the weightlifter's forearms.
"Sauce for the goose, that's what you English say, right? Donovan's dick is hardly ever inside his pants."
Doyle said nothing. The man with weightlifter's forearms walked behind him and Doyle heard the umbrella base being pushed along the floor towards the pool. The chain tightened around Doyle's waist, and his heart began to pound.
"Carlos, don't do this," Doyle said, his voice a dry croak.
"Where is my money?"
"What money?"
"The ten million dollars that Donovan was supposed to pay into my account yesterday."
"He didn't say anything to me about money. I swear."
The umbrella base received another push and it grated across the tiles.
It was only a foot away from the edge of the swimming pool, and the chain was now taut. The two men either side of Doyle shoved him closer to the pool.
"I swear!" Doyle screamed.
"Help me! Somebody help me!" His voice echoed around the pool area.
"Scream all you want," said Rodriguez.
"The hired help want to live as much as you do, my friend. They won't interfere. And they will have a sudden lapse of memory when the police arrive." He sniggered.
"They might even say you were acting suicidal." Rodriguez dangled the padlock key in front of Doyle's face, then tossed it into the far end of the pool. The shallow end.
"How do I get in touch with him?" Rodriguez asked.
"He said he'd call."
"He has no cell phone in London?"
"He doesn't trust them."
"His house in London. You have the number?"
Doyle nodded at his mobile phone, next to his beer on the white cast-iron table by the sun-lounger.
"It's in my phone. Look, if he calls I'll tell him you want to talk to him. I'll tell him how pissed off you are."
"You will?" said Rodriguez, smiling affably.
"That's so good of you."
"Oh Jesus, please don't do this to me."
Rodriguez grinned at the man with the weightlifter's arms.
"Now he's asking for your help, Jesus." He pronounced it the Spanish way. Hey-zeus.
"Maybe he thinks you've a softer heart than me."
Jesus grinned and said something to Rodriguez in rapid Spanish. All four men laughed.
"Please don't…" begged Doyle.
Rodriguez nodded at Jesus, and Jesus put his foot on the umbrella base and shoved it into the pool. At the same time, the two men holding Doyle pitched him into the water. There was a loud splash and all four men scattered to avoid the water as the concrete block and Doyle disappeared under the surface.
Chlorinated water lapped over the edge of the pool a few times, then the surface went still. The four Colombians peered into the water, shading their eyes against the burning afternoon sun. Doyle was waving his arms and legs around like a crab stranded on its back and a stream of bubbles burst from his mouth and rippled to the surface. Jesus looked at his watch.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"Ninety seconds?"
"Nah," said Rodriguez.
"Less. He didn't catch his breath when he went in."
The Colombians laughed and watched as Doyle died.
The dyed-blonde receptionist looked up as Donovan walked down the stairs. She smiled.
"You go out?" she asked.
"Just for a couple of hours."
"You leave key?"
Donovan shook his head.
"Nah, I'll keep it with me." He walked up to the counter. She was holding a book.
"What are you reading?"
"I learn English." She held up the book and showed it to him.
"I go school every morning."
Donovan took the book, flicked through it and handed it back.
"Your English is great," he said.
"Where are you from?" He looked into her eyes as he talked. They were a deep blue with flecks of grey.
"Poland. Warsaw."
"Great country. Beautiful city. Amazing art galleries."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"You have been to Warsaw?"
"I've been pretty much everywhere." He winked at her and put on his baseball cap.
"Catch you later."
Donovan walked down Sussex Gardens towards Edgware Road, confident that the hotel was still a safe area. The receptionist had shown no signs of tension, no fear, no look in the eyes that suggested that someone had told her that she was to report his movements, that he was anything other than a tourist passing through. Now he knew what her regular reactions were, he'd easily spot any changes.
Donovan walked along Edgware Road, stopping to look in several shop windows. Each time he stopped he checked reflections to see if anyone was following him. That was the beauty of Edgware Road: white faces stuck out.
At the corner of Edgware Road and Harrow Road was a pedestrian underpass. Most people used the pedestrian crossings at the traffic lights above ground, but Donovan walked slowly down the sloping walkway whistling softly to himself.
Underground there were public toilets, a news agent and a shoe repair shop, but more importantly there were half a dozen exits. Donovan loitered for a while until he was satisfied that no one had followed him down, and then he walked quickly up the stairs that led to the Harrow Road exit, close to Paddington Green police station. Donovan kept his head down Paddington Green was where the Metropolitan Police's Anti-Terrorist Squad was based, and the area was saturated with CCTV cameras.
Donovan knew that there were more than a million CCTV cameras scattered across the United Kingdom, giving it the dubious distinction of having more of the prying electronic eyes per head of population than anywhere in the world. More than two hundred thousand new cameras were added every year. On average, aUK citizen going about his lawful business in the capital would be captured on three hundred cameras on at least thirty different systems every day. They were in shops, office buildings, in ATMs, on buses, there was almost nowhere that wasn't covered. The police already had access to all the networks, but their ultimate aim was to have them all linked and tied to the Mandrake face recognition system. While the ordinary citizen probably wasn't over-concerned about the lack of privacy, believing the police line that no one but criminals had anything to fear from saturation CCTV coverage, Donovan was far from being an ordinary citizen.
He headed towards Maida Vale, and stopped at the Church of St. Mary, a red brick building long-ago blackened by exhaust fumes from the stream of traffic that pelted along the nearby A4O. Just along from the tumbledown churchyard was a small park with two old-fashioned red phone boxes at its entrance. Donovan sat on a bench in the graveyard and took out a mobile phone. He'd only been able to charge it for half an hour, but that would be long enough for what he wanted. He tapped out the number of Richard Underwood's direct line, dialing 141 first so that his number wouldn't show up on Underwood's phone.
The chief superintendent answered with a long groan before saying,
"Yes?"
"What's up, Dicko? Piles giving you jip?"
"The perfect end to the perfect day. Where are you?"
Donovan smiled to himself.
"A shithole, that's where I am," he said.
"You know the churchyard on the Harrow Road?"
"Yes," said Underwood, suspiciously.
"Fifteen minutes. I'll call the one on the right."
"Why don't I call you?"
"Because I don't want this phone ringing, that's why. Fifteen minutes, yeah?"
Donovan cut the connection before the policeman could argue. He walked around the churchyard a couple of times, then went and stood behind a clump of trees. A few minutes later, Underwood came walking briskly from the direction of the police station, his raincoat flapping behind him, a look of intense discomfort on his jowly face. He was a large man, overweight rather than big boned, with a large gut that strained over the top of his trouser belt. He reached the two red phone boxes and stamped his feet impatiently, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat.
Donovan took out his mobile phone and dialled the number of the phone box. A second or two later and the phone in the box on the left started to ring. Donovan grinned as he watched Underwood jump, then stand and stare at the phone box. He put his head on one side, then looked at the phone box on the right, as if to reassure himself that it wasn't the one that was ringing. He looked around, then pulled open the door to the box on the left and picked up the phone.
"You said the one on the right," the policeman said.
Donovan chuckled.
"Right, left, what's the odds? You're breathing heavily, Dicko, you out of condition?"
"It's a long bloody walk and you know it. With cameras all the way."
"Not by the church. Besides, who'd be watching you? You're a watcher, not a watchee." He started walking towards the phone boxes.
"Whereabouts are you?"
"Not far, Dicko. Not far."
"Don't piss me around, Den. This isn't a sodding game."
"Behind you."
Underwood turned around and his jaw dropped as he saw Donovan striding across the grass towards him.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he exploded.
Donovan laughed and put his mobile phone away. Underwood stood in the call box the phone still pressed against his ear, his mouth open in surprise. Donovan pulled the door open for him.
"Breathe, Dicko. Breathe!"
Underwood's cheeks had flared red and his eyes were wide and staring.
"Bloody hell, I'm not going to have to give you the kiss of life, am I?" said Donovan.
"What the fuck's going on?"
"Put the phone down and let's have a chat, yeah?"
Underwood stood staring at Donovan for several seconds, then he slowly replaced the receiver.
"You said you were somewhere in Europe."
"Well, strictly speaking, I am. Last I looked, Britain was still in the EC and you reported to Europol."
"It's an information- and resource-sharing organisation. We don't report to them," said Underwood stiffly.
"But that's not the point."
"I know it's not the point, I was just making conversation. Come on, you soft bugger."
Underwood squeezed out of the phone box and the two men walked down the Harrow Road, towards the canal that meandered through Little Venice before winding its way to Regents Park and Camden.
"You shouldn't be here, Den."
"You can say that again. But that bitch'll get my boy if I don't do something." Donovan had already decided not to mention the missing sixty million dollars. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.
"You think you'll get custody?"
"I'm his bloody father."
"Yeah, but…"
"There's no buts, Dicko. I'm his dad, and his mum was caught stark bollock naked doing the dirty with my accountant. No judge in the land is going to give him to a woman like that."
"You and judges aren't on the best of terms, truth be told."
"Fuck you."
"You know what I mean."
They walked down Warwick Avenue and turned left on Blomfield Road, parallel to the canal. On one side, the side along which the two men were walking, stood beautiful stucco houses with carefully tended gardens costing millions of pounds.
The other side of the water was lined with utilitarian council flats with featureless walls and blank windows. A narrow boat packed with tourists put-putted towards Camden. A group of Japanese tourists were photographing as if their lives depended on it, and both Donovan and Underwood automatically turned their faces away.
"How did you get into the country?" asked Underwood.
"Need to know," said Donovan.
"What's my situation?"
"Same as it's always been."
"Shit."
"They've got long memories, Den. You can't just run off and expect to come back to a clean slate. Life's not like that."
"So I'm still Tango One?"
"Strictly speaking you've dropped down the ranks a bit, but as soon as it's known you're back, you'll be up there in pole position."
"Hopefully I'll get Robbie and be out of here before anyone knows where I am."
"Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed."
"What have they got on me that's current?"
"That's the good news," said Underwood.
"So far, nothing."
"That's something."
"Yeah, but you haven't heard the bad news yet."
Donovan said nothing. Ahead of them was a pub. The Paddington Stop.
It sounded as if it belonged to an age when passing bar gees would stop off for a refreshing pint, but it was as ugly as the council flats opposite and had been built decades after the last working barge had travelled the canal. The two men looked at each other. They both nodded at the same time and headed towards the pub.
Underwood waited until he had a pint of lager in front of him and there was no one within earshot before continuing.
"Marty Clare," he said, and sipped his lager.
Donovan toyed with his Jack Daniels and soda, a slight frown on his face.
"He's in Amsterdam, right?"
"He's in Noordsingel Detention Centre in Rotterdam is where he is," said Underwood.
"And he's preparing to sing like the proverbial."
Donovan shook his head.
"No way. Not Marty."
"His lawyer is dotting the "t's and crossing the "i's as we speak."
"You know this for a fact?"
Underwood gave him a disdainful look but didn't say anything. Donovan cursed.
"What've they got on him? He could do Dutch porridge standing on his head."
"The Yanks want him. One of the consignments was earmarked for New Jersey. That's all the DEA need. Assets, money, the works. And if they can get him extradited, they'll throw away the key."
"Stupid bastard. How'd they get him in the first place?"
Donovan shrugged.
"Come on, Dicko, don't give me that Gallic shoulder thing. Someone grassed?"
"More than that, I think."
"You think, or you know?"
"Bloody hell, Den, you don't give up, do you?"
Donovan leaned across the table so that his mouth was just inches away from the policeman's ear.
"My fucking life's on the line here, Dicko, now stop pissing around. I need to know where I stand."
Underwood nodded slowly and put his glass down.
"Undercover Cussie."
"Dutch or Brit customs?"
"Dutch."
"Do you have a name?"
"No, Den, I don't have a name. Why the hell would the cloggies tell me who their secret weapons are?"
"Information and resource sharing, you said."
"Superficial at best. We've linked databases but we all protect our assets. What are you going to do, Den?"
Donovan looked at Underwood, his eyes cold and hard.
"Do you really want to know, Dicko?"
Dicko sucked air in through clenched jaws, then took a long drink of lager.
"How close did they get to me?" asked Donovan.
"Strictly surveillance."
"No one up close and personal?"
An elderly man in paint-spattered overalls and a shapeless hat walked over to the jukebox, slotted in a coin and jabbed at the selection buttons. Underwood waited until the man had walked back to his space at the bar before speaking again.
"Give me a break, Den. What do you think, I can just wander along to SO10 and ask them what undercover agents they've got in play?"
"You're NCS liaison, aren't you? National Crime Squad would have a vested interest."
"Which would have been sparked off by what? Do you want me to tell them you're back? Because if you're out in the sunny Caribbean, why would the Met or the NCS give a rat's arse what you're up to?"
"If they've sent anyone against me, I need to know."
"And I've got another ten years of a career ahead of me."
"You could retire tomorrow."
Underwood grinned.
"Not officially." He had a little under a million pounds secreted away in various offshore accounts, but the money was untouchable until after he'd left the force. Even then he'd have to be careful. A villa in Spain. A decent-sized boat. Maybe a small bar overlooking the sea.
But that was. a decade away. Until then he had to be careful. He and Donovan went back a long way, longer than he cared to remember at times, and the friendship was something he treasured. However, friendship alone didn't warrant risking spending ten years behind bars on Rule 42 with the nonces and rapists.
"Just find out what you can, Dicko, yeah?"
"Sure."
"You know I'll see you right."
"Yeah, I know," said Underwood. Virtually every penny of the million pounds that Underwood had salted away had come from Donovan. And at least two of the promotions that Underwood had received had been a direct result of spectacular arrests following up on information provided by Donovan. Sure, Donovan always had an agenda of his own, either settling a score or putting a competitor out of business, but Underwood had reaped the benefits, career-wise and financially. He drained his glass.
"I better be going."
Donovan handed him a folded piece of paper.
"Call me on this number. What about the bitch?"
"Vicky?"
"She is the bitch of the day, yes."
Underwood looked uncomfortable.
"It's bad news, Den. Guess I'm a bit worried about being the bearer.
They left yesterday."
"To where?"
"Spain. Malaga."
"No way."
"Booked on a British Airways flight out of Heathrow. Sharkey left his car in the longterm car park. Left a deposit on his credit card."
"No way they'd go to Spain. I know too many faces out there. And the car is too obvious. He wanted it found."
"I'm just telling you what I was told."
Donovan sat shaking his head.
"It'd make my life easier if they were there." He made a gun with his hand and mimed firing two shots, then blew away imaginary gunsmoke.
"But they're too smart for that." He grinned.
"At least Sharkey is." He frowned, then leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.
"Luggage? They check in any luggage?"
"Hell, Den, how would I know that?"
"You ask. You say, did they check in, and if they did, did they have any luggage? How exactly did you get to be a detective, Dicko?"
"Funny handshake and a rolled-up trouser leg," said Underwood.
Donovan didn't react to the joke. He spoke quickly, hunched forward, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.
"It's the oldest trick in the book. Done it myself with Vicky a couple of times. You check in for an international flight. Tickets, passports and all. But you have another ticket for somewhere where they don't check passports. Dublin. Glasgow. The Channel Islands.
You pass through Immigration, then you go and check in for your real flight. Tell them you were late so didn't have time to check in at the other side. No passports, ticket can be in any name. Providing you haven't checked in any luggage, the flight you didn't get on will depart on time, give or take, and they won't even take you off the manifest. They'll just reckon you're pissed in the bar or lost in Duty Free. Once you're in Jersey you get the Hovercraft to France. Or from Dublin you fly anywhere."
"Yeah, maybe."
"No maybe about it. They've flown the coop." His upper lip curled back in a snarl.
"They think they're smart," he whispered, almost to himself, 'but I'm smarter."
Underwood stood up. He smiled thinly.
"I am sorry about you and Vicky. Really."
"I'll have the bitch, don't you worry."
"Don't do anything… you know." He shrugged, not wanting to say the words.
"She screwed him in my bed."
"She's the mother of your child, Den. Any vengeance you wreak on her is going to affect Robbie."
"You think he's not been affected already by what she's done?"
"Sure. He'll hate her for it, but at the end of the day she's still his mother. And you're still his dad. I know this isn't easy…"
"You know fuck all!" hissed Donovan, banging the flat of his hand down on the table, hard. Several heads turned in their direction, but shouted threats weren't an unusual occurrence in the pub and when it became clear that no one was about to be hit, the heads turned back.
"Just take it easy, that's all I'm saying. I know you, Den. Red rag to a bull, this'll be. Like the Italians say. Best eaten cold, yeah?"
Donovan nodded. He knew that Underwood had his best interests at heart.
"Just watch my back, Dicko," he said.
"I'll cover the rest of the bases."
Donovan went back to the hotel and showered and changed. He ate a steak and salad and drank a glass of white wine at an Italian restaurant on the Edgware Road, reading a copy of the Guardian but keeping a close eye on people walking by outside. He paid the bill and then spent five minutes walking around the underpass before rushing above ground and hailing a black cab. He got to Hampstead a full hour before he was due to meet the Spaniard. He walked through the village, doubling back several times and keeping an eye on reflections in the windows of the neat cottages until he was absolutely sure he hadn't been followed.
He walked out on to the Heath, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. He wore black jeans and white Nikes and his New York Yankees baseball cap, and he looked like any other hopeful homosexual trawling for company.
Donovan went the long way around to the place where he'd arranged to meet Rojas, and lingered in a copse of beech trees until he saw the Spaniard walking purposefully along one of the many paths that crisscrossed the Heath. A middle-aged man in a fawn raincoat raised his eyebrows hopefully but Rojas just shook his head and walked on by.
Donovan smiled to himself. Rojas was a good-looking guy, and he was sure that half the trade on the Heath would get a hard-on at the mere sight of the man. He looked like a young Sacha Distel: soft brown eyes, glossy black hair and a perfect suntan. His looks were actually an acute disadvantage in his line of work he could never get too close to his quarry because heads, male and female, always turned when he was around. Donovan could imagine the eyewitness reports the police would get: "Yeah, he was the spitting image of Sacha Distel. In his prime."
That was why Rojas always killed at a distance. A rifle. A bomb.
Poison. A third party.
Donovan waited until he was sure that Rojas was alone before whistling softly to attract his attention. Rojas waved and walked over the grass to the copse. He gave Donovan a bearhug and Donovan smelled garlic on his breath.
"Dennis, good to see you again."
"Don't get over-emotional, Juan. I know you're going to be billing me for your time. Plus expenses. Plus plus."
Rojas laughed heartily and put an arm around Donovan's shoulders.
"You still have your sense of humour, Dennis. I like that."
Donovan narrowed his eyes.
"What have you heard?"
Rojas shrugged carelessly.
"I have heard that Marty Clare is in Noordsingel Detention Centre. And that the DBA want to put him in a cell with Noriega."
"Bloody hell, Juan. I'm impressed."
"It's a small world, my friend. So is it Marty you want taking care of?"
Donovan nodded.
"I hope you never get angry with me, Dennis."
"But who would I hire to kill you, Juan? You're the best."
"Bar none," agreed the Spaniard.
"Bar none."
"Soon as possible, yeah?"
"I took that for granted. My usual terms."
"No discount?"
"Not even for you."
They walked around the copse, their feet crunching in the undergrowth.
"There's something else." Donovan told Rojas about his wife and his accountant and their departure through Heathrow. The Spaniard listened in silence, nodding thoughtfully from time to time.
"I want them found, Juan." Donovan handed Rojas an envelope.
"There's their passport details, credit cards, phone numbers. They know I'll be looking for them and they'll be hiding."
"I understand."
"When you've found them, I need to talk to them."
"You mean you want to be there when I…" Rojas left the sentence unfinished.
"I need some time alone with them. That's all." Donovan wasn't prepared to tell the Spaniard about the missing sixty million dollars.
"You can finish up after I've gone."
"Both of them?" asked Rojas, his face creased into a frown.
"Both of them," repeated Donovan.
"Amigo, are you sure this is a wise course of action?" said Rojas.
"She is your wife. Business is business but your wife is personal. You punish her of course, but…" He shrugged and sighed.
"She fucked my accountant. In my house. In front of my kid."
"And he should die. No question. But your wife…"
"She's not my wife any more, Juan."
"The police will know."
"They'll suspect."
The Spaniard shrugged again, less expressively this time, more a gesture of acceptance. He could see that there was no point in arguing with Donovan. His mind was made up.
"Very well. You are the customer and the customer is always right."
"Thank you."
"Even when he is wrong."
They shook hands, then Rojas reached around Donovan and gave him a second bone-crushing bearhug.
"Be careful, Dennis. And I say that from a business perspective, not from personal concern, you understand?"
Donovan grinned. He understood exactly.
The Spaniard winked and walked away across the grass and back to the path. Donovan watched him go until he was lost in the night then he turned and went in search of a taxi.
It was just after eleven o'clock when Mark Gardner got home. He dropped his bulging briefcase by the front door and tossed his coat on to a rack by the hall table.
"Don't ask!" he said, holding up a hand to silence her.
"But if Julie or Jenny ever express any interest in entering the advertising industry, take them out and shoot them, will you?"
Laura handed him a gin and tonic and went into the kitchen. Mark stood and walked through the archway that led through to a small conservatory. He flopped down on one of the rattan sofas and swung his feet carefully up on to the glass-topped coffee table. He sighed and sipped his gin and tonic as he looked out of the french windows.
Scattered around the garden were knee-high mushroom-shaped concrete structures in which were embedded small lights. They'd been installed by the previous owner of the house, along with more than two dozen garden gnomes. The gnomes had moved out with the owner, but the mushroom lights had stayed, and while their friends constantly teased them for their lack of taste, Mark and Laura had grown to like the effect at night small pools of light that looked like miniature galaxies lost in the blackness of an ever-expanding universe.
Mark sank deep into the sofa and sniffed his gin and tonic. Bubbles were still bursting to the surface and he could feel the cold pinpricks on his nose. He knew that he was drinking more than normal, but his agency had recently acquired a batch of new clients and he was keen to make a good impression. A good impression meant longer hours, and longer hours meant he was finding it harder to wind down after work.
Without a few strong gin and tonics, his mind would continue to race and he'd find it impossible to sleep. Too many and he'd wake up with a headache, but so far he'd been able to maintain a happy medium. He took another sip and sighed.
Something moved in the garden, something dark, something that was striding towards the french windows. A man. Mark jumped and his drink spilled over his chest. He cursed and scrambled to his feet, the glass shattering on the tiled floor of the conservatory.
"Are you okay?" Laura shouted from the kitchen.
Mark took a step back, away from the french windows. His feet crunched on broken glass. He put his hands up defensively even though the man was a good twenty feet away and on the other side of sheets of security glass.
"Stay where you are, Laura there's someone in the garden," As usual, his wife did the exact opposite of what he asked and came running from the kitchen.
"Who is it?"
"Stay where you are!" he yelled.
Laura appeared in the archway, a tea towel in her hands. Mark looked around for something to use as a weapon and grabbed at a heavy brass vase that they'd bought while on holiday in Tunisia. He hefted it by the neck, swinging it like a club.
The man walked up to the window, his hand raised. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket and had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
Mark flinched, fearing that he was going to be shot, but the man's gesture turned into a wave, and when he pressed his face against the glass, Mark sighed with relief.
"It's Den!" said Laura.
"Yes, darling, I can see that now," said Mark, sarcastically.
Donovan took off his baseball cap and gave Mark a thumbs-up.
"Surprise!" he mouthed.
Mark realised he was still swinging the brass vase and he grinned sheepishly. He put it back on its table and went to unlock the french windows.
Donovan stepped into the conservatory and shook Mark's hand.
"That was some welcome," he said, nodding at the vase.
"Most people use the front door," said Mark.
"In fact, our real friends usually phone first."
Donovan slapped Mark on the back and then rushed over to hug his sister.
"He's still a moaning bugger, then?" he said.
"Like a broken record," she said, hugging him tight.
"I did warn you about him before you got married."
"Yes, you did," laughed Laura.
"I am still here, you know," said Mark. He knelt down and started picking up the pieces of broken glass.
Donovan moved to help him put the glass splinters on a copy of The Economist.
"Didn't mean to spook you, Mark. Sorry."
"I wasn't spooked," said Mark.
"You caught me by surprise, that's all."
"I didn't want to come up the front path, just in case."
"In case we're being watched?" asked Laura, sitting down.
"Who'd be watching us, Den?"
"I dunno, Sis. I don't know who knows I'm here. Better safe than sorry."
Mark carefully lifted up the magazine and carried it out to the kitchen. Donovan went to sit next to his sister.
"When did you get back?" she asked.
"Yesterday. How is he?"
"He's okay. Cried his eyes out the first night, now he's sort of numb.
Shock."
Donovan shook his head, his lips tight.
"I'll swing for that bastard Sharkey. And her."
"That's not going to help Robbie, is it?" She put a hand on his shoulder.
"What are you going to do, Den?"
Donovan shrugged.
"He's going to have to come back with me. I'll get him a new passport and we'll head off."
"To the Caribbean?" she said, scornfully.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"What about his school? His friends? Us?"
"It won't be for ever, Laura. There are schools there. He'll make friends. You and Mark can come out on holiday."
Mark appeared at the door.
"What holiday?" 'I'm just saying, if Robbie and I go to Anguilla, you can come and stay."
Mark and Laura exchanged worried looks.
"What?" said Donovan.
"Nothing," said Mark.
"Come on, spit it out."
Mark hesitated, then took a deep breath.
"Look, it's none of my business, Den, but right now Robbie needs stability. Pulling him out of his environment and dumping him on a tropical island is going to be a hell of a shock to his system."
"It's Anguilla. It's not Robinson Crusoe. We're not going to be fishing with safety pins and drinking from coconuts. It's more bloody civilised than this shithole called England, I can tell you."
"Maybe, but this is home. Anyway, I'm not arguing with you. Robbie's your son. End of story. What do you want to drink?"
"JD and soda," said Donovan.
"You'll be lucky," said Laura.
"You can have whisky and like it."
Donovan grinned.
"Okay, but the good stuff, none of that Bells crap."
Mark disappeared back into the sitting room.
"He's right, you know," said Laura.
Donovan nodded.
"Yeah, I know, but the UK's just too hot for me now." He rubbed his hands over his face.
"Shit."
"What?"
"I've just remembered. Anguilla's probably not the safest place in the world for me now, either."
"Why's that?"
Donovan flashed her a rueful smile.
"Small run-in with some Colombians."
"Hell's bells, Den. And you want Robbie to get involved in that?"
"I'll get it sorted, don't worry."
"You make sure you do, Den. I'm his godmother, don't forget, and that includes me being responsible for his moral upbringing." She was only half joking.
"He can stay here, you know. As long as needs be. The kids love him.
So do we."
"I know, Laura, but I'm his father."
"I know you don't want to hear this, but the fact that you were his father didn't stop you gallivanting off to the Caribbean for months at a time, did it?"
"Gallivanting?" grinned Donovan.
"You know what I mean."
Mark returned with a tumbler of whisky and soda for Donovan and a fresh gin and tonic for himself. Laura flashed him a warning look. It was his third gin in less than an hour.
"The last one was spilt," he said defensively and sat down on the sofa opposite them.
"Okay if I see him?" asked Donovan.
"Sure," said Laura.
They stood up and Laura took Donovan upstairs. She pushed open the bedroom door and stood aside so that Donovan could see inside. Robbie was lying on his front, his head twisted away from the door so that all he could see was a mop of unruly brown hair on the pillow. He tiptoed over to the bunk bed and knelt down, then gently ruffled his son's hair.
Robbie stirred in his sleep, kicking his feet under the quilt.
"Don't worry, Robbie, I'm here now," Donovan whispered. He felt a sudden flare of anger at Vicky and what she'd done. Betraying him was bad enough, but to let her son witness her betrayal, that was unforgivable.
He slipped out of the bedroom and Laura closed the door quietly. They went back downstairs and into the conservatory.
Donovan picked up his whisky and soda and paced up and down. Laura sat down next to Mark, her hand on his knee.
"Has she called?"
Laura nodded.
"Day before yesterday. She said she wanted to speak to him, but I said he was asleep and told her to call back today. She didn't."
"She calls again, just hang up, yeah?"
Laura nodded.
Mark leaned forward, his hands cupping his gin and tonic.
"No offence, Den, but how much trouble are you in?"
Donovan smiled thinly. A very angry Colombian on his trail and sixty million dollars missing from his bank accounts. Quite a lot, really.
"I'll be okay," he said.
"The police are going to be after you, aren't they?"
Donovan's smile widened. About the only good news he'd had so far had been from Dicko telling him that the police didn't have anything on him yet. He shook his head.
"They'll be watching me, but there's no warrant. And I'm not planning on being a naughty boy while I'm here, Mark. Cross my heart. I don't intend to be here more than a few days."
"I wasn't being… you know…" said Mark. He tailed off, embarrassed.
"I know. It's okay."
"It's just that we've got a business… obligations…"
"Mark!" protested Laura.
"Leave him alone!"
Donovan held up his hand to silence her.
"Laura, it's okay. Honest. I understand what he means. Mark, I'll be keeping my nose clean, I promise. And I'm really grateful for what you and Laura are doing for Robbie."
Mark leaned over and clinked his glass against Donovan's. They toasted each other.
"I'm sorry, Den. Bit stressed, that's all."
Donovan waved away his apology, then asked Laura if she'd had the locks changed. She went into the sitting room and came back with a set of gleaming new keys and a piece of paper on which she'd written the new code for the burglar alarm system. Donovan took them, drained his glass and then gave his sister a big hug.
"I'm off," he said.
"I'll drop by and see Robbie tomorrow, yeah? And don't tell him I was here tonight, okay?"
Donovan shook hands with Mark, then left through the french windows, keeping in the shadows as he headed back down the garden.
"Who was that masked man?" whispered Mark.
Laura put her arm around his waist.
"He's really pissed off, isn't he?" she said.
"Understatement of the year."
"God, I hope he doesn't do anything stupid."
"I think it's too late for that." Mark put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him.
Donovan flagged down a black cab and had it drop him a quarter of a mile away from his house. He put his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket and kept his head down as he walked along the pavement on the opposite side of the road to his house. He walked slowly but purposefully, his eyes scanning left and right under the peak of the baseball cap. There were no occupied cars, and no vans that could have concealed watchers. A young couple were leaning against a gate post devouring each other's tongues but they were way too young to be police. An old lady was walking a liver-coloured Cocker spaniel, whispering encouraging noises and holding a plastic bag to clean up after it.
Donovan checked out the houses opposite his own. There was nothing obvious, but if the surveillance was good then there wouldn't be. He walked on. At the end of the road he turned right. Donovan's house was in a block which formed one side of a square. All the houses backed on to a large garden, virtually a small park with trees and a playing field big enough for football, though the garden committee had banned all ball games. Dogs had also been forbidden to use the garden, and there was a string of rules which were rigidly enforced by the committee, including no music, no organised games, no shouting, no drinking, no smoking. Donovan had always wondered why they didn't just ban everyone from the garden and have done with it.
The garden could be entered from the back doors of the houses, but many of them had been converted into apartments, and those on the upper floors, considered as poor relations by the omnipotent garden committee, had to use a side entrance. One of the keys on the ring that Laura had given him opened the black wooden gate that led to the garden. Donovan stopped to tie his shoelaces, taking a quick look over his shoulder. A black cab drove by, its "For Hire' light on, but other than that the street was deserted. Donovan opened the gate and slipped inside.
He stood for a minute listening to the sound of his own breathing as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. There were lights on in several of the houses, but most of the large garden area was in darkness. Donovan walked across the grass, looking from side to side to check that no one else was taking a late evening stroll. He was quite alone. For all he knew, the committee had probably issued an edict forbidding residents from using the garden after dark.
He walked quickly to his house. A flagstoned patio area was separated from the garden by a knee-high hedgerow and a small rockery, and as he walked across it a halogen security light came on automatically. There was nothing Donovan could do about the light but he took off his baseball cap. If any of the neighbours did happen to look out of the window, it would be better that they recognised him and didn't think that he was an intruder. As he unlocked the back door, the alarm system began to bleep. He closed the door and walked to the cupboard under the stairs and tapped out the four-digit number that Laura had given him. The alarm stopped bleeping. Donovan left the lights ofF just in case the house was under surveillance.
Donovan went into the kitchen and took a bottle of San Miguel out of the fridge. He opened it and drank from the bottle.
"Home sweet home," he muttered to himself. It had never felt like home, not really. During the past three years he doubted if he'd spent more than eight weeks in the house. Vicky had bought all the furniture and furnishings, with the exception of the artwork, assisted by some gay designer she'd found in her health club. Donovan couldn't remember his name, but he could remember a close-cropped head, a gold earring and figure-hugging jeans with zips up either leg. He might have been a freak, but Donovan had to admit he'd done a terrific job with the house. Turns out he'd studied art at some redbrick university and he'd been impressed with Donovan's collection some of the rooms he'd designed around the paintings, much to Vicky's annoyance.
Donovan went into the study and checked the safe, even though Laura had already told him that it was empty. He stared at the bare metal shelves and cursed. He wondered if Sharkey had been with her when she'd emptied it. Vicky would have thought about the passport, and probably regarded the cash as hers, but would she have realised the significance of the Spar-buch passbooks in the manila envelope? Donovan doubted it, but Sharkey certainly would have known what the passbooks were, and what they were worth. Donovan slammed the safe door shut and put the painting back in place. He ran his fingers along the gilded frame and smiled to himself. Luckily Sharkey was as ignorant of art as Vicky. The oil painting of two yachts was more than a hundred years old, and together with its partner on the opposite wall was worth close to half a million dollars. They were by James Edward Buttersworth, an American painter who loved yachts and sunsets, and both were used to good effect in the two pictures.
Donovan walked around the ground floor and satisfied himself that none of the works of art had been taken. They were all where they should be. Pride of his collection were three Van Dyck pen and brown ink drawings, preparatory sketches the Dutch master had made for a huge canvas that was now hanging in the Louvre. They featured a mother and daughter, and Donovan had bought them shortly after Robbie was born.
Donovan walked slowly upstairs, his hand on the banister. He imagined Robbie doing the same. Hurrying back from school, then rushing upstairs to see his mother. Catching her in the act. Donovan couldn't imagine how Robbie must have felt. Donovan had never seen his mother kiss his father, much less seen them in any sexual situation. Sex wasn't something that parents did. To find his mother in bed with someone else must have ripped the heart out of Robbie's world.
Donovan's lips tightened and his free hand clenched into a fist. He'd make sure Vicky paid for what she'd done. Sharkey, too.
He pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The door to Vicky's wardrobe was open. There were lots of empty hangers inside and one of her suitcases was missing. Donovan went over to the bed. He stared at the sheet, picturing the two of them, Sharkey and his wife, screwing their brains out in his bed. Vicky had been a virgin when she'd met Donovan, and clung to her virginity for a full three months before surrendering it to him on her seventeenth birthday. They'd married a year later, and so far as Donovan knew, she'd been faithful to him throughout their marriage. He'd been her first and only lover, that's what she'd said. Usually affectionately, though occasionally, when she suspected that he'd been playing around, she'd thrown it in his face like an accusation. However, he'd never doubted that she'd been true to him, that he was the only man who'd ever taken her. Until Sharkey.
Donovan picked up the quilt and threw it on to the bed. Maybe Sharkey hadn't been her first affair. Maybe there'd been others. Maybe she'd been screwing around behind his back for years. He felt his heart start to pound and he kicked the bed, hard, cursing her for her betrayal. He walked around the upper floor of the house, checking the bedrooms but not really sure what he was looking for. It was more territorial; it was his house and he wanted to pace out every inch of it. He'd sell it, of course. Soon as he could. He wanted nothing more to do with it. It was tainted. He hated the place, he didn't want to spend a minute longer there.
He went back downstairs, reset the alarm and let himself out through the back door. The security light came on, blasting the patio with stark halogen whiteness. Donovan pulled on his baseball cap and hurried off across the grass.
He unlocked the gate leading out of the garden, checked that there was no one around, then slipped through the relocked it. He put his head down and his hands in his pockets and walked briskly along the pavement.
As he walked past a dark saloon he heard a car door open. Donovan tensed. He'd been so deep in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed anyone sitting in any of the parked cars. He took a quick look over his shoulder. A large man in a heavy overcoat was walking around to the boot of his car, jingling his keys.
Donovan turned away and walked faster. Two men were walking along the pavement purposefully towards him. They were big men, too, as big as the man who was opening the car boot behind him. Donovan stepped off the pavement but they were too quick for him. One grabbed him by the arm with shovel-like hands and the other pulled out something from his coat pocket, raised his arm and brought it crashing down on the side of Donovan's head. Everything went red, then black, and Donovan was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Donovan had bitten the inside of his mouth when he was hit and he could taste blood as he slowly regained consciousness. The left-hand side of his head throbbed and he was having trouble breathing. The room was spinning around him and Donovan blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It didn't do any good, everything was still revolving.
Then he realised it wasn't the room that was spinning. It was him.
He'd been suspended by his feet from a metal girder with rope, and his hands had been tied behind him. His jacket was bunched around his shoulders and he could see his socks and the bare skin of his shins.
His nose felt blocked and his eyes were hurting and he had a piercing headache. He'd obviously been hanging upside down for a long time. He coughed and spat out bloody phlegm.
Two pairs of legs span into view. Dark brown shoes. Grey trousers.
Black coats. Then they were gone. Machinery. A dark saloon car.
Welding cylinders. A jack. A calendar with a naked blonde with impossibly large breasts. A workbench. Then the legs again. Donovan craned his neck but he couldn't see their faces.
One of the men said something in Spanish but Donovan didn't catch what it was. He knew who they were, though. Colombians. He coughed and spat out more blood.
He heard footsteps and a third pair of legs walked up.
"Hola, hombre," said a voice.
"Que pa saT Donovan twisted around, trying to get a look at the man who'd spoken. It took his confused brain several seconds to process the visual information.
A short, thickset man in his mid twenties. Powerful arms from years of lifting weights. A neat goatee beard. It was Jesus Rodriguez, Carlos Rodriguez's nephew and a borderline psychopath. Donovan had seen him several times in Carlos Rodriguez's entourage but had never spoken to the man. He'd heard the rumours, though. Ears cut off. Prostitutes scarred for life. Bodies dumped at sea, still alive and attached to anchors.
"Oh, just hanging around," said Donovan, trying to sound confident even though he knew that if the Colombian had just wanted a chat he wouldn't have had him picked up and suspended from the ceiling. And the fact that Doyle hadn't called him to warn him about the Colombians meant that he probably wasn't able to.
"You should have let me know you were coming."
"Where's my uncle's money, Donovan?" said Rodriguez.
Donovan stopped turning. The rope had twisted as far as it would go.
He was facing away from the Colombian and all he could see was the black saloon. Its boot was open. That was how they'd got him to the garage. And if things didn't go well, it was probably how he'd leave.
"Somebody borrowed it," said Donovan.
"Well, amigo, I hope they're paying you a good rate of interest, because that loan is going to cost you your life."
"I didn't steal your money, Jesus," said Donovan. The rope began to untwist and Donovan revolved slowly.
"So where is our ten million dollars?"
"I'm not sure."
"That's not the answer I'm looking for, capullo."
Donovan heard metal scraping and a liquid sloshing sound. Something being unscrewed. More sloshing. A strong smell of petrol. Then the three pairs of legs swung into view. One of the men was holding a red petrol can.
Donovan's insides lurched.
"Look, Jesus, I haven't got your money."
The man with the can started splashing it over Donovan's legs. Donovan began to shiver uncontrollably. His conscious mind, his intelligence, told him that Rodriguez wouldn't kill him while there was a chance that he'd get his money, but he'd heard enough horror stories about the man to know how irrational he could be, especially when he'd taken cocaine.
Rodriguez was a user as well as a supplier, and when he was using he was a nasty piece of work.
"If you haven't got my uncle's money, then there's nothing for us to talk about, is there?"
"I've been ripped off. By my accountant."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"Wrong answer."
More petrol was slopped over Donovan's legs. It dripped down his chest and dribbled into his nose, stinging so badly that his eyes watered. He shook his head and blinked his eyes, hoping that the Colombian wouldn't think he was crying.
"I'm looking for him. For God's sake, Jesus, he's ripped off sixty million fucking dollars."
"Of which ten million is my uncle's."
"If I had the money, I'd have given it to him. You think I don't know what happens to people who don't pay your uncle?"
"If you didn't, you're about to find out."
The man with the red can poured the last of the petrol down Donovan's back. It trickled down the back of his neck and dribbled through his hair. The fumes made him gag and he felt as if he would pass out again.
"Why did you run, capullo?
"Because I knew if I didn't pay, this would happen."
Rodriguez snorted.
"You thought you'd be safe in London, did you?"
"No, but I thought if I could get enough time, I might be able to get the bastard. Get the money back."
Rodriguez folded his arms and studied Donovan.
"And how were you planning to do that?" he asked.
Donovan forced a smile.
"I thought I might hang him upside down and pour petrol over him. See if that works."
Rodriguez stared at Donovan with cold eyes, then a smile slowly spread across his face. He threw back his head and laughed. His two companions stood watching Rodriguez laugh as if they didn't understand what was funny. Rodriguez wiped his eyes and shook his head.
"You English, you always keep your sense of humour, no matter what.
What's the expression you have? To die laughing?"
"Killing me won't get your uncle's money back, Jesus. That's the one true thing in this situation."
Rodriguez reached into his coat pocket and took out a gold cigarette lighter. Petrol was pooling on the floor below Donovan's head.
Rodriguez crouched down and steadied Donovan with a gloved hand. He looked into his eyes.
"Don't underestimate the fear factor, amigo," he said.
"This will be a lesson to everyone else. Fuck with the Rodriguez family and you'll burn in hell." He patted Donovan on the face, then straightened up.
Donovan panicked.
"For God's sake, Jesus, I've got money. I can pay you some of it."
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"Wrong answer, capullo." Rodriguez raised his hand and clicked the lighter.
Donovan twisted around, thrashing from side to side.
"Jesus, for fuck's sake, stop it."
"How much?"
"Give me a minute. Let me think. Let me bloody think!"
Rodriguez clicked the top down on the lighter.
"One minute. Then it's barbecue time." He took a step back and watched as Donovan slowly twisted in the air.
"I've got two Sparbuch passbooks. That's a million and half bucks."
Rodriguez frowned.
"What's a Sparbuch?"
Donovan cleared his throat and coughed up more bloody phlegm.
"Jesus, I'm choking here. Cut me down, yeah?"
"What is a Sparbuch?" repeated Rodriguez. He clicked the lighter open.
"It's a bank account," said Donovan hurriedly.
"They're for accounts in Czechoslovakia. The ones I've got are in US dollars."
"Fine. So give me the money."
"I don't have the money, I have the passbooks. The money is in Czechoslovakia."
"So transfer the money."
"It's not as easy as that. They're bearer passbooks. Whoever has the passbooks and the passwords has the account. You have to show the passbook to get the money. They won't do electronic transfers."
"That sounds like bullshit," said Rodriguez. He flicked the lighter again.
"Me cargo en tus muertos." I shit on your dead. As bad a curse as there was in Spanish.
"Look, talk to your uncle!" said Donovan hurriedly.
"I'm offering you money here. Kill me and you get nothing. He's going to be really pissed at you if he finds out afterwards that I was going to pay him, right?"
"My uncle has left this up to me, capullo."
"Right. Fine. So make an executive decision here. Call him and tell him I've got a million and half dollars for him. Use your cell phone, come on."
Rodriguez studied Donovan with emotionless brown eyes, then nodded slowly. He took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number. He kept staring at Donovan, then said something in Spanish.
Donovan kept hearing the word 'capullo'. Prick. Rodriguez listened, then nodded, then spoke some more. Donovan's Spanish was good but not fluent, and a lot of what Jesus was saying was slang. Gutter Spanish.
However, he mentioned the word "Sparbuch' several times.
Rodriguez walked over to Donovan.
"He wants to talk to you."
Rodriguez thrust the phone against the side of Donovan's head.
"What's this about Sparbuch accounts?" asked Carlos Rodriguez.
"Everyone uses them in Europe, Carlos. They're better than cash. It's clean money, it's in the fucking bank, for God's sake."
"But if I want the cash, I have to go to Czechoslovakia?"
"It's a three-hour flight. It's no big deal. But they're better than cash. You owe someone, you give them the passbook and the password."
There was a long silence and for a moment Donovan thought the connection had been cut.
"Carlos? Are you there?"
"Where are these passbooks?"
"In my hotel."
"That still leaves you eight and a half million dollars short."
"Paintings," said Donovan.
"I have paintings in the house. Three million dollars' worth."
"What good are paintings to me?"
"You can sell them. Three million, easy."
"I'm not an art dealer, amigo."
"Bloody hell, Carlos, work with me on this, will you? With the paintings and the passbooks, I've got almost five million dollars."
"Which is only half what you owe me. The man who ripped you off. Who is he?"
"My accountant. Sharkey, his name is."
"And you gave this man access to your accounts." Rodriguez chuckled.
"I didn't think you were that stupid, amigo."
"He had help," said Donovan. He was starting to relax a little. At least the Colombian was talking, and so long as he was talking Donovan had a chance.
"Ah yes. Your wife," said Rodriguez.
"So not only does she fuck your accountant, she helps him steal your money as well. Betrayed twice? You must feel very stupid, no?"
The petrol fumes were making Donovan dizzy and his eyes were watering.
Doyle must have told Rodriguez about Vicky and Sharkey. Before he died.
"Yeah, I feel like a right twat, Carlos. Does that make you happy?"
"The only thing that will make me happy is when I have my ten million dollars."
"Killing me isn't going to get your money back."
"So you said. Where is your wife now?"
"Sitting at home waiting for me. Where the fuck do you think she is, Carlos?" spat Donovan.
"She's on the fucking run, that's where she is."
"You have people looking for her?"
"The Spaniard."
"Rojas is good. Expensive, but good. Does he know your money's gone?"
Donovan didn't reply and Rodriguez chuckled.
"Your situation just gets worse and worse, doesn't it, amigoT Jesus Rodriguez was glaring at Donovan, annoyed at having to hold the phone to his mouth.
"What about when the consignment arrives?" said Rodriguez.
"How were you expecting to pay the second tranche?"
"What can I say, Carlos? I haven't got the first ten mill, let alone the second."
"So even if I take what you're offering me now, you're not going to be able to pay for the consignment when it arrives?"
"If I find that bastard Sharkey, you'll get your money."
"That's a big "if, amigo. The people who are taking on the cocaine, they have paid you half, yes?"
"Yes."
"Fifteen million?"
"Eighteen."
"I presume they are not yet aware of your financial situation," said Rodriguez.
"God willing."
Rodriguez chuckled "Amiga, you are in so much shit. How can I let you go? If I don't kill you, they will. And if they kill you, I lose everything."
"If I can deliver the gear, they'll pay me another eighteen mill," said Donovan.
"You can have all that. The eighteen plus the passbooks plus the paintings is more than twenty mill. You get your money, they get their gear. Everyone wins."
"But why do I need you in this equation, amigo?" asked Rodriguez.
"Why don't I just tell my nephew to kill you now?"
"It's my deal."
"It was your deal," he said.
"Who is taking delivery of the cars?" he asked.
Donovan closed his eyes. He could see where Rodriguez was going.
"You can't do this to me, Carlos."
"Amigo, I can tell my nephew to turn you into a flaming kebab and do what the hell I want with the cars, so don't tell me what I can and cannot do."
Donovan opened his eyes.
"It's being split between Ricky Jordan and Charlie Macfadyen," he said.
"Fifty fifty."
"Jordan I have heard of," said Rodriguez, 'but who is this Macfadyen?"
"He's a big fish in Edinburgh. They both are. Got the backing of some property guys who were looking to diversify.
This is their first big deal but I know them from way back. Solid as they come. Look, let me run with this, Carlos. You'll get your money.
All of it."
"I don't think so, amigo. When word gets out how you've been screwed, no one's going to be doing business with you. It'll be open season. I will deal with Jordan and Macfadyen myself "You bastard!"
Jesus Rodriguez took the phone away from Donovan's ear and slapped him across the face. Talk to my uncle with respect, capullo. With respect." He slapped Donovan again and then put the phone back to his ear.
"Sorry about that, Carlos," said Donovan. He spat out more bloody phlegm.
"Your nephew wanted a word."
"He's a good boy. Very enthusiastic. Now what were you saying?
Questioning the marital status of my parents, I seem to remember."
Jesus started to click his lighter again.
"Okay, okay!" shouted Donovan.
"It's yours! The deal's yours!"
"Good call," said Carlos Rodriguez.
"Let me talk to my nephew."
Donovan tried to smile up at Jesus Rodriguez.
"He wants to talk to you."
Jesus walked up and down as he listened to his uncle, his shoes crunching on the bare concrete. Eventually he put the phone away and walked back to where Donovan was gently swinging.
"You are one lucky capullo' he said.
"I'm staying at the Intercontinental. Tell Jordan and Macfadyen to contact me there. I will explain the new arrangement to them."
"Okay," said Donovan wearily.
"How long will it take you to sell your paintings?" asked Rodriguez.
Donovan glared at the Colombian.
"Oh, come on. You'll get your money for the gear, Jesus."
"My uncle says you owe interest, capullo. I will take the passbooks and the money from the paintings." He held out the lighter.
"Or we end this now."
The fight went out of Donovan. Suspended from the ceiling and doused with petrol didn't put him in any position to argue with the Colombian.
Besides, Carlos Rodriguez did occupy the moral high ground, in as much as there was a moral high ground in the world of drug trafficking.
Donovan had promised to pay ten million dollars when the drugs left Mexico. He had failed to come up with the money, and in the circles that Donovan moved in, that was equivalent to signing his own death warrant. Donovan had hoped that he would have been able to find Sharkey before Rodriguez had found him, but his gamble had failed and now he had to pay the price.
"You can have the passbooks tonight," said Donovan.
"I should be able to sell the pictures within a few days."
"I will be in London for three days. Bring the money and the passbooks to me at the hotel." He started to walk away, then hesitated.
"Don't make a fool of me again, capullo."
I won't.
"Next time I won't phone my uncle. I don't have to say that I know how to find you, and that I know where your son is, do I?"
"No, you don't," said Donovan coldly.
Rodriguez nodded.
"Three days," he repeated, then walked away.
"Jesus!"
Rodriguez turned and raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"Cut me down, yeah?"
Rodriguez nodded at his men. One of them took a penknife from his coat pocket and walked behind Donovan. Donovan felt the rope being cut from around his wrists. His fingers began to tingle as the circulation returned. Rodriguez walked away as the man cut the rope around Donovan's ankles. Donovan hit the ground hard, jarring his shoulder, but he was so numb that he felt hardly any pain. He lay on the concrete floor, gasping for breath.
He heard the doors of the car open and slam shut, then the engine revving. A metal gate rattled up and the car drove out and then he was alone. He sat up, massaging his legs, hardly able to believe that he was still alive. Carlos Rodriguez wasn't the most vicious of the Colombian drug lords, but he was far from being a pushover, and Donovan knew for a fact that he'd killed several times. One simple command from him and Jesus would have happily ended Donovan's life.
Donovan had always got on well with Carlos Rodriguez, which might have explained the Colombian's apparent change of heart. Or maybe Rodriguez had never intended to kill Donovan; maybe it had all been a mind game from the start and Jesus Rodriguez and his two henchmen were pissing themselves laughing as they drove away.
Donovan stood up slowly. He was still drenched in petrol so he took off most of his clothes and draped them on a workbench to dry. He paced up and down as he considered his options, which now appeared to be few and far between.
Marty Clare started his third set of sit-ups. He did three hundred during each early-morning workout, six sets of fifty. His torso glistened and he grunted each time he sat upright, his hands clenched behind his neck, his knees slightly bent.
The man watching Clare was also sweating, but not from exertion. He was a tall, almost gangly, black man in his late twenties with a shaved head and wicked scar on his left forearm. He was wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and his right hand was in his pocket, clenched around an eight-inch-long metal spike that had been carefully sharpened.
The gym was covered by two closed-circuit television cameras that were constantly monitored by prison guards in the control centre. The CCTV cameras were in fixed positions and the man knew that he was standing in a blind spot. The man's hand was sweating but he didn't want to take it out and wipe it because that would mean letting go of the spike. Two men were working with weights, but they had been in the gym for almost an hour and were getting towards the end of their workout.
Clare finished his third set and stood up, wiping his face with his towel. He went over to a press bench and picked up two small free weights, then lay on his back on the bench. The man watched. And waited. He went and sat on an exercise bike and pedalled slowly. The exercise bike was also out of view of the two CCTV cameras.
Clare worked on his arms and pectorals for ten minutes then went back to his sit-ups. The man carried on cycling slowly, his hand still on the spike.
The two men at the weights bench laughed and headed for the door, wiping their faces with their towels.
Clare got to his feet, stretched and groaned, and picked up his towel.
He walked past the exercise bikes, humming to himself. The man kept his head down until Clare had gone by, then slid off his saddle and walked up behind Clare, pulling out the spike. Clare turned to look at the man, but before he could react the man sprang forward, grasping for the collar of Clare's T-shirt with his left hand as he thrust the spike forward. Clare twisted and the spike ripped through his shirt. Clare swore and tried to push the man away but the man was too quick and slashed with the spike, cutting Clare's upper arm. Blood spurted across Clare's chest and the man lashed out again, this time with a stabbing movement. Clare fell back, but the man followed through and the spike stabbed into Clare's stomach. He carried on falling back and crashed into an exercise bike, then rolled on to his side. The man raised the spike above his head but then hesitated. Clare was lying in an area covered by the CCTV camera by the door.
The man turned, kept his head down and hurried out of the gym, thrusting the spike into his pocket as he jogged down the corridor.
Clare put his hands over the wound in his stomach. Blood seeped through his fingers and he screamed up at the CCTV camera.
"You bastards! Get down here!"
The single lens stared down at him dispassionately. Clare groaned and closed his eyes.
Den Donovan woke up with a splitting headache. He wasn't sure if it was the petrol fumes or the clip on the side of the head that had done the damage, but either way his head throbbed every time he moved it. He found a small plastic kettle and sachets of coffee, creamer and sugar on a table next to the wardrobe and made himself a cup of strong coffee. He sat on the bed and sipped it as he considered his options.
He didn't appear to have many. He had to give the two Sparbuchs to Rodriguez. He had to sell his paintings and give the proceeds to the Colombian. Then he had to put Jordan and Macfadyen in touch with him and step out of the deal. Which left him with what? Not much, Donovan decided. There was the Russian deal on the back burner but the Russians would want cash in advance and cash was something that Donovan was fast running out of.
First things first. He picked up one of the unused mobile phones and dialled Macfadyen's mobile number from memory. The answering service kicked in. Donovan didn't identify himself, but just gave the number of the mobile and asked Macfadyen to call him. Charlie Macfadyen was a religious screener of calls, so Donovan wasn't surprised when he called back two minutes later.
"How's it going, you old bastard?" asked Macfadyen.
"I've had better weeks," said Donovan.
"Where are you?"
"London. There isn't a problem, is there?" asked Macfadyen.
"Not for you, mate," said Donovan.
"Everything's sweet. But from now on you're dealing with the man direct."
"Since when?"
"Since today."
"You okay, mate?" Macfadyen sounded concerned and Donovan was touched.
"Not really. Your man'll explain the situation."
"I'd rather be dealing with you better the devil and all that shit."
"It's not an either or," said Donovan.
"He wants to deal direct."
"And you're walking away? Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I don't know him. I do know you."
Donovan closed his eyes and cursed silently. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have over the phone.
"We're gonna have to meet," said Macfadyen.
"Where are you?"
"Can't you just do as you're told?" said Donovan angrily.
"Look, mate, you've got a stack of my bread. How do I know your guy's gonna honour that? Caveat fucking emptor, right?
How do I know it's not gonna be guns blazing when I go to see him?"
"Because he wants to meet at the Intercontinental."
"Oh, it's in the book of rules now that no one gets shot in a five-star hotel, is it?"
"Your imagination's in overdrive," said Donovan.
"Take a Prozac, will you?"
"I'm serious, Den," said Macfadyen.
"I need more than this or you can give me back my bread and we'll call it quits."
Donovan's head felt like it was splitting in half. He transferred the phone to his other ear. Giving Macfadyen his money back was an impossibility. And if he refused to go through with the deal, the Colombian would be back with another can of petrol and the lighter, and this time there'd be nothing Donovan could say or do that would stop him going up like a roman candle.
"You know the Paddington Stop, yeah?"
"Little Venice?"
"See you on the terrace in one, yeah?"
"I'm bringing Ricky with me." It was a statement, not a question.
"Be nice, yeah?" said Donovan.
"We're on the same side here."
"I bloody hope so, Den. See you in one hour."
The phone went dead. Donovan pulled the battery off the back of the phone and removed the Sim card. He dropped it into the toilet bowl in the bathroom and flushed, then put a replacement Sim card into the phone. He put on his jacket and headed out. As he was closing the door he hesitated, then went back into the room and got the two Sparbuchs out of his suitcase. The Paddington Stop was less than half an hour's walk if he went the direct route, but that meant walking past Paddington Green police station, and he'd prefer to give it a wide berth. Besides, a long walk might help clear his head.
"So, Mr. Clare, how are you feeling?" asked the prison governor. He was a small, portly man in his late thirties with a kindly face and gold-framed glasses.
"How do you think I'm feeling?" said Clare.
"He nearly killed me."
"Superficial, I'm told," said the governor.
"If someone stabbed you in the stomach, I doubt you'd think it superficial," said Clare bitterly. He was lying in the prison hospital ward. Only three of the eight beds were occupied. The other two patients were prisoners recovering from drug overdoses and were both on the far side of the ward, connected to saline drips. A guard had been standing by the door ever since Clare had been admitted.
"Neither of your wounds were life-threatening, Mr. Clare," said the governor patiently, 'but that's not to say we're not taking the matter seriously. You say you can't identify your assailant?"
"He was black. In his twenties, maybe. I hardly saw him."
"Many of our inmates are black, Mr. Clare. You can appreciate how difficult it is to identify the man from your description."
"I want out of here," said Clare.
"Now."
"The medical facilities here are more than sufficient for your needs, Mr. Clare," said the governor. He looked at a white-coated doctor who nodded on cue.
"I don't give a shit about my medical treatment," said Clare.
"We all know what this was about. It was Den Donovan. He either wanted to warn me, or he wanted me dead. Either way, I'm out of here.
Get me my lawyer, and get me Hathaway. If he wants me to grass on Donovan, he can bloody well make sure I'm taken care of Donovan walked down Sussex Gardens and across Lancaster Gate to Hyde Park. It was a sunny morning but there was a cold breeze blowing across the park so he zipped up his bomber jacket and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He had his baseball cap and sunglasses on.
Two young women in tight tops, jodhpurs and boots were riding gleaming chestnut horses along the bridle path. Donovan wasn't the only male head to turn and watch them go by. They moved in unison, gripping their mounts with their muscular thighs.
As Donovan watched them ride off, he scanned the park, looking for familiar figures. He'd been checking reflections in windows and car mirrors all the way down Sussex Gardens and had knelt down to tie his shoelaces before entering the park, and he was reasonably sure that he hadn't been followed. He wasn't looking at faces, or even heads, because faces were notoriously hard to recognise, and profiles of heads could easily be changed with wigs or hats or scarves. Donovan checked out bodies. Their shape, their posture, the way they moved. People who were watching or following weren't behaving normally, and no matter how good they were, there'd be signs that could be spotted a stiffness, a momentary hesitation when they were looked at, an awkwardness about disguising the hands going towards a concealed microphone, a hundred and one things that could give them away. Donovan saw nothing to worry him.
Half an hour later, Donovan was on the towpath opposite the Paddington Stop. He leaned against the railings and waited. There was a terrace between the pub and the canal with half a dozen wooden tables and benches, most of which were occupied by midday drinkers from the nearby council estates.
Donovan saw Jordan and Macfadyen arrive in a bright red Ferrari with the top down. They drove into the car park behind the pub and a couple of minutes later walked out on to the terrace. Donovan stayed where he was and watched with an amused smile as the two men checked out the occupants of all the tables. Jordan shook his head and Macfadyen looked at his watch. Eventually Macfadyen spotted Donovan and said something to Jordan. Both men looked at him across the canal. Donovan pointed to the footbridge and motioned for them to come over.
He walked back along the towpath as Macfadyen and Jordan walked over the bridge.
"What's up, Den?" teased Jordan in his nasal Liverpudlian whine.
"Thought we'd be here mob-handed?" Jordan was average build with a beaked nose and a cleft chin and ears that stuck out like cup handles.
He was dressed as usual in black Armani and had a chunky gold ring on his right hand that glinted in the sun. Macfadyen was more casually dressed, sporting a black Valentino leather jacket over a pale green polo-necked pullover, and he had a thick gold bracelet on his right wrist. He was balding and had shaved what hair he had left close to his skull, showing off a curved scar above his left ear that looked like a Nike swoosh. Both men, like Donovan, were wearing sunglasses.
Jordan's were Armani.
Den smiled and shrugged. The bridge was an excellent way of making sure he knew exactly who he'd be meeting. If they'd turned up with reinforcements, he'd have been able to beat a hasty retreat back under the A4O and disappear into the Bayswater shopping crowds.
"Just being careful." He hugged Jordan and patted him on the back. He felt Jordan's hands run down his back, the fingers probing under Donovan's jacket.
"For fuck's sake, Ricky," he protested.
"What are you looking for?"
Macfadyen was watching, an amused look on his face.
"Yeah, well, you've gotta expect us to be careful, too," he said. He nodded at the bridge.
"No need for that. You think we'd have come near you if we'd had a sniff that Five-O were on our tail?"
Donovan pushed Jordan away, then took off his jacket and undid his shirt. He pulled his shirt open and showed it to Macfadyen.
"Satisfied?" he sneered.
Macfadyen put his hands up and patted the air.
"Calm down, Den." He grinned.
"I mean, keep your shirt on, yeah? You've got to admit, this isn't the gospel according to Den, is it?"
"You think I'm setting you up?" asked Donovan, buttoning up his shirt.
"You haven't said what you're doing, have you?" said Jordan.
Donovan turned and started walking across the grassy area towards a children's playground. A few swings, a climbing frame, a rusting roundabout. Every flat surface had been covered in graffiti. Nothing clever or ironic, just names. Tags proclaiming territory like dogs pissing against trees. I wrote this, therefore I exist. Empty cries in an uncaring world.
Jordan and Macfadyen followed Donovan.
"Who is he?" asked Macfadyen in his thick Scottish brogue.
"Carlos Rodriguez. He's Colombian. He's big, Charlie. No way's he going to rip you off." He stopped to let the two men catch up, then they walked together to the playground.
"He's the supplier?"
Donovan nodded.
"And you're giving him to us?"
"I think Carlos sees it as the other way around," said Donovan bitterly.
"He's cutting you out?" said Jordan.
"Are you two just gonna keep staring this gift horse down the throat?" said Donovan.
"If I was you I'd be biting my hand off."
"We don't know him, Den," said Jordan.
"We do know you."
"Which is why they want to meet you."
"He's here?" asked Macfadyen.
"His nephew. Jesus."
"We meet him, then what?" asked Jordan.
Donovan frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Future deals. Do we still do business with you?"
Donovan grimaced. It wasn't a question he was able to answer, but he doubted that Rodriguez would ever trust him again.
Macfadyen caught Donovan's look.
"What's happening, Den?"
"Just leave it be, Charlie."
"Is this to do with Marty Clare being banged up in Holland?" Macfadyen asked.
"No."
"We heard he's talking."
Donovan pulled a face.
"He can't hurt me."
Jordan fiddled with his gold ring.
"This Colombian, he's got our money, right?"
"Sort of "Sort of?" repeated Macfadyen incredulously.
"How can he sort of have eighteen million dollars?"
"He's happy to proceed with the deal. When the consignment arrives you pay him the balance."
"You sure about that?" asked Jordan.
"Give me a break, Ricky."
"You can see why we're nervous, Den," said Macfadyen.
"What happens if we turn up and this Colombian says he never saw our money? They're mad bastards, Colombians. Shoot first and fuck the questions, right?"
"Carlos isn't like that," said Donovan. He thought that Jesus might well be the sort to shoot before thinking, but he figured it better not to let them know that.
"Even so…" said Macfadyen.
"What do you want, Charlie? Spit it out." Donovan already knew what Macfadyen was going to suggest. It's what he would have insisted on had the roles been reversed.
"You come with us to the meet," said Macfadyen.
"That's not a good idea and you know it. You, me and the Colombian together in one place. Too many fucking cooks, Charlie."
Macfadyen looked at Jordan and something unspoken passed between them.
Jordan nodded.
"You're there or we walk away here and now," said Macfadyen quietly.
"That'd be your call, Charlie."
"We'd be wanting our money back."
"And I'd be wanting to shag Britney Spears but it ain't gonna happen," said Donovan.
"Then it'd all get very heavy," said Macfadyen.
"Britney Spears?" said Jordan.
"You'd shag Britney Spears?"
"I was speaking hypothetically," said Donovan.
"Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll introduce you. But once you've shaken hands, I'm outta there. Okay?"
Macfadyen and Jordan exchanged another meaningful look. This time it was Macfadyen who nodded.
"Okay," said Macfadyen.
"When?"
"Let me make a call." Donovan took out one of his mobile phones.
Two Dutch plainclothes detectives escorted Marty Clare to the waiting Saab. Clare had insisted through his lawyer that he be taken from the detention centre in a regular car rather than a prison van, and he didn't want any uniforms anywhere near him. Clare's lawyer had spoken to Hathaway at length and had eventually persuaded him to allow Clare to be interrogated at a hotel on the outskirts of Rotterdam.
As the taller of the two detectives opened the rear door of the Saab, his jacket fell open and Clare caught a glimpse of a holstered automatic. That had been another stipulation of Clare's he wanted round-the-clock armed protection. The attack in the gym might well have been a warning, but once Donovan found out that Clare was still talking there'd be hell to pay.
The taller detective climbed into the back seat after Clare while the other got into the front and told the driver to head on out.
The car was checked over by two uniformed guards while a third guard examined the ID cards of the two detectives and the paperwork permitting Clare's removal from the centre. There was a photograph of Clare clipped to a letter from the governor's office and the guard carefully checked the likeness against Clare's face. Clare grinned but the guard remained impassive.
The metal gate rattled to the side and the Saab edged forward. A second gate leading to the street didn't start opening until the first gate had closed behind the car.
"This place had better have room service," said Clare.
"And cable. My lawyer was supposed to have insisted on cable."
The two detectives said nothing. Clare turned to the policeman next to him and asked if he had a cigarette. The man shook his head. The car edged into the traffic, then accelerated away.
"What is this, the silent treatment?" joked Clare, but the detective just stared out of the window, stony faced.
"Fuck you, then," said Clare and settled back in the seat, his handcuffed wrists in his lap. The cut on Clare's arm barely bothered him, it had only required three stitches, but the wound in his stomach hurt like hell, especially when he was in a sitting position, so he tried to stretch out his legs to make himself more comfortable. The doctor had given Clare a vial of painkillers but told him to use them sparingly. When the detectives had heard that, they'd taken the tablets off Clare. Clare had laughed in their faces. Suicidal he wasn't.
The driver braked as they approached a set of traffic lights.
The lights were green but a white van ahead of them had slowed. The driver muttered under his breath and was about to sound his horn when the lights changed to red. The van pulled up and the Saab stopped behind it.
The detectives spoke to each other in Dutch. The one in the front laughed and Clare had the feeling they were laughing about him. He scowled. He never heard the crack as the window behind him exploded in a shower of glass cubes, and he died instantly as the bullet ripped through the back of his head and spattered brains and blood over the Saab's windscreen.
The driver and the detectives started shouting. Clare's body twitched as a second bullet smacked into the back of his head but he was already dead. The lights changed from red to green and the white van pulled away. Horns began to sound behind the Saab, but they stopped when the detectives piled out of the car, guns raised above their heads.
Juan Rojas unscrewed the silencer from the barrel of his rifle and put it into his briefcase, then swiftly disassembled the weapon and put the pieces away. He closed the briefcase and then examined himself in the mirror above the dressing table. Dark blue pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, crimson tie. He winked at his reflection. He left the briefcase on the dressing table. It would be collected later by the man who had booked the hotel room.
Rojas had shot Clare from the roof of the hotel. The men in the white van had been working for him, as had the man who had stabbed Clare in the gym. It was an easy shot, just over a hundred metres, but the intersection was overlooked by so many tower blocks that the police would never find out where the bullets had come from. Rojas had wrapped the rifle in a towel and then hurried back through the emergency exit door and into the hotel room.
His mohair coat was hanging on the back of the door and he put it on, then gave his hotel room a once over to make sure that he hadn't left anything behind other than the briefcase. He whistled softly to himself as he waited for the elevator to take him down to the ground floor. Five minutes later he was in a taxi, heading for the airport.
Den Donovan walked along the edge of the Serpentine. Two small children were throwing pieces of bread for a noisy flock of ducks. A large white swan watched disdainfully from a distance. A helicopter clattered high overhead. Donovan kept his head down, more from habit than from any realistic fear that the helicopter was on a surveillance operation.
Macfadyen and Jordan were several hundred yards away, walking together, deep in conversation, though they kept looking across at him. Donovan had insisted on walking to the park, but Macfadyen and Jordan had wanted to drive. They'd parked the Ferrari in the underground car park in Park Lane and were keeping their distance until they'd seen Donovan with the Colombian.
Jesus Rodriguez was standing on the bank of the Serpentine wearing a cream-coloured suit with a white silk shirt buttoned at the neck with no tie.
Donovan hated having to meet Rodriguez out in the open, because it made it harder to spot any surveillance, but Macfadyen and Jordan hadn't wanted a meeting indoors. They hung back as Donovan walked up to Rodriguez.
"Is that them?" asked the Colombian, nodding at Macfadyen and Jordan.
"Yeah. They're jittery. So am I."
"We're just having a walk in the park, my friend."
"A Colombian drugs lord, two of the main suppliers of Class A drugs in Scotland, and Tango One. The fact that we're in one place is just about grounds for a conspiracy charge."
"You worry too much," said the Colombian. He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and slipped a cigarette between his lips. He held his gold lighter up and grinned mischievously at Donovan.
"You changed your clothes, I hope?" Donovan flashed Rodriguez a cold smile and Rodriguez lit his cigarette. He took a long pull on the cigarette and then sighed as he exhaled. He started walking alongside the Serpentine and Donovan went with him. He took the Sparbuchs from his inside pocket and handed them to the Colombian.
Rodriguez flicked through them.
"As good as cash, you say?"
"Better than cash," said Donovan.
"They're useless without the passwords. And you can fly around the world with them in your pocket and no one's the wiser."
Rodriguez nodded appreciatively and put the passbooks into his jacket pocket. Donovan handed him a slip of paper with two words written on it. Rodriguez put it in his wallet.
"If it was me, I'd have killed you. You know that?"
"I'd guessed," said Donovan. He looked around casually. The two men who had been with Rodriguez were some distance away, standing in the shade of a spreading sycamore tree.
"Having said that, my uncle told me to tell you that if you do get your finances sorted out, he would be prepared to resume our business relationship."
Donovan smiled ruefully.
"I'll bear that in mind, Jesus. Tell him thanks."
"And you will have the money from the paintings before I leave London?"
"I hope so," said Donovan.
Rodriguez chuckled dryly.
"Just remember that we have another can of petrol," he said.
"Now, these two men in black, they know the score?"
Donovan nodded.
"They'll pay you on delivery. Eighteen mill. They have it offshore, so they can transfer to any account you nominate."
"How much do they know about me?"
"Your name. And that you're the supplier. They're worried it might be a set-up. That's why they want me here."
Rodriguez grinned.
"So you can protect them?"
"So that if the shit hits the fan, I'll get hit, too."
"Do you think they're satisfied yet?"
"I'll ask them." Donovan beckoned at Macfadyen and Jordan. The two men looked at each other, then walked cautiously over the grass towards him. Donovan turned to the Colombian.
"You can trust them, Jesus."
"My uncle thought he could trust you, capullo."
"This isn't about trust. I was ripped off."
"The hows and whys don't concern me, all that matters is the money.
That's what this business is all about: the movement and acquisition of capital. That's why you must never make it personal. When you make it personal is when you make mistakes." He patted Donovan on the back again, hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Remember that."
"Thanks, Jesus," said Donovan.
"Did you get that from a Christmas cracker?"
"My father told me that," said Rodriguez.
"A lifetime ago. Before he was shot in the back of the head by a capullo he turned his back on."
Macfadyen and Jordan joined them. Macfadyen nodded at Rodriguez, then jerked a thumb towards the men under the tree.
"They with you?" he asked.
"They are," said Rodriguez evenly.
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"Not so long as they stay where they are," said Macfadyen.
"There are three of you and one of me but you don't see me shitting my pants," said Rodriguez. He blew a tight plume of smoke that was quickly whisked away by the wind. He nodded at Donovan.
"Perhaps you should do the honours."
"This is Charlie Macfadyen. Edinburgh's finest. Charlie, this is Jesus Rodriguez."
The two men shook hands.
"And this is Ricky Jordan."
"From Liverpool," said Rodriguez.
"Birthplace of the Beatles." He shook hands with Jordan.
"I've heard of you, Ricky. You were in Miami two years ago doing business with Roberto Galardo."
Jordan narrowed his eyes and Rodriguez laughed out loud.
"Don't worry, Ricky, I'm not DEA. Roberto is an old friend. And he quite definitely didn't tell me about you and those three lap-dancers."
He winked conspiratorially.
"You do know that the Hispanic one was a transsexual, right?"
Jordan's face flushed and Macfadyen sniggered.
"You never told me about that, Ricky," he teased.
"She was female," said Jordan.
"Of course she was," said Rodriguez.
"By the time you met her."
Jordan's brow creased into a frown, not sure whether Rodriguez was joking or not.
The Colombian put his arm around Jordan's shoulder and hugged him.
"So, let's talk business, shall we?" He looked across at Donovan.
"Call me at the hotel about the other thing, okay? Two days."
Donovan nodded.
"You okay now?" he asked Macfadyen.
"Yeah. I guess."
"I'll leave you to it. Be lucky, yeah?" He flashed Macfadyen a thumbs-up.
"She was definitely a girl," Jordan continued to protest as Donovan walked away.
Donovan took his time leaving Hyde Park. He had a coffee in the cafeteria overlooking the Serpentine, checking out the faces of the passers-by, then he walked slowly along Rotten Row towards Hyde Park Corner, stopping twice to tie and retie his shoelaces. At one point he looked at his watch and then turned and quickly walked back the way he'd come, looking out for signs of walkers being wrong-footed or watchers whispering into concealed radios.
Once he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he walked quickly to the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner, took the Grosvenor Place exit and flagged down a black cab.
The glass door to the gallery was locked and a discreet brass plate told visitors that they should ring the bell if they wanted to be admitted. A tall brunette with close-cropped hair and startled fawn eyes studiously ignored Donovan. She was sitting at a white oak reception desk flicking through her Filofax. She'd seen Donovan looking in through the floor-to-ceiling window but had averted her eyes when he'd smiled.
When Donovan finally pressed the bell in three short bursts she slowly looked up, her face impassive. Donovan took off his sunglasses and winked. She gave him a cold look and then went back to examining her Filofax. Donovan pressed the bell again, this time giving it three long bursts.
The brunette stood up and walked over to the glass door on impossibly long legs. She stood on the other side of the glass and put her head on one side, her upper lip curled back in contemptuous sneer. Donovan figured it was the Yankees baseball cap that marked him out as being unsuitable for admittance, but he was damned if he was going to take it off.
"I'm here to see Maury," he said.
"Is he expecting you?"
"Just tell him Den Donovan's here, will you?"
She looked at him for several seconds, then pushed a button on her side of the door. The locking mechanism buzzed and Donovan pushed the door open.
"Do you have many customers?" asked Donovan.
The woman didn't reply. She walked away, her high heels clicking on the grey marble floor like knuckles cracking. Donovan watched her buttocks twitch under her short black skirt, then turned his attention to the painting on the wall opposite the woman's desk. It was modern and mindless, dribbles of paint on over-large canvases, the work of a second-year art student. He took a few steps back, but even distance didn't make the work any more meaningful. There were no price tags on the work, just small pieces of white card with the titles of the pieces. Donovan figured that was always a bad sign, having to give the piece a name. Art should speak for itself.
Scattered around the floor of the gallery were several metal sculptures that looked like the contents of someone's garage welded together haphazardly. Donovan wandered around, shaking his head scornfully.
"Den! Good to see you."
Maury Goldman strode across the gallery, his hand outstretched. His mane of grey hair was swept back as if he'd been riding a scooter without a helmet. Not that there'd be a scooter on the roads capable of bearing Goldman's weight. He was a fat man, bordering on the obese, and his Savile Row suits demanded at least three times the cloth of a regular fitting. As always, his jowly face was bathed in sweat, but his hand when Donovan shook it was as dry as stone. Goldman appeared only days away from a fatal heart attack, but he'd looked that way for the twelve years that Donovan had known him.
Goldman pumped Donovan's hand, and then hugged him. The brunette gave Donovan a frosty look as she went back to her desk, as if she resented the attention that Goldman was giving him.
"When did you get back?" asked Goldman.
"Day or two. How's business?"
Goldman made a 'so-so' gesture with his hand.
"Can't complain, Den."
Donovan gestured at the huge canvases.
"Didn't think you went for this, Maury?"
"Favour for a friend," said Goldman regretfully.
"His son's just graduated… what can I say? Maybe Saatchi'll take him under his wing."
Donovan didn't look convinced and Goldman laughed quietly.
"I need a favour, Maury," said Donovan quietly.
Goldman took out a large scarlet handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.
"Come upstairs, we can have a chat there."
Goldman waddled across the gallery and showed Donovan through a door that led to a stairway. He went up the stairs slowly, with Donovan following.
"You should get a lift installed," said Donovan.
"I need the exercise," said Goldman, panting as he reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door to his private office. He held the door open for Donovan.
The office was a complete contrast to the gallery downstairs, with dark wooden panelling, brass light fittings and a plush royal-blue carpet.
The dark oak furniture included a massive desk on which sat an incongruously hi-tech Apple Mac computer. The paintings on the walls were a world apart from the canvases downstairs and Donovan wandered around, relishing the art. Goldman eased himself down on to a massive leather swivel chair behind the desk and watched Donovan with an amused smile on his face.
"This is good," said Donovan in admiration.
"My god, this is good." He was looking at a small black chalk and lithographic crayon drawing of an old woman, her face creased into a thousand wrinkles, yet with eyes that sparkled like a teenager's.
"It's a Goya, right?"
"Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, none other," said Goldman.
"Where the hell did you get it from?"
Goldman tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
"Trade secret," he said.
"Kosher?"
Goldman sighed theatrically.
"Dennis, please…"
"It must be worth seven fifty, right?"
"Closer to a mill, but I could do you a deal, Dennis," said Goldman, taking a large cigar out of a rosewood box and clipping the end off with a gold cutter.
"It's the other way around," said Donovan, rubbing his chin as he scrutinised the painting.
"I need to sell what I've got."
Goldman lit his cigar and took a deep pull on it, then blew a cloud of blue-grey smoke towards the ceiling.
"Have you any idea how much damage the smoke does?" asked Donovan.
"I smoke two a day, doctor's orders."
"I meant to the paintings."
Goldman flashed Donovan a cold smile.
"Do you want to sell everything?"
"Everything in the house."
Goldman raised his eyebrows.
"Are you sure you want to do that? Rock solid investments. It's quality you've got there, Den."
"I'm not doing this by choice, Maury, believe me."
Donovan walked over to a green leather armchair opposite the desk and sat on one of the arms. He took out an envelope and dropped it on to Goldman's desk. Goldman opened it and took out a sheet of paper on which Donovan had written down an inventory of all the paintings he wanted to sell.
Goldman took out a pair of gold-framed reading glasses and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose. He nodded appreciatively as he ran his eyes down the list.
"We must be talking two mill, Den."
Donovan nodded.
"Maybe more if they went to auction, but I need this doing quickly."
"It's never a good idea to rush into a sale, Den." Goldman leaned forward and tapped ash into a large crystal ashtray.
"You know any bank would lend against those paintings, don't you? Shove them in a vault and take out a loan. You'd pay six per cent, maybe seven."
"I'd only get half the value. Maybe seventy five per cent if I was lucky. I need all of it, Maury, and I need it now."
"Now?"
"Tomorrow."
Goldman's eyes widened.
"Are you in trouble, Den?"
"Not if you sell those paintings PDQ, no. Can you buy them off me?"
Goldman exhaled deeply.
"Two million pounds is out of my league, Den. Give me a week or so and I could maybe fix something up, but you know I could only offer you trade. You need a private buyer."
"Do you know anyone?"
Goldman shook his head, then took another long pull on the cigar.
"No one who'd buy the lot, Den. It's a great collection you've got, but it's your taste, right. I mean, if they were all Picassos I could shift them within the hour, but you've got a mixed bag. Quality, but mixed. We'd have to split the collection up, find buyers for them individually."
"Can you do that?" Donovan tried to sound relaxed but he knew that the Colombian's goodwill had been stretched to its limit and there was no way he'd get an extension. It was three million dollars within two days or it was the rest of his life on the run. Or worse.
"I can try, Den."
Donovan nodded glumly. He could tell from Goldman's voice that the dealer wasn't optimistic.
"I tell you what, I'd be happy to take the Van Dyck sketches off your hands."
"I'm not giving them away, Maury."
"What do you think's fair?"
"You should know, Maury, I bought two of them from you."
"How much did you pay again?"
Donovan grinned. Goldman had a mind like a steel trap and never forgot a trade.
"You sold them to me for twenty grand apiece, Maury, and that was eight years ago. I paid thirty-five grand for the third one, but as they're all preparatory sketches for the same painting, they've got added value as a set."
Goldman tapped ash into his crystal ashtray.
"A hundred and fifty?" Donovan smiled tightly and Goldman sighed mournfully.
"You're a hard man, Dennis. Two hundred?"
"Two hundred it is, Maury. Cash tomorrow, yeah?"
Goldman nodded.
"I'll get on the phone right away about the rest of your collection.
Okay if I come around to the house tomorrow morning?"
"Worried I might not have them?"
Goldman ignored Donovan's sarcasm.
"Ten o'clock all right for you?"
Donovan nodded.
Goldman continued to scrutinise the list.
"I know someone who might help," he said.
"In what way? A buyer?"
"A dealer. Young guy, he's been making a bit of a name for himself.
Bit of a chancer, it has to be said, but he turns over some good stuff.
Sails a bit close to the wind when it comes to provenance, but he has cash buyers. Buyers a bit like yourself, if you get my drift."
"You trust him? This is personal business, Maury. I mean, the paintings are kosher but there's going to be a money trail. I don't have time to do any laundry."
"He's never let me down, Den. And he knows the faces. God forbid I should put you in touch with my competition, but if you're in a bind, he might be able to help."
Donovan nodded.
"Okay, then. What's his name?"
Goldman blew a cloud of smoke across the desk, then waved it away with his hand.
"Fullerton. Jamie Fullerton."
Robbie's thumbs were getting numb, but he didn't want to stop playing with the Gameboy, not while he was so close to beating his personal best. His mobile phone started to ring. He glanced sideways at the phone on the grass beside him. It was a mobile calling him. He put the Gameboy down and picked up his mobile. He didn't recognise the number. He pressed the green button.
"Yes…" he said hesitantly.
"Cheer up, you look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders."
"Dad!" Robbie shouted. He grinned and pumped his fist in the air.
"That's better," said Donovan.
"You haven't forgotten how to smile, then."
Robbie realised what his father had said. He stood up and looked around the garden, the phone still glued to his ear.
"Where are you?"
"Why? You want to see me?"
"Yes!" Robbie shouted.
"Where are you?"
Donovan stepped out of the kitchen, waving at his son.
"Dad!" Robbie screamed, running towards him. He threw himself at Donovan. Donovan picked him up and swung him around.
"I knew you'd come back," said Robbie.
"I said I would. You know I always keep my word."
Robbie put his arms around Donovan's neck and hugged him tight.
"When did you land? You should have called me, I would have come to the airport."
"I wanted to surprise you," said Donovan. He didn't want to tell Robbie that he'd been in London for two days, or that he'd been in Mark and Laura's house while he was asleep.
"You want a Big Mac?"
"Burger King's better."
"Since when?" Last time Donovan had been in London, Macdonald's was his son's fast food of choice.
"Burger King's better. Everyone knows that. Are we going home?"
"Home?"
"Our house. You're not going to stay with Aunty Laura, are you?"
Donovan put his son back on the ground and ruffled his hair.
"We can talk about that later," he said.
"There's something we've got to do first."
Laura came out of the kitchen.
"Are you staying for dinner, Den?"
"Father and son time," laughed Donovan.
"Junk food's a-calling."
They caught a black cab to Queensway and Donovan took his son into Whiteley's shopping centre. Donovan headed towards a photograph machine on the ground floor.
"What are we doing, Dad?" asked Robbie.
"Passport pictures," said Donovan, helping him into the booth. He gave him two one-pound coins and showed him how to raise the seat.
"I've already got a passport," said Robbie.
"Your mum took it," said Donovan.
"Why?"
"I don't know. You'll have to ask her."
"Why do I need a passport?"
"For God's sake, Robbie, will you just do as you're told?" Donovan snapped.
Robbie's face fell and he pulled the curtain shut.
Donovan leaned against the machine.
"Robbie, I'm sorry."
Robbie didn't say anything. There were four flashes and then Robbie got out of the booth. He didn't look at Donovan. Donovan ruffled his son's hair.
"I'm having a bad day, Robbie. I'm sorry."
"It's all right." Robbie's voice was flat and emotionless and he still wouldn't look at Donovan.
"We'll go to Burger King, yeah?"
Robbie nodded.
"What are you going to do to mum?"
Donovan's jaw dropped.
"What do you mean?"
"You're not going to let her get away with it, are you?"
"Your mum's made her bed, now she's got to lie in it."
"Will you get divorced?"
"After what she's done, Robbie, she can't come back."
"Yeah, I know. I won't have to stay with her, will I?"
Donovan knelt down so that his face was level with Robbie's.
"Of course not."
"Most of my friends, when their parents split up, they have to live with their mums."
"Yeah, but this is different."
"I know, but it's the judge who decides, right?"
Donovan shook his head.
"After what she did, no judge is going to let her take you away from me. That's as long as you want to stay with me. You do want to stay with me, right?"
"Sure!" said Robbie quickly.
"So that's sorted." Donovan gently banged Robbie's chin with his fist.
"You and me, okay?"
"Okay, Dad."
The strip of photographs slid out of the machine. Robbie picked it up and studied it.
"I look like a geek."
Donovan took the photographs off him.
"You look great." He put the photographs in his pocket. One of the two mobiles he was carrying started to warble. It was the one Rojas was supposed to use. Donovan pressed the phone against his ear.
"How's it going, capullo? he asked, turning away from Robbie.
"The parcel has been dispatched," said Rojas.
"I'm already working on the second matter."
"De puta madre," said Donovan.
"You'll send my fee?"
"Absolutely," said Donovan, though he wished he felt half as confident as he sounded. The line went dead. The Spaniard, like Donovan, always kept calls on mobile phones as short as possible. Even the digitals weren't secure. Virtually no form of communication was these days.
Phones, e-mail, letters, all could be intercepted and recorded. Donovan put the phone away and smiled down at Robbie.
"Burger King, yeah?"
Robbie grinned and nodded.
"Great." They walked together out of the shopping centre.
"Dad, you know I know what capullo means, don't you?" asked Robbie.
"I do now," said Donovan.
Robbie's grin widened.
"You should wash your mouth out with soap."
"I'll do that, soon as we get home. But burgers first, yeah?"
Stewart Sharkey carried the two glasses of champagne out on to the terrace and handed one to Vicky. She took it but didn't look at Sharkey. She stared out across the azure Mediterranean with unseeing eyes.
"Cheers," said Sharkey, and touched his glass against hers.
She looked at him slowly, then at the glass in her hand. She frowned, as if seeing it for the first time.
"What have we got to celebrate?" she asked.
"Champagne's not just for celebrating," said Sharkey. He dropped down on to the lounger next to her.
Vicky stared out over the sea again. The bay was dotted with massive white yachts, each worth millions of dollars, and around them moved smaller boats, like worker ants in attendance to the queen.
"We could get a boat," said Sharkey.
"Sail away."
"Den always talked about getting one," said Vicky, her voice flat and emotionless.
"We can do it, Vicky. Tomorrow."
"Where would we go?" she said.
"He'll find us eventually."
"Not here. He's never been to the South of France. Hates the French, you know that. He's no friends here. No contacts."
Vicky turned to look at him.
"So that's the great plan? We stay in Nice for the rest of our lives."
"For God's sake, Vicky, snap out of this, will you!"
She sneered at him and looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly.
"I didn't mean to snap." Vicky didn't react. Sharkey put down his glass and knelt down by the side of her lounger. He stroked her shoulder.
"This is temporary, Vicky. Just until we get things sorted."
Vicky shook her head.
"This isn't getting things sorted. This is hiding."
A red and white helicopter buzzed towards one of the biggest yachts in the bay. Sharkey continued to stroke her shoulder. Her skin was smooth and warm from the sun. He moved his hand up to her neck and ran his fingers through her soft, blonde hair.
"I miss Robbie," she said quietly.
"I know you do."
"I don't think you do," she said.
"You don't have children. You don't know what it's like to have them taken away from you. And that's what Den's going to do. You know that. He'll take Robbie to the Caribbean and I'll never see him again."
"You took his passport, Den can't take him anywhere."
Vicky scowled.
"That's not going to stop him. Den's got half a dozen passports. He can just as easily get one for Robbie."
Sharkey tried to kiss her cheek but she pushed him away.
"Stewart, I don't want to be touched right now. Okay?"
Sharkey put his hands up in surrender.
"Okay. I'm sorry." He sat down on the edge of her lounger.
"Look, there are things we can do. Things I can do. I'll talk to a lawyer. Get some sort of injunction stopping Den taking Robbie out of the country."
"You said we couldn't talk to anyone back in the UK?"
"I'll get it done. I'll find a way. And things are going to get hot for Den he won't be able to hang around London for long."
Vicky shaded her eyes with the flat of her hand.
"What do you mean?"
"Den's got problems, you know that. Customs and the cops will be waiting for him to put a foot wrong. He can't operate in London. He'll have to go back to the Caribbean. And if I talk to a lawyer, he won't be able to take Robbie with him. Once he's gone, we can go back to the