"Who wants to know?"
"I'm a friend of Macfadyen's."
"So?"
"So he wanted me to talk to you."
"I'm listening."
"Face to face."
"Fuck that."
"He thought I should explain why the deal he cut you in on has gone belly up."
"Say what?"
"Can you read, PM?"
"What the fuck you mean?"
"Buy the Standard. Front-page story. When you've read it, call me back on this number." Donovan gave him the number of one of the mobiles he was carrying, then hung up.
He used another of his mobiles to phone Underwood. The detective wasn't pleased to hear from Donovan, but Donovan cut his protests short and told him to call him back as soon as possible.
Donovan's next call was to Jamie Fullerton. He arranged to meet him at his gallery later that afternoon. Finally he called Louise.
Donovan sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square, rereading the article on the cocaine bust. One of the mobiles rang. Donovan pressed the green button. It was PM.
"What the fuck's going on, man?" asked PM.
"Your phone clean?"
"Only had it two days, and after this the Sim card goes in the trash."
"You don't know me, PM, but you know of me. I put Macfadyen on to the deal. He cut you in. He wants me to talk through what happened."
"Where and when?"
"This evening. Say seven."
"Where?"
"You choose. I don't want you jumpy."
"You being funny?" bristled the Yardie.
"I was actually being considerate. Letting you choose the turf."
PM gave him the address of a house in Harlesden, then cut the connection.
Donovan waited, then walked around the square, watching tourists photographing themselves next to the huge lions that stood guard around Nelson's Column.
Louise arrived at two o'clock, walking up the steps of the National Gallery and standing at its porticoed entrance. She was wearing sunglasses and a long dark blue woollen coat with the collar turned up.
Donovan watched her from the square until he was sure that she hadn't been followed.
She waved as she saw him walking towards her. He hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
"It's all very mysterious," she said.
"Yeah, sorry. Had to be. Come on in."
"In here?"
"Sure. You never been inside an art gallery before?"
"Never."
"You'll love it."
Donovan ushered her inside and to the right, into the East Wing.
"God, it's huge," whispered Louise.
Donovan grinned.
"You don't have to whisper, it's not a funeral."
Louise stopped in front of a painting of sunflowers, the colours so vibrant that they seemed to jump off the canvas. Half a dozen Japanese tourists were clustered around the painting listening to a commentary on headphones, nodding enthusiastically. Louise was a head taller than all of them so she had an unobstructed view. She took off her sunglasses.
"It's beautiful," she said. She read the details on the plaque to the left of the picture, then looked at Donovan, clearly surprised.
"It's a Van Gogh," she said.
"That's right."
"But they're worth millions."
"Sure. And some."
They were standing less than five feet away from the canvas and there was nothing between them and it. No bars, no protective glass.
"We could grab it and run," she said.
"We could," said Donovan, 'but there are security staff all around and every square inch is covered by CCTV."
Louise craned her neck but couldn't see any cameras.
"Don't worry, they're there," said Donovan.
"So what is it with you and art galleries?" she asked.
Donovan shrugged.
"Ran into one to hide from the cops. I was fourteen and should have been at school. Two beat bobbies were heading my way so I nipped into the Whitworth gallery."
"Where's that?"
"Manchester. Huge building, awesome art, but I didn't know that when I went in. I walked through a couple of the galleries, just to get away from the entrance, and then I got to a gallery where a volunteer guide was giving a talk about one of the paintings.
"She was talking about this painting. It was a huge canvas, the figures were pretty much life size. Two Cavaliers with feathered hats facing each other with a pretty girl watching them." Donovan smiled at her.
"You know, I've forgotten who painted it, but I'll never forget the way she talked about it. It was as if she could see something that I couldn't." He shook his head.
"No, that's not right. We could all see the painting, but she had a different way of seeing. She understood what the artist was trying to say. The story that he was trying to tell. The painting was about the two guys arguing over the girl, of course, but it was way more than that. There were political references in the paintings, there was historical stuff, things that you just wouldn't see unless someone drew your attention to it. I tell you, she talked about that one painting for almost thirty minutes. By the end I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with my mouth wide open."
A multi-racial crocodile of inner-city primary-school children walking in pairs, holding hands and chattering excitedly, threaded its way past them, shepherded by four harassed young female teachers.
"I kept going back. Sometimes I'd join up with classes of kids about my age, sometimes I'd sit in on the volunteer lectures. Sometimes I used to sit on my own and try to read paintings myself He smiled apologetically.
"I'm being boring. Sorry."
"You're not," said Louise.
Donovan smiled.
"It opened my eyes. I know that's a cliche, but it did. You see, a painting isn't just a picture of an event like a photograph is. A photograph is totally real, it's what you'd see if you were there. But a painting is the artist's interpretation, which means that everything that's in the painting is in for a reason. Each one is like a mystery to be solved."
Louise's smile widened and Donovan tutted.
"I'm being patronising, aren't I?"
Louise shook her head.
"I was smiling at your enthusiasm," she said.
"You're like a kid talking about his comic book collection."
They walked through the double doors to another gallery, this one full of Impressionist paintings. It wasn't Donovan's favourite room and he barely glanced at the canvases.
"Can I ask you something?" said Louise.
"Sure."
She looked across at him apprehensively.
"Promise me you won't get upset."
"Sure," he said.
"Your wife left you, right?"
Donovan nodded.
"You must have known her better than you know anyone in the world, right?"
"I guess so."
"And you didn't see it coming?"
"I suppose I was too busy doing other things. I was away a lot."
"Do you miss her?"
"Do I miss her?" said Donovan, raising his voice. Heads swivelled in his direction, and one of the curators flashed him a warning look.
Donovan let go of her hand and bent his head down to be closer to hers.
"Do I miss her?" he repeated.
"She screwed my accountant. In my bed." His face was contorted with anger and she took a step away from him. He put his hands up.
"I'm sorry," he said. Touchy subject."
"I can see."
Donovan looked around. An elderly couple were openly staring at him and he glared menacingly at them until they looked away. He took a deep breath.
"And you're right. I should have seen the signs. There probably were clues when the two of them were together. It must have been going on for a while."
"And there weren't any signs?"
"Like I said, I was away a lot."
"Which is a sign in itself," she said.
Donovan looked at her with narrowed eyes and a growing respect for her intelligence. Louise was a bright girl.
"I mean, if everything was hunky dory, you'd have spent more time with her, right?"
"There were other considerations," said Donovan.
"For instance?"
"This is getting to be like an interrogation," he said.
"I just want to know who I'm getting involved with, that's all."
"Is that what you're doing? Getting involved?"
She turned and walked away, then looked back at him over her shoulder.
"Maybe," she said.
Donovan caught up with her and they walked together through the Sackler Room, where the gallery kept its paintings by Hogarth, Gainsborough and Stubbs. Donovan admired the way that Louise hadn't asked what it was he'd wanted. He'd kept the phone conversation as brief as possible, just saying that he needed a favour and that he wanted to meet her outside the National Gallery. Most people would have arrived bursting with questions, but Louise had seemed happy just to chat.
"I do appreciate you coming, Louise," he said.
"I owe you, Den. Whatever it is you need, I'm here for you."
Donovan nodded.
"How much do you know about what I do?" he asked.
"Enough, I guess. Kris said you had a reputation."
"She's probably told you right. I've got a problem. Some guys think I've double-crossed them and they're going to be after my blood. I haven't, but in my business it's often perceptions rather than the reality of the situation that count. Thing is, I need someone to take care of Robbie until I get it sorted."
Louise frowned.
"You want him to stay with me?"
"Is that a problem?"
She shook her head. "No, it's just…well,hedoesn'tknowme."
"That's the point. I could put him with my sister, but that's the first place they'll look if he's not at home. Nobody knows that I know you."
"Exactly," said Louise.
"You've no idea who I am, yet you're putting me in charge of your son."
"If it's too much trouble, forget I asked."
"No, it's not that," she said earnestly.
"I'm happy to help, believe me, but I'm looking at it from your point of view. With the best will in the world, Den, I'm a complete stranger to you."
Donovan grinned.
"I know where you live and I know where you work. I know the registration number of your car, and I know that you work for Terry Greene and Terry's a mate from way back."
Louise nodded slowly.
"Okay, but there's another thing you've got to bear in mind. I'm not a mum, Den. I've never taken care of a kid before."
"He's nine. He doesn't need much looking after. Feed him, make sure he cleans his teeth and give him the TV remote. He'll be fine. And it'll only be for a few days. Just until I get things sorted."
Louise folded her arms.
"I can't believe you trust me that much."
"Are you saying I can't?"
She shook her head.
"No. I'm just… I don't know, surprised. Touched."
"I'll pay you." Donovan reached for his wallet.
"No!" said Louise quickly.
"I don't want your money, Den. I'm happy to do this for you."
"I'll collect him from school and bring him straight round. It'll mean you not going to work."
"That's okay. I was wanting to stay off until my eye healed anyway."
Donovan hugged her.
"Thanks, Louise. I was starting to run out of people I can trust."
Sharkey's mobile rang. He picked it up. Vicky came in from the bedroom, naked except for a towel, still wet from the shower.
"Stewart Sharkey?"
The accent was Spanish. Sharkey smiled. Den Donovan was so predictable sometimes.
"Ah, Juan Rojas. It would either be you or the Pole. And just between the two of us, I always thought you were the more professional."
"You are making me blush, Mr. Sharkey."
The guy you have knows nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"I realise that," said Rojas.
"I have already released him. I trust you will adhere to your end of the agreement?"
"You gave him the account number?"
"I did."
"The money will be in your account within forty-eight hours. You do realise that it's Donovan's money?"
"While it is in your possession, it's your money to do with as you wish," said Rojas.
"I doubt that Den will see it that way," said Sharkey.
Vicky was watching Sharkey with a confused look on her face. Sharkey turned around so that he didn't have to look at her.
"What about Hoyle? I assume you have him."
"Temporarily. I will make a phone call. I am not being paid to kill lawyers. Unfortunately."
"Donovan has paid you to kill me, hasn't he?"
"Of course."
"And there's no point in my offering to pay you more?"
Rojas chuckled.
"I thought not," said Sharkey.
"Much as money is my driving force, there are ethics that have to be adhered to. You do understand?"
"Of course I understand," said Sharkey.
"I will find you," said Rojas quietly.
"Eventually." There was no menace in the voice. It was for the Spaniard a simple statement of fact.
"I've enough money to hide for a long, long time," said Sharkey.
"Yes, you do, but no one can hide for ever. Not from me."
"We'll see." Sharkey hesitated. He knew he should keep the call short, but there was something he wanted to know.
"How did you feel, when you knew that I set you up?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" asked Rojas.
"When you found out that the guy wasn't me. That I wasn't even in Paris."
"You didn't fool me. Not for a second."
"What?"
"I'm standing right behind you, Mr. Sharkey."
Sharkey whirled around, his mouth open, throwing up his free hand as if warding off a blow. Vicky took a step back, her eyes wide, a look of horror on her face. Sharkey's head jerked left and right, his heart pounding. There was no one there.
"What's wrong?" asked Vicky.
Rojas chuckled in Sharkey's ear.
"Made you look," he said, and cut the connection.
One of the mobiles in Donovan's leather jacket burst into a tune. It was the theme from The Simpsons. Louise grinned.
"Fan of the show, are you?" she asked. They were walking across Trafalgar Square towards the Tube station.
"Robbie's been playing with them," said Donovan.
"I've told him I'll tan his hide if he doesn't stop."
"It's cute," said Louise.
Donovan pressed the green button. It was Underwood.
"Hang on, Dicko. Give me a minute." He put his hand over the receiver.
"Louise, I'm gonna have to talk to this guy. Sorry. Do you want to go on ahead? I'll bring Robbie around at about five thirty. Okay?"
If Louise was hurt by him wanting to take the call in private, she didn't show it.
"Sure," she said.
"I'll get some shopping done. You take care, Den." She kissed him softly on the cheek and walked away, putting on her dark glasses and pushing her hands deep into her pockets.
Donovan wanted to call her back and ask her to wait for him, but he steeled himself: there was no way he would jeopardise Underwood's position by talking to him in front of anyone else. He turned his back on her and put the phone to his ear.
"Dicko, sorry about that. Busy day."
"While I'm on lying on a beach with a pina co lada "Jeez, you are becoming a moaning old fart," said Donovan.
"I'm a desk man these days, Den. It's not like it used to be when I was out and about. Then I could stop by and chew the fat. These days it's noticed if I go out. Questions get asked."
"Yeah, well, speaking of questions, I've got one for you."
The detective sighed mournfully but Donovan carried on talking.
"I need a check on two Yardies out Harlesden way. One's called Tony Blair, goes by the nickname PM. The other's Bunny. I don't know his real name."
"At least I don't have to phone a friend on this one," said the detective.
"The file's been across my desk several times. They're big players in north-west London. Crack and heroin. Some legit businesses for cleaning the cash. Drinking dens in tough neighbour hoods that we do our best to steer clear of. What's your interest?"
"Need to know, Dicko. Sorry. If you know about them, how come they're still up and running?"
"How long have you been Tango One? Just because they're targeted doesn't mean they get put away."
"Are you sure there's not more to it than that?"
"Spit it out, Den. I'm not psychic."
"Do they have someone on the inside?"
"Well, gosh, Den. I'll just raise it at the next meeting of Bent Detectives Anonymous, shall I?"
"Don't get all sensitive on me," said Donovan. He was starting to get annoyed at the detective's constant whining.
"Have there been rumours? Are they getting tipped off?"
"I don't think so. They're just smarter than the average black gang-banger, that's all. In particular, this Bunny character has his head screwed on all right. PM was just a small time teenage dealer until Bunny hooked up with him. Now he's a sort of… what's that thing that Robert Duvall did for Marlon Brando in The Godfather?"
"Consigliore?"
"What's that mean?"
"It's an advisor."
"Yeah. That's what Bunny does for PM. Keeps him out of the shit. Word is that Bunny's gay, but PM doesn't hold it against him. That's the talk, anyway. You got info on them might put them away? Be a feather in my cap."
"If I do, Dicko, you'll be the first cop I'll call."
"One other thing," said the policeman.
"There doesn't seem to have been any money paid into my account over the past couple of weeks."
"Don't worry," said Donovan.
"Cheque's in the post."
Donovan spent an hour going in and out of several department stores in Oxford Street until he was satisfied that he wasn't being tailed, then he walked to Fullerton's gallery, checking reflections in windows and doubling back three or four times to make absolutely sure that no one was following him.
Fullerton's gallery was on the third floor of a building in Wardour Street. The entrance was a glass door between a coffee bar and a photographer's store. He pressed a button and was buzzed in. He walked slowly up the stairway looking at framed reproductions of Old Masters on the walls.
The gallery itself was bright and airy with white walls and skylights and a light oak floor. The paintings on the walls were an eclectic mix of old oils and modern acrylics, but it was all good-quality work.
Fullerton came striding over from a modern beech and chrome desk, his hand outstretched. There was no one else in the gallery.
"Den, good to see you," said Jamie.
They shook hands.
"Business quiet?" asked Donovan.
"I had a couple of viewings arranged but I put them off, figured you'd want a word in private, yeah? Do you want a drink? I've got shampoo in the fridge."
"Nah, I've got to pick up Robbie from school, and it wouldn't be a good idea to turn up smelling of drink."
"Coffee, then? It's the real Italian stuff."
"Yeah, coffee's fine. Thanks." Donovan had his portable MRF detector on and he walked slowly around the gallery, passing the left hand close to any surfaces where a listening device could have been concealed. The Weeper on his belt remained stubbornly silent. The gallery was clean.
Donovan sat down on a low-slung leather sofa and studied the paintings on the wall opposite until Fullerton returned with two china cups on delicate saucers. He sat down next to Donovan.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Not really," said Donovan.
"Did you read about that big cocaine bust? The one where the SAS went in?"
"Shit, that was yours?"
"Sort of," said Donovan.
"I set it up but then it got taken over by that guy we met in the club.
Ricky. It all turned to shit, so now they're looking for the leak. If there was a leak."
"Anything I can do to help?"
Donovan sipped his coffee.
"Good coffee, mate."
"Yeah, I've got one of those Italian jobbies. I can do the frothy stuff, too. I'm serious, Den. If you're in a jam, I'd be happy to help."
"Maybe there is something you can do. It depends."
"On what?"
"On how much you want to get involved. In what I do."
"Den, so long as it's safe and I make a profit, I'm your man."
Donovan nodded.
"Maury said you know people with money, guys with lots of cash, not necessarily legal."
"Good old Maury."
"Is he right?"
"Sure. The art business is a great place to hide cash. Moveable assets, saleable around the world. And when you sell you get an auction-house cheque."
"Okay, here's the scoop. I have a very sweet deal that I'm setting up, and I'm looking for guys who can market heroin. Top-grade heroin from Afghanistan. I can get it way, way cheaper than any wholesaler can supply it in this country, or anywhere in Europe."
"How cheap?" asked Fullerton.
"Delivered to the UK, ten thousand pounds a kilo. That's about one third of the regular dealer price. Almost a tenth of the street price."
Fullerton nodded.
"A wrap's a couple of quid at the moment, works out at about seventy quid a gram. Seventy grand a kilo on the street."
"This is good gear, though, Jamie. Right from the source. Totally uncut. I reckon street value would be nearer a hundred grand a key in London."
"I'm sure I could get some interest, Den. How much are we talking about?"
"As much as you want," said Donovan.
"You can't leave it as open-ended as that."
Donovan sighed.
"I'm going to be bringing in eight thousand keys."
"No fucking way!"
Donovan grinned.
"Like I said, it's a sweet deal. See what interest there is, but be bloody careful. I'm going to want money up front, and I'll arrange for it to be delivered anywhere they want in the UK."
"They're going to want to know how you're getting it into the country."
"No can do, Jamie."
"But you can tell me, right?"
Donovan pulled a face.
"Maybe later, but at the moment, all anyone needs to know is that the gear will be in the UK. And soon. Providing we get the down payment together."
"And how much is that?"
Donovan smiled. If Fullerton knew the cost of the consignment, he'd know how much Donovan was paying per kilo. And how much profit Donovan would be making on the deal.
"Let me worry about that, yeah?"
DC Ashleigh Vincent checked her wristwatch.
"Log him back home at sixteen hundred hours on the dot, Connor. Arrived in a black cab."
Vincent's partner grunted and reached for a metal clipboard hanging on the wall.
Vincent gave him the registration number of the taxi, and then took a swig from her bottle of mineral water.
The two Drugs Squad detectives were in the back of a van painted in British Telecom livery parked about a hundred yards away from Donovan's front door. Vincent was sitting on a small fishing stool on top of which she'd placed an inflatable cushion and she'd stripped down to a t-shirt and jogging shorts. Sweat was trickling down her back. The front windows of the van were open a couple of inches to allow in some air but there was nothing in the way of a breeze to cool them down. The one saving grace was that Vincent's partner hadn't been eating curry the night before. Vincent envied the Customs investigators who were holed up in an apartment in the terrace facing Donovan's house. That was the proper way to do surveillance, she thought. All the comforts of home: a shower when they needed one, a bed for a quick nap and a proper toilet instead of a plastic bucket.
Vincent put her binoculars back to her eyes.
"Hang on, he's coming out again. Heading for the Range Rover. Log him out at sixteen oh-four."
Donovan climbed into the front seat of the Range Rover and started the engine.
Vincent wiped her brow with a small towel. It was such a waste of her time, she thought. At first she'd been excited at being part of the team on the trail of Tango One, but she'd soon realised that she was nothing more than a clerk, noting when he entered and left the house.
Word had come down from up high that all surveillance on Donovan had to be non-obtrusive. There was to be no covert entry of his house, no following his car, no attempt to find out where he was going or whom he was seeing. Vincent knew that meant only one thing the powers that be already knew what Donovan was up to. Which meant they had someone on the inside. Which meant that Vincent's input into the operation was close to zero.
She watched through the binoculars as Donovan drove to the end of the street and turned on to the main road.
"I hope they throw away the key," she muttered.
Donovan beeped the horn of the Range Rover when he saw Robbie walking out of the school gates. Robbie waved and ran over.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," said Robbie, climbing into the front passenger seat and throwing his backpack into the rear of the car.
"Said I would, didn't I? O ye of little faith."
Donovan kept checking his mirror as he drove away from the school. They reached a roundabout and he drove around it twice before shooting towards an exit without indicating.
"Dad, what are you playing at?" asked Robbie.
"What?"
"You're driving like a nutter."
"You can get out and walk if you want."
"And this isn't the way home either."
"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that," said Donovan.
"There's been a change of plan."
"What do you mean?"
"I need you to take a few days off school."
Robbie sighed theatrically.
"I wish you'd make up your mind," he said.
"You just told me I had to go."
"I know, but something's happened. Until I get it sorted, I need you to stay with someone."
"What are you talking about, Dad?"
Donovan checked his rear-view mirror. There was no one on his tail.
"I've got a bit of a problem about the house. We can't stay there for a while."
"What sort of problem?"
"A gas leak. I had the gas people out and they said it's not safe."
"So I'm going to stay at Aunty Laura's?"
"Not exactly. You remember that lady who gave me the lift to school with your soccer kit?"
"I'm not staying with her," said Robbie, pouting. He folded his arms and put his chin on his chest.
"Why can't I stay with Aunty Laura?"
"Because I say you can't. You'll like Louise. She's okay."
"I'm not staying with your girlfriend."
"You'll do what I bloody well tell you to do. And she's not my girlfriend."
"You can't make me."
Donovan glared at his son.
"What do you mean, I can't make you? You're nine years old."
"That doesn't mean you're in the right."
Donovan drove in silence, fuming. Robbie sat glaring out of the window, kicking the foot well Eventually Donovan couldn't stand the sound of the kicking any longer.
"Stop that!" he yelled.
"Stop what?" asked Robbie, innocently.
"You know what. That kicking."
"I don't want to stay with that woman. If I can't stay in my own house, I want to stay with Aunty Laura."
"You can't."
"Why not? Has she got a gas leak, too?"
Donovan gritted his teeth. A car ahead of him slowed to turn right without indicating. Donovan pounded on the horn.
"Look at that moron," he said. He swerved around the stationary car, mouthing obscenities at the driver.
They came to a red light and Donovan brought the car to a halt.
"Okay, look, I'll be honest with you," he said.
"I've upset some people, Robbie. Over a business deal. These people aren't very nice and I'm a bit worried about them coming around to the house and doing something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but I'd feel safer if you stayed somewhere else. And didn't go to school. Normally I'd say stay with Aunty Laura and Uncle Mark, but these people might know where they live, too. That's all."
"So you were lying about the gas leak?"
Donovan nodded.
"I'm sorry."
Robbie looked at him scornfully.
"That was the best you could come up with? Weren't you ever a kid, Dad?"
Donovan grinned.
"It was bad, wasn't it."
"It was stupid. How long do I have to stay with her?"
"A few days. I'll be there most of the time."
"Has she got Sky?"
Donovan shrugged.
"I think so."
"Okay, then. I don't want to miss The Simpsons."
Jamie Fullerton paced up and down his gallery, a glass of champagne in his hand. His computer was switched on and Fullerton stared at the monitor as he paced. Eight thousand kilos of heroin. Den Donovan was planning to bring eight thousand kilos of heroin from Afghanistan into the UK, and Fullerton had the inside track.
Ten thousand pounds a kilo was cheap. Very cheap. Especially for delivery in London. In Amsterdam the price was close to twenty thousand pounds a kilo, and then there was the added risk of getting it into the country. If Donovan was preparing to sell it at ten thousand a kilo, he must be buying it at a fraction of that price. Which meant he was getting it close to the source. Afghanistan, probably. Or Pakistan. Or Turkey. Any closer to Europe and the price would increase dramatically. But if Donovan was getting his heroin at or close to the source, how was he going to get it in to the UK?
Fullerton knew that he should tell Hathaway what he'd found out. The whole purpose of Fullerton going undercover was to gather evidence against Tango One. By rights he should send Hathaway an e-mail immediately. Something was holding Fullerton back, through, and as he paced around his gallery, he tried to work out what it was. Was it that he liked Den Donovan? That he felt guilty about betraying a man who was close to becoming a friend? Or was it because Donovan was offering Fullerton a chance to make a lot of money? Easy money. In the three years since Hathaway had set Fullerton up with the Soho gallery, Fullerton had stashed away almost a million pounds dealing in works of art, legal and otherwise, and it was money he was pretty sure Hathaway was unaware of. Fullerton could put that cash into Donovan's deal and treble it. He'd be a player. It would mean crossing a line, but over the years that Fullerton had been undercover, that line had blurred to such an extent he was no longer sure where he stood, officially or morally. And as he paced up and down his gallery, sipping his champagne, he was becoming even less sure which side of the line he was on.
Donovan pressed the bell to Louise's flat and the front door lock clicked open. She had the door to her flat open as they got to the landing. She'd changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and clipped back her hair with two bright pink clips.
"You must be Robbie," she said, holding out her hand.
"Yeah, if he's my dad then I must be," said Robbie sourly. Then his face broke into a grin.
"You've got Sky, right?"
"Sure."
Robbie shook hands with her.
"You are his girlfriend, aren't you?"
"Not really."
"Do I have to sleep on a sofa?"
Louise shook her head.
"No, I've got a spare bedroom."
"With a TV?"
Donovan pushed the back of Robbie's head with the flat of his hand.
"When did you get so picky?" he said. He held up a small suitcase.
"I've packed some of his things, and I'll bring more around tomorrow."
"Are you going right away? I've got shepherd's pie in the oven."
"No, I can stay," said Donovan.
Louise showed Donovan and Robbie in to the sitting room. She pointed down the hallway.
"Robbie, your bedroom's on the right. There's a bathroom opposite."
Donovan handed the suitcase to his son.
"And keep it tidy, okay?"
"It's all right, I've got my own bathroom," said Louise.
"You don't know this one. He never picks up after himself."
"Oh, he's a guy, then, is he?" laughed Louise.
Robbie took his case to his room while Louise busied herself in the kitchenette.
"You really cooked?" asked Donovan.
"It's only shepherd's pie, Den. It's no biggie. Do you want coffee?"
"Sure. Thanks." He went over to a sideboard and took his mobile phones out of his jacket pocket and lined them up. There were four of them.
"Expecting a call?" asked Louise.
"Different people have different numbers," said Donovan.
"Helps me keep track of who's who."
"Paranoia?"
"Maybe."
"Which number do I have?"
Donovan picked up one of the Nokias and waggled it.
"Only you've got this number," he said.
"I'm flattered."
Robbie came back into the sitting room.
"Okay?" asked Donovan.
"Yeah, it's fine," said Robbie.
"Are you staying here as well?"
Louise looked at Donovan and raised an expectant eyebrow.
"I'll be popping in and out," he said.
"Because there's only two bedrooms, and the bed in mine is really small."
"It's a single," said Louise.
"Your dad can sleep on the sofa, if he decides to stay."
"And how long have I got to stay here?"
"It's not a prison, Robbie," said Donovan.
"Like I said, a few days."
"Are you hungry?" asked Louise.
"Yeah," said Robbie.
"Starving."
One of the mobile phones lined up on the sideboard burst into life.
Donovan picked it up. It was the Spaniard.
"It's not good news, amigo."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Donovan.
"He's not in Paris," said Rojas.
"He had someone else pick up the papers."
"Bastard!" hissed Donovan.
"Language," chided Robbie.
Donovan glared at him.
"If I were to guess, I would say that he is somewhere in France," continued Rojas.
"A big city. Nice or Marseilles perhaps. But we are not in a guessing game here, of course. He could well have moved on by now."
"But you're still on the case?"
"Of course," said Rojas.
"I have a number for him. Do you have a pen?"
Donovan clicked his fingers and waved for Robbie to get him a pen. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a Tesco receipt.
Robbie gave him a pen, scowling.
"Okay, Juan, go ahead." Rojas gave him the number.
"That's aUK mobile, yeah?" asked Donovan.
"Yes. A roaming GSM."
"Can we find him through the number?"
Rojas whistled through his teeth.
"If it was a landline, I have contacts in the phone company who could help us, but mobiles are a different matter. I can certainly find out which numbers he has called, but locating the handset would require a warrant and would have to be done at a senior police level or by one of the intelligence agencies. Even in Spain I think it unlikely I would be able to do it. In France.. He left the sentence unfinished.
"Okay, Juan. Thanks anyway. Onwards and upwards, yeah?"
"There is one other thing, amigo. Just so there is no misunderstanding down the line. Sharkey is paying me a quarter of a million dollars not to hurt his accomplice. The man we picked up in Paris."
"I have no problem with that, Juan."
"It is always a pleasure doing business with you, amigo."
Donovan cut the connection.
"Who was it?" asked Robbie, flicking through the channels on the TV.
"None of your business," said Donovan.
"And get your feet off Louise's coffee table. Haven't you got homework to do?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday," said Robbie.
"I've got the whole weekend."
After dinner, Robbie gathered up their plates and took them into the kitchenette.
"You've got him well trained," said Louise.
"He's doing it to impress," said Donovan.
"I'm not," said Robbie.
"Do you want a coffee?" asked Louise.
"Or something stronger? I've got whisky. Or beer?"
Donovan looked at his watch.
"I've actually got to be somewhere. I'm sorry."
"You're not going out?" Robbie called from the kitchenette.
"Business," said Donovan.
"It's okay, Robbie, we can watch TV," said Louise.
Donovan scooped up the mobiles off the sideboard and put them in the pockets of his jacket.
"You be good, yeah?" he said to Robbie.
"Do you want to borrow the car?" asked Louise.
Donovan shook his head.
"Nah, I'm going to be using taxis."
"There's that paranoia again," teased Louise.
"It's not that. It's just that where I'm going, it's likely to get broken into."
Louise tossed him a door key.
"In case you get back late," she said.
"Save you waking me up."
Donovan thanked her and went outside in search of a black cab.
The address PM had given him was in a row of terraced houses in Harlesden. Donovan could feel the pounding beat of reggae music through the seat of the cab long before they reached the house. The driver twisted around in his seat.
"Are you sure about this?" asked the driver.
"It looks a bit ethnic out there."
Donovan could see what the man meant. Haifa dozen burly men in long black coats were standing guard at the open door to the house, four with shaved heads glistening in the amber streetlights, two with shoulder-length dreadlocks. A dozen young black men and women were waiting to be admitted, moving to the sound of the pounding beat inside. Several were openly smoking joints. It was the sort of street the police never patrolled. If they turned up at all it would be mob-handed with riot shields and mace. Parked both sides of the street were expensive BMWs and four-wheel drives, most of them brand new.
"Yeah, this is it," said Donovan, handing the driver a twenty-pound note.
"Keep the change, yeah?"
"Thanks, guy," said the driver.
"Good luck."
Donovan got out of the cab and the driver drove off quickly without putting his "For Hire' sign on.
Donovan walked to the head of the line of people waiting to go in. He nodded at the biggest of the bouncers, who was wearing an earpiece and a small radio microphone that bobbed around close to his lips.
"I'm here to see PM," said Donovan.
The man nodded, his face impassive.
"He expecting you. Third floor. Door with "Fuck off' on it."
"That would be irony, would it?" asked Donovan.
"That would be the way it be," said the man.
Donovan pushed his way through the crowded first floor and found the stairs. The air was thick with the smell of marijuana and sweat, and the music was so loud his teeth vibrated. Teenagers sitting on the stairs drinking beer from the bottle looked up at him curiously as he walked up to the second floor. The wooden stairs were stained and pockmarked with cigarette burns.
One of the second-floor bedrooms had been converted into a bar. There were tin baths filled with ice and loaded with bottled beer, and a table full of spirits and mixers. Two black guys with turtle-shell abdomens and red and white checked bandanas were passing out bottles and shoving banknotes into a metal box without handing back change.
There were several white girls around, predominately thin and blonde and baring their midriffs, but no white males. Donovan was attracting a lot of attention, but there didn't seem to be any hostility, just curiosity.
One small man with waist-length dreadlocks and a vacant stare grinned at Donovan, showing a mouthful of gold teeth, and offered him a puff at his soggy-ended joint, but Donovan just shook his head.
He went up to the third floor of the building. At the top of the hallway two young blacks wearing headsets and almost identical Nike hooded tops, woollen hats, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, moved aside without speaking to Donovan. The big man must have told them he was on his way up.
The "Fuck Off sign was written with black lettering on a gold background. Donovan knocked and the door opened partially. A pair of wraparound sunglasses reflected Donovan's image back at him in stereo.
"Den Donovan," said Donovan.
The man opened the door without speaking. Donovan walked in to the room. Half a dozen West Indians were sitting around the room on sofas, most of them smoking spliffs and drinking beer. Sitting behind a desk was a young black man with close-cropped hair wearing what looked like a Versace silk shirt. Around his neck hung a gold chain the thickness of a man's finger, and on his left wrist he wore a solid gold Rolex studded with diamonds.