"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.
&nb
sp; 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 probabl
y 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.
Tango One Page 9
