The headmistress nodded.
"Maybe you don't," said Donovan. He picked up the brass nameplate and waved it under her nose.
"I know your name, and it would take me two minutes to find out where you live." He slammed the nameplate down on her desk and she flinched. All the colour had drained from the headmistress's face. Donovan smiled. He straightened up and took a step back.
"Let's not get off on the wrong foot," he said softly.
"Robbie's a good kid. You've done a great job teaching him and I do appreciate that. If it's donations you want, I'd be happy to help out. I can even come to PTA meetings." Donovan straightened up.
"Thank you for your time. If my wife should turn up at the school, I'd be grateful if you'd call me. Immediately." He handed her a card on which he'd written the number of one of his pay-as-you-go mobiles.
The headmistress sat with her head down and her hands in her lap. Donovan kept holding the card out to her. Eventually she reached up hesitantly and took it.
"Thank you," said Donovan.
Donovan went back to the hotel and told the manager he'd be checking out. He went up to his room and quickly packed his things. He was gathering up his mobile phones when he saw that two of them had received voice messages.
One was the phone that Juan Rojas used. Donovan checked that one first. Rojas said nothing of interest, just that he was on the case but that so far he had nothing to report. The second message was from Jamie Fullerton, saying that he had the rest of the money from the sale of the paintings. Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.
Donovan phoned Fullerton and arranged to meet him at Donovan's house later that night, then went downstairs and paid his bill in cash.
He caught a black cab back to the house, and looked around before opening the front door. He didn't see any obvious surveillance, but now that he was back to being Tango One he was sure that there'd be watchers somewhere along the street. They could be in a flat across the road, in an attic somewhere, in the back of a van with darkened windows. They might even have set up a remote-controlled camera in a parked car, monitored some distance away. If they were good, he wouldn't see them.
He let himself into the house and took his suitcase upstairs. He stripped off the bedding in the master bedroom and took it down to the kitchen and put it in the washer-dryer, then had second thoughts and stuffed it into black rubbish bags and put them outside by the bins.
He took more rubbish bags upstairs and methodically went through the rooms, putting everything that belonged to his wife into the bags. Clothes. Cosmetics. Videos. CDs. Tapes. Holiday souvenirs. Everything and anything that was personal to her. He filled six bags and threw them out of the bedroom window so that they landed in the back garden with a satisfying thud.
Donovan showered and changed into clean chinos and a polo shirt, and he was combing his hair when the doorbell rang. It was Jamie Fullerton, grinning widely and carrying two red Manchester United holdalls.
"How's it going, Den?" he asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Fine, Jamie. Come on in."
Donovan took him through to the kitchen. Fullerton heaved the bulging holdalls on to the kitchen table.
"Beer?" asked Donovan.
"Sure."
Donovan took two bottles out of the fridge and uncapped them. He gave one to Fullerton and they clinked bottles.
"To crime," said Fullerton.
Donovan froze, his bottle halfway towards his mouth.
"Say what?"
Fullerton took a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It was a crime, the way I ramped those paintings. Way over the odds, they paid." He nodded at the holdalls.
"There's your cash. A cool three hundred and fifty, on top of the money I gave the Colombian. Am I good or am I good?"
Donovan put his bottle on the table and unzipped one of the holdalls. It was full of wads of fifty-pound notes. He took out a thick wad and flicked the notes with his thumb.
"It's spotless, Den. You could put that on a church plate with a clean conscience."
Donovan put the wad of notes into his jacket pocket and zipped up the holdall. Fullerton raised his bottle in salute and Donovan did the same.
"Good job, Jamie. Thanks."
"You want a line? To celebrate?"
Donovan's face hardened.
"You brought drugs into my house?"
Fullerton grimaced.
"You know I'm under surveillance, right? Tango One, I am."
"Tango One?"
"That's what the filth call their most wanted. A Alpha, B Bravo, C Charlie. T stands for target and it's T Tango. Tango One, Target One. And I'm it. They're probably out there now. And you brought drugs into my house? How stupid is that?"
"Shit. I'm sorry. It's only for personal use, though. Couple of grams." He grinned.
"Good stuff, too."
"Yeah, I can see that from your face. You look like you're plugged into the mains."
Fullerton took a small silver phial from his pocket.
"Want some?"
"Are you not listening to me, Jamie?"
"Yeah, but if we get rid of the evidence, what can they do?
Unless you want me to flush it, but I have to say, Den, this is primo blow. I get it off a guy in Chelsea Harbour who supplies half the TV executives in London."
Donovan was about to argue, but the cocaine-induced eager-to-please look on Fullerton's face made him laugh out loud.
"Go on then, you daft bastard," he said, picking up the two holdalls.
"I suppose you deserve it."
Donovan took the holdalls through to his study. With the Buttersworth painting now gone, the safe was exposed and Donovan decided against putting the money in it. He went upstairs and pulled down the folding ladder that led up to the loft, and hid the holdalls behind the water tank.
By the time he got back to the kitchen, Fullerton had prepared four lines of cocaine on the kitchen table and was rolling up a fifty-pound note.
"You said a line," said Donovan.
"One line."
"I lied," said Fullerton. He bent down and snorted one of the lines, then held his head back and gasped as the drug kicked in.
"Wow!" he said.
Fullerton held out the rolled-up banknote to Donovan but Donovan shook his head.
Fullerton snorted the three remaining lines.
"Be careful, yeah? Don't carry gear when you're anywhere near me. They're going to be looking for any excuse to put me away."
"Understood, Den." He made a Boy Scout salute and grinned.
"Dib, dib, dib," he said.
"You were never a Scout," said Donovan.
"Was too."
Donovan grinned and shook his head.
Fullerton drained his lager.
"You want to go out and celebrate?"
"What did you have in mind?" asked Donovan.
"Bottle of shampoo. Pretty girls. On me."
Donovan thought about Fullerton's offer. He had things to do if he was going to get the house ready for Robbie, but it had been a while since he'd let his hair down. A few drinks wouldn't do him any harm.
"Okay. But no more drugs."
Fullerton threw him another salute.
"Scout's honour."
Fullerton's black Porsche was parked a few doors down from Donovan's house. Fullerton drove quickly, weaving through the evening traffic, his hand light on the gear stick and his foot heavy on the accelerator.
They'd only been driving for five minutes when Donovan pointed at a phone box.
"Pull up here, Jamie. I've got to make a call."
Fullerton groped into his pocket and held out a mobile.
"Use this."
Donovan shook his head.
"Nah, it's not the sort of call I want to make from a mobile."
Fullerton pulled up at the side of the road. He gestured with the mobile.
"It's okay, Den. It's a pay as you go. Not registered o
r anything."
Donovan took the mobile off him and weighed it in his hand. It was a small Nokia, the same model he'd bought for Robbie for his last birthday. State of the art.
"Let me tell you about mobiles, Jamie. Everything you say into this, or near this, they can listen in to."
"They?"
"The Feds. Customs. Spooks. With or without a warrant. They're the perfect bugs because you take them with you everywhere you go, and there's so many of them that no one even notices them any more."
"Den, no one but me has ever touched that phone. No way have they put a bug in it. On my life."
Donovan shook his head. They don't have to. It's all done with systems these days. Once they know the number, they can listen in to every call you make. Every call you receive. But it's worse than that, Jamie. They can tell where you are to within a few feet. They can look into your Sim card and get all the data off it. Your address book, every call you made and every call you received. They can see it all."
Fullerton raised his eyebrows. He stared at the mobile in Donovan's hand.
"Shit."
"It gets worse," said Donovan.
"They can send a nifty programme direct to the handset that turns it into a listening device, even when it's switched off."
"Oh come on," said Fullerton.
"I'm serious, Jamie. I got it from the horse's mouth. Customs guy out in Miami who's on my payroll. Anything said in a room, they can tune into from a targeted mobile. Even if it's switched off. Okay, so long as they don't know you, you can carry on in your own sweet way, but I'm Tango One and any mobile I go near is a potential threat." He tossed the phone back to Fullerton.
"And once they've seen you with me, your phone becomes a threat, too."
Fullerton put away the mobile.
"Why do you think they're so cheap, Jamie?" asked Donovan.
"Supply and demand. Economies of scale."
"Bollocks," Donovan sneered.
"It's because the Government wants everyone to have one. Already three quarters of the population have one, and before long every man, woman and child who can talk will have a mobile. Then they've got us. They'll know where every single person is to within a few feet; they'll know who they're talking to and what they're saying."
"Big Brother," said Fullerton quietly.
"It's nearly here," said Donovan.
"Couple of years at most. Between CCTV cameras and mobiles, there'll be no more privacy. They'll know everything about you." He gestured at the phone box.
"So that's why anything sensitive, you use a brand new Pay As You Go mobile or public land line."
Donovan climbed out of the car. He took a twenty-pound phone card from his wallet and used it to call Juan Rojas in Spain. The answer machine kicked in almost immediately. Donovan didn't bother with pleasantries or say who was calling. He simply dictated the name and address of the firm of City solicitors that Vicky was using then went back to the Porsche.
"Okay?" asked Fullerton.
"We'll see," said Donovan. He knew people in London who'd be capable of getting the information he needed from Vicky's solicitor, but by using Rojas he'd keep himself one step removed.
"Problem?" said Fullerton.
"Nah. Come on, let's get drunk." He twisted around in his seat.
"We being followed?" asked Fullerton.
"Probably," said Donovan.
Fullerton stamped on the accelerator and the Porsche roared through a traffic light that was about to turn red. He slowed so that they could see if any other vehicles went through the red light. None did. Fullerton took the next left and then swung the Porsche down a side street on the right.
"That should do it," he said, pushing the accelerator to the floor again.
Donovan nodded.
"Just don't get done for speeding," he warned.
Fullerton slowed down. Ten minutes later they pulled up in a car park at the side of what looked like a windowless industrial building. Three men in black suits stood guard at an entrance above which was a red neon sign that spelled out "Lapland'. "My local," said Fullerton.
Donovan looked sideways at Fullerton.
"You know Terry, yeah?"
Terry Greene was the owner of the lap-dancing club. He was an old friend of Donovan's, though it had been more than three years since Donovan had been in the club.
"Terry? Sure. He's in Spain, I think. You know him?"
"Used to be my local, too. Way back when." They climbed out of the Porsche and Fullerton locked it.
"Small world," said Donovan.
The three doormen greeted Fullerton by name, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. They were all in their mid-twenties and selected for their bulk rather than their intelligence. Donovan didn't recognise any of them, and from the blank-faced nods they gave him it was clear they didn't know who he was. Donovan preferred it that way. Black Porsches with personalised number plates and V.I.P access to nightclubs was a great boost for the ego, but Donovan preferred the lowest of low profiles. The Australians had a term for it the tall poppy syndrome. The poppy that stood taller than the rest was the one that had its head knocked off.
Donovan followed Fullerton inside. The decor had changed since Donovan had last visited the club. The black walls and ultraviolet lights had been replaced with plush red flock wallpaper and antique brass light fittings, and the black sofas and tables where the lap-dancers had plied their trade had gone. In their place were Louis XlV-style sofas and ornate side tables. They'd been going for an old-fashioned bordello look, but it reminded Donovan more of an Indian curry house. The music didn't appear to have changed, though. Raunchy and loud.
There were two raised dancing areas where semi-naked girls gyrated around chrome poles. Sweating men in suits clustered around the podiums, drinking spirits and shoving ten- and twenty-pound notes into G-strings. A pretty waitress in a micro-skirt and a tight bikini top tottered over on impossibly high heels and kissed Fullerton on the cheek. Fullerton fondled her backside and introduced her to Donovan. Her name was Sabrina and she was barely out of her teens. Close up Donovan could she had spots on her forehead and an almost-healed cold sore on her upper lip.
She took them over to a table in a roped-off section with a clear view of both dancing podiums. Fullerton ordered Dom Perignon and Sabrina swung her hips gamely as she tottered off to get it.
"See anything you like, Den?" Fullerton asked, gesturing at the dancing girls.
Donovan checked out the dancers. Two brunettes, two blondes, an Oriental and a black girl. The blondes could have been sisters: they were both tall with long hair almost down to their waists, full breasts and tiny waists. Real-life Barbie dolls. They had the same vacant eyes and fake smiles as the dolls, though they were both good dancers.
Fullerton grinned.
"You like blondes, huh?"
"I like women, Jamie, but yeah, they're stunning."
"Been there, have you? I'd hate to have sloppy seconds." Fullerton chuckled and nodded at the Oriental girl, who was on her hands and knees in front of a balding guy in a too-tight suit, taking a twenty-pound note from him with her teeth.
"Mimi's my dish of the day and she's the jealous type," he said.
"Yeah, looks it," said Donovan. Mimi took the banknote and tucked it into her g-string, then stood up and started to make love to one of the silver poles.
"Thai, yeah?"
"Vietnamese," Fullerton.
"Came over here as a boat person when she was six."
"Doesn't look much older now, truth be told," said Donovan.
"Get away, she's twenty-two," said Fullerton.
"And she knows stuff that'll make your eyes water."
Mimi caught sight of Fullerton, waved girlishly and then climbed down off the podium and rushed over to him. She knelt on the sofa and hugged him tightly, giggling like a schoolgirl.
"Where've you been, Fullerton?" she asked in an East End accent.
"You said you'd be here last night."
"Busy, busy, busy," said Jamie.
"Miss me, did you?"
She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smear of red as if he'd just been slapped.
"Let me dance, yeah?" she said.
"That twat over there's got more money than sense. He's given me two hundred already, thinks he's on a promise."
"Wonder how he got that idea," said Fullerton, leering at her ample cleavage.
"Go on, but you're coming home with me, remember?"
Mimi hurried back to her podium. Sabrina returned with their champagne in an ice bucket. She poured the Dom Perignon, winked at Fullerton, then left them to it.
Fullerton sighed and settled back. He put his feet up on the table in front of them and sipped his champagne.
"What's the story with the Srnurfs?" he asked.
Donovan looked at him sideways.
"What do you mean?"
"The Rembrandt. You said you got the money from the Smurfs."
Donovan laughed.
"Nah, you don't get money from Smurfs. You give them money and they clean it for you."
"Now I'm confused."
Donovan leaned over.
"Say you've got five hundred grand and it's iffy. You can't take it into the bank and deposit it. Anything over ten grand and you've got to be able to prove it's not ill-gotten gains, right?"
Fullerton nodded.
"You can take it overseas, but flying out with a case of cash is going to guarantee you a pull. So you call in the Smurfs."
Fullerton was as confused as ever.
"You get half a dozen Smurfs, and you get them to open five bank and building society accounts each. That's thirty bank accounts. Then every day you give them ten grand each and they put between one and three grand into their accounts. It's well below the ten grand limit so they don't get reported. Every day the Smurfs deposit sixty grand. In two weeks the whole five hundred grand is in the system. Then you can transfer the money to wherever you want."
"And where do you find the Smurfs?"
"Druggies, mainly," said Donovan.
"Don't they ever run off with the money?"
"Not if they know what's good for them."
Fullerton giggled.
"What?"
Fullerton waved him away.
"Just the thought of all the Smurfs traipsing around London with carrier bags full of cash, singing "Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go". Sort of puts the whole thing in perspective, you know."
Tango One Page 25
