"What about custody?"
"The lawyer's doing the paperwork now."
"How long?"
"He didn't say. You know lawyers." He raised the glass.
"Do you want one?"
"No, thanks. I thought I'd go out for a walk. Go to the beach maybe. Do you want to come?"
Sharkey sat down opposite his laptop.
"Not right now. Don't forget .. ."
"I know," she said.
"Dark glasses. Sunhat. Don't talk to anyone."
"Just in case," said Sharkey.
"You never know who you might bump into."
"How long's it going to be like this, Stewart?"
"Not much longer."
Vicky walked in to the bedroom to change, and Sharkey sipped his brandy. He was already bored with Vicky. Bored with her dark moods, her insecurities, her constant whining. In a perfect world he'd just leave her, but it wasn't a perfect world so long as Den Donovan was in it. Hopefully the Colombians would soon catch up with Donovan, and when that happened then Sharkey's world truly would be perfect. With Donovan out of the way, he could walk out on Vicky without worrying about the repercussions. He'd be free and clear and in sole possession of sixty million dollars.
"You know I love you?" he called after her.
"I know," she replied.
"I love you, too."
Sharkey smiled to himself. It was all so easy.
One of the wheels on Donovan's supermarket trolley was sticking and the damn thing wouldn't go where he wanted it to. It had been a long time since Donovan had done the weekly shopping. In Anguilla his Puerto Rican cook did the shopping every day, and in London Vicky had handled all the household chores. He'd been putting it of flong enough, but he was fed up with drinking black coffee and he had to prepare for Robbie's return. The freezer was practically empty, and what frozen food was still in there wasn't the sort of stuff that Donovan knew how to cook. He scanned the shelves looking for tea bags but all he could see was coffee. A hundred types of coffee, but no tea. He looked down at the contents of his trolley. A pack of apples, a double pack of Andrex toilet tissue and a sliced loaf. Hovis. He scratched his ear and tried to remember what was in the fridge. Or rather, what wasn't in the fridge. He needed milk. And Coca Cola. Beer. Orange juice. Did Robbie drink orange juice? He tried to remember when they'd last had breakfast together. Probably in Anguilla, and there was always a big pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice on the table at breakfast.
He finally reached the tea section and dropped two boxes of PG Tips tea bags into his trolley. He looked around for the milk. Where the hell was it? Wouldn't it have been sensible to put the milk with the tea and the coffee?
Breakfast cereal. He'd need breakfast cereal. He looked around, but the only sign he could see told him that he was in the aisle for tea, coffee and soft drinks.
He reached the end of the aisle and came across lines of frozen food cabinets. He scooped up packs of fish fingers, beef burgers and TV dinners and stacked them in his trolley. Then he found the alcohol section and picked up two bottles of Jack Daniels and two packs of lager. He smiled to himself. At least he was getting the basics.
He finally found the milk section and put two large cartons into the trolley. He spent another twenty minutes wandering aimlessly around the aisles and promising himself that next time he'd make a list, before he headed for the checkout.
On the way home he stopped at a call box and phoned Underwood.
"Dicko, call me back, yeah?" He gave the detective the number of the call box and then replaced the receiver. Underwood phoned back fifteen minutes later.
"Now what?" asked the detective, "I'm fine thanks, Dicko. Yourself?"
"As if you care. I presume this isn't social."
"I need you to check someone out for me. Have you got a pen?"
"Bloody hell, Den. You can't keep using the Police National Computer as your own personal database."
"What crawled up your arse and died?"
"Checks leave traces."
"I just want to know who he is, Dicko. He doesn't seem wrong, but I just want to be sure."
"Okay, but let's not make a habit of this. It's the small things that trip people up. A sergeant over at Elephant and Castle got sacked last week for doing a vehicle registration check for a journalist. Lost his job and his pension for a fifty-quid backhander."
Donovan was going to point out that he paid Underwood a hell of a lot more than fifty pounds, but he bit his tongue, not wanting to antagonise the detective. He gave Underwood Fullerton's name and the registration number of his Porsche, and arranged to call him the following day.
Hathaway read through Christina Leigh's report for the third time. Putting her in as a lap-dancer had always been a long shot, and he still couldn't quite believe that it had worked. There was no mistake, however: not only had she met the man, but it had quickly become personal. If Christina played it right, she could build on the connection, get in under his de fences All she had to do was to take it slowly. She was Donovan's type, so hopefully he'd do the chasing.
He sent her a congratulatory e-mail and told her to play it safe, that she mustn't do anything to scare him off. Donovan had always been a pursuer of women, he loved the thrill of the chase, so if anything she'd have to play hard to get.
As he sent the e-mail to Christina, he received notification that he had a new e-mail waiting. He clicked on the envelope icon and opened an e-mail from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway scrolled through Fullerton's report with a growing sense of elation. It was working. It was finally all coming together. Not only had Christina made contact, but Donovan was letting Fullerton get close, close enough to do real damage. On Hathaway's desk next to his VDU was a series of black and white surveillance photographs that had been taken outside the lap-dancing club. Fullerton had e-mailed Hathaway to tell him where he was going, so the surveillance was in place long before the black Porsche arrived. There were pictures of Donovan and Fullerton arriving, and photographs of Donovan leaving in the blue MGB. Two cars had been in place to follow Donovan from the club, but they'd lost the sports car at a set of lights. Not that that mattered. Christina's report had detailed in full what had happened later that evening.
Hathaway now had a connection between Donovan, Carlos Rodriguez and Ricky Jordan, a major distributor of hard drugs in Scotland. And whatever they were bringing in had something to do with VW Beetles. Fullerton had relayed the conversation virtually verbatim, but it was still light on specifics.
After a few minutes on the internet, Hathaway discovered that there was only one place where VW Beetles were still manufactured. Mexico. And Carlos Rodriguez ran most of his drugs through Mexico. Hathaway smiled to himself. Beetles packed with heroin or cocaine. And with Rodriguez involved, it had to be a huge shipment.
It took Hathaway less than an hour to ascertain that a shipment of sixty brand new VW Beetles was on its way to Felixstowe. He gnawed at a fingernail as he read through the details on his VDU. Then he reread Fuller-ton's report. Whatever was going down, it seemed that Donovan was now taking a back seat. Jordan was dealing directly with the Rodriguez cartel, though Fullerton had the impression that it was Donovan who'd set up the deal. Plus there was the two million pounds of Donovon's money that Fullerton had paid to Jesus Rodriguez.
The jumbled pieces of the mystery started to come together in Hathaway's mind. He forced himself to relax, letting his subconscious do the work, and then suddenly the solution to the conundrum popped into his head like a huge bubble of air rising to the top of a black lagoon. Donovan had fucked up, somehow. Maybe he'd failed to come up with the money for the consignment. Rodriguez had taken the two million pounds as a penalty payment, and taken over the deal with Ricky Jordan. Another bubble popped to the surface. Donovan was short of money, that's why he had had to sell the paintings. His money had gone. All of it. Stewart Sharkey had screwed Donovan's wife and he'd cleared out the bank accounts. Hathaway grinned. This was getting better and better. Donovan w
ould move heaven and earth to get his money back, and while he was focused on that, he'd be less likely to realise what was going on around him.
It was time to increase the stakes. Hathaway didn't want to run the operation through Customs or the police. They'd both be tempted to let the drugs run to see where they went in an attempt to blow apart the entire network. That was the last thing Hathaway wanted. There was only one option. It was time to call in the Increment.
The traffic was backed up for almost half a mile to Robbie's school, mainly mothers in four-wheel drives. Donovan sat in the Range Rover playing an Oasis tape at full volume. Noel and Liam, two other Manchester boys who'd done well. Donovan wondered how much money the lads had made from rock and roll. Millions, for sure. Maybe ten million. But had they made as much as Donovan had? Sixty million dollars? Donovan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. One thing was for sure: they hadn't had their accountant rip off every last dollar.
Robbie was waiting at the entrance to the school and he waved when he saw Donovan. He came running along the pavement.
"I thought you weren't coming," he gasped as he climbed into the passenger seat.
"I said I would, didn't I?" The woman in the Honda CRV in front of them was refusing to move, so Donovan pounded on the horn.
"Come on, you stupid bitch, we've got lives here."
"Dad! That's Mrs. Cooper. Alison's mum."
"Well, Alison's mother should learn to drive before she goes out on the road. And that car's way too big for her. She should be in a Mini."
Robbie slid down his seat, his hands over his face.
Donovan pounded on the horn again, then grinned across at Robbie's obvious discomfort.
"Shall I ram her?"
"Dad .. . please .. ."
"Oh, come on, I was only joking."
"I have to sit next to her."
"Alison's mother? You sit next to Alison's mother?"
Robbie laughed.
"No, not Alison's mother. Alison. You know what I meant."
Donovan eased off the accelerator.
"What do you want to eat tonight? I've got fish fingers. Roast chicken dinner. Roast beef dinner. Roast turkey dinner."
"You're going to cook?"
"They're TV dinners. Bird's Eye."
Robbie waved goodbye to two of his friends.
"Can we have Burger King?"
"You're a growing boy. You're supposed to have vegetables and stuff."
"I could have onion rings. And French fries."
Donovan laughed.
"Yeah, why not. Do you know where the nearest one is?"
"Sure. Hang a left."
Donovan grinned and followed Robbie's directions. Ten minutes later they were outside a Burger King. There were no parking spaces, so Donovan thrust a banknote into his son's hands and told him to hurry.
"Dad, this is a fifty-pound note!" complained Robbie.
"They'll have change. Hurry up."
Robbie nipped inside and appeared a few minutes later with two large bags. Donovan held out his hand for the change before driving off.
Half an hour later they were eating their burgers in the kitchen, washing them down with Cokes.
"This was a good idea," said Donovan.
"Saves on the washing up, too."
Robbie wiped his ketchup-smeared lips with a serviette.
"I'm glad you're home, Dad," he said.
Donovan reached over and ruffled his hair.
"You know you can always rely on me, right?"
Robbie nodded.
"You okay for pocket money?"
"I could always use more," said Robbie. Donovan took out his wallet and gave Robbie a fifty-pound note.
"Dad, you can't give me fifty quid."
"How much did your mum give you?"
"A tenner. But usually five twice a week. Monday and Friday."
"Okay, well, how about we give you a raise? You're nearly ten, so I figure we can boost it to twenty a week. Okay?"
Robbie grinned.
"Okay."
Donovan took back the fifty-pound note and gave his son a twenty. Robbie put the note in his pocket.
"What do you want to do tonight?" asked Donovan.
"Do you want to go and see a movie?"
"It's a school night," said Robbie.
"And I've got homework."
"Homework? They give nine-year-olds homework?"
"I've been given homework since I started at that school, Dad."
"Yeah, exams are important. I wish I'd stayed on at school longer."
"No you don't. Not really."
Donovan frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"You've got no qualifications, have you?"
"Just the university of life and the school of hard knocks."
"See, that's what you always say." Robbie picked up the burger wrappers and paper cups and dropped them into the rubbish bin.
"You're rich, though."
"Who says so?"
Robbie waved his arms around the kitchen.
"Dad, look at this place. Look at the Rolex on your wrist. Look at how much it costs to send me that school. You're rich and you know we are."
"Not as rich as Bill Gates."
"I didn't say mega rich. I didn't even say rich rich. I said rich."
Donovan smiled at his son's intensity.
"So what's your point?"
"There is no point, but you don't have to say that you wish you'd stayed in school when you know that's not true. You want me to stay in school because you want me to do something boring like be a doctor or an executive."
"I do, do I?"
"Yeah. That's what Mom wanted, anyway. She was always going on at me to read science books and stuff. Kept saying she didn't want me turning out like you."
"Maybe you don't want to turn out like me. Maybe you'd rather be a doctor hanging around with sick people and working yourself to an early grave."
"No fear," said Robbie scornfully.
Donovan stood up. He rushed forward and grabbed his son around the waist, laughing. He swung Robbie over his shoulder and started to spin around.
"Are you sure?" he shouted.
"Yes! I'm sure. Stop it. I'll be sick!"
Donovan continued to spin.
"Dad! Stop!"
"Do you give in?"
"Yes!"
Donovan put Robbie down carefully. His own head was spinning and he put his hand on a chair to steady himself.
Robbie was giggling and shaking his head.
"You're mad."
Donovan took a step towards him, his hands reaching for his head.
"You want some more?"
"No!" laughed Robbie. He turned and ran out into the hall and up the stairs. He stopped halfway to check that Donovan wasn't chasing him.
"Come down when you've finished your homework," Donovan shouted after him.
"I'll make cocoa."
There were two of them, dressed in dark clothing and wearing black leather gloves. One picked the lock while the other kept watch, though at two o'clock in the morning they were the only two people in the office block. They'd come in through a skylight. It had been alarmed, but the man who was picking the lock had worked for more than twenty years for one of London's top security companies, and there wasn't an alarm system built that he couldn't bypass. Now he worked freelance for ten times what he used to earn as a technician. Men like Juan Rojas were happy to pay a premium for his skills, and for his silence.
He made short work of the lock, pushed open the door and headed for the beeping alarm box. He already knew the make of the alarm, and had memorised the manufacturer's four-digit access code. The alarm stopped beeping. He nodded at his partner and pointed at a door with "David Hoyle' on it in gold capital letters at eye level. His partner went into Hoyle's office and started going through a mahogany veneer filing cabinet.
The man who'd disabled the alarm went through the filing cabinets in the general office. He was looking for any
file with the name "Stewart Sharkey' or "Victoria Donovan'. Once he was satisfied that there were no such files in the cabinets, he accessed the office computer system, checking word processing files and e-mail address books. From Hoyle's office he heard the muffled tapping of gloved fingers on a keyboard as his partner accessed the solicitor's private terminal. After twenty minutes he was satisfied that there was no mention of the two names in the system.
The man went through all the desks in the office, checking address books, but found nothing. His partner came out of Hoyle's office, shaking his head. The two men left the same way they'd come.
The alarm buzzed and Donovan rolled over, trying to blot out the noise. It carried on buzzing. Donovan groped for the button on top of the alarm and hit it with the flat of his hand. He squinted at the digital read-out. Seven-thirty. Donovan groaned. He wasn't an early riser at the best of times.
He padded across the bedroom, put on his robe and opened the bedroom door.
"Robbie, are you up?" There was no answer so he walked along the landing and banged on Robbie's door. There was still no reply.
Robbie was curled around his pillow, snoring softly. Donovan shook him.
"Come on, it's time to get up."
"Five more minutes," said Robbie sleepily.
"You don't have five minutes," said Donovan. He pulled back the quilt.
"Come on, rise and shine."
Donovan opened the curtains wide and went downstairs. He switched the kettle on and made toast, but when he opened the fridge he realised that he'd forgotten to buy butter. Or marmalade. He filled bowls with Sugar Puffs and poured milk over them, then made a pot of tea. Then he poured two glasses of orange juice. Upstairs he heard the shower in Robbie's bathroom burst into life.
The doorbell rang and Donovan went to answer it. It was Alex Knight carrying a leather briefcase and a moulded black plastic suitcase. He seemed to be wearing the same dark blue blazer and black slacks that he'd had on the previous day. He smiled cheerfully at Donovan.
"Didn't get you up, did I, Den?"
"Bloody hell, Alex, what time do you call this?"
"The early worm catches the bird," said Knight, carrying the cases in to the hallway.
"I'll start in the study, yeah?"
Donovan showed him through. Knight swung the suitcase up on to Donovan's desk and unlocked the lid. It was packed full of electrical equipment. Knight took out a small black box the size of a paperback book and showed it to Donovan. There were two lights on the front, one green, one red, and an LCD readout.
Tango One Page 29
