Tango One (24 page)

“That's right, as soon as I've sorted things out with your headmistress.” Donovan ruffled his hair.

“Only another seven years.” He laughed.

“That's about what you'd get for armed robbery, you know.”

“Den!” admonished his sister.

“And no time off for good behaviour.”

Laura put down plates of spaghetti bolognaise and salad in front of them. The children devoured their pasta while Donovan raised his wine glass to toast his sister.

“Great grub, Sis. Thanks. And thanks for taking care of Robbie.”

Laura winked at Donovan and clinked her glass against his.

“Are we going home tonight, Dad?” asked Robbie.

“Not tonight, kid.”

Robbie put down his fork.

“Why not? Why can't we go home?”

“Because I've got things to do at night, that's why.”

That's not fair!"

“Who said life was fair?”

“You always say that.”

“Because it's true.”

“I want to go home,” said Robbie petulantly.

“That's a nice thing to say in front of your Aunty Laura,” said Donovan.

“It's okay, Den,” said Laura.

“I know what he means.”

“I know exactly what he means,” snapped Donovan, 'and he's going to have to learn to do what he's told. He doesn't know how lucky he is."

“You always say that too,” said Robbie, close to tears.

“Yeah, well, according to you I spend my whole fucking life repeating myself, but that doesn't mean that what I say isn't right. Your aunty Laura and me never had a house like this when we were kids. Never had food like you get. And our stepdad used to kick the shit out of us if we answered back to him. Am I right, Laura?”

Laura looked away, not wanting to get drawn into the argument.

“Dad, I just want to be in my own house, that's all.”

Donovan took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.

“I know you do, Robbie, but it's difficult just now. Can't you stay here for a few days? Please.”

“And then we can go home?”

“We'll see.”

Robbie wiped his eyes. He pushed his plate away, most of the food untouched.

“Eat your dinner,” said Donovan.

“I'm not hungry,” sniffed Robbie.

Donovan pushed the plate back towards Robbie.

“Eat it.”

“He doesn't have to, Den. Not if he's not hungry.”

Donovan ignored his sister. He tapped the table in front of Robbie.

“You are not leaving here until that's eaten.”

“I'm not hungry,” said Robbie.

“I don't give a fuck if you're hungry or not hungry, you're going to do as you're told,” shouted Donovan, waving his fork in Robbie's face.

Robbie glared defiantly at his father. A tear rolled down his left cheek.

“Den!” hissed Laura.

Donovan turned to look at his sister. She narrowed her eyes and jerked her head at her two daughters, who were staring at Donovan with looks of horror on their faces.

“I'm sorry,” said Donovan. He smiled at the girls.

“Bet you've heard worse from your dad, haven't you, girls?”

They shook their heads in silence. Robbie seized the opportunity and ran out of the kitchen. Donovan stood up to go after him but Laura put a hand on his arm.

“Leave him be, Den.”

“He's got to learn to do as he's told,” said Donovan.

“He's been through a lot,” said Laura.

“We went through a fucking lot,” said Donovan.

“Didn't stop us doing what we were fucking told.” He stopped himself and smiled apologetically at Jenny and Julie.

“Sorry, girls. I know I shouldn't be swearing like this but I've had a hell of a day.” He smiled again.

“A heck of a day,” he corrected himself.

“You're going to have to calm down, Den,” said Laura.

“He's nine years old and you're treating him as if he works for you.”

“I'm under pressure here, Laura. I need to get out of the country and Robbie's going to have to come with me.”

“He can stay here, with us.”

“He's my son. He needs his father.”

“Then it's time you started acting like one, Den.”

Donovan opened his mouth to argue, but he could tell from the look on his sister's face that she was in no mood to back down. He put down his fork.

“You're not leaving the table until you've eaten that,” said Laura.

“Ha, ha,” said Donovan.

“I mean it,” said Laura.

Donovan sighed and picked up his fork. He stabbed a chunk of cucumber and slotted it into his mouth.

“That's better,” said Laura. She smiled brightly at her daughters, who were still nervously watching Donovan.

"So,

girls, how was your day?" she asked.

Donovan left Laura's house just before ten o'clock. Mark had returned home an hour earlier and they'd all sat in the kitchen and drunk a second bottle of wine after the two girls had gone to bed.

Before Donovan had left, he'd gone up to say goodnight to Robbie, but Robbie had locked the bedroom door and refused to say anything.

Laura pecked Donovan on the cheek on the doorstep.

“You be careful, Den,” she said.

“And go easy on Robbie.”

“Tell him I'll see him tomorrow. We'll go and have ice cream or something.”

“This isn't about ice cream, Den,” said Laura.

“It's about being a father.”

“I am his father.”

“That's right. And being a father means facing up to your responsibilities.”

“I don't remember our father being especially responsible.” Laura flashed him a tight smile but didn't say anything. Donovan closed his eyes and swore silently as he realised what he'd said.

“Christ, I'm turning into him, aren't I?”

Laura hugged him, pressing her head against his chest.

“No, you're not him. You're not going to run away.”

Donovan put his arms around her and held her close.

“I'm being a right bastard to him, aren't I?”

“No, you're not, but he needs your love and your support, Den. He doesn't need to be bossed around.”

Donovan nodded.

“I'll talk to him tomorrow. I'll get it sorted, I promise.”

They hugged again, then Laura closed the door. Donovan walked along the path to the pavement, then turned and looked back at the house. The bedroom where Robbie was sleeping was on the first floor, the furthest room to the right. Donovan looked up at the window. The curtain twitched. Donovan raised his hand and gave a small wave. The curtain moved to the side and Robbie appeared. He waved down at Donovan, his face close to tears. Donovan smiled and blew his son a kiss. Robbie moved away from the window and the curtain fell back into place.

“Dennis Donovan?”

Donovan whirled around. A small, balding man was walking towards him, his right hand moving inside his fawn raincoat. Donovan reacted immediately, stepping forward to meet the man, his left hand pushing him in the chest, unbalancing him so that he couldn't pull out whatever was concealed underneath the coat. The man started to protest but Donovan carried on moving forward. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it hard, then stamped down against the man's shin.

The man yelped and fell back. Donovan kicked the man's feet from underneath him and he slammed into the pavement. Donovan followed the man down, dropping on top of him, his knees pinning the man's arms to the ground. Donovan pulled back his right fist, ready to smash it into the man's face.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Donovan.

The man was confused, shaking his head, his eyes glazed.

“Who sent you!” shouted Donovan.

“Your wife .. .” spluttered the man. He'd bitten his lip as he fell and a trickle of blood dribbled down his chin.

“Bitch!” shouted Donovan. He lowered his fist.

“How much did she pay you?” he asked.

“Our standard fee. One hundred and twenty pounds plus expenses.”

“What?” Donovan was confused. The going rate for a hit in London was fifteen thousand, minimum.

The front door opened. Mark and Laura were there.

“Den? What's happening?” shouted Mark, rushing down the path to the street.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Donovan.

“I'm a solicitor's clerk,” said the man, gasping for breath.

“I serve writs in the evenings, for the overtime.”

“You're what?”

Mark rushed up behind Donovan.

“What's going on?” he asked.

Donovan ignored him.

“You've got a writ for me?”

The man nodded, then coughed violently. He tried to nod towards his chest.

“Inside pocket,” he said, then coughed again.

Donovan shoved his hand inside the man's coat and groped around. His fingers found an envelope and he pulled it out. He stared at it. His name was typed on it in capital letters. In the top left-hand corner was the name and address of a firm of City solicitors.

“How did you know where to find me?” Donovan asked.

“I had a list of addresses. This was the third I tried. Can I get up now? My back's killing me.”

“Den, what the hell's going on?” asked Mark.

Donovan helped the solicitor's clerk to his feet and brushed down his raincoat.

“Nothing,” he said.

“It was a misunderstanding, that's all.”

The solicitor's clerk was shaking like a sick dog, and he couldn't look Donovan in the eyes.

Donovan took out his wallet and thrust a handful of fifty-pound notes into the man's hands, then pushed him away. The man walked unsteadily down the street, one hand against the side of his head.

Mark put his hand on Donovan's shoulder.

“Den, would you just tell me what the hell that was all about?” he asked.

Donovan held up the manila envelope.

“Special delivery. Vicky.”

Mark frowned.

“What is it?”

“An injunction,” said Donovan. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the legal papers.

“Shit,” he said.

Laura hurried down the path.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“It's about Robbie,” said Donovan.

“It says I can't take him out of the country. Bitch!” He screwed up the papers and threw them into the gutter.

“I'll kill her!”

“Den, calm down,” urged Laura. She picked up the papers and straightened them out.

Donovan shook his head, refusing to be mollified.

“Who does the bitch think she is? She fucks around behind my back and then she sets the law on me!”

Laura held out the papers to him.

“You're going to have to show these to a lawyer, Den.”

Donovan snatched them from her.

“There's no point in getting upset, Den,” said Mark.

“Just calm down.”

“Calm down? You fucking calm down. He's my son and she's trying to tell me what I can and can't do? Fuck her! She's dead! Dead meat!” Donovan stormed off down the street, the legal documents flapping in his hand.

Mark and Laura hugged each other as they watched him go. Upstairs, the curtain twitched at Robbie's bedroom window.

It was hot and airless in the van, and Detective Constable Ashleigh Vincent was all too well aware that her male partner had been on a curry hinge the previous night, but what had happened on the street outside had taken her mind off the pungent odours of chicken vindaloo and Cobra lager. The motor drive clicked away as she took picture after picture of the retreating man in the fawn raincoat.

“Get his car number plate,” said Vincent's partner as she focused on the man's vehicle.

“Gosh, I wish I'd thought of that, Connor,” said Vincent. Her partner had only been in plainclothes for the best part of a month, but he seemed to be under the impression that he was the senior member of the surveillance team.

They'd been sitting in the van outside Mark and Laura Gardner's house for almost twelve hours and had been about to call it a night when Den Donovan had arrived. There was no doubting it was Tango One: they had a dozen surveillance photographs of him sellotaped up around the darkened window that they were looking through. They'd photographed him arriving in the black cab and going into the house, and waited patiently for him to come out.

The man in the fawn raincoat had caught Vincent by surprise. She hadn't noticed him pull up in his Ford Fiesta and she had no idea how long he had been sitting there waiting for Donovan. The first she'd seen of him was when he walked up behind Donovan, his hand moving inside his raincoat.

Vincent's partner had sworn out loud.

“Fuck, he's got a gun!”

“Bollocks,” Vincent had said, clicking away on the camera.

“If this was a hit, he'd have the gun out.” As the words left her mouth she'd had a sudden feeling of doubt, that maybe she'd called it wrong, but she kept on taking photographs. She'd known she was right as soon as the man called out Donovan's name. If it had been a professional hit, the man would have shot Donovan in the head from behind, there'd have been no warning.

Vincent had been impressed by the speed with which Donovan had moved once he'd been aware of the man. There didn't appear to have been any fear on Donovan's part: he'd moved instinctively, putting the man down and then throwing himself on top. Vincent had kept on taking pictures while her partner continued to curse.

“Fuck me, look at that!”

They'd both watched as Donovan took the envelope from the man's pocket.

“What the hell's that?” Vincent's partner had asked.

“His lottery numbers,” Vincent had said scathingly.

The man in the raincoat drove off in his Ford Fiesta.

“Fill in the log, Connor,” said Vincent, still clicking away in the camera. She couldn't wait until her bosses at the Drugs Squad saw the pictures. She'd have to find a way to make sure that Connor was otherwise engaged that way she could claim more of the credit for herself.

Laurence Patterson kept Donovan waiting in Reception for fifteen minutes, but had the good grace to hurry out of his office apologising profusely. He pumped Donovan's hand and ushered him into his office.

“Got a client just been pulled in on a robbery charge, he's screaming blue murder. Sorry.”

“Business is good, yeah?” asked Donovan, dropping down on to a low black sofa. A huge white oak desk dominated one end of the palatial office, but Patterson always preferred to talk to his clients on the sofas by the window and its expansive view of the City. Patterson's firm hadn't deliberately chosen the location to be close to London's financial powerhouses the offices were just a short walk from the Old Bailey, where the firm's criminal partners did most of their work.