Tango One (25 page)

“Busy, busy, busy,” said Patterson, sitting down on the sofa opposite Donovan.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Donovan shook his head. He handed Patterson the writ that the solicitor's clerk had given him. Patterson read through it quickly, nodding and murmuring to himself. He was barely out of his thirties and Donovan had used him for almost seven years. Patterson had a razor-sharp mind, an almost photographic memory and had the ear of the best barristers in London. His father was a bigtime villain, now retired on the Costa Brava, whose coming-of-age present to his son had been the names and private telephone numbers of six of the most corrupt coppers in the UK. Patterson had helped get charges dropped against members of Donovan's team on several occasions. He wasn't cheap, nor were his police contacts, but they guaranteed results.

Patterson shook his head to the side, throwing his fringe away from his eyes. He had a long, thin face and a slightly hooked nose, and with his inquisitive eyes he had the look of a hawk on the hunt for prey.

“Seems pretty straightforward,” he said.

“But you can overturn it, right? I want to take Robbie back to the Caribbean with me.”

Patterson rubbed the bridge of his nose and screwed up his eyes as if he had the beginnings of a headache.

“Cards on the table, Den, it's not really my field. This domestic stuff is a specialised area. Would you mind if I pass you over to one of my colleagues?”

Donovan shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

“I'd prefer you to handle it, Laurence.”

Patterson grinned.

“Better the devil you know, eh?”

Donovan shrugged. That was part of his desire to have Patterson on the case. He know he could trust Patterson, and didn't relish the idea of having a stranger rooting through his personal business.

“We can do it that way, Den, but to be honest, all that would happen is that you'd talk to me, I'd run it by her, then I'd tell you what she told me.”

“She?”

“Julia Lau. She's been here for donkey's and there's nothing she doesn't know about family law.”

“Lau? Chinese?”

“That's right. And she's fucking inscrutable, Den.”

Donovan wrinkled his nose. He still didn't like the idea of bringing in a lawyer he didn't know.

“You'd be better off having her arguing your case than me, Den. How's it going to look if you've got a criminal lawyer by your side in a custody fight? I keep people out of prison, Den. I don't discuss the finer points of parental control.”

Donovan nodded.

“And she's dead safe, yeah?”

“Anything you tell her is privileged, Den. Like talking to a priest.”

Donovan grinned.

“It's been almost thirty years since I spoke to a priest, and that was to tell him if he patted me on the backside again I'd set fire to his church. Okay, when I do I meet her?”

“I'll get her down now. I'll sit in on the initial briefing, yeah?”

“Cheers, Laurence.”

Patterson went over to his desk and picked up his phone. While he was speaking, Donovan stared at a large canvas on the wall opposite him. It was about five feet wide and four feet high and was nothing more than three red squares on a yellow background. Donovan frowned as he looked at the painting, trying to work out what, if anything, the artist had been trying to say. The colours were vivid and the squares were accurately drawn, but Donovan couldn't see anything in the painting that a reasonably competent six-year-old couldn't have copied.

Patterson replaced the receiver and walked back to the sofas.

“How much did you pay for that?” asked Donovan, gesturing at the canvas.

“Fucked if I know,” said Patterson.

“Purchasing gets them by the yard, I think.”

“But you chose it, right?”

Patterson twisted around to get a better look.

“Nah, my secretary makes those sorts of decisions. They get rotated every few weeks.”

“Yeah, it'd look better turned around,” said Donovan.

“It's just something to look at. Makes the clients feel that we've got a creative side.”

Donovan chuckled.

“You've got that all right,” he said. Patterson's creativity had got him out of more than his fair share of scrapes, especially when he'd been named as Tango One.

There was a double knock on the door. It opened before Patterson had time to react, and Julia Lau walked in. She was one of the most unattractive women that Donovan had ever seen. She was overweight, bordering on obese, and her thighs rubbed together in a dark green trouser suit as she waddled over to the sofas, clutching a stack of files and notebooks to her large chest. Her face was almost circular, with thick-lensed spectacles perched precariously on the end of a bulbous nose. When she smiled she showed a mouthful of grey teeth.

“Mr. Donovan, so happy to meet you,” she said, extending a hand. Her accent was faultless, pure English public school.

Donovan shook hands with her. She had pudgy, sausage-like fingers with ornate gold rings on each one and fingernails that were bitten to the quick.

“Laurence has told me so much about you.”

Donovan looked at Patterson and arched an eyebrow.

“Has he now?”

“Just that you were a valued client with a matrimonial problem,” said Patterson.

Lau dropped her files and notebooks on to the coffee table and lowered herself down on the sofa next to Donovan. It creaked under her weight and Donovan found himself sliding along the black leather towards her. He pushed himself away from her to the far end of the sofa.

Patterson handed Lau the injunction and she read through it quickly, her brow furrowed. Donovan looked across at Patterson, who nodded encouragingly. Donovan shrugged. Lau clearly hadn't been hired for her looks, so he could only assume that she was a first-class lawyer.

“Your wife says she believes that you intend to take your son to Anguilla. Is that true?”

“I have a house there.”

“But your matrimonial home is here in London?”

“If you can call it that,” said Donovan bitterly.

“It didn't stop her screwing my accountant there.”

“Your primary residence is here in the UK, though? Is that the case?”

“It's complicated.”

Lau peered at him over the top of her bottle-bottom lenses.

“Try to enlighten me, Mr. Donovan. I'll do my best to keep up.” She flashed him a cold smile.

Donovan nodded, accepting that he had been patronising.

“I'm sorry. Yes, the family home is in London, but for various reasons I don't spend much time in the country. I have a home in Anguilla Robbie and his mother have stayed with me there for weeks at a time. I don't see why he shouldn't be allowed to go there now.”

Lau nodded thoughtfully. Her lips had almost disappeared, leaving her mouth little more than a fine horizontal slash.

“I think it might be best if you enlighten Julia as to the nature of your problems in the UK,” said Patterson.

Donovan grimaced.

“Den, it stays in this office,” said Patterson.

Donovan sighed.

“Okay.” He turned towards Lau.

“I was top of the police and Customs most wanted list,” he said.

“Tango One. Everywhere I went I was followed. My phones were tapped, my bank accounts were looked at, my friends were put under surveillance. It made it impossible for me to operate.”

“Operate?” said Lau.

“To put deals together. To do what I do. So I left the country. In the Caribbean the authorities are more .. . flexible.”

Lau nodded thoughtfully but didn't say anything.

Donovan pointed at the injunction.

“We can get that overturned, right?”

“We can fight this, of course. If nothing else, forbidding him the freedom to travel with his father is a breach of your son's human rights. I must counsel you, however, that this is probably the first shot in what will almost certainly develop into a salvo. I would expect your wife very shortly to move to get custody of your son.”

“No way!” said Donovan sharply.

Lau held up a hand to quieten him.

“There's no point in your wife simply stopping you from taking him out of the country. If you have sole custody, that injunction cannot stand. If I were advising your wife, I would have told her to rush through this injunction, but then to apply for sole custody on the basis that you are an unsuitable parental figure.”

“Bollocks!”

Lau looked at him steadily, unabashed by his outburst.

“That would be my advice to her, Mr. Donovan. Please don't take offence, I am sure you are a commendable father, but your wife is going to portray you in the worst light possible. You have, I understand, no gainful employment.”

“I'm not short of a bob or two,” said Donovan.

“That's as maybe, but you don't have a job. Nor, I understand, do you spend much time in the family home.”

Donovan exchanged a look with Patterson. He wondered how much Julia Lau knew about his dealings. Patterson's face provided no clue.

“I travel a lot,” said Donovan.

“Exactly, but any court is going to want to see your son in a stable environment.”

“So I've got to get a nine-to-five job, is that it?”

“Not necessarily, but you'd have to show some legitimate means of support. Your wife will do all she can to demonstrate that you are not a suitable parent.”

Patterson leaned forward.

“What about Den's other .. . activities? Is she likely to bring them out into the open?”

Lau pushed her glasses a little higher up her bump of a nose.

“I doubt that her counsel would recommend that. If she were to highlight any, shall we say, criminal activities, that would be evidence that she was aware of them, and if she were to have profited from them would thereby identify herself as an accomplice. She'd be risking any assets she had. If I were her counsel, I would be advising her to stick to more parental concerns. Your lack of a regular job, your frequent absences from the family home, personal traits.”

“Personal traits?”

“Abuse, physical, verbal or psychological. Whether you'd shown an interest in raising Robbie prior to the separation. Did you, for instance, attend parent teacher meetings? Take Robbie to the doctor? The dentist? School sports days?”

Donovan grimaced. He'd fallen down on all counts.

“Now, in view of your wife's infidelity, which under the circumstances I think will be uncontested, we can make a very good case for you being granted custody of Robbie.”

Donovan relaxed a little. Finally, some good news.

“However,” continued Lau, 'even if you were to be granted sole custody, that doesn't necessarily mean that you will be allowed to take Robbie overseas."

“Why not?” interrupted Donovan.

“Because even if you are granted sole custody, your wife would still have visitation rights, and those rights would be compromised if your son was living outside the country.”

“But she's the one who left,” protested Donovan.

“She went running off with her tail between her legs.”

Lau scribbled a note on a yellow legal pad.

“Do you know where she is?”

“I've got people looking.”

“If we could show that she is herself resident overseas, I think there might be less of a problem convincing a court that you be allowed to take Robbie abroad.”

“We'll see,” said Donovan. If he did find out where his errant wife was, custody wouldn't be an issue. A sudden thought struck him. He nodded at the injunction.

“Her lawyer did that, right?”

Lau nodded.

“If we get to a custody battle, could she do it all through her lawyer or would she have to appear in court?”

“Oh, she'd have to be there,” said Lau.

“Quite definitely. The judge might well have questions for her, and we'd have to argue against their case. You'd both have to give evidence.”

Donovan smiled and sat back in the sofa. If the mountain couldn't go to Mohammed, maybe he could get Mohammed to come to the mountain. If she wanted Robbie, she'd have to come and get him.

“There is the question of a retainer,” said Lau.

“Julia,” said Patterson, frowning.

“Den is a long-standing and valued client, there's no need .. .”

“That's okay, Laurence,” said Donovan, taking a thick envelope out of his pocket. He handed it to Lau.

Lau opened the flap. If she was surprised by the wad of fifty-pound notes inside, she did a credit job of concealing it. She ran her thumb along the notes. Ten thousand pounds.

“Cash,” she said thoughtfully.

“That'll do nicely.”

Donovan looked over at Patterson and the two men grinned. Donovan nodded. Julia Lau was okay.

Sitting outside the headmistress's study brought back memories of Donovan's own schooldays. Donovan's alma mater was a prewar soot-stained brick building in Salford, with half a dozen Portakabins at one side of the playground for overspill classes. Most of the school's pupils left at sixteen, and in all the time Donovan was there he didn't recall anyone going on to university. Robbie's school was a world apart, all the children squeaky-clean in uniforms that cost as much as a Savile Row suit and no more than twenty pupils in a class. After-school activities for Donovan had been a quick cigarette behind the bike sheds, but Robbie and his peers could choose from a host of sports and activities, all supervised by teachers who actually seemed to enjoy their work.

One wall of the waiting room was covered with awards and trophies that the school had won, with pride of place given over to a large framed photograph of the Duke of Edinburgh paying a visit in the late 19805.

The door to the headmistress's study opened and for a crazy moment Donovan felt a surge of irrational guilt as if he were about to be given six whacks of a slipper. That had been the punishment of choice meted out when he was at school it never left a mark but it hurt like hell.

“Mr. Donovan? So nice to see you.” The headmistress was a tall, thin woman with sharp features and long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She offered Donovan an elegant hand with carefully painted nails, and they shook. She led him through to her office. Unlike Patterson's office there were no comfy sofas, just an old-fashioned walnut desk with a dark green leather blotter. A brass nameplate on the desk read "Andrea Stephenson. Headmistress' No Mrs. or Miss, or even Ms. Just her name and her title. A high-backed dark brown leather executive chair sat on one side of the desk, two simple wooden chairs facing it. Donovan could hear the computer on a side table buzzing quietly to itself.

She walked quickly behind the desk and sat down.

“I'm so glad finally to get to meet you, Mr. Donovan,” she said. She ran her fingers along a pale blue file on the blotter. It was probably Robbie's file, thought Donovan, in which case she knew exactly how long it had been since Donovan had sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“We are obviously a little bit concerned about Robbie's recent absence from school,” she said. She put on a pair of wire-framed reading glasses, opened the file and glanced down at it.

“Robbie's aunt has been our point of contact, I gather.”

“My sister. Laura.”

“She telephoned to say that Robbie was unwell.”

That's right."

The headmistress looked at Donovan over the top of her spectacles.

“Why didn't Mrs. Donovan phone us? Or you?”

“I've been overseas,” said Donovan.

“Robbie's doing okay, is he?”

“Robbie's doing just fine,” said the headmistress.

“A little boisterous, but then what nine-year-old isn't? It's not Robbie's behaviour that concerns me so much as his absence, however, I'm putting two and two together and getting the feeling that perhaps there are problems at home? Would I be right in that assumption?”

Donovan nodded and linked his fingers in his lap, though what he really wanted to do was to wipe the patronising smile off the headmistress's face.

“Robbie's mother has left the matrimonial home,” said Donovan.

“I'll be taking care of him from now on.”

“You and Mrs. Donovan are separating?”

“Robbie caught her in bed with my accountant.”

“My God,” said the headmistress, a look of horror on her face.

Donovan felt a surge of satisfaction at her reaction, but kept his feelings hidden. He stared impassively at her.

“Exactly,” said Donovan.

“Now she's gone A.W.O.L. and I'm taking care of Robbie.”

“Would you like me to talk to Robbie?” said the headmistress.

“I think he's okay. He's taking it well enough. No, what I'm here for is to make sure that you understand the position. My wife isn't to go near Robbie.”

The headmistress frowned.

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“She's served me an injunction preventing me from taking him abroad, so until we overturn that, he has to stay put. It looks like she's going to try to get custody, and as part of that I think she might try to snatch him back.”

The headmistress nodded thoughtfully.

“Obviously I want Robbie back at school as soon as possible. So I want it made clear that if she turns up at the school she's not to be allowed to take him.”

“Mr. Donovan, I'm not sure if I can give you that guarantee. Mrs. Donovan is Robbie's mother.” Donovan opened his mouth to argue but she held up her hand and raised her eyebrows as if she were silencing a noisy classroom.

“Do you have some sort of legal backing for your request?”

“Such as?”

“A court order. Something like that.”

“No, but my lawyer is applying for sole custody and we're confident the court will see it our way.”

The headmistress spread her hands, palms upwards.

“Mr. Donovan, unless a court forbids your wife access to your son, I'm not sure that we can ' ”You don't understand," interrupted Donovan.

“She might snatch him. She could turn up with a couple of heavies and whisk him away.”

The headmistress shook her head sadly.

“Mr. Donovan, I know your wife. She was a regular attender at Parent Teacher Association meetings. She donated money to our arts club appeal.”

Donovan stood up. The headmistress jerked back in her seat as if she'd been stung.

“If she comes to the school, she's not to go near Robbie,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at her.

“If she does, I'll hold you responsible. Personally responsible.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Donovan?” she asked, her voice shaking.

Donovan leaned over her desk, invading her space.

“I'm telling you, Miss, Ms or Mrs. Stephenson. You know my wife and maybe you don't know me, but believe me, anything happens to my son and you'll get to know me. Do you understand?”

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.”