Tango One (29 page)

“For a bit, yeah.”

“Yes!” cheered Robbie.

“Happy now?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”

“So school. Today. Let me talk to Aunty Laura, will you?”

Robbie called out his aunt's name and a few seconds later she was on the line.

“What have you said to him? He's grinning like the cat that got the cream.”

“I'm staying for a while. We're going to move back into the house.”

“Good decision, brother-of-mine.”

“Yeah, well, we'll see,” said Donovan.

“I don't have much choice at the moment. My lawyer says I can't take him out of the country, and if I'm going to get custody I'm going to have to play at happy families for a while.”

“Den!”

Donovan grinned.

“You know what I mean. I want to be with him, of course I do, but not here. Not in London. He's to go to school from now on. I've had a word with the headmistress. I'll pick him up tonight and we'll be at the house from now on. Thanks for everything. For letting him stay.”

“Not a problem, Den. You know that.”

Donovan thanked her again and cut the connection. The keys to Vicky's Range Rover were hanging on a hook in the kitchen. Donovan's first thought had been to sell the car right away as it was yet another reminder of his soon-to-be ex-wife, but common sense prevailed. He needed wheels, and if he didn't use the Range Rover he'd have to rent a car.

He took the keys and went out to the vehicle. He emptied the glove compartment of all her personal stuff gloves, sunglasses, a half-empty pack of Tic-tacs, cigarettes, suntan lotion and threw it into the rubbish bin, then went back to the car and sat in the driving seat. He could still smell her perfume.

“You bitch!” he shouted, slapping the steering wheel hard.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch!”

He stormed back into the kitchen and pulled open cupboard doors until he found an aerosol of air freshener. He sprayed it liberally around the interior of the car. Lavender. He coughed in the sickeningly sweet perfumed mist, but at least it masked the annoying smell of her perfume.

Donovan edged the Range Rover out into the street. He didn't bother checking for surveillance. This was one trip he was quite happy for any watchers to know about. He drove to the King's Road in Chelsea and prowled around the back streets until he found a parking space, then he walked to the offices of Alex Knight Security. Knight's entrance was a simple black door between an antiques shop and a hairdresser's. Donovan pressed the bell button and a woman's voice asked who he was over the intercom.

“Den Donovan for Alex,” said Donovan. The door buzzed and Donovan pushed it open. He went up a narrow flight of stairs, at the top of which a striking brunette had a second black door already open for him.

“Mr. Donovan, good to see you again,” she said.

“Sarah, you're looking good,” said Donovan.

“How's the boy looking after you?”

“Boy? I'm twenty-bloody-eight,” said Alex Knight, striding out of his office. He was tall and gangly with black square-framed spectacles perched high up on his nose. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and when he stuck his hand out to shake he showed several inches of bony wrist.

The two men shook hands.

“Yeah, well, you don't look a day over sixteen,” said Donovan.

“Whatever you're taking, I want some of it.”

“Clean living and early to bed,” said Knight.

“You should try it some time. Come on through.”

Knight's office was about twenty feet square but looked much smaller because every inch of wall space had been lined with metal shelving filled with electrical equipment and technical manuals. His desk was a huge metal table that was also piled high with technical gear.

“Coffee?” asked Knight.

Donovan declined and Sarah closed the door on them. On the back of the door was a blueprint of an electronic device that Donovan could make no sense of.

“So, you old reprobate, what can I do for you?” Knight pushed back his chair and put his feet up on the table. There was a hole in one of his suede loafers.

“I'm going to be back in the UK for a while, and I'm going to be under the microscope,” said Donovan.

“Cops, Customs, spooks. I need to be able to sweep my house and car, and to check if anyone who comes near me is wired.”

“Do you want me to do the sweeping?”

Donovan shook his head.

“No offence, Alex, but I want to do it myself ”No sweat,“ said Knight, reaching for a notebook and pen, 'but I'd advise you to let me go over the house once. Show you the ropes, yeah?”

Donovan nodded.

Knight rested the notebook on his lap as he scribbled.

“What about your landline? I've got a gizmo that'll tell you if it's tapped.”

“Waste of time. I can pretty much guarantee that it will be,” said Donovan.

“I won't be using it for anything other than ordering pizzas. I'm more concerned about the house.”

Knight tapped his pen against his cheek.

“Yeah, but you're gonna need a hook switch bypass detector, especially if the spooks are on your case. They can turn any landline into a room monitor and pick up anything that's said. Even when the phone's on the hook. I can fix one to each phone. Five hundred each. Worth the money, Den. No point in sweeping for bugs if your phone is a direct line to Mi5.”

Donovan nodded.

“Okay. You're the expert.”

Knight scribbled on his pad.

“So far as sweeping goes, I've got a state-of-the-art scanner that'll do the job. Brand new RF detector from Taiwan. Pick up anything. Just run it around all suspect surfaces. You can use it on the car, too. I'll show you how to use it, a child can operate it.”

“Okay. And I'm going to need a personal unit.”

“Just what I was going to suggest. I've got a new model in from the States. Bit bigger than a pack of fags, you wear it on your belt like a bleeper. Vibrates when it picks up micro radio frequencies. You know they're wired, but they don't know that you know. Cool thing about this model is that it also picks up most makes of tape recorder. You wear a flat antenna under your watch band with the cable running up your sleeve. It's not one hundred per cent reliable, but close. It'll certainly pick up the shit that the Brits use. They're usually about five years behind the Yanks.”

Donovan grinned. Knight knew his stuff, which is why he'd been using him for the past four years, ever since Knight had picked up his second PhD and decided to leave academia for the commercial world. He wasn't cheap, but Knight's equipment had saved Donovan's skin on several occasions.

Knight tapped the notepad.

“Going back to the house. How about I fix up an acoustic noise generator for you? You're going to be able to sweep for RF bugs and I can give you a metal detector to pick up wired microphones in the walls, but it's easy to miss transmitters in AC outlets. Plus everyone's using laser or microwave reflectors these days, picking up vibrations from windows. Bloody hard to detect. But switch on the noise generator and they'll just pick up static.”

“Excellent,” said Donovan.

“Cash on delivery?”

“As always.” Donovan stood up and held out his hand. Knight swung his legs off the table and shook hands.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Alex.”

“Pleasure's all mine, Den. How's the wife?”

“Don't ask,” said Donovan.

“Just don't ask.”

Stewart Sharkey scrolled through the spreadsheet, a slight smile on his face. Sixty million dollars. He had sixty million dollars. He wondered how much space sixty million dollars would take up. A million was maybe two suitcases full. Sixty million would be one hundred and twenty suitcases. Sharkey tried to picture a hundred and twenty suitcases. He grinned. It was one hell of a lot of money. Invested in bog-standard shares and high-interest offshore accounts, it would earn four or five million dollars a year. More than enough to live on. To live well on. Sharkey had other plans for the money, however. Big plans. And if his plans worked out, he'd turn that sixty million into hundreds of millions. He'd do it legitimately, too. Property development. Central Europe, probably. Get in on the ground floor before they joined the EU bandwagon. There were fortunes to be made in the countries of the former Soviet Union, and Sharkey was the man to do it, now that he had the resources.

The mobile phone on the table next to the computer bleeped and Sharkey grabbed for the receiver.

“Stewart? It's David.”

David Hoyle. A lawyer based in Shepherd's Bush in West London. Sharkey had known him for years, but this was the first time he'd used him professionally.

“Hiya, David. I trust you're using a call box?”

“I am, Stewart, but is this really necessary?”

“You don't know Vicky's husband, David.” That was one of the reasons that Sharkey was using him. Hoyle had never done any work for Den Donovan, or anyone like him. He was a family lawyer who specialised in divorce work and had never been within a mile of a criminal court.

“Even so, Stewart, I feel a bit silly walking out of my office every time I talk to you.”

“A necessary precaution, David. I'm sorry.”

“Where are you?” Hoyle asked. The number that Sharkey had given him was a GSM roaming mobile. It was aUK number but Sharkey could use it anywhere in Europe.

“Not too far away,” said Sharkey.

“Best you don't know the specifics.”

“Oh please, Stewart. That would be covered by client confidentiality.”

Sharkey smiled. He knew that Den Donovan wouldn't be worried about a little thing like client confidentiality.

“How can I help you, David?”

“We've heard back from his lawyers. The husband is applying for sole custody. And of course he will be trying to have the injunction lifted.”

Sharkey grunted. They had expected that Donovan would want sole custody of Robbie. And that he'd want to take him out of the country. So far as Sharkey was concerned, he would be quite happy for Donovan to get what he wanted, but he had to keep Vicky happy, for a while at least, and that meant going through the motions.

“I assume that Victoria still wishes to apply for custody?” asked Hoyle.

“Absolutely,” said Sharkey.

“I would expect the hearing to be within the next two weeks,” said Hoyle.

“You do realise that Victoria will have to appear in person?”

“That's definite, is it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Then that's the way it'll have to be.”

“I'll get the papers drawn up, Stewart. I'll be in touch.”

Sharkey cut the connection and put the mobile phone back on the table. There was no way he could allow Vicky to go back to London. The moment she set foot back in the UK, Donovan would get to her. And from her he'd get to Sharkey. It would all be over. Sharkey shuddered.

He stood up and walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy.

“Was that the phone?” asked Vicky, walking in from the terrace.

“The lawyer. He's on the case.”

“He served the injunction?”

Sharkey nodded.

“And Den's fighting it, like we knew he would.”

“Bastard. He showed no interest while he was away now he wants to play the father.”

“It's going to be okay, Vicky. The injunction's in force, Den can't take him out of the country. He does that and he'll go straight to prison.”

“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.