Tango One (9 page)

Clare dropped the joint on to the redhead's back and she screamed. The blonde made a run for it and Clare grinned despite himself: she was totally naked and the apartment was on the top floor of a sixteen-storey building. The only way out was blocked by two very large men in black raincoats. They were grinning, too, because the redhead was screaming and cursing and trying to get off the bed. The glowing joint had rolled against her leg and burned her thigh. She fell to the floor and then scrabbled on her hands and knees towards the bathroom door. The blonde had changed direction and decided that she was going to make a run for the bathroom, too, but she collided with the redhead and they both fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. There were more flashes as a man in a grey anorak and jeans photographed the two women.

Clare burst out laughing and so did the uniformed policemen. They grabbed the girls and a female officer picked up their clothes. The two men in raincoats moved to the side and the girls were hustled down the hallway. The redhead started to cry but the blonde was more vociferous, screaming that she wanted to call her lawyer. The man with the camera followed them out of the room.

Clare picked up the still-burning joint and took a long pull on it. He held it up and offered it to the two detectives. They shook their heads.

“So what's the charge, guys?” asked Clare nonchalantly.

“Is it the sex, the drugs or the rock and roll?”

The taller of the two detectives picked up an ashtray and carried it over to the bed.

Clare was naked but he made no move to cover himself up. His well-muscled torso was still glistening with sweat. He stubbed out the joint.

“Martin Clare, you are under arrest for conspiring to export four tons of cannabis resin,” said the detective.

Clare's face tightened but he continued to smile brightly.

“Cannabis that we currently have in our possession at Rotterdam docks,” the detective continued.

“What is it they say in your country, Mr. Clare? You are nicked?”

“That'll do it,” said Clare.

“What the fuck. Let me get my pants on, yeah?”

Robbie picked up his sports bag as soon as the bell started to ring, but dropped it by the side of his desk after Mr. Inverdale gave him a baleful look. Mr. Inverdale finished outlining the essay he wanted writing for homework, then turned his back on the class. There was a mad scramble for the door. Robbie pulled his Nokia mobile from his sports bag and switched it on. He'd sent Elaine Meade a text message before the start of class and was keen to see if she'd replied.

“Outside with that, Donovan,” said Mr. Inverdale, without turning around.

“You know the rules.”

Robbie hurried out into the corridor. He had one text message waiting. Robbie's heart began to pound. Elaine was the prettiest girl in his year, bar none. Blonde with big blue eyes like the pretty one in Steps and a really cute way of wrinkling up her nose when she laughed. He pressed the button to collect the message and tried to ignore the growing tightness in his stomach. The text message flashed up.

“I'M BACK. COME HOME NOW DAD.”

Robbie grinned and pumped his fist in the air.

“Yes!” he said. It had been more than two months since Robbie had seen his father.

He stuffed the phone back into the sports bag and headed for the school gates. He looked around nervously but there were no teachers in the playground. It was lunch break and everyone was rushing towards the refectory. Robbie walked purposefully through the gates and broke into a run, his sports bag banging against his leg.

He was sweating and out of breath by the time he reached his house. His mother's silver-grey Range Rover was parked in front of the house. Next to it was a dark green Jaguar, its engine still clicking under the bonnet. Robbie ran his finger along the paintwork. His dad didn't like British cars: he said they were always breaking down and that you couldn't beat the Germans for quality engineering. Robbie walked down the side of the house and through the kitchen door. There were two bulging Marks and Spencer carrier bags on the counter top next to the sink and two mugs by the kettle.

“Dad!” There was no answer.

Robbie put his sports bag on the kitchen table and ran through to the sitting room. Empty. He went back into the hall.

“Dad?” His voice echoed around the hallway.

Robbie went up the stairs, one hand on the banister. He could hear voices coming from his parents' bedroom. Robbie broke into a run and pushed open the bedroom door, grinning excitedly. He froze when he saw the two figures on the bed. Two naked figures. His mother on top, sitting down, her spine arched and her head back. She turned to look at him, a look of horror on her face.

“Robbie?” she gasped.

Time seemed to stop for Robbie. He could see the beads of sweat on her back, a stray wisp of blonde hair across her face, a smear of lipstick on the side of her mouth.

The man on the bed was lying on his back, trying to sit up.

“Oh shit,” he said. He put a hand up to his forehead.

“Shit a fucking brick.”

Robbie recognised the man. It was Uncle Stewart, but he wasn't really an uncle, he was a friend of his father's. Stewart Sharkey. His father always looked serious when Uncle Stewart came around to the house, and they'd lock themselves in the study while they talked. The only time Dad wasn't serious with him was when it was Christmas and Uncle Stewart came around with presents for Robbie and his parents. He always brought really good presents. Expensive ones.

“That's my mum!” Robbie shouted.

“That's my fucking mum!”

“Robbie .. .” said his mother, pleadingly.

“Shit, shit, shit!” said Sharkey, holding his hands over his eyes and banging the back of his head against the pillow.

Robbie's mother wrapped the duvet around herself and twisted around to face him.

“Robbie, this isn't ' ”It is!" he screamed.

“I know what it is! I can see what you're doing! I'm not stupid.”

Robbie's mother stood up, and the man grabbed a pillow and held it over his groin.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

Robbie's mother ignored him. She took a step towards Robbie, but he moved backwards, holding his hands up as if trying to ward her off.

“Don't come near me!” he yelled.

“Robbie. I'm sorry.”

“Dad's going to kill you. He's going to kill both of you!”

“Robbie, it was an accident.”

Robbie pointed at her.

“I'm not stupid, Mum. I know what you're doing. I'm going to tell Dad.”

“Vicky, for God's sake, do something!” hissed Sharkey.

Vicky turned to him.

“Stay out of this, Stewart.”

“Just handle it, will you?”

Robbie backed out of the bedroom and rushed down the hallway. His mother hurried after him.

“Robbie! Robbie, come back here!”

Robbie stumbled at the top of the stairs and his hands flailed out for balance. His sports bag swung between his legs and he fell forward, his mouth working soundlessly, panic overwhelming him.

Vicky ran into the hallway just in time to see her son pitch headlong down the stairs. She screamed and let the duvet slip from her fingers.

Robbie banged down the stairs in a series of sickening thumps.

“Robbie, no!” yelled Vicky, as she rushed towards the top of the stairs. Behind her, Sharkey called out, wanting to know what was wrong.

The hallway seemed as if it were telescoping away from Vicky as she ran. She couldn't see Robbie, but she could hear the thuds as he tumbled down. Thump. Thump. Thump. What horrified Vicky was Robbie's silence as he fell. No groans, or shouts or curses. Just the gut-wrenching thumps. Then silence. The silence was a million times worse than the sound of the fall.

Vicky reached the top of the stairs. Robbie was lying at the bottom, face down, his head turned to the side. There was blood on his mouth. Vicky felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

“Please, God, don't let this be happening,” she whispered.

She hurried down the stairs two at a time and crouched next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

“Robbie, love? Robbie?” His chest moved as he took a breath, and Vicky said a silent prayer of thanks.

Robbie's eyes flickered open.

“Robbie, love, are you all right?” Vicky asked.

His face screwed up into a snarl.

“Don't touch me!”

“Robbie, love ”Get off me," he said.

“I saw you. I saw what you were doing.”

“Robbie .. .”

He pushed her away and got to his feet. He wiped his mouth and stared at the blood on his hand.

“You look ridiculous,” he said.

Vicky realised that she was naked and she moved her hands to cover her crotch.

“I hate you,” said Robbie.

Sharkey appeared at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt.

“Has he calmed down?”

Robbie pointed up at Sharkey.

“My dad's going to kill you!” he shouted venomously.

“Robbie,” said Vicky, 'please don't say that."

She reached out to touch him but Robbie hit her hand away.

“And you!” he shouted.

Sharkey started downstairs.

“There's no need to be stupid, Robbie,” he said.

Robbie backed away.

Vicky looked over her shoulder.

“Stewart, leave this to me. Please.”

“If he says anything to Den .. .”

“Shut the hell up!” she shouted.

“I'm just saying .. .”

“Don't say,” she yelled.

“Don't say anything. You've caused enough .. .” Before she finished the sentence she heard Robbie fumbling with the lock on the front door.

“Robbie!” she shouted.

“Robbie, come back.”

She dashed towards the door but Robbie was too quick for her. He pulled the door open, slipped out and slammed it behind him. Vicky scrabbled at the lock, but by the time she got the door open Robbie was already sprinting along the pavement. The strength drained from Vicky's legs and she slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Sharkey walked slowly down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

“Shit,” he said quietly.

“What are we going to do now?”

The wind blowing off the Caribbean Sea tugged at Den Donovan's hair and flicked it across his eyes. He brushed it away and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The waves of the turquoise sea were flecked with white and Donovan could taste the salt on his lips.

“Thought I might get a boat, Carlos,” he mused, staring out across the water.

“What do you think?”

Carlos Rodriguez shrugged.

“I always get seasick,” he said.

“I was thinking a big boat. Stabilisers and that. Save me flying between the islands. I could travel with style.”

“I still get sick,” said Rodriguez.

Donovan started walking down the beach, his sandals digging into the sand. In the distance a line of loungers were shaded by pink and green striped umbrellas. Rodriguez hurried after him.

Donovan looked across at the road to his right. Barry Doyle was leaning against Donovan's silver-grey Mercedes, his arms folded across his massive chest. Doyle gave Donovan the merest hint of a nod, letting him know that everything was clear on the road. Donovan looked over his shoulder. The nearest person was a hundred yards away, and that was an obese woman in a too-small bikini, who was paddling with her toddler son and yelling at him in German every time he went out too far into the sea.

A small jet banked overhead and turned towards Bradshaw Airport. More well-heeled tourists, thought Donovan, probably booked into a suite at the Jack Tar Village Beach Resort or the Four Seasons Resort on the neighbouring island of Nevis, where a quarter of the island's workforce slaved away to make sure that the everyday inconveniences of life on a Third World island didn't intrude into their five-star compound. St. Kitts wasn't one of Donovan's favourite places, but it was an ideal setting for a meeting with one of Colombia's biggest cocaine suppliers.

“How's everything?” Donovan said, keeping his voice low.

“The freighter is leaving Mexico this evening,” said Rodriguez.

“And the consignment?”

“The fuel tanks of the yellow ones.”

“The yellow ones?”

“We thought they'd be easier to spot.”

“Every yellow one?” asked Donovan.

Rodriguez nodded.

“Every one.”

“Isn't that a bit ... predictable?”

Rodriguez grinned.

“Less risk of confusion. You'd prefer we used engine or chassis numbers? You want to go down on your hands and knees with a flashlight?”

Donovan chuckled. The cocaine Rodriguez was supplying had been transported from Colombia into Mexico, where there was a factory manufacturing Volkswagen Beetles, the cult car that was still in demand around the world. Up to four hundred Beetles a day rolled off the production line in Puebla, and many went overseas. Rodriguez had bought up a consignment of sixty of the cars and had arranged to ship them to the United Kingdom.

“Don't worry, Den,” said Rodriguez.

“Palms have been well greased at both ends. Yellow, green or rainbow coloured, no one is going to be going near those cars.”

“Sweet,” said Donovan.

“And my money?”

“I'll put the first tranche in this afternoon.”

“And the rest on arrival?” said Rodriguez.

“Soon as we've got the gear out.” Donovan slapped the Colombian on the back.

“Come on, Carlos, have I ever let you down?”

“Not yet, my friend, but a little bird tells me that you have been talking to Russians.”

“Carlos, I talk to a lot of people.”

“Russian pilots. With transport planes. Staying at a hotel in Anguilla. Not far from your villa, in fact.”

Donovan raised an eyebrow.

“I'm impressed, Carlos.”

“Knowledge is power,” said the Colombian.

“I thought money was power.”

The two men stopped and faced each other, the warm sea breeze rustling their clothes.

“Knowledge. Money. Power. They are all connected,” said the Colombian.

“These Russians, they have been flying Soviet weapons into Colombia for FARC, you know that?”