Tango One

Hathaway's London was different. Darker. More threatening. Hathaway's London was a city of criminals, of terrorists and drug dealers, of subversives, of men and women who scorned society's laws and instead played by their own rules. Den Donovan was such a man, and the only way he was ever going to be brought down was if Hathaway played Donovan at his own game. Hathaway knew that he was taking a huge risk. Even MI6 had its own rules and regulations, and what Hathaway was doing went well beyond his remit. In Hathaway's mind the end most definitely justified the means, but he doubted that his masters would see it that way.

He turned away from the wheel and sat down on a wooden bench. The river flowed by, grey and forbidding. A sightseeing boat chugged eastwards. More tourists. Cameras clicking, children eating ice cream, pensioners in floppy hats and shorts.

"Nice day for it," said a voice behind Hathaway.

Hathaway didn't turn around. He'd been expecting the man. A detective inspector working out of Bow Street Police Station whom Hathaway used from time to time. It was a symbiotic relationship that served both men well. Hathaway had an undetectable conduit into the Met; the inspector received information that made him look good. Plus occasional cash payments from the MI6 informers' fund.

The detective sat down next to Hathaway and crossed his legs at the ankles. He wore a charcoal-grey suit and scuffed Hush Puppies. His tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt was undone. He was in his late thirties but looked older, with frown lines etched in his forehead and deep crow's feet around his eyes.

"So how's life?" he asked Hathaway jovially.

"Same old," said Hathaway.

The detective took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Hathaway. Hathaway shook his head. The detective knew that Hathaway had given up smoking, but every time they met, he'd offer him a cigarette none the less.

The detective lit one with a disposable lighter and blew smoke towards the river, waiting for Hathaway to speak.

"Den Donovan is back," he said.

The detective raised one eyebrow.

"Bloody hell."

"He's in London. I've checked with Immigration and there's no record of him coming in, but he's got more identities than Rory Bremner."

"Your source?"

Hathaway tutted in disgust.

"Worth a try," grinned the detective.

"Where is he?"

"Not sure, lying low at the moment. He's going to have to pop his head above the parapet fairly soon, though. Money problems."

"Den Donovan? He's worth millions."

"Take it from me, he's got cash flow problems. He's selling his art collection. He's already cleared his paintings out of his Kensington house."

"I know it," said the detective.

"Is Six going to be looking at him?"

"Not yet."

"Customs?"

"You've got this to yourself, but I wouldn't expect the Cussies or Six to stand by once they know he's back."

"And it's because of his money problems that he's here?"

"So far as I know. He was in to see Maury Goldman, the dodgy art dealer in Mayfair. If I get more, I'll give you a call." Hathaway stood up and winced as he put his weight on his painful leg. The detective didn't notice: he was too preoccupied with how he was going to break the news to his boss.

Hathaway walked away, back towards Vauxhall Bridge. He had no qualms about setting the police on Donovan. He must have known that the moment he set foot back on UK territory he'd be a marked man, and if there'd been no surveillance he'd have been suspicious. This way at least Hathaway would be able to exert some control on the operation.

Donovan lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He'd tried to get a new birth certificate for Robbie but had been told that it would be at least seventy-two hours. Donovan had phoned the German in Anguilla but the German had said that passports for children weren't something he had in stock and that it would take at least a week to get the necessary documentation together. He could make up a counterfeit within a day but warned that even though his counterfeits were good, he couldn't be held responsible if something went wrong. It wasn't a risk that Donovan was prepared to take. Donovan's plan had been to get a replacement passport for Robbie and take him to Anguilla while he worked out what he was going to do next. There was no way he was going to leave without his son, so he had no choice other than to wait it out in London. With Marty Clare out of the picture, Donovan was in the clear investigation-wise, so there was nothing to stop him moving back into the house with Robbie. The police and Customs would put him under the microscope as soon as they discovered he was back, but Donovan wasn't planning on doing anything in the least bit criminal. He could check out of the hotel, get Robbie back from Laura, and start playing the father.

One of his mobiles rang and Donovan rolled over on to his stomach. It was the mobile that Fullerton and Goldman were to use once they had news of the paintings. Donovan pressed the phone to his ear and lay on his back. It was Fullerton.

"Good news, Den," said Fullerton.

"I could do with some," said Donovan.

"That Citibank guy creamed himself over the Buttersworths. I got him to go to seven hundred and fifty. He practically forced the banker's draft on me."

Donovan sat up. That's good going, Jamie." Donovan had only been expecting half a million dollars for the two paintings.

"That's just the start," said Fullerton excitedly.

"The Rembrandt. Guess what I got for the Rembrandt?"

"Jamie, I don't want to start playing games here. Just tell me."

"Eight hundred grand."

"Dollars?"

"Pounds, Den. Fucking pounds."

"Bloody hell." That was well above what Donovan had been hoping for.

"Yeah, tell me about it. The guy's a bit shady, I have to say, but his money's good."

"You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Besides, he's going to make his draft out to me and I'll get a draft drawn off my account. We'll have it sorted by tomorrow."

Donovan ran through the numbers. Eight hundred thousand for the Rembrandt drawing. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars was about half a million quid. Plus Goldman had promised two hundred thousand pounds for the Van Dycks. So far he had one and a half million pounds. He sighed with relief. At least he was close to getting the Colombian off his back.

"That's brilliant work, Jamie. Thanks."

"I'm pretty close to selling a couple of others, too. I'm seeing a guy this evening who's looking to invest in stuff and doesn't care over much what he buys so long as it goes up in price."

"An art-lover, huh?" said Donovan.

"Don't knock it. It's the investors who keep the market rising. If we had to depend on people who actually liked art, you'd still be able to pick up a Picasso for five grand."

Donovan sighed. He knew that Fullerton was right, but even so, his heart sank at the thought of his lovingly acquired collection being split up and stored away in vaults as an investment.

"Shall I bring you the drafts tomorrow?"

Donovan hesitated. He didn't want to see Rodriguez again, not in the UK, but the drafts had to be hand delivered.

"Den? You there?"

Donovan reached a decision. Fullerton had done a great job in selling the paintings so quickly, and Goldman had said that he had known Fullerton for three years and that he could be trusted.

"Can you do me a favour, Jamie?" he asked.

"Sure," said Fullerton.

"Anything."

He sounded eager to please and Donovan wondered how much Goldman had told Fullerton.

"This guy the drafts are made out to. Carlos Rodriguez. I need them delivered. Can you handle that for me?"

"No problem, Den."

"There's a guy called Jesus Rodriguez staying at the Intercontinental near Hyde Park. He's the nephew of the guy the money's to go to. Can you give them to him in person? Don't just leave them at Reception, yeah? In his hand."

Fullerton laughed.

"Shall I ask him for a receipt?"

"Yeah, and count your fingers after you shake hands with him," said Donovan.

"Seriously, Jamie. Jesus Rodriguez is a tough son of a bitch. Don't take any liberties with him."

"Understood."

"Second thing. He's expecting two million quid. There's the two hundred grand that Goldman's paying me for the sketches, so I need one point eight mill from you. Anything above that, keep for me, okay? Minus your usual fee, of course."

"No problem. Pleasure doing business with you, Den. I mean that. If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate, okay?"

Donovan thanked him and cut the connection. He tossed the phone on to the bed and went into the bathroom to splash water on to his face. Jamie Fullerton was proving to be a godsend. At least something was starting to go right.

Gregg Hathaway leaned back in his seat and stared at the message on his VDU. It was from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway would have preferred Donovan to have taken the money to the hotel, but the fact that Donovan had trusted Fullerton with it was a major breakthrough. It was a direct link between Donovan and one of South America's biggest drug dealers. There was a second terminal to Hathaway's left and he twisted around and tapped on the keyboard. The terminal gave Hathaway direct access to the DEA's database.

He tapped in Rodriguez's name and after a few seconds the Colombian's face appeared. Rodriguez was forty-seven. He'd been born to a wealthy farming family, one of six brothers. Well educated, he spoke five languages and was close to many politicians and businessmen in Colombia, many of whom the DEA suspected of being involved in the drugs trade. Rodriguez had started out working for the Mendoza syndicate but had soon struck out on his own. According to the DEA, Rodriguez was responsible for smuggling cocaine worth more than four hundred million dollars a year into the United States, primarily via Mexico, and was also a major cannabis exporter.

Jesus Rodriguez was the son of Carlos Rodriguez's younger brother and was one of the organisation's hard men, responsible for at least a dozen brutal murders in the Caribbean. According to the DEA report, Jesus Rodriguez was borderline psychopathic and an habitual cocaine user. Hathaway scrolled down through the report. There was no mention of Rodriguez sending drugs to Europe. He smiled to himself. It would do him no harm at all to bring the DEA up to speed. But not just yet. More than a dozen DEA agents worked out of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and he didn't want them getting all hot and bothered about the Colombian before Fullerton had delivered the money.

Hathaway picked up a plastic cup of strong black coffee and sipped it. It was all starting to come together. It had been a year in the planning and three years in the execution, but there were just a few more pieces that had to be put into position before he was ready for the end game.

Jamie Fullerton pounded down the pavement towards his apartment block. He'd run a seven-mile circuit, much of it alongside the Thames, but he had barely worked up a sweat. He was so pumped up with adrenalin he felt as if he could run another circuit, but he had work to do.

He jogged into the reception area of the block and winked at the uniformed security guard who sat in front of a bank of CCTV screens.

"Hiya, George."

"Morning, Mr. Fullerton. Great day."

"And getting better by the minute," said Fullerton. He jogged into the lift and ran on the spot as it climbed up to the top floor.

The message light on his answering machine was winking and he hit the 'play' button. He dropped down and did fast-paced press-ups as he listened to the message. It was a property developer in Hampstead who had seen four of Donovan's paintings the previous evening and had wanted to sleep on it. Fullerton had sold the man more than a dozen works of art in the past, so had been happy to leave the paintings with him while he made up his mind. It had been a wise decision the property developer had decided to go ahead and buy them and wanted Fullerton to call around to his home to pick up a bank draft for half a million pounds. Fullerton punched the air in triumph.

He went over to his dining table, a glass and chrome oval that could seat a dozen people. Three bank drafts were lined up next to a modern silver candelabra. The top draft was drawn on Fullerton's own bank. Eight hundred thousand pounds. The buyer of Donovan's Rembrandt had given Fullerton a cheque for the full amount and Fullerton had had it express cleared. Fullerton hadn't told Donovan the identity of the buyer of the Rembrandt, because it might have made him nervous. Like Donovan, the buyer was a major drug dealer, bringing in tens of thousands of ecstasy tablets from Holland every month. He had stacks of cash that he needed laundering, and art was an easy way of cleaning dirty money. Fullerton picked up the draft and held it to his nose, wondering what eight hundred thousand pounds smelt like. It smelt like paper.

The two other drafts were from Goldman and the buyer of the Buttersworth yacht paintings. In the space of eighteen hours Donovan had raised two million pounds, a reflection of the quality of the collection.

Donovan was clearly attached to his art and Fullerton couldn't work out why he was so desperate to sell. According to Goldman, Donovan was worth tens of millions of dollars. Then there was the fact that the drafts had to be made out to the mysterious Mr. Rodriguez. Fullerton had asked Hathaway for information on Carlos Rodriguez and his nephew, but so far none had been forthcoming.

Fullerton called the Intercontinental and asked to be put through to Jesus Rodriguez's room. A man with a rough South American accent answered. He said that Mr. Rodriguez was busy, but when Fullerton explained why he was calling, a hand was put over the mouthpiece and Fullerton heard muffled Spanish. Then Rodriguez was on the line, oily smooth and saying that he'd see Fullerton in his suite at one o'clock.

He went through to his bathroom and showered, then dressed in a Lanvin suit and Gucci shoes, figuring that if he was hand delivering two million, he might as well look the part. He drove his Porsche to Hampstead and picked up the fourth draft. The drive from Hampstead to the Intercontinental took almost an hour, but he was still ten minutes early, so he sat in Reception until exactly one o'clock before phoning up to Rodriguez's suite.

Two large men in black suits were waiting for him on the seventh floor. They patted him down professionally without speaking, then one of them motioned for him to follow him.

Rodriguez was standing in front of a window offering a panoramic view of Hyde Park. He turned and smiled as Fullerton walked into the room. He was a short man but very muscular as if he spent a lot of time in the gym, dressed in a cream suit and a chocolate-brown shirt. His hair was gelled back and his goatee beard was carefully trimmed. As he held out his hand to shake, Fullerton saw that the nails were carefully manicured and glistened as if they'd been polished. A thick-ridged scar ran along the back of his right hand.

"So you are Donovan's money man?" he asked, gripping Fullerton's hand and squeezing hard.

Fullerton got a whiff of a sickly-sweet cologne.

"He apologises for not coming in person," he said. He took his hand away and resisted the urge to massage his aching fingers.

Rodriguez laughed harshly.

"I quite understand why he wouldn't want to be seen with me again," he said.

Fullerton took the drafts from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed them to Rodriguez.

Rodriguez looked through them, nodding his approval.

"Good," he said.

"At least on this occasion he has kept his word."

"Was there a problem before?" asked Fullerton. Rodriguez stiffened and Fullerton realised that he'd made a mistake.

"I know Den was very keen that this transaction went ahead smoothly, he was very insistent that you get those today."

Rodriguez stared at Fullerton. He was still smiling but his eyes were as cold and hard as pebbles.

"How long have you worked for him?" he asked.

Fullerton shrugged and tried to smile confidently.

"I'm not really an employee, as such," he said quickly.

"I'm an art dealer. Paintings. He needed some works of art placing and I was able to help."

Rodriguez visibly relaxed. He put the drafts on a coffee table.

"So you know about paintings?"

"Some."

"You should come and see me some time in Bogota," said Rodriguez.

"I too have an interest in art. I would value your opinion."

"Do you have a card?"

Rodriguez chuckled.

"A card?" He looked across at his two bodyguards and said something to them in Spanish. They started laughing and Rodriguez slapped Fullerton on the back.

"Just ask anyone in Bogota. They'll tell you where to find me."

"I will do, Mr. Rodriguez."

Rodriguez nodded at his bodyguards and they steered Fullerton out of the door and into the corridor. Fullerton could hear Rodriguez still chuckling as the door was closed in his face.

Fullerton rubbed his forehead and his hand came away wet. He hadn't realised how much he'd been sweating.

Gregg Hathaway scrolled through Fullerton's report. Jesus Rodriguez had given nothing away, but Hathaway hadn't expected that he would. The Rodriguez cartel were big players, and even the two million pounds Fullerton had delivered was small change to them, so there had to be something else going on.

Donovan had been in a rush to sell his paintings, and he could have got a better price if he'd put them off for auction. That meant he was under pressure. He was paying off Rodriguez, but why? According to Donovan's file, he had access to tens of millions of pounds, much of it in overseas banks. So why bank drafts? Something had clearly gone wrong with Donovan's finances. And if Donovan was short of money, he might be pressurised into making mistakes.

Hathaway sent Fullerton a congratulatory e-mail, and suggested that he try to get closer to Donovan. Not that Fullerton would need much encouragement: it was clear from the reports he was filing that he was champing at the bit.

Hathaway picked up his telephone and called his contact at Bow Street police station. The detective inspector answered on the first ring as if he'd had his hand poised over the receiver.

"Can you talk?" asked Hathaway.

"No problem," said the detective.

"Have you heard of a Colombian called Carlos Rodriguez?"

"No, I don't think so."

"A big fish," said Hathaway.

"A very big fish. Run it by NCS and put in a request for MI6 intelligence. He's Government and judiciary connected, high up on the DEA's most wanted list and has been for a decade or more. He uses his nephew as an enforcer. Jesus Rodriguez. He's got a suite at the Intercontinental." ' "Right .. ." said the detective hesitantly.

"He's getting busy with Den Donovan," said Hathaway.

"Bloody hell," said the detective more enthusiastically.

"How long's this being going on?"

"I've only just found out," said Hathaway.

"Carlos Rodriguez is big in cocaine, mainly through Mexico into the States, but the DEA reckon he's behind several heroin and cannabis cartels too. We haven't had him marked down as bringing stuff into Europe, but if he's linked up with Donovan, that could be about to change."

"Are Six involved?"

"Not yet. Officially, we'll probably wait until we get an approach from the Americans, and so far that's not been forthcoming."

"This is big."

"Huge," agreed Hathaway.

"God forbid I should try to teach anyone how to suck eggs, but a phone tap would be a good idea, and if I were you I'd be trying to get someone in the hotel."

"Has Rodriguez met Donovan?"

"I'm not sure if they've met here in London, but I've seen a report from the Customs Drugs Liaison Officer in Miami who says they've been seen together in the Caribbean a couple of times, latterly in St. Kitts."

"What's your take on it?" asked the detective.

"There's something in the wind, I don't think the nephew's here shopping, but they're both old hands at this. I doubt they'll do anything stupid. Whatever they're up to, it must be major to get one of the Rodriguez family out of South America. Stay in touch, yeah?"

"Will do. And thanks for the tip. This is going to do me no harm at all."

Hathaway replaced the receiver. He began to bite his nails as he reread Fullerton's report.

Donovan was in a black cab on the way to his sister's house when one of his phones rang. It was Underwood, whispering as if he feared he might be overheard.

"They're on to you," said the chief superintendent.

Donovan gritted his teeth. He knew that it was always going to be a matter of time before the authorities knew that he was back in the UK, but he had hoped he could have remained incognito for a few more days, at least until he'd got things sorted with Robbie.

"Who's they?" he asked.

"Drugs. National Crime Squad. Customs. Uncle Tom Cob-bly and all. Congratulations, you're Tango One again."

"No need for you to sound so bloody pleased about it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I've got to get a passport for Robbie. I'm not leaving him here on his own."

"Has your missus been in touch?"

"No," said Donovan.

"Any joy finding them?"

"I wouldn't hold your breath. They're going to be well hidden if they know what's good for them. I've got them flagged at points of entry, but you know as well as I do how porous our borders are. That's if they even decide to come back."

"Keep looking, yeah? Any idea who fingered me?"

"Came through Drugs, that's all I know. Anyone on your case?"

"I've not seen anyone."

"Yeah, well, keep your eyes peeled because it's all hands to the pumps. They're going to be crawling over you."

"I'm clean, though, right? Nothing current?"

"Not now you-know-who's no longer in the picture. You don't fuck about, do you?"

"He knew what he was getting into. No use crying over spilt milk."

"Just hope you don't ever get pissed off at me," said the detective.

"Yeah," said Donovan.

"Me too."

Donovan cut the connection. If he was once again Tango One, there was no point in hiding any more. Everything he did would have to be in plain sight.

The taxi pulled up in front of Laura's house. Donovan paid the driver and walked up to the front door. He rang the doorbell and heard Robbie shouting excitedly from inside.

Robbie flung the door open.

"Dad!"

Donovan picked him up and hugged him.

"Hiya, Robbie, been good, have you?"

"Of course. Where were you last night?"

"I got tied up. Business."

"Can we go home?"

Donovan put his son down and took him inside. Laura was at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

"You eaten, Den?" she asked.

"Starving, Sis," said Donovan.

"It's only spag bol and salad."

"Bring it on," said Donovan and followed her through to the kitchen. Laura's daughters Jenny and Julie were sitting at a long table with glasses of orange juice in front of them.

"Mark not back?"

"No," said Laura, busying herself over the oven.

"Working late."

Donovan sat down at the table and Robbie rushed to sit next to him.

"How was your day?" asked Donovan.

Robbie pulled a face.

"Boring. Aunty Laura said I have to go to school soon."

"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.

"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."

"Understood, Den." He made a Boy Scout salute and grinned.

"Dib, dib, dib," he said.

"You were never a Scout," said Donovan.

"Was too."

Donovan grinned and shook his head.

Fullerton drained his lager.

"You want to go out and celebrate?"

"What did you have in mind?" asked Donovan.

"Bottle of shampoo. Pretty girls. On me."

Donovan thought about Fullerton's offer. He had things to do if he was going to get the house ready for Robbie, but it had been a while since he'd let his hair down. A few drinks wouldn't do him any harm.

"Okay. But no more drugs."

Fullerton threw him another salute.

"Scout's honour."

Fullerton's black Porsche was parked a few doors down from Donovan's house. Fullerton drove quickly, weaving through the evening traffic, his hand light on the gear stick and his foot heavy on the accelerator.

They'd only been driving for five minutes when Donovan pointed at a phone box.

"Pull up here, Jamie. I've got to make a call."

Fullerton groped into his pocket and held out a mobile.

"Use this."

Donovan shook his head.

"Nah, it's not the sort of call I want to make from a mobile."

Fullerton pulled up at the side of the road. He gestured with the mobile.

"It's okay, Den. It's a pay as you go. Not registered or anything."

Donovan took the mobile off him and weighed it in his hand. It was a small Nokia, the same model he'd bought for Robbie for his last birthday. State of the art.

"Let me tell you about mobiles, Jamie. Everything you say into this, or near this, they can listen in to."

"They?"

"The Feds. Customs. Spooks. With or without a warrant. They're the perfect bugs because you take them with you everywhere you go, and there's so many of them that no one even notices them any more."

"Den, no one but me has ever touched that phone. No way have they put a bug in it. On my life."

Donovan shook his head. They don't have to. It's all done with systems these days. Once they know the number, they can listen in to every call you make. Every call you receive. But it's worse than that, Jamie. They can tell where you are to within a few feet. They can look into your Sim card and get all the data off it. Your address book, every call you made and every call you received. They can see it all."

Fullerton raised his eyebrows. He stared at the mobile in Donovan's hand.

"Shit."

"It gets worse," said Donovan.

"They can send a nifty programme direct to the handset that turns it into a listening device, even when it's switched off."

"Oh come on," said Fullerton.

"I'm serious, Jamie. I got it from the horse's mouth. Customs guy out in Miami who's on my payroll. Anything said in a room, they can tune into from a targeted mobile. Even if it's switched off. Okay, so long as they don't know you, you can carry on in your own sweet way, but I'm Tango One and any mobile I go near is a potential threat." He tossed the phone back to Fullerton.

"And once they've seen you with me, your phone becomes a threat, too."

Fullerton put away the mobile.

"Why do you think they're so cheap, Jamie?" asked Donovan.

"Supply and demand. Economies of scale."

"Bollocks," Donovan sneered.

"It's because the Government wants everyone to have one. Already three quarters of the population have one, and before long every man, woman and child who can talk will have a mobile. Then they've got us. They'll know where every single person is to within a few feet; they'll know who they're talking to and what they're saying."

"Big Brother," said Fullerton quietly.

"It's nearly here," said Donovan.

"Couple of years at most. Between CCTV cameras and mobiles, there'll be no more privacy. They'll know everything about you." He gestured at the phone box.

"So that's why anything sensitive, you use a brand new Pay As You Go mobile or public land line."

Donovan climbed out of the car. He took a twenty-pound phone card from his wallet and used it to call Juan Rojas in Spain. The answer machine kicked in almost immediately. Donovan didn't bother with pleasantries or say who was calling. He simply dictated the name and address of the firm of City solicitors that Vicky was using then went back to the Porsche.

"Okay?" asked Fullerton.

"We'll see," said Donovan. He knew people in London who'd be capable of getting the information he needed from Vicky's solicitor, but by using Rojas he'd keep himself one step removed.

"Problem?" said Fullerton.

"Nah. Come on, let's get drunk." He twisted around in his seat.

"We being followed?" asked Fullerton.

"Probably," said Donovan.

Fullerton stamped on the accelerator and the Porsche roared through a traffic light that was about to turn red. He slowed so that they could see if any other vehicles went through the red light. None did. Fullerton took the next left and then swung the Porsche down a side street on the right.

"That should do it," he said, pushing the accelerator to the floor again.

Donovan nodded.

"Just don't get done for speeding," he warned.

Fullerton slowed down. Ten minutes later they pulled up in a car park at the side of what looked like a windowless industrial building. Three men in black suits stood guard at an entrance above which was a red neon sign that spelled out "Lapland'. "My local," said Fullerton.

Donovan looked sideways at Fullerton.

"You know Terry, yeah?"

Terry Greene was the owner of the lap-dancing club. He was an old friend of Donovan's, though it had been more than three years since Donovan had been in the club.

"Terry? Sure. He's in Spain, I think. You know him?"

"Used to be my local, too. Way back when." They climbed out of the Porsche and Fullerton locked it.

"Small world," said Donovan.

The three doormen greeted Fullerton by name, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. They were all in their mid-twenties and selected for their bulk rather than their intelligence. Donovan didn't recognise any of them, and from the blank-faced nods they gave him it was clear they didn't know who he was. Donovan preferred it that way. Black Porsches with personalised number plates and V.I.P access to nightclubs was a great boost for the ego, but Donovan preferred the lowest of low profiles. The Australians had a term for it the tall poppy syndrome. The poppy that stood taller than the rest was the one that had its head knocked off.

Donovan followed Fullerton inside. The decor had changed since Donovan had last visited the club. The black walls and ultraviolet lights had been replaced with plush red flock wallpaper and antique brass light fittings, and the black sofas and tables where the lap-dancers had plied their trade had gone. In their place were Louis XlV-style sofas and ornate side tables. They'd been going for an old-fashioned bordello look, but it reminded Donovan more of an Indian curry house. The music didn't appear to have changed, though. Raunchy and loud.

There were two raised dancing areas where semi-naked girls gyrated around chrome poles. Sweating men in suits clustered around the podiums, drinking spirits and shoving ten- and twenty-pound notes into G-strings. A pretty waitress in a micro-skirt and a tight bikini top tottered over on impossibly high heels and kissed Fullerton on the cheek. Fullerton fondled her backside and introduced her to Donovan. Her name was Sabrina and she was barely out of her teens. Close up Donovan could she had spots on her forehead and an almost-healed cold sore on her upper lip.

She took them over to a table in a roped-off section with a clear view of both dancing podiums. Fullerton ordered Dom Perignon and Sabrina swung her hips gamely as she tottered off to get it.

"See anything you like, Den?" Fullerton asked, gesturing at the dancing girls.

Donovan checked out the dancers. Two brunettes, two blondes, an Oriental and a black girl. The blondes could have been sisters: they were both tall with long hair almost down to their waists, full breasts and tiny waists. Real-life Barbie dolls. They had the same vacant eyes and fake smiles as the dolls, though they were both good dancers.

Fullerton grinned.

"You like blondes, huh?"

"I like women, Jamie, but yeah, they're stunning."

"Been there, have you? I'd hate to have sloppy seconds." Fullerton chuckled and nodded at the Oriental girl, who was on her hands and knees in front of a balding guy in a too-tight suit, taking a twenty-pound note from him with her teeth.

"Mimi's my dish of the day and she's the jealous type," he said.

"Yeah, looks it," said Donovan. Mimi took the banknote and tucked it into her g-string, then stood up and started to make love to one of the silver poles.

"Thai, yeah?"

"Vietnamese," Fullerton.

"Came over here as a boat person when she was six."

"Doesn't look much older now, truth be told," said Donovan.

"Get away, she's twenty-two," said Fullerton.

"And she knows stuff that'll make your eyes water."

Mimi caught sight of Fullerton, waved girlishly and then climbed down off the podium and rushed over to him. She knelt on the sofa and hugged him tightly, giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Where've you been, Fullerton?" she asked in an East End accent.

"You said you'd be here last night."

"Busy, busy, busy," said Jamie.

"Miss me, did you?"

She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smear of red as if he'd just been slapped.

"Let me dance, yeah?" she said.

"That twat over there's got more money than sense. He's given me two hundred already, thinks he's on a promise."

"Wonder how he got that idea," said Fullerton, leering at her ample cleavage.

"Go on, but you're coming home with me, remember?"

Mimi hurried back to her podium. Sabrina returned with their champagne in an ice bucket. She poured the Dom Perignon, winked at Fullerton, then left them to it.

Fullerton sighed and settled back. He put his feet up on the table in front of them and sipped his champagne.

"What's the story with the Srnurfs?" he asked.

Donovan looked at him sideways.

"What do you mean?"

"The Rembrandt. You said you got the money from the Smurfs."

Donovan laughed.

"Nah, you don't get money from Smurfs. You give them money and they clean it for you."

"Now I'm confused."

Donovan leaned over.

"Say you've got five hundred grand and it's iffy. You can't take it into the bank and deposit it. Anything over ten grand and you've got to be able to prove it's not ill-gotten gains, right?"

Fullerton nodded.

"You can take it overseas, but flying out with a case of cash is going to guarantee you a pull. So you call in the Smurfs."

Fullerton was as confused as ever.

"You get half a dozen Smurfs, and you get them to open five bank and building society accounts each. That's thirty bank accounts. Then every day you give them ten grand each and they put between one and three grand into their accounts. It's well below the ten grand limit so they don't get reported. Every day the Smurfs deposit sixty grand. In two weeks the whole five hundred grand is in the system. Then you can transfer the money to wherever you want."

"And where do you find the Smurfs?"

"Druggies, mainly," said Donovan.

"Don't they ever run off with the money?"

"Not if they know what's good for them."

Fullerton giggled.

"What?"

Fullerton waved him away.

"Just the thought of all the Smurfs traipsing around London with carrier bags full of cash, singing "Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go". Sort of puts the whole thing in perspective, you know."

"That's dwarves, not Smurfs," said Donovan, refilling their glasses.

"But, yeah, it's a crazy fucking world all the same."

Fullerton sipped his champagne.

"Do you want a lap-dance?" he asked.

"You're not really my type, Jamie, but thanks."

"You know what I mean," said Fullerton. He waved at the girls on the podiums.

"My treat."

"Maybe later," said Donovan. He frowned as he saw someone he recognised walking into the club. Ricky Jordan. Jordan waved and walked over. He was with a short stocky man with close-cropped grey hair.

"Den, didn't know this was one of your haunts, "Jordan said. Donovan stood up and the two men hugged. Donovan introduced him to Fullerton. They shook hands. Jordan introduced the other man as Kim Fletcher. Donovan had met Fletcher before, he was one of Terry Greene's crew.

Fletcher patted Jordan on the back and said that he had business to take care of in the office. Before he left he motioned for Sabrina to bring over another bottle of champagne.

"On the house," he said.

"How did it go with Jesus?" Ask Donovan "Sweet," said Jordan.

"Seems like a sharp guy."

"Be careful, Ricky. He's a vicious bastard."

"It's only business, Den. We've got the cash and the gear's on the way. Volkswagen Beetles, huh? Whose idea was that?" He slapped Donovan on the back.

"Jesus's uncle. Carlos."

"Fucking brilliant. Beetles. This one could run and run, Den."

"Yeah," said Donovan.

Sabrina arrived with champagne and a glass for Jordan.

"What was your problem with him, Den?"

"Water under the bridge, Ricky. Forget it."

"Takes me and Charlie to the next level."

"Yeah, well, just remember who helped you on the way, yeah?"

Jordan leaned over and clinked his glass against Donovan's.

"Cheers, mate."

"Yeah," said Donovan ruefully.

"Cheers."

Fullerton banged his glass against Donovan's.

"Down the hatch," he said.

"What's this about VWs? If you want a car, I can get you a deal on a Porsche."

Jordan threw back his head and laughed.

"Bloody hell, Den. Where did you get him from?"

"We're not buying VWs, Jamie," said Donovan.

"Bloody right, we're not," said Jordan.

"I'm confused," said Fullerton.

"Good, let's keep it that way," said Donovan. He threw a warning glance at Jordan. Fullerton had done a great job selling Donovan's paintings, but he still wasn't sure how much he could be trusted.

"How's it going, boys?"

The three men looked up. It was one of the pneumatic blondes. Jordan leered up at her.

"Getting better by the minute," he said.

"You're new, aren't you?"

"I'm twenty-two," she said. She shook her platinum-blonde hair, which reached almost to her waist. A small gold stud pierced her belly button.

"I meant.. Jordan started, but then he grinned.

"Forget it," he said.

"Go on, then, darling, do your stuff."

The other blonde who'd been dancing on the podium walked over, swinging her hips and flashing Donovan a beaming smile.

"I'm Angie," she said. She slipped her arm around the other girl's waist.

"She's Kris."

"With a K," said Kris.

Fullerton leaned over the table.

"I know you, don't I?" he asked Kris.

Kris put her head on one side and pouted as she looked at him.

"Don't think so."

"How long have you worked here?"

Kris frowned as if he'd asked her to solve a difficult mathematical equation.

"A week. I was at one of Terry's other clubs. He asked me to move here for a bit."

"Which club?"

"Angels. Marble Arch."

"Didn't know Angels was Terry's."

"Yeah, it was his first club," said Donovan.

"I used to drink there all the time."

"I've seen you somewhere, I know I have," said Fullerton.

"Leave the girl alone, Jamie," said Donovan. He held out his hand.

"Come and give me a dance, Kris."

"Give?" she said, tossing her long blonde hair.

"Nothing here's for free, you know."

"I saw her first," said Jordan.

"Let her choose," said Donovan. He grinned up at Kris.

"Lady's choice."

She looked at him, then at Jordan, then back at Donovan. Her smile widened and Donovan knew that he'd won. He grinned at Jordan.

"Never mind, mate."

"Yeah, she probably goes for older men," said Jordan.

"I do actually," said Kris, taking off her bikini top and releasing her impressive breasts.

"Bloody hell," said Fullerton, then he yelped as Mimi prodded him in the ribs.

"Hey, I was only looking," he said.

Mimi had climbed down off the podium without him noticing. She sat down next to him and put her hand on his thigh.

"Are you going to buy me a drink or do I have to go back to the sad bastards over there?" she asked, pointing at the suited businessmen sitting around the podium.

"You drink what you like, lover. I am yours to command."

Angie took off her top and straddled Jordan. His hands went up to her breasts.

"No touching," she said.

"Club rules."

Jordan took out his wallet and slipped the girl two fifty-pound notes.

"I can touch what the hell I want," he said.

"Ricky's rules."

Angie slid the notes into the top of her white stockings and thrust her breasts into Jordan's face. He sighed and slid down the sofa.

Kris laughed. She held out her hand to Donovan.

"Kris," she said.

"Yeah, you said."

"And you are?"

Donovan grinned.

"The guy you'll be dancing for." He settled back on the sofa. Kris started to dance, a slow sinuous grind, her green eyes fixed on his. She had full lips and white, even teeth and she smelled of fresh flowers.

She put her lips close to his ear.

"Really, what's your name?" she whispered.

"Mr. Mysterious," said Donovan.

Kris wrinkled her nose.

"I know who you are, anyway." She pushed her breasts together with her upper arms, emphasising her cleavage.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're Den Donovan."

Donovan frowned.

"How do you know that?"

"One of the girls told me. You're a friend of Terry's, aren't you?"

"Which girl?" asked Donovan suspiciously.

"Elizabeth." She jerked a thumb towards the podium.

"The black girl. She's been here for years. Knows everyone. Remembers you. Said you were a big tipper and that you liked blondes."

Donovan relaxed.

"That sounds about right."

Kris was an accomplished dancer, totally at ease with her body. Donovan looked across at Fullerton, who had a glazed look on his face as Mimi ground herself against his hips, her mouth open and inviting.

Kris leaned forward, pouting and pushing her breasts together and giving him a close-up of her cleavage. Donovan felt himself grow hard and shook his head, annoyed at himself for reacting so physically to her charms. She saw the effect she was having on him and grinned.

Jordan was having simulated sex with Angie. She was sitting astride him and kissing him full on the mouth as she pounded against him.

The track came to an end and Donovan reached for his wallet. Kris shook her head.

"First one's on me, Den."

"What?"

"It's not always about money. Specially for a friend of Terry's."

Den took a fifty-pound note from his wallet and handed it to her.

"You're working," he said, 'and I'm a punter. Take it."

Kris looked like she would argue, but then she smiled and took the money.

"Thanks."

"Pleasure was all mine."

"Another?"

"Later, yeah?"

Kris kissed him on the cheek and sashayed back to the podium. She waved without looking back, knowing that he was still watching her, and he smiled to himself.

Jordan patted Donovan's leg.

"Good here, in nit

Fullerton had opened his eyes again. He leaned over to Jordan and winked conspiratorially.

"Hey, Ricky. Fancy a line?"

"Dead right," said Jordan.

"Den?" said Fullerton, and he tapped the side of his nose.

Donovan glared at Fullerton.

"For God's sake, Jamie. Are you still carrying?"

"Just a bit. Couple of lines."

"Didn't you hear what I said to you before? I don't go near gear."

"Leave him be, Den," said Jordan.

"Yeah, well, you can say that when we're all behind bars."

"We're among friends here," said Jordan.

"Ain't that right, Jamie?"

Fullerton gave Jordan a thumbs-up.

"You're as bad as each other," sighed Donovan.

A waitress was waving at Kris and miming that she had a phone call. Kris climbed down off the podium and hurried towards the bar area where a barman was holding the phone up.

"Come on, Den," said Jordan.

"Lighten up."

Donovan shrugged. Maybe he was being over-cautious. Jordan was right, Lapland was safe territory. An undercover cop wouldn't get within half a mile of the place, and those cops who did drink in the club were as bent as Dicko Underwood.

Jordan and Fullerton stood up and headed for the bathrooms. Donovan followed them, shaking his head. He liked Fullerton, but he seemed to be thinking with his nose.

Jordan pushed open the door to the gents' and checked that the cubicles were empty. As Donovan stood at the urinal, Fullerton used a platinum American Express card to shape six lines of cocaine on the marble surround of one of the sinks. They were long, thick lines. Fullerton was either a very heavy user or he was trying to impress.

Jordan rolled up a twenty-pound note and sniffed up two of the lines and then handed the rolled-up note to Fullerton.

"Oh, that's good," said Jordan.

"I'll take five kilos of that."

"Personal use?" asked Fullerton.

Fullerton attacked his two lines, then laughed as he licked his finger and ran it along the marble to get the last of the powder, which he then rubbed along his gums.

"You missed a bit, "joked Donovan, as he zipped up his flies.

"Oh, wow," said Jordan.

"Can you feel that?"

"Are you sure you don't want some, Den?" asked Fullerton.

Donovan shook his head.

"Never touch it," he said.

"All done?" Fullerton asked Jordan.

"Oh yes," said Jordan. He grabbed Fullerton by the back of the neck.

"You're all right, Jamie. You're a bit mouthy, but you're all right."

Fullerton had a lop-sided grin on his face and he was blinking rapidly.

"You're all right too, Ricky."

"Bloody hell, are you two going to get married, or what?" said Donovan. He pulled open the door.

"Out you go or I'm throwing a bucket of water over you."

The two men left and Donovan followed them. Jordan put his arm around Fullerton's shoulders and then tried to trip him up. Donovan sighed. They were behaving like a couple of schoolkids.

Kris was still on the phone and she was pacing up and down as she talked. Donovan went over to her.

"You should call the police," she said into the phone. She flashed Donovan a tight smile and pointed at the receiver.

"Friend of mine's got a problem," she mouthed.

"You can't let him get away with shit like that, Louise," said Kris into the phone.

"Next time he might have a knife."

"Anything I can do?" whispered Donovan.

"No, it's okay, Den," said Kris, then she held up her hand to silence him as she listened to whoever it was she was talking to. Kris sighed.

"Den Donovan, he's an old pal of Terry's."

"Not that old, thanks," said Donovan.

Kris shook her head and turned her back on him. Then she looked at her watch.

"Okay, I'll come. Of course I will." She listened again, and then she turned around to look at Donovan.

"Yeah, I'll ask him." Kris nodded.

"I know, I'll see what he says." She handed the phone back to the barman.

"Louise is a friend of mine; we worked together at another of Terry's clubs, Angels. A customer has just followed her home and tried to rape her. He's not there now but she's scared stiff that he might come back. I don't suppose you'd .. ."

"Of course," said Donovan without hesitation.

"Knight in shining armour, me."

"Really? I don't want to spoil your evening."

"Come on. What's the choice? Drinking champagne with a couple of coke-heads or rescuing a damsel in distress?"

Kris grinned.

"Thanks. She sounded really desperate. Thing is, we're not allowed to leave with customers. You know the car park around the back?"

Donovan nodded. That was where Fullerton had parked his Porsche.

"Give me five minutes and I'll meet you there. Blue MGB." She hurried off.

Fullerton was ordering a fresh bottle of champagne when Donovan got back to the table. Mimi was draped on his arm and caressing his thigh. Angie was giving Jordan a personal dance and had stopped complaining about him pawing her. Donovan sat down and sipped his champagne. After five minutes he put down his glass and patted Fullerton on the shoulder.

"I'm off," he said.

"I'll come with you," said Fullerton. He tried to stand up but Donovan pushed him back down.

"You enjoy yourself," he said.

"I'll get a black cab. Catch you later. And thanks again for the paintings. You saved my life."

Before Fullerton could say anything, Mimi leaned over and clamped her mouth over his. Donovan waved at Jordan, gave him a thumbs-up and headed for the door. The doormen all said goodbye to him and used his name, so they'd obviously been briefed that he was a friend of the owner.

Kris already had the engine running. She had changed into tight blue jeans and a light blue long-sleeved woollen top that showed off her washboard-flat midriff.

"Quick, get in," she hissed. As soon as Donovan had closed the door she pushed down on the accelerator and shot out of the car park. She turned away from the club.

"God, I'm in so much trouble if anyone saw you," she said.

"It's okay. Nobody did," said Donovan.

Kris stamped down on the accelerator and shot through a traffic light that was just turning red. She screeched around a corner and whipped the MGB in front of a double-decker bus. Donovan squinted into Kris's driving mirror. Any car that might have been following would have been trapped behind the bus. She went through another set of lights at amber.

Donovan reached over and put a hand on her leg.

"Take it easy, it's not gonna help her if you get pulled over."

Kris nodded and eased back on the accelerator.

"If he's hurt her, I'll kill him."

"Does it happen a lot? Punters giving you grief?"

"Not to me, but to some of the girls, yeah. You can't let them get too close, you know. They've got to know it's just business."

"What about you? Is it always business to you?"

She flashed him another sidelong glance.

"You mean, why are you sitting in the car with me?"

"Well, you haven't known me for long, have you?"

"I know of you, Den Donovan. Your reputation precedes you. Besides, I'm using you as weight, not inviting you into my bed."

Donovan looked over his shoulder. The road behind was clear.

"Is that right?" he asked.

She grinned.

"We'll see."

"And that's how you see me? Weight?"

"Again, your reputation precedes you."

She swung the MGB over to the kerb and stopped inches from the rear of a black cab, stamping on the brake pedal so savagely that Donovan was jerked back by the seatbelt. She was out of the car before Donovan even had the belt off. He hurried after her.

Kris pressed one of six doorbells to the left of the front door.

"Come on, come on," she said, jabbing at the button with her thumb.

The intercom crackled.

"Louise, it's me. Come on, let us in."

The door buzzed and Kris pushed it open. Donovan followed her inside. The hallway was shabby with a threadbare carpet and fading wallpaper. Kris rushed up a flight of steep stairs.

Louise's flat was on the first floor and she had the door open with a security chain on. She undipped the chain and opened the door wide for Kris. Kris hugged her. From the stairway Donovan could see a girl in her early twenties with a tear-stained face. She had black hair, cut in a bob that was slightly longer at the front than the back.

"This is Den," said Kris, nodding at Donovan.

"Come on, let's sit down."

Kris shepherded Louise into the flat. Donovan followed them and closed the door. Every light and lamp had been switched on. Kris took Louise over to a large leather sofa and sat down next to her. She pointed at a kitchenette and mouthed 'tea' to Donovan.

Donovan walked into the kitchenette. It was bright and spotless as if Louise rarely used it. He switched on a gleaming chrome kettle and went through cupboards until he found tea bags

By the time he carried a tray with three steaming mugs back into the sitting room, Kris was sitting with her arm around Louise's shoulder and Louise was dabbing at her eyes with a large handkerchief. Donovan put the tray down on the coffee table in front of the girls.

"Are you okay?" he asked Louise.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed.

"You don't have to be sorry about anything," said Donovan.

"What happened?"

"He pushed his way in and threatened to kill her, that's what happened," said Kris.

"It was my fault," said Louise.

"I thought if I talked to him, I could .. . you know .. ." She shook her head.

"He wouldn't have it. Said I had to be his girlfriend. Said if he couldn't have me no one could."

Den went over and gently moved the handkerchief away from her face. Her left cheek was red and there were angry marks on her throat.

"He hit you?"

"He slapped me. Then he grabbed my throat and pushed me against the wall." She smiled.

"I kneed him in the nuts and managed to lock myself in the bathroom with my mobile. Told him I was calling the cops."

"You didn't, did you?" asked Donovan.

Louise shook her head.

"Fat lot of use they'd be," she said. She patted Kris's leg.

"I called Kris." Louise smiled at Kris.

"Thanks for coming."

"Don't be stupid."

Louise wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, then held out her hand to Donovan.

"Nice to meet you, anyway."

"Pleasure," said Donovan, shaking her hand.

"Who is he, this guy who hit you?"

"A punter. Seemed okay when I first met him. Good tipper. Fun to talk to."

"How did he find out where you lived?" asked Donovan.

"I didn't give him my address, if that's what you mean," she said defensively.

"No, I didn't mean that," said Donovan quickly.

"How did he find you?"

"He must have followed me back from the club. He used to send me flowers here. Letters. Teddy bears. Tonight was the first time he turned up on my doorstep."

"Do you know where he lives?"

Louise nodded.

"He wrote his address on the letters." She sniffed.

"Kept saying he wanted me to live with him."

Kris sighed and shook her head.

"What is it with twats like that? They think they can walk into a lap-dancing club and meet the woman of their dreams. What do they think we're doing there? Biding time until we meet our prince? Fuck that. Frogs is all we get." The two girls laughed and hugged each other. Louise pointed at Donovan, still laughing. Kris realised what she meant.

"Present company excepted, of course," she added. That set them off again, giggling and hugging each other.

Donovan sat with an amused smile on his face until the girls stopped laughing. They were both pretty and he could imagine them making a good living from the clubs. Louise was wearing a Gap sweatshirt and baggy jeans but her figure was clearly as impressive as Kris's full breasts, long legs and a trim waist. Both girls had bright red nail varnish on their fingernails, but whereas Kris had full make-up, Louise had no lipstick or mascara. She looked as if she'd just got out of bed; totally natural, and even with the tearful eyes, thought Donovan, drop-dead gorgeous.

"Can I see the letters?" Donovan asked Louise.

She frowned at him, lowering her chin so that she was looking at him through her dark fringe, like a shy schoolgirl.

"Why?"

"Just want to see what sort of nutter you're dealing with," said Donovan.

"Thing is, if he's not told the error of his ways, he might come back. And next time you might not get the chance to lock yourself in the bathroom."

"I don't know .. ." said Louise hesitantly.

"Let him help," said Kris.

Louise stood up and went over to a sideboard. She took out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Donovan. He flicked through them as Louise sat down next to Kris and sipped her tea. The letters were handwritten, a neat copperplate on good quality paper. A fountain pen rather than a ballpoint.

"How old is he, this guy?"

"Mid-forties, I guess."

Donovan nodded. The content of the letters was at odds with the presentation. They sounded like the adolescent ramblings of a lovesick teenager rather than the thoughts of a middle-aged man: he wanted to take care of her, he hated the job she did, the life she had. He wanted to take care of her. Protect her. And he wanted her love and devotion. At the top of each letter was the man's address. A house in Netting Hill.

He'd signed the letters "Nick'. With three kisses after it, the way a schoolgirl might sign a letter to a boy she had a crush on.

"What's his name?" asked Donovan.

"Nick Parker," she replied.

"What does he do?" he asked.

"Stockbroker or something. A banker, maybe. To be honest, Den, I hardly listened to him. He was a punter. I danced for him, he tipped me and bought me drinks. I didn't lead him on." She nodded at the letters.

"Not that way, anyway. I never led him to believe it was anything other than dancing. You know?"

Donovan handed the letters back to her.

"Yeah, I know." Donovan gestured at some pieces of broken pottery under a bookcase by the window.

"Did he do that?"

Louise nodded.

"Broke a few things. I cleared up some."

Donovan looked across at Kris.

"You've met this freak, yeah?"

"Yeah. Like Louise says, he seemed okay at first. Then he got a bit clingy. Glaring at anyone she talked to, bitching if she so much as looked at another punter while he was in the club."

"Okay." He finished his tea, then stood up.

"Do you want to give me a lift?" he asked Kris.

"Where to?"

Donovan gave her a tight smile. She knew where he wanted to go.

"Okay," she said.

Nick Parker's house was a two-storey cottage in one of the prettier roads in Netting Hill. Expensive, thought Donovan, as he climbed out of Kris's MGB. Not as expensive as Donovan's own home in Kensington, but easily worth a million pounds.

Kris got out of the car and stood next to Donovan as he looked up at bedroom windows.

"What are you going to do, Den?" she asked.

"I'm going to teach him a lesson," he said.

"And I'm here because .. . ?"

"Because I wouldn't want to teach the wrong guy a lesson," said Donovan.

"I'm not sure about this," she said hesitantly.

Donovan turned to look at her.

"Take it from me, if you let him get away with slapping a girl once, he'll keep on doing it."

Kris frowned.

"That sounds like the voice of experience," she said.

"My stepdad used to hit my mum. Way back when. I was too young to do anything at the time. I was only ten. By the time I was old enough to punch his lights out she was dead and I was in care."

"God, he killed her?"

Donovan shook his head.

"Nah. Cancer. But even when she was sick, it didn't stop him pushing her around." He looked back at the house.

"You've got to stand up to bullies, Kris." He walked towards the front door. It was painted a rich dark green with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head with a ring in its mouth. There was a doorbell to the left of the door but Donovan rapped with the knocker. Kris joined him on the doorstep. Donovan rapped again, three times.

The door opened wide. Nick Parker was middle aged and slightly overweight with a paunch held in by pinstripe trousers that seemed to be a size too small for him.

"Yes?" he said. His hair was thinning on top and he'd tried to conceal his bald spot with a comb-over.

"Is this him?" Donovan asked Kris. Kris nodded.

"What do you want?" Parker asked.

Donovan pushed him in the chest. Parker staggered back and Donovan rushed after him down the hallway. Kris followed him inside and closed the door. Framed pictures of hunting dogs lined the wall to his left and there was a huge gilt-framed mirror to the right. Donovan grabbed Parker's collar and flung him against the mirror. The glass cracked and pieces tinkled to the floor. Parker tried to speak but no words came out, just incoherent mumbling.

Donovan kept a grip on Parker's shirt collar and dragged him along the hallway. Parker scrambled along on all fours, choking. Donovan pulled him into the sitting room, then kicked him in the side. Parker fell on his back, gasping for breath.

Donovan looked around the room. The -windows overlooked the street, but there were net curtains so no one could see in. Two overstuffed sofas in a beige fabric sat on either side of a large Victorian black metal fireplace. The room was quite feminine with porcelain figurines in a glass cabinet and crystal vases full of flowers on side tables.

"Is he married?" asked Donovan.

"Divorced," said Kris, who was standing in the doorway, staring down at Parker.

"Wife left him a year or two back."

Parker rolled over on to his stomach and tried to get to his feet. Donovan leaned down, grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up on his knees, then dragged him across the carpet and slammed his head into the fireplace. Parker's nose crunched against the metal and blood streamed down his face.

"Please .. . no .. . no .. ." he stuttered.

Donovan kicked him in the ribs and felt a satisfying crack. Parker rolled up in a foetal ball.

"Den .. ." said Kris.

Donovan turned around and pointed a finger at her.

"Don't say anything," he said.

"Stay in the hall if you want, but this has to be done."

Kris put a hand over her mouth but stayed where she was. Donovan smiled at the look of horror on her face. It was a look he'd seen many times before on people unused to violence. Real violence. Not the sort they were used to on television or in the movies, but the real thing with treacly red blood and splintered cartilage and broken bones.

Donovan turned back to Parker, who was coughing and spluttering.

"Who are you?" Parker gasped.

Donovan stepped over him and pulled a brass poker off its stand at the edge of the fireplace. He hefted it in his hand. It was a solid, heavy piece of metal.

"My wallet's in the bedroom," said Parker.

"Take what you want." He tried to get up but all the strength had gone from his legs and he fell back on to the carpet.

"I don't want your money," said Donovan.

"This isn't about money." He walked over to Parker and stood over him.

"You know Louise, yeah? From Angels?"

Parker put his hand up to his face.

"You've broken my nose," he said, his voice faltering.

"I'm going to break more than that," said Donovan.

"You know Louise, yeah?"

"Who are you? Her boyfriend?"

Donovan leaned down and grabbed a handful of Parker's thinning hair. He put his face close up to Parker's.

"No, I'm not her boyfriend. She doesn't want a boyfriend. She wants to be left alone. Do you understand that?"

"I love her," said Parker. Tears began to trickle down his face, mingling with the blood from his nose and mouth. Donovan felt a wave of revulsion for the man.

"You don't love her," said Donovan.

"You're obsessed with her. You've built some sad little fantasy around her, that's all. She doesn't love you. She doesn't even like you. She's scared of you."

"If I could just talk to her .. ." said Parker.

Donovan shook his head.

"No, you're never going to talk to her again. You're not going anywhere near her, ever again."

"She loves me .. ." wailed Parker.

Donovan twisted Parker's hair savagely and raised the poker above his head.

"Den, no!" shouted Kris.

"Go into the hall, Kris," said Donovan, without looking at her.

"Den .. ." she protested.

"Do it, Kris."

Parker tried to grab the poker but Donovan knelt down beside him and banged his head against the carpeted floor.

"Listen to me, and listen good!" Donovan hissed.

"You go near her again, and I'll kill you. Do you hear me?"

Parker nodded.

"I want to hear you say it," said Donovan.

"I hear you," said Parker, his voice trembling. He tried to clear his throat but began to choke on his own phlegm.

"Do you understand?" hissed Donovan.

Parker nodded.

"I can't hear you," said Donovan.

Parker spat bloody phlegm on to the carpet.

"I understand."

"I hope you believe me, Nick, because I can and will do it. And this is just a taste of what it'll be like." Donovan brought the poker smashing down on to Parker's right knee. The kneecap cracked like a pistol shot and Parker screamed. Donovan clamped a hand over the man's mouth.

"Hush," said Donovan.

Parker's whole body was trembling. Bloody froth pulsed between Donovan's fingers but he kept his hand over Parker's mouth until he'd stopped screaming. Donovan hit him again, whacking the left knee dead centre. Parker's eyes rolled upwards and he passed out.

Donovan stood up. He pulled out Parker's shirt-tail and used it to wipe the handle of the poker.

Kris was standing by the front door, hugging herself. She looked at him, then quickly looked away. Donovan gently held her chin between his thumb and first finger and turned her face towards him. She looked into his eyes, frowning as if she were trying to work out what he was thinking. Donovan smiled.

"He asked for it, Kris," he said.

"I know," she said quietly.

"You saw the marks on Louise's face. He hit her."

"I know," she said, with more certainty this time.

"This way he won't do it again."

Kris put her hands on his shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek.

"You don't have to explain, Den. I was just.. . shocked. Surprised. That's all."

Donovan nodded.

"A week or two in hospital. He'll be fine." That was a lie, Donovan knew. Parker would be in bed for a month, and wouldn't be walking for at least six. So far as Donovan was concerned, it served Parker right, but he didn't think Kris would want to hear that.

"Do you want to run me home?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said in mock seriousness.

"What'll you do to me if I say no? Punch me in the face?"

Donovan laughed and licked the blood off his knuckles.

Kris pulled the MGB over at the kerb but kept the engine running. She looked out of the window at Donovan's house.

"Nice," she said.

"Yeah. Do you wanna buy it?" said Donovan, deadpan.

"Oh yeah, like I can afford a place like that. How much is it worth?"

"I dunno. Prices have gone crazy over the last year or so. Three mill, maybe."

Kris whistled softly.

"You live there alone?"

Donovan shook his head.

"No. Not really."

"That sounds a bit vague, Den."

"Yeah, well, I'm sort of in a transition stage at the moment. My wife has left me."

Kris grinned.

"The number of times I've heard that. My wife doesn't understand me. We've grown apart. She hasn't touched me since the children were born. Blah, blah, blah."

"My son found her in bed with another man."

Kris's mouth fell open.

"You're serious?"

"Deadly."

She nodded at the house.

"So is your boy in there now?"

Donovan shook his head.

"Nah, he's staying with my sister until I get things sorted."

"Sorted?"

"I don't know if I'm cut out to be a single parent," said Donovan.

"You're his dad. That's all that matters."

"I guess," said Donovan.

Kris looked at her watch.

"I'd better be getting back to Louise. Check that she's okay. I said I'd stay the night with her."

"She's a nice kid."

"You interested? I could put in a good word for you. She's young, free and single."

Donovan grinned.

"I think my life's probably complicated enough as it is, but thanks for the offer."

"Not your type?"

"Where are we, the playground?"

"Word is you like blondes."

"My wife was a blonde. But I've never let hair colour get in the way of a good shag. She's a stunner, okay. Happy now?"

"I'll tell her," said Kris.

"Seriously, Den. Thanks for tonight."

"Happy to have been a help," said Donovan.

"It's been years since I was in a fistfight. Brought back memories."

"Not sure it was a fight, more of a beating up," said Kris. Donovan climbed out of the sports car laughing and waved as she drove away.

"You got the registration number?" said Shuker as he clicked away with the SLR camera.

"No sweat," saidjenner.

"Bit of all right, wasn't she?"Jenner was sitting at a dressing table and writing in the log. A pair of high-powered binoculars lay on the table next to a Thermos flask and two plastic cups.

"Yeah, he's got a thing about blondes." Shuker continued to take photographs until Donovan closed the front door.

"Wonder why she didn't go inside?"

Shuker and Jenner were Customs officers, and both were experienced surveillance operatives. Shuker was the elder of the two at thirty-six, but Jenner had been with HM Customs longer as he'd joined straight from school. They were in a flat diagonally opposite Donovan's that was owned by an Inland Revenue tax inspector. The bedroom was normally occupied by the inspector's ten-year-old daughter, but she'd been moved in with her sister and the whole family had been sworn to secrecy. The nature of the target hadn't been divulged to the family, just that it was a neighbour who was under surveillance. Shuker and Jenner were in the room for twelve hours a day, from midnight until noon, with two other Customs officers taking the alternate shift. Both men had plans for all the overtime they'd earn keeping an eye on Den Donovan. Shuker was saving for a Honda Gold Wing motorbike and Jenner had promised his wife and kids two weeks in Florida.

Donovan opened the fridge and sighed when he saw that there was no soda water. He opened the freezer section and cursed. No ice cubes, either. He sipped his Jack Daniels neat and went through to the sitting room. He sat down on a sofa and swung his legs up on to the coffee table. It was littered with glossy magazines. Vogue. Elle. Marie Claire. They were all Vicky's. He kicked them away. He should have put them into the black rubbish bags with the rest of her stuff. He wanted nothing of hers in the house.

He rested his head on the back of the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.

"What the hell am I going to do?" he asked out loud. Julia Lau had been unequivocal. There was no way he could take Robbie out of the country while Vicky's injunction was in force. And if he left the country without Robbie, he'd have a tough time convincing a judge that he was a fit parent. He had no choice. He had to stay. He had to make a home for Robbie, at least until he could get the injunction overturned. Or find out where Vicky was. He sipped his drink. The remote control was by his side, so he switched on the TV and flicked through the channels until he found Sky Sport. Liverpool against Chelsea. Donovan didn't support either team. He didn't really support any team. At school he'd been a United fan, but then the whole world had started to support the Reds and Donovan had lost interest. He'd hated running with the crowd, even as a kid. He half-watched the game. What was it they were paid these days? Millions. Millions of pounds for playing a game. The world had gone crazy.

Maybe he'd take Robbie to a soccer match. Might be fun. In fact, taking care of Robbie wouldn't be too difficult, he decided. All he had to do was to take him to and from school, feed him and clothe him. How tough could that be? Besides, it'd be good to spend some time with him. Quality time. Father and son time.

The cops and Customs would have him under the microscope, but so long as he didn't break the law there was nothing they could do. He took another sip of his Jack Daniels, then remembered the Spaniard and cursed. Rojas would want paying for the Marty Clare job, and soon. Plus there was the work he was doing tracking down Vicky.

Donovan stood up, muted the television, and went through to his study. He took a notepad and pen from his desk drawer and started jotting down how much money he had. There was the cash he'd brought with him from Anguilla. The money he'd collected from the safe deposit box in Dublin. And the cash left over from the sale of the paintings. In all, about four hundred grand. Donovan nodded. Enough to pay Rojas and to keep himself going for a few months. Paying his legal fees might be a problem, but Lawrence Patterson would probably give him some breathing space. He put down his pen. So long as nothing untoward happened, everything was going to work out just fine. And as soon as Rojas tracked down Vicky and Sharkey, he'd get his sixty million dollars back. Donovan smiled. He was looking forward to seeing Sharkey again.

Tina Leigh sat down in front of the computer and sipped her cappuccino. Her hands were trembling and coffee spilled over the lip of her cup, so she moved it away from the keyboard. She was at an internet cafe in Selfridges in Oxford Street. There were places closer to her flat that she could have used, but she liked to vary her schedule and she hadn't been to Selfridges in a long time. She'd walked from her flat: it was almost a mile but she'd wanted the time to get her thoughts in order.

She'd met him. She'd met Den Donovan. Tango One. After three years of waiting, three years of working in seedy lap dancing bars, of being pawed and ogled and propositioned, she'd finally met him. And he liked her, she could tell that. Maybe Gregg Hathaway had been right, maybe she was Donovan's type. Her heart began to race and she fumbled for a cigarette. She lit one and inhaled deeply, then took a sip of her coffee. She smiled to herself. Nicotine and caffeine. Hardly conducive to slowing down her heart rate but just at that moment she needed both.

She wondered how Hathaway would react when he got her e-mail. She'd given him a wealth of intelligence over the years, and at least a dozen criminals were behind bars as a direct result of information she'd picked up in the clubs. She had long ago stopped being surprised at how willing hardened criminals, who could withstand hours of police interrogation without revealing anything other than their name, address and date of birth, would open up like shucked oysters as soon as they'd had a couple of bottles of champagne and a look at her tits.

So far Hathaway had done a good job of protecting her as a source. Any police action came long after she'd filed her reports, and cases were always backed up with official surveillance reports and forensics. She had never been so much as mentioned in a police report. The invisible woman. But Den Donovan was different. Den Donovan was Tango One. Tina wondered if Hathaway would still protect her as a source if it meant putting Donovan away. And if he did blow her cover, would that be the end of her career as an undercover agent? Or worse? Would it be the end of her police career period?

All those years ago, when she'd sat in the high-rise office with Assistant Commissioner Peter Latham, it had been made clear to her that she could never be a regular police officer. Her past precluded that. The one question she'd never asked was what would become of her when she was no longer useful undercover. A pension? Would they find her another job where her employer wouldn't be quite so concerned about the time she spent on the streets, trawling for punters and giving blow jobs in cars? Or would she be discarded once they had no more use for her?

Tina put her cigarette down on to an ashtray and sat with her fingers poised over the keyboard. She knew exactly what she was going to write. She'd had plenty of time to get her thoughts in order during the walk to the department store. What she didn't know was how Hathaway would react. Or what he'd ask her to do next. She'd met Den Donovan. She'd spoken to him. Spent time with him. She knew that that wasn't enough, however: Hathaway would want more. He'd want her to get up close and personal. The question was how close and how personal? She began to type.

Donovan woke up at eight with a raging thirst and a hangover. He drank from the bathroom tap, then shaved and showered. He padded downstairs in his to welling robe and went into the kitchen. He desperately wanted a glass of milk or orange juice but the fridge was empty. There was a corner shop a couple of hundred yards down the road but Donovan couldn't face the walk. He made himself a black coffee and carried it through to the sitting room.

He unplugged the four mobiles that had been on charge overnight and connected another four. He sat down on the sofa, sipped his coffee, then called up Robbie's mobile, using the same phone he'd used last time he'd called his son. Robbie answered almost immediately.

"Dad!"

"Hiya, kid. You okay?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home," said Donovan.

"Which home?"

"Our home. What are you doing?"

"Nothing much."

"Change of plan. As of today, it's school. Okay?"

"Dad .. ." moaned Robbie.

"Don't "Dad" me. School. Has your mum called?"

"No. I don't want to speak to her anyway."

"Okay. If she does call, give her this number. Tell her to call me. If she asks to see you, say no, okay?"

"I don't want to see her. Ever."

"I know, kid. Don't talk to her, don't let her near you. And be careful of strangers, yeah?"

"Dad, I'm nine years old. I'm not a kid."

"She might want to take you with her."

"Sod that!"

Donovan smiled at his son's vehement reply.

"I'm just saying, she might send someone to the school, to take you away. Don't go with anyone other than me or Aunty Laura. Okay?"

"Wouldn't it be better if I just stayed at home?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? School. I have to act like a proper father and that means sending you to school every day."

"So we're staying? In London?"

"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.

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 would 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.

"Hookswitch bypass detector," explained Knight.

"It'll also tell you if the line's tapped. Two for the price of one."

Donovan nodded. He'd seen similar devices before, but not that particular model.

"Green light means it's safe to talk. Red light means they're listening in. The LCD tells you if the phone's active. If it is, your best bet is simply to pull it out of the wall." He winked at Donovan.

"Or make sure that anything you say, you want them to hear. I'll put one on every phone, then I'll sweep the walls."

"You want a coffee?"

"Black with four sugars," said Knight. He grinned.

"What can I say? Sweet tooth."

"I'm surprised you've got any teeth left at all."

Donovan went back into the kitchen and made coffee for Knight. As he was carrying it through to the study, Robbie came rushing downstairs.

"There's cereal on the table. Sugar Puffs."

Robbie frowned at Donovan's robe.

"You're not driving me to school in that, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why aren't you dressed?"

Donovan gestured with his thumb at Knight, who was taking apart the telephone on the desk.

"I'm sort of busy here, Robbie."

"Typical," sneered Robbie. He turned his back on Donovan and went into the kitchen.

"I'll call you a minicab," said Donovan.

"I'm not going to school in a grotty minicab."

"So walk."

"Mum always ran me to school," said Robbie.

"Yeah, well, she had fuck-all else to do except spend my money and shag my accountant."

Robbie took a step back as if Donovan had pushed him in the chest. Tears pricked his eyes.

Donovan realised he'd gone too far.

"Oh God, Robbie," he said quickly.

"I'm sorry."

Robbie picked up his backpack.

"I'll walk."

Donovan put a hand on his son's shoulder but Robbie shrugged him off.

"Look, I'll call a cab. I know a firm, they've got Mercs. How about that, you can go in a Merc?"

Robbie ran down the hall and slammed the front door behind him. Donovan cursed and took Knight's coffee into the study.

Knight was still pretending to examine the phone on Donovan's desk.

"You got kids, Alex?" asked Donovan.

"I haven't been blessed yet," said Knight with a straight face. He pushed his black-framed spectacles further up his nose.

"Probably best," said Donovan. He looked at his watch.

"I've got to make a call."

"Landline here's okay," said Knight.

Donovan picked up one of his mobiles.

"Nah, I'll use this."

Knight nodded at the mobile.

"You know they can key into those, even the GSM digitals?"

"Yeah, but only if they know the number. I'm going through Sim cards like there's no tomorrow."

Donovan took the phone into the back garden, padding over the grass in his bare feet. He called Underwood at the number where the detective had said he'd be. It was a public phone box about half a mile from Underwood's flat in Shepherd's Bush. Underwood answered immediately.

"I'm late for work," the detective complained.

"What did you find out?" asked Donovan.

"He's an art dealer, known to us. Thought to be receiving, but never been proved. Just whispers. To be honest, it's a resources thing. Take too much time and effort to target him. There are bigger receivers around. He's got a legitimate business that makes money, I think he just dabbles with stolen stuff. There's a couple of drugs busts, but both were small amounts of cannabis and he was warned both times. String of motoring of fences but he's still got his licence. Just."

"No chance that he's one of yours?"

"He's not a registered informer, and they're all registered these days. No registration, no case, you know that."

"Cheers, Dicko."

"What's the story on this guy?" asked the detective.

"He's sold some paintings for me, that's all. I had him around the house and I just wanted to be sure he was clean."

Donovan thanked the detective and replaced the receiver. Donovan hadn't expected any revelations from Underwood. He had a sixth sense where undercover agents and grasses were concerned, and Jamie Fullerton hadn't set off any alarm bells. He was a bit too keen, but that was no bad thing. He'd certainly done a great job selling Donovan's paintings and delivering the bank drafts to Rodriguez. Fullerton's drug-taking was a potential problem, however. The last thing Donovan needed was to be caught anywhere near a Class A drug.

Donovan gulped his tea in the kitchen, then took the back off the mobile phone and took out the Sim card. Donovan took the card upstairs and flushed it down the toilet before shaving and showering. When he went back downstairs he was wearing black jeans and a Ralph Lauren blue denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Knight was in the sitting room working on the phone there.

"Soon be done downstairs, Den."

"All clear?"

"So far. You sure they're looking at you?" . "No doubt." Donovan nodded at the black box that Knight was attaching to the phone.

"They're foolproof, yeah?"

"For the standard surveillance stuff, yeah. Money-back guarantee. And the hook switch gizmo is infallible. Your worry would be if it were spooks and they were watching you through satellite or microwave relay. Cops or Customs couldn't do that, but Six and Five could. That wouldn't show up this end."

Donovan pulled a face. Since MI6 and MI5 had been allowed to switch their attentions to drug running and money laundering in addition to their standard national security remit, there was every chance that the spooks would be on his case. Not that it mattered. He always regarded all landlines as suspect, with the exception of randomly chosen public call boxes.

"Do you want me to show you the portable MRF detector?"

"Sure."

Knight went over to his suitcase and took out a blue and white box. He opened it and slid out a white polystyrene moulding inside which was a grey plastic box the size of a beeper, with a belt clip on one side. There were three jack points on one end and a digital display on the other. Knight removed a rechargeable battery from the polystyrene and tossed it to Donovan.

"Charge it up overnight. Charger's in the box. They say it'll last five hundred hours, but that's when it's on stand-by. Figure on forty-eight hours, so that's six days at eight hours a day."

"I should call you when Robbie needs help with his maths homework."

Knight took a second battery out of his jacket pocket and inserted it into the back of the detector. He went over to Donovan and clipped it on to his belt, then took a length of cable with a jack plug on one end and a thin Velcro strap on the other. He gave the strap to Donovan and told him to thread it through his shirt sleeve and to run the strap under the band of his Rolex. While Donovan ran the wire up his sleeve, Knight slotted the jack plug into the detector and switched it on.

When he'd finished hiding the strap under his watch band, Donovan rolled down his sleeve. The wire couldn't be seen and the strap was pretty much hidden.

"Clever," said Donovan 'but does it work?"

Knight went over to his suitcase and took out a small tape recorder and switched it on. He motioned for Donovan to come closer.

"Do I have to keep my arm out or anything?" he asked.

"Nah, just walk normally. It should pick it up within six feet or so."

Donovan took another step forward. Then another. When he was two paces away from Knight, the box on his belt began to vibrate.

"Yeah, there it goes." He took a step back. The vibration stopped. He moved forward and it started again.

"Excellent."

"It's even more sensitive to listening devices," said Knight. He clicked the tape-recorder off and put it back in the suitcase. He took out a much larger black box, this one the size of a telephone directory, and two small speakers.

"Now this you'll like," he said. He placed the box and speakers on the coffee table and ran a power lead to the nearest socket.

"Acoustic noise generator. White noise, all frequencies. It'll absolutely render every type of listening device useless, providing that you're closer to the speakers than you are to the bug. Switch it on and sit close to it, keep your voice down and the white noise will swamp what you're saying."

"Downside is, they'll know that I'm trying to keep something from them," said Donovan.

"Not necessarily," said Knight, flicking a small red switch. A red light glowed and the room was filled with a static-like noise. Knight turned a white plastic knob and the volume increased.

"They're more likely to think they've got a technical problem. Vary it. Turn it down when your conversation's innocuous, turn it up when you're secret squirrel. It'll drive them crazy." Knight stood up.

"Right, why don't I sweep the downstairs, show you the weak points, then I'll fix the phones upstairs."

He took a portable RF detector from the suitcase. It looked like a small metal detector with a circular antennae on one end that was the size of a table tennis bat. He showed Donovan how to switch it on and how to read the LCD, then ran it along the skirting board. Donovan was already familiar with the procedure: he'd often swept the villa in Anguilla himself.

The phone rang. Donovan walked over to the sideboard and picked up the receiver, automatically checking the lights on the monitor. The green light was on. Safe to talk. It was Robbie. Donovan expected him to apologise for running out of the house, but Robbie had something else on his mind he'd left his sports kit behind and he was supposed to be playing soccer that afternoon. Donovan said he'd take the kit to school for him and arranged to meet Robbie outside the gates at half past twelve.

They called it the Almighty. Major Allan Gannon wasn't sure who had named the secure satellite phone system, or when, but now it was never referred to by any other name. The briefcase containing the Almighty sat on a table adjacent to Gannon's desk when he was in his office at the Duke of York Barracks in London, a short walk from the up market boutiques of Sloane Square, and went everywhere with him.

Gannon was standing by the window, peering through the bombproof blinds at the empty parade ground, when the Almighty bleeped. It was an authoritative, urgent sound, none of the twee melodies so beloved of mobile phone users. The Almighty's ring broached no argument. Answer me now, it said. This is urgent. Not that Gannon needed to be told the urgency of calls that came through the Almighty. The only people who had access to the Almighty were the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI5 and MI6.

Gannon strode over to the satellite phone and picked up the receiver.

"Increment," he said curtly.

"Major Gannon speaking."

The head of MI6 identified herself, and then began relaying instructions to Gannon. Gannon made notes on a pad attached to a metal clipboard which was pre-stamped with "Eyes Only Top Secret. Not For Distribution'.

The call was short, less than two minutes in duration. Gannon repeated the information he'd been given, and then replaced the receiver. The major's SAS staff sergeant looked up from his copy of the Evening Standard.

"Game on," said Gannon.

"Freighter heading for Felixstowe. Interception as soon as it's in our waters. Possible drugs consignment."

"Customs?" asked the sergeant, a fifteen-year veteran of the SAS.

"Spooks," said Gannon.

"Specific instructions not to liaise with Customs at this point."

"They do like their little games, don't they?" said the sergeant.

"Force of habit," said Gannon.

"Since the Iron Curtain went down, they've got bugger all else to do. Still, ours not to reason why. Eight bricks should do it." The Special Air Service and Special Boat Squadron units that the Increment had access to were split into groups of four, known as bricks. Each brick had a vehicle specialist, a medical specialist, a demolition specialist and one other with an extra skill, such as languages, sniping or diving.

"We'll go in with inflatables, no need for choppers."

"Fifty-fifty split?"

"I think so," said Gannon.

"Wouldn't want our lads to think they were being left out of it. No choppers, though, we'll be using inflatables. Get the SBS to pull out a sub skimmer No reason to expect any firepower at their end, but we go in fully equipped." The major looked at his watch.

"Full briefing at eighteen hundred hours."

Donovan found Robbie's sports bag by his bed. He put it on the passenger seat of the Range Rover, and was about to get into the car when he had a sudden thought. He went back into the house and got the portable RF detector and ran it over the outside and underneath of the Range Rover, then climbed into the back and swept the antennae over the inner surfaces.

A car pulled up in the road outside. Donovan looked up, feeling vulnerable. He relaxed when he saw it was Louise, at the wheel of an Audi roadster. She waved and climbed out of the sports car. Donovan wondered what it was about girls who worked in the lap-dancing bars. They all seemed to want to drive powerful cars.

He got out of the Range Rover and waved back.

"I hope you don't mind me popping in on you like this," she said. She was wearing a sheepskin flying jacket and blue jeans that seemed to have been sprayed on to her, and impenetrable black sunglasses.

"Kris told me where you lived."

"No problem," said Donovan. He looked at his watch.

"But I'm just on my way out."

Louise's face fell.

"Oh. Okay. I just wanted to say thanks. Buy you a coffee, maybe." She kept looking at the RF detector in Donovan's right hand while she was talking. Donovan put it in the back of the Range Rover.

"Tell you what, why don't you give me a lift to my boy's school? I've got to drop off his soccer kit. Then you can take me for coffee."

Louise smiled. It was, thought Donovan, a very pretty smile. He'd only seen tears and a trembling lower lip when he'd been around at her flat. She turned and went back to the roadster and Donovan found himself unable to tear his eyes from her backside as she walked. He could see why she was able to afford a car like that. She looked over her shoulder and caught him watching her.

Donovan quickly looked away. He took Robbie's sports kit out and locked up the Range Rover. She was gunning the engine as he got into the passenger seat.

"Nice motor," he said.

"My toy," she said.

"You can navigate, yeah?"

"Does all right, doesn't he?" said Shuker, swinging the SLR camera around to photograph the departing Audi.

"First the blonde, now the brunette. Both lookers. See the body on that one?"

Jenner put down his binoculars and wrote down the registration number of the roadster. The blonde had turned out to be a lap-dancer, and Jenner was prepared to bet money that the brunette was in the same line of business.

"If you had the millions he had, you'd probably have totty like that, too."

"Hey, I do all right," said Shuker, offended.

"Of course you do. Tell them you work for HM Customs and they go all misty eyed, don't they?"

"It's the bike. Birds love bikes."

"Nah, birds say they like bikes until they get married. Then they want you to sell the bike and buy a car."

"Not the sort I go out with. But Donovan, he's got the lifestyle, hasn't he? What do you think the house is worth?"

Two and half. Maybe three."

"Can't they sequester his assets?"

"He's the Teflon man. House is in his wife's name, I think. Or a trust. Untouchable, anyway. Even if anything was proved against him." Jenner yawned. The two Customs officers were working a treble shift and would be in the room for a full thirty-six hours. They took it in turns to sleep on the single bed whenever Donovan left the house, and it was Jenner's turn for a nap.

"What do you think about tagging his car?" asked Shuker, rewinding his film.

"You saw him checking it. No point if he's going to be doing that every day. We'd just be showing our hand. That's what I'm recommending, anyway."

"He knows we're watching him. Operator like Donovan, he knows surveillance as well as we do. And that guy this morning. The nerd. He's got to be counter-surveillance, right?"

"We'll know when the registration check comes back, but yeah, he looked technical. If he is, there's no point in us wiring up the house. Not unless we just want to annoy him."

"I'm up for it," said Shuker

"It's not our call," said Jenner, 'but I'm going to be suggesting laser mikes. See if they'll run to it. I think we'll be wasting our time, though: Donovan's not going to say a dickie bird in his house or on the phone."

Donovan gave Louise directions to Robbie's school. She handled the car confidently and was a far better driver than Kris. She was quick, but whereas with Kris his heart had been in his mouth at her sudden changes of speed and direction, he was able to relax with Louise at the wheel.

"Kris told me what you did," she said.

"Thanks."

"It was nothing."

She flashed him a sideways look and he saw his reflection in the black lenses.

"It was one hell of a thing, Den. You took a risk doing that."

"Nah, he was out of condition. A middle-class wanker."

"That's not what I meant. You weren't scared of ... repercussions. You went right ahead and did what you did. For me."

"Repercussions? Like him wanting to get his own back? Don't worry about that. His type are cowards. That's why they hit women in the first place, to make themselves feel big."

The traffic lights ahead of them turned amber and Louise brought the car to a smooth stop. She reached over and switched on her cassette. Oasis. Donovan smiled at the coincidence. It was the same tape he'd been playing in the Range Rover.

"I meant the police. The cops could have been called, but you weren't worried. You just went right on in."

"Like a bull in a china shop, you mean?"

Something vibrated on Donovan's hip. He wondered if it was the car, and he shifted position, but the vibration continued.

"You weren't hot headed. You were cold. Calculating."

Donovan reached into his pocket, figuring that it must be one of his mobile phones that was vibrating. Then he remembered that device that Knight had given him and he stiffened.

"What's wrong?" asked Louise, looking at him sideways.

"Cramp," lied Donovan. It was the RF detector. The car was bugged. He was talking about beating a man to within an inch of his life and the car was bloody well bugged. She was setting him up. Louise was leading him on, getting him to talk about it, getting him to confess. He made a play of rubbing his side. What the hell was he going to say? What had he said already? Had he given them enough evidence already?

The Oasis track ended. The lights changed to green and Louise pulled away, but she kept looking across at him.

"Are you all right? Do you want me to pull over?"

Donovan shook his head. The next track started. Suddenly realisation dawned. He reached out and switched the tape off. The detector stopped vibrating immediately.

"Not an Oasis fan, huh? Thought you would be, both being from Manchester."

"How do you know that?" asked Donovan. He hadn't told Kris where he was from.

"Oh, give me a break, Den," she laughed.

"That's hardly an Oxbridge accent you've got there."

Donovan pressed the start button again. The tape restarted. So did the vibration. He switched it off. The vibration stopped.

"Make your mind up," she said.

Donovan smiled and relaxed back in the bucket seat.

"Sorry," he said.

"I'm jumping at shadows at the moment."

They arrived at Robbie's school. Robbie was waiting outside the gates, peering down the road. He didn't notice Donovan sitting in the passenger seat of the Audi.

"Won't be long," said Donovan, climbing out of the sports car with Robbie's bag.

Robbie frowned as he saw Donovan getting out of the Audi.

"Who's that?" he said, looking through the windscreen.

"A friend," said Donovan, holding out the sports bag.

"A girlfriend?"

"She's a friend and she's a girl, so that would make her a girlfriend, right? Now do you want this, or not?"

Robbie took the bag.

"A thank you would be nice," said Donovan.

"Who is she?"

"She's just a friend. Okay? I helped her and she came around to the house to say thank you. Then she said she'd give me a lift to drop your gear off. You know I hate driving in the city."

"You're a terrible driver," Robbie mumbled.

"I'm a great driver," Donovan protested.

"You lose your temper too easily. You keep hitting the horn. And you don't use the mirrors enough."

Donovan stood up.

"I'll pick you up tonight, yeah? In the Range Rover."

Robbie nodded.

"Okay." He held up the bag.

"Thanks for bringing this."

"You give them hell. Score lots of goals."

"I'm a defender, Dad."

"Defenders can score. Don't let them put you in a box. You see an opportunity to go for the goal, you take it, right?"

"It's a team game, Dad," laughed Robbie, and he ran off.

Donovan went back to the car. He grunted as he climbed back into the passenger seat. He felt too old to be getting in and out of low-slung sports cars.

"Everything okay?" asked Louise.

"He thinks you're my new girlfriend."

"As opposed to an old one?"

"As opposed to his mother."

"Ah," said Louise, putting the Audi into gear.

"Starbucks okay?"

"My favourite coffee." He stared silently out of the window.

"Penny for them?" asked Louise, stopping to allow a pensioner drive her Toyota out of a side road.

"Robbie says I'm a crap driver."

"And are you?"

"I don't think so, but what guy does, right?"

"Quickest way to end a relationship," laughed Louise.

"Tell a guy he's lousy in bed or that he's crap behind the wheel of car."

"You in a relationship right now?" asked Donovan. Immediately the words left his mouth he regretted them. It was a soppy question.

Louise didn't seem bothered by his probing. She shrugged.

"Difficult to have any regular sort of relationship, doing what I do," she said.

"Great way to meet guys, though," said Donovan.

Louise raised her eyebrows and sighed.

"Yeah, right. I'd really want to go out with the sort of guy who thinks shoving twenty-pound notes down a girl's g-string is a sensible way to spend an evening."

"Beats sitting in front of the TV," said Donovan with a smile.

"And would I want to go out with a guy who knows what I do for a living? What does that say about him?"

"You mean, if a guy really cared for you, he wouldn't want you to do what you do?"

"Exactly."

"Maybe he'd think it better you have a career. My soon-to-be ex-wife never did a day's work in her life. She went from her father's house to mine. From one provider to another."

"Soon-to-be ex-wife? You're getting divorced?"

"Something more permanent, hopefully," said Donovan. Then he shook his head.

"Joke."

"Didn't sound like a joke," said Louise.

"I'm still a bit raw," said Donovan.

"You'll heal. Here we are." She parked the car at a meter and jumped out before Donovan could continue the conversation. She fed the meter and locked the car, then went into the coffee shop with Donovan. He reached for his wallet but she slapped his hand away.

"No way. My treat, remember? Cappuccino okay?"

Donovan got a table by the window while Louise fetched their coffees.

She sat down opposite him and slid a foaming mug over to him. She clinked her mug against his.

"Thanks. For what you did."

"It was a pleasure."

Louise sipped her cappuccino and then wiped her upper lip with a serviette.

"I don't want you thinking I'm a victim, Den. A damsel in distress, maybe, but I'm not a victim. I fought back." She took off her sunglasses. Her left eye was still puffy and the redness had given away to dark blue bruising.

Donovan smiled.

"You should see the other guy," he said softly.

"I kneed him in the nuts and he probably wouldn't have done this if he hadn't caught me by surprise. Doing what I do, I know how to handle men."

"I'm sure you do," said Den, straight faced.

She grinned and put her sunglasses back on.

"You know what I mean. There's a psychology to it. A way of maintaining control."

"I'm sure there is."

"He caught me unawares. It won't happen again. I am really grateful, Den. You barely know me, but you were there when I needed someone. Friends, yeah?"

Donovan nodded enthusiastically. He picked up his mug and clinked it against hers again.

"Definitely," he said.

"You've been a bad boy, haven't you?" said the woman. She was in her late twenties with shoulder-length red hair. She was wearing a black leather miniskirt, thigh-length black shiny plastic boots with four-inch stiletto heels and a black mask, the type that Catwoman used to wear in the old Batman TV show. She had a riding crop in her hands and she flexed it as she paced up and down across the blood-red carpet.

"Yes, mistress," said David Hoyle. Hoyle was naked and tied at his wrists and ankles to two planks of wood that had been nailed together to form an X-shaped cross that stood in the middle of the room. On his head was a black leather hood with holes for his eyes and a zipper across his mouth.

"And what happens to bad boys?" asked the woman, slowly running the crop from his left knee up to his groin.

Hoyle's scrotum contracted in a reflex action that was part fear and part sexual excitement. It was the mixture of emotions that he craved, that kept him returning to the basement flat in Earl's Court. The fear and the excitement, followed by a relief that was far more intense than he'd ever had with his wife in almost twenty years of marriage.

"They have to be punished," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, muffled by the mask.

She slowly unzipped the mouth hole.

"That's right," she said, walking around behind him and dragging the crop along his skin.

"How do you think you should be punished?" she asked.

Hoyle swallowed. His mind was in a whirl. It wasn't often that his mistress allowed him to choose the method of punishment, and he had to choose carefully. The crop was too easy. The paddle barely hurt. The burning candle wax was painful, but it meant lying down and he had grown to enjoy being punished standing up. Or bending over. At the thought of bending over he felt himself grow hard and he knew what he wanted her to do to him.

The door to the chamber was thrown open with a bang and Hoyle's erection died on the spot. Two men stood there. Men with hard faces and crew-cuts, big shoulders and tight smiles on their faces. One of them pointed a finger at the woman.

"Out," he said.

She nodded meekly. She put her crop on its hook on the wall, then walked out of the chamber, her hips swinging as if deliberately trying to tease Hoyle. The two men stood behind the lawyer. He tried to twist around to see what they were doing, but his mistress had done too good a job with his bonds. He started to breathe heavily and he could feel sweat beading all over his body. His insides went liquid and he knew that he was close to soiling himself. All the excitement had evaporated. All he felt now was fear.

A third man appeared in the doorway. He wasn't quite as big as the two men who stood somewhere behind Hoyle, but he was over six feet tall. He was wearing a long grey overcoat and had his hands thrust deep into the pockets. There was something familiar about him, but Hoyle was sure he hadn't met him before he had a great memory for faces. Then it hit him. He looked like a younger version of Sacha Distel. When the man spoke, however, his accent was Spanish, not French.

"Mr. Hoyle, I presume," he said.

"Who are you?" asked Hoyle.

"That doesn't really matter," said the man, 'considering the predicament you're in. What is more important to you is what do I want. And what I will do to you if you don't co-operate."

The man walked into the chamber and closed the door. The only illumination came from a dozen candles around the room, and their flickering cast eerie shadows on the walls. He turned and looked at a shelf laden with dildos and vibrators of various shapes and sizes. He took his gloved right hand out of his pocket and picked up a huge black dildo. He looked at it with an amused smile on his lips, and then turned to Hoyle. He held up the dildo.

"She puts this up your arse, does she?"

Hoyle shook his head, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Bit big for you, is it?" said the man.

"Working your way up to it? How would you like one of my guys to push this up you?"

Hoyle shook his head, more emphatically this time.

The man grinned and put the dildo back on the shelf. He looked around as if trying to find something to wipe his hand on.

There was a pink towel on a radiator and he picked it up, wiped his gloves, and then tossed it on to a black leather-covered vaulting horse. The man gestured at the horse.

"She ties you to that?" he asked.

Hoyle nodded.

"I've never seen the attraction in this," said the man.

"Domination. I don't think I'm the least bit submissive. The idea of a woman hitting me .. ." The man faked a shudder.

"There are so many better things a woman can do." He grinned.

"I guess that's why they call it the English vice, isn't it?"

He walked over to Hoyle and stood in front of him. Hoyle flinched as the man reached up and held the zipper over his mouth. He ran the zipper back and forth several times, an amused smile on his face, then zipped it closed.

"You get given a get-out word, don't you? A word you can use when the pain gets too much. When you really want it to stop, right?"

Hoyle nodded.

"Just so you know, Mr. Hoyle, I won't be giving you such a word. The only way you're going to stop me is by doing what I want. Do you understand?"

Hoyle nodded again. His penis had shrunk to nothing and sweat was dripping down his back.

"Good," said the man. He stepped back and pointed up at a brass light fitting in the ceiling, below which was suspended an etched-glass bowl.

"Did you know there was a camera up there? She records everything. For insurance. In case a client should die down here, she could prove that it was all consensual. She keeps the tapes. I've got all your sessions. I'm about half-way through them." The man grinned.

"You're a naughty, naughty boy."

Hoyle screamed as something hit him hard on the left thigh. Hoyle's eyes watered. One of the men was brandishing a cane.

"Now, on the plus side, if you do what I want, I'll make sure that nobody else ever sees those tapes. Your wife. Or your partners. Or the tabloids. Or your mother." The man unzipped the mouth slot.

"Say thank you, David."

"Thank you," said Hoyle hoarsely.

The man nodded and zipped the slot closed.

"On the negative side, if you don't agree to do what I ask, my men will keep hurting you until you change your mind. They're experts at inflicting pain. Not the pretend sort that hookers like her dole out. Real pain. Crippling pain. Permanent pain."

The cane slashed into Hoyle's other thigh and he cried out again, his screams muffled by the leather hood.

"Where is Victoria Donovan?"

Hoyle shook his head. The cane whipped through the air and pain seared across his stomach. He screamed. Tears streamed down his face and soaked into the leather.

"Where is Victoria Donovan?" asked the man again.

"I can't tell you," said Hoyle.

The man frowned and unzipped the mouth slot.

"You're mumbling, David," he said.

"I can't tell you," said Hoyle, 'because I don't know. He won't tell me where he is."

"He?"

"Stewart. Stewart Sharkey. The man she's with."

The cane swished again, and smacked into his stomach, a fraction of an inch lower than the previous time. Hoyle screamed and his whole body went into spasm for several seconds. Hoyle's mistress knew how to use the cane so that it didn't leave a mark, but Hoyle knew that the welts he was getting now would be on his body for weeks.

"Before you get any ideas about that hooker calling the police, I've paid her to take a week's vacation," said the man.

"And I've promised her that we'll have cleaned up by the time she gets back. Seems we've got mutual friends. Now, how do you get in touch with him?"

"Phone."

"There's no number in your office."

"Stewart told me not to write it down."

"UK number?"

"A mobile."

The man took out a mobile phone.

"Right, here's what we're going to do, David."

Stewart Sharkey's mobile phone trilled.

"Who is it?" asked Vicky, standing at the entrance to the terrace, a glass of champagne in her hand.

Sharkey forced himself to smile. He wanted to snap at her, to ask her how he was expected to know. He wasn't psychic, for God's sake. He picked up the phone and pressed the green button.

"Stewart, it's me, David."

"Yes, David." Hoyle sounded stressed.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem," said Hoyle.

"Everything's going ahead as planned. I've some forms for Victoria to sign, that's all. For the custody application."

"Can't you sign them on her behalf?"

Vicky frowned and mouthed, "Who is it?"

"No can do, Stewart. Sorry. It has to be her."

Sharkey put his hand over the bottom of the phone.

"It's the lawyer. You've got to sign some papers." Vicky visibly relaxed and Sharkey realised that she thought the call might have been from her husband.

"Stewart? Are you there?"

"Relax, David. It's okay. What about faxed copies? Would that do?"

"Has to be originals, I'm afraid. Is there any possibility of you both coming to the office in the next few days?"

"Absolutely none," said Sharkey. He winked at Vicky and she took a quick sip of her champagne.

"You'll have to have them couriered out here," he said.

There was a pause as if Hoyle had taken the phone away from his mouth, then he coughed.

"That's fine," he said.

"Where shall I send them to?"

"Have you got a pen?" asked Sharkey.

Juan Rojas put away his mobile phone.

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked Hoyle.

Hoyle had sagged against the wooden cross. The strength had gone from his legs and all his weight was on his wrists.

"Please don't kill me," he sobbed.

"Wouldn't that be the ultimate thrill for you?" asked Rojas.

"Bit like Christ, dying on the cross."

"I don't want to die," Hoyle moaned. Urine splattered on to the carpet and Rojas wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"No one wants to die," said Rojas.

"No one's ever begged me to kill them." A thoughtful look crossed his face.

"Actually, that's not true. There was a man once, in Milan. After what we'd done to him, he really did want to die. Begged and begged." Rojas smiled.

"I've no wish to kill you, David. None at all. I'm going to leave you here for a couple of days. One of my men will come in to give you water." He nodded at the sodden carpet.

"Might even put a bucket under you. After forty-eight hours we'll let you loose. We'll still have the videos, so I'd expect you to hold your tongue about what's happened." Rojas walked up close to Hoyle, taking care not to stand in the damp patch of carpet.

"Say thank you, David."

"Thank you," said Hoyle weakly.

Rojas grinned and slowly zipped up the mouth slot on the black leather mask.

Donovan took the portable RF detector off before driving the Range Rover to Robbie's school. The traffic moved at a snail's pace, and yet again most of the vehicles on the road seemed to be mothers on the school run.

Donovan switched his cassette player on. Oasis. He smiled as he remembered the coincidence that he and Louise had the same tape. They'd chatted for the best part of an hour in Starbucks. She was a smart girl and seemed to be making a good living as a dancer. Like Kris, she kept insisting that she didn't go with customers, but Donovan couldn't help wondering how else she could afford the Audi roadster. Still, he figured it wasn't any of his business. She'd given him her mobile number when she'd dropped him off at home and asked him to call her some time. She'd also made a point of telling him the address of the club where she danced. Twice.

Robbie wasn't at the gates when Donovan arrived at the school. A young mother with four schoolgirls in the back of a Mercedes four-wheel drive pulled out in front of him and he whipped the Range Rover into the space.

He tapped his fingers on his steering wheel as he waited. Being a single parent wasn't so bad, he thought. It was a bit of a nuisance having to drive Robbie to and from school, and the early mornings were a pain, but Robbie was clearly low maintenance. Once Donovan had his money back, maybe he'd stay in London. He had enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Very comfortably. When Vicky had been in the picture, Donovan had been driven to keep putting deals together, partly because of the desire to keep increasing his fortune, but also because he enjoyed it. He got a buzz out of outwitting the various agencies that were tasked with defeating the drugs barons. There was nothing like putting together a successful multi-million-pound drugs deal, of arranging the finance and the shipping, moving people and money around the world like pieces on some gigantic chessboard, followed by the elation of carrying it off successfully. Some of the best parties he'd been to had been in the wake of successful drug deals. Donovan smiled to himself. Could he turn his back on that? Would he be satisfied doing the school run until Robbie was old enough to drive? Years of shopping at Tesco and ferrying sports kit and helping with homework?

Robbie ran out of the school gates, waving at Donovan. Donovan grinned and waved back. Yeah, he thought, maybe he would at that.

"How did the match go?" Donovan asked as Robbie climbed into the passenger seat and tossed his sports bag into the back.

"Won 3 1," said Robbie.

"My pass gave us the second goal."

"Good for you," said Donovan and gave his son a high-five.

"How are you at grocery shopping?" he asked as he started the car and edged out into the line of four-wheel drives.

"Mum always does .. ." Robbie corrected himself quickly.

"Did the shopping. During the day. She said it was quieter."

"Yeah, well, I didn't do too good a job when I went on my own. Thought you might have a better idea of what we need. Okay?"

"Okay," said Robbie.

When they got to the supermarket, Donovan pushed a trolley while Robbie ran from shelf to shelf, grabbing at tins, bottles and packets and tossing them in. He stocked up with essentials including washing-up liquid, and soap, things that Donovan would never have thought of until he'd run out.

"Can you do spaghetti?" Robbie asked.

"Sure," said Donovan.

"You boil it and throw it against the wall. If it sticks, it's cooked."

Robbie laughed and put two packs of spaghetti into the trolley, along with several jars of bolognaise sauce, then they walked together to the checkout.

"What are you going to do, Dad?"

"About what?" asked Donovan.

"About work. You can't just sit around the house all day."

"Your mother seemed to manage quite nicely."

Donovan paid for the groceries and he and Robbie took the carrier bags out to the Range Rover.

"What do you do, Dad? Your job?"

"You know what I do. I'm a businessman."

"But what do you actually do?"

Donovan got into the front seat and opened the door for Robbie. Robbie got in and fastened his seatbelt.

"What's brought this on?"

"Nothing. It was my friends, that's all. We were talking about what our dads did, and I said you were back and they were asking what you did. I said you were a businessman, but they were asking what sort of business and I said you were out in the Caribbean and they were asking what you did out there. That's all. I think they thought it was strange that I didn't know. Like it was a secret."

"It's no secret, Robbie," said Donovan, starting the engine.

"It's boring, that's all. Import-export. I buy and sell things. Move them from country to country."

"But what sort of things?"

"Anything. Whatever people want to buy and sell. You buy at one price and if you can sell at a higher price, you make a profit. Sell a lot of it and you make a lot of profit. Simple. You don't need a PhD to understand that."

"Yeah, but I still don't know what it is you sell."

"Commodities. Could be anything. Cement, say. I might buy cheap cement and sell it to a construction company in America. Or I might buy fertiliser in Argentina and sell it in China."

"And that's why you had to be in Anguilla a lot?"

Donovan frowned.

"Your friends were asking why I was in Anguilla?"

"No, that was me. You never really said why you were away such a lot."

"It was business, Robbie. Swear to God."

Robbie nodded.

"I know," he said, as Donovan started the car and drove home.

The Increment moved in just before midnight. Major Gannon and his staff sergeant sat in one of three high-speed inflatables, bobbing in the Atlantic just a few miles from where the ocean merged into the English Channel. The major was in radio contact with a sub skimmer some ten miles away to the west.

The sub skimmer built by Defence Boats, had been designed for covert operations. It could be used as a high-speed surface craft capable of carrying ten troopers and all their equipment at speeds of up to thirty knots, or it could operate as a submersible with twin electric motors, going down to a depth of up to fifty metres.

"Affirmative," said Gannon into his radio. He turned to the two men sitting behind him. They were both MI6 operatives and had identified themselves only by first names. James and Simon. Gannon doubted that these were their real names. Unlike the eight troopers who were also in the inflatable, the MI6 men weren't armed, but they wore SAS black fire-retardant suits, body armour, composite helmets and communications units inside their respirators.