Tango One (28 page)

“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?”