'I know you don't want to hear this, but the fact that you were his father didn't stop you gallivanting off to the Caribbean for months at a time, did it?'
'Gallivanting?' grinned Donovan.
'You know what I mean.'
Mark returned with a tumbler of whisky and soda for Donovan and a fresh gin and tonic for himself. Laura flashed him a warning look. It was his third gin in less than an hour.
'The last one was spilt,' he said defensively and sat down on the sofa opposite them.
'Okay if I see him?' asked Donovan.
'Sure,' said Laura.
They stood up and Laura took Donovan upstairs. She pushed open the bedroom door and stood aside so that Donovan could see inside. Robbie was lying on his front, his head twisted away from the door so that all he could see was a mop of unruly brown hair on the pillow. He tiptoed over to the bunk bed and knelt down, then gently ruffled his son's hair.
Robbie stirred in his sleep, kicking his feet under the quilt.
'Don't worry, Robbie, I'm here now,' Donovan whispered. He felt a sudden flare of anger at Vicky and what she'd done. Betraying him was bad enough, but to let her son witness her betrayal, that was unforgivable.
He slipped out of the bedroom and Laura closed the door quietly. They went back downstairs and into the conservatory.
Donovan picked up his whisky and soda and paced up and down. Laura sat down next to Mark, her hand on his knee.
'Has she called?'
Laura nodded.
'Day before yesterday. She said she wanted to speak to him, but I said he was asleep and told her to call back today. She didn't.'
'She calls again, just hang up, yeah?'
Laura nodded.
Mark leaned forward, his hands cupping his gin and tonic.
'No offence, Den, but how much trouble are you in?'
Donovan smiled thinly. A very angry Colombian on his trail and sixty million dollars missing from his bank accounts. Quite a lot, really.
'I'll be okay,' he said.
'The police are going to be after you, aren't they?'
Donovan's smile widened. About the only good news he'd had so far had been from Dicko telling him that the police didn't have anything on him yet. He shook his head.
'They'll be watching me, but there's no warrant. And I'm not planning on being a naughty boy while I'm here, Mark. Cross my heart. I don't intend to be here more than a few days.'
'I wasn't being .. . you know .. .' said Mark. He tailed off, embarrassed.
'I know. It's okay.'
'It's just that we've got a business .. . obligations .. .'
'Mark!' protested Laura.
'Leave him alone!'
Donovan held up his hand to silence her.
'Laura, it's okay. Honest. I understand what he means. Mark, I'll be keeping my nose clean, I promise. And I'm really grateful for what you and Laura are doing for Robbie.'
Mark leaned over and clinked his glass against Donovan's. They toasted each other.
'I'm sorry, Den. Bit stressed, that's all.'
Donovan waved away his apology, then asked Laura if she'd had the locks changed. She went into the sitting room and came back with a set of gleaming new keys and a piece of paper on which she'd written the new code for the burglar alarm system. Donovan took them, drained his glass and then gave his sister a big hug.
'I'm off,' he said.
'I'll drop by and see Robbie tomorrow, yeah? And don't tell him I was here tonight, okay?'
Donovan shook hands with Mark, then left through the french windows, keeping in the shadows as he headed back down the garden.
'Who was that masked man?' whispered Mark.
Laura put her arm around his waist.
'He's really pissed off, isn't he?' she said.
'Understatement of the year.'
'God, I hope he doesn't do anything stupid.'
'I think it's too late for that.' Mark put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him.
Donovan flagged down a black cab and had it drop him a quarter of a mile away from his house. He put his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket and kept his head down as he walked along the pavement on the opposite side of the road to his house. He walked slowly but purposefully, his eyes scanning left and right under the peak of the baseball cap. There were no occupied cars, and no vans that could have concealed watchers. A young couple were leaning against a gate post devouring each other's tongues but they were way too young to be police. An old lady was walking a liver-coloured Cocker spaniel, whispering encouraging noises and holding a plastic bag to clean up after it.
Donovan checked out the houses opposite his own. There was nothing obvious, but if the surveillance was good then there wouldn't be. He walked on. At the end of the road he turned right. Donovan's house was in a block which formed one side of a square. All the houses backed on to a large garden, virtually a small park with trees and a playing field big enough for football, though the garden committee had banned all ball games. Dogs had also been forbidden to use the garden, and there was a string of rules which were rigidly enforced by the committee, including no music, no organised games, no shouting, no drinking, no smoking. Donovan had always wondered why they didn't just ban everyone from the garden and have done with it.
The garden could be entered from the back doors of the houses, but many of them had been converted into apartments, and those on the upper floors, considered as poor relations by the omnipotent garden committee, had to use a side entrance. One of the keys on the ring that Laura had given him opened the black wooden gate that led to the garden. Donovan stopped to tie his shoelaces, taking a quick look over his shoulder. A black cab drove by, its 'For Hire' light on, but other than that the street was deserted. Donovan opened the gate and slipped inside.
He stood for a minute listening to the sound of his own breathing as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. There were lights on in several of the houses, but most of the large garden area was in darkness. Donovan walked across the grass, looking from side to side to check that no one else was taking a late evening stroll. He was quite alone. For all he knew, the committee had probably issued an edict forbidding residents from using the garden after dark.
He walked quickly to his house. A flagstoned patio area was separated from the garden by a knee-high hedgerow and a small rockery, and as he walked across it a halogen security light came on automatically. There was nothing Donovan could do about the light but he took off his baseball cap. If any of the neighbours did happen to look out of the window, it would be better that they recognised him and didn't think that he was an intruder. As he unlocked the back door, the alarm system began to bleep. He closed the door and walked to the cupboard under the stairs and tapped out the four-digit number that Laura had given him. The alarm stopped bleeping. Donovan left the lights ofF just in case the house was under surveillance.
Donovan went into the kitchen and took a bottle of San Miguel out of the fridge. He opened it and drank from the bottle.
'Home sweet home,' he muttered to himself. It had never felt like home, not really. During the past three years he doubted if he'd spent more than eight weeks in the house. Vicky had bought all the furniture and furnishings, with the exception of the artwork, assisted by some gay designer she'd found in her health club. Donovan couldn't remember his name, but he could remember a close-cropped head, a gold earring and figure- hugging jeans with zips up either leg. He might have been a freak, but Donovan had to admit he'd done a terrific job with the house. Turns out he'd studied art at some redbrick university and he'd been impressed with Donovan's collection some of the rooms he'd designed around the paintings, much to Vicky's annoyance.
