walked back the way he'd come, looking out for signs of walkers being wrong-footed or watchers whispering into concealed radios.
Once he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he walked quickly to the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner, took the Grosvenor Place exit and flagged down a black cab.
The glass door to the gallery was locked and a discreet brass plate told visitors that they should ring the bell if they wanted to be admitted. A tall brunette with close-cropped hair and startled fawn eyes studiously ignored Donovan. She was sitting at a white oak reception desk flicking through her Filofax. She'd seen Donovan looking in through the floor-to-ceiling window but had averted her eyes when he'd smiled.
When Donovan finally pressed the bell in three short bursts she slowly looked up, her face impassive. Donovan took off his sunglasses and winked. She gave him a cold look and then went back to examining her Filofax. Donovan pressed the bell again, this time giving it three long bursts.
The brunette stood up and walked over to the glass door on impossibly long legs. She stood on the other side of the glass and put her head on one side, her upper lip curled back in contemptuous sneer. Donovan figured it was the Yankees baseball cap that marked him out as being unsuitable for admittance, but he was damned if he was going to take it off.
'I'm here to see Maury,' he said.
'Is he expecting you?'
'Just tell him Den Donovan's here, will you?'
She looked at him for several seconds, then pushed a button on her side of the door. The locking mechanism buzzed and Donovan pushed the door open.
'Do you have many customers?' asked Donovan.
The woman didn't reply. She walked away, her high heels clicking on the grey marble floor like knuckles cracking. Donovan watched her buttocks twitch under her short black skirt, then turned his attention to the painting on the wall opposite the woman's desk. It was modern and mindless, dribbles of paint on over-large canvases, the work of a second-year art student. He took a few steps back, but even distance didn't make the work any more meaningful. There were no price tags on the work, just small pieces of white card with the titles of the pieces. Donovan figured that was always a bad sign, having to give the piece a name. Art should speak for itself.
Scattered around the floor of the gallery were several metal sculptures that looked like the contents of someone's garage welded together haphazardly. Donovan wandered around, shaking his head scornfully.
'Den! Good to see you.'
Maury Goldman strode across the gallery, his hand outstretched. His mane of grey hair was swept back as if he'd been riding a scooter without a helmet. Not that there'd be a scooter on the roads capable of bearing Goldman's weight. He was a fat man, bordering on the obese, and his Savile Row suits demanded at least three times the cloth of a regular fitting. As always, his jowly face was bathed in sweat, but his hand when Donovan shook it was as dry as stone. Goldman appeared only days away from a fatal heart attack, but he'd looked that way for the twelve years that Donovan had known him.
Goldman pumped Donovan's hand, and then hugged him. The brunette gave Donovan a frosty look as she went back to her desk, as if she resented the attention that Goldman was giving him.
'When did you get back?' asked Goldman.
'Day or two. How's business?'
Goldman made a 'so-so' gesture with his hand.
'Can't complain, Den.'
Donovan gestured at the huge canvases.
'Didn't think you went for this, Maury?'
'Favour for a friend,' said Goldman regretfully.
'His son's just graduated .. . what can I say? Maybe Saatchi'll take him under his wing.'
Donovan didn't look convinced and Goldman laughed quietly.
'I need a favour, Maury,' said Donovan quietly.
Goldman took out a large scarlet handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.
'Come upstairs, we can have a chat there.'
Goldman waddled across the gallery and showed Donovan through a door that led to a stairway. He went up the stairs slowly, with Donovan following.
'You should get a lift installed,' said Donovan.
'I need the exercise,' said Goldman, panting as he reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door to his private office. He held the door open for Donovan.
The office was a complete contrast to the gallery downstairs, with dark wooden panelling, brass light fittings and a plush royal-blue carpet. The dark oak furniture included a massive desk on which sat an incongruously hi-tech Apple Mac computer. The paintings on the walls were a world apart from the canvases downstairs and Donovan wandered around, relishing the art. Goldman eased himself down on to a massive leather swivel chair behind the desk and watched Donovan with an amused smile on his face.
'This is good,' said Donovan in admiration.
'My god, this is good.' He was looking at a small black chalk and lithographic crayon drawing of an old woman, her face creased into a thousand wrinkles, yet with eyes that sparkled like a teenager's.
'It's a Goya, right?'
'Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, none other,' said Goldman.
'Where the hell did you get it from?'
Goldman tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
'Trade secret,' he said.
'Kosher?'
Goldman sighed theatrically.
'Dennis, please .. .'
'It must be worth seven fifty, right?'
'Closer to a mill, but I could do you a deal, Dennis,' said Goldman, taking a large cigar out of a rosewood box and clipping the end off with a gold cutter.
'It's the other way around,' said Donovan, rubbing his chin as he scrutinised the painting.
'I need to sell what I've got.'
Goldman lit his cigar and took a deep pull on it, then blew a cloud of blue-grey smoke towards the ceiling.
'Have you any idea how much damage the smoke does?' asked Donovan.
'I smoke two a day, doctor's orders.'
'I meant to the paintings.'
Goldman flashed Donovan a cold smile.
'Do you want to sell everything?'
'Everything in the house.'
Goldman raised his eyebrows.
'Are you sure you want to do that? Rock solid investments. It's quality you've got there, Den.'
'I'm not doing this by choice, Maury, believe me.'
Donovan walked over to a green leather armchair opposite the desk and sat on one of the arms. He took out an envelope and dropped it on to Goldman's desk. Goldman opened it and took out a sheet of paper on which Donovan had written down an inventory of all the paintings he wanted to sell.
Goldman took out a pair of gold-framed reading glasses and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose. He nodded appreciatively as he ran his eyes down the list.
'We must be talking two mill, Den.'
Donovan nodded.
'Maybe more if they went to auction, but I need this doing quickly.'
'It's never a good idea to rush into a sale, Den.' Goldman leaned forward and tapped ash into a large crystal ashtray.
'You know any bank would lend against those paintings, don't you? Shove them in a vault and take out a loan. You'd pay six per cent, maybe seven.'
