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.
