'It was bad, wasn't it.'
'It was stupid. How long do I have to stay with her?'
'A few days. I'll be there most of the time.'
'Has she got Sky?'
Donovan shrugged.
'I think so.'
'Okay, then. I don't want to miss The Simpsons.'
Jamie Fullerton paced up and down his gallery, a glass of champagne in his hand. His computer was switched on and Fullerton stared at the monitor as he paced. Eight thousand kilos of heroin. Den Donovan was planning to bring eight thousand kilos of heroin from Afghanistan into the UK, and Fullerton had the inside track.
Ten thousand pounds a kilo was cheap. Very cheap. Especially for delivery in London. In Amsterdam the price was close to twenty thousand pounds a kilo, and then there was the added risk of getting it into the country. If Donovan was preparing to sell it at ten thousand a kilo, he must be buying it at a fraction of that price. Which meant he was getting it close to the source. Afghanistan, probably. Or Pakistan. Or Turkey. Any closer to Europe and the price would increase dramatically. But if Donovan was getting his heroin at or close to the source, how was he going to get it in to the UK?
Fullerton knew that he should tell Hathaway what he'd found out. The whole purpose of Fullerton going undercover was to gather evidence against Tango One. By rights he should send Hathaway an e-mail immediately. Something was holding Fullerton back, through, and as he paced around his gallery, he tried to work out what it was. Was it that he liked Den Donovan? That he felt guilty about betraying a man who was close to becoming a friend? Or was it because Donovan was offering Fullerton a chance to make a lot of money? Easy money. In the three years since Hathaway had set Fullerton up with the Soho gallery, Fullerton had stashed away almost a million pounds dealing in works of art, legal and otherwise, and it was money he was pretty sure Hathaway was unaware of. Fullerton could put that cash into Donovan's deal and treble it. He'd be a player. It would mean crossing a line, but over the years that Fullerton had been undercover, that line had blurred to such an extent he was no longer sure where he stood, officially or morally. And as he paced up and down his gallery, sipping his champagne, he was becoming even less sure which side of the line he was on.
Donovan pressed the bell to Louise's flat and the front door lock clicked open. She had the door to her flat open as they got to the landing. She'd changed into a sweatshirt and jeans and clipped back her hair with two bright pink clips.
'You must be Robbie,' she said, holding out her hand.
'Yeah, if he's my dad then I must be,' said Robbie sourly. Then his face broke into a grin.
'You've got Sky, right?'
'Sure.'
Robbie shook hands with her.
'You are his girlfriend, aren't you?'
'Not really.'
'Do I have to sleep on a sofa?'
Louise shook her head.
'No, I've got a spare bedroom.'
'With a TV?'
Donovan pushed the back of Robbie's head with the flat of his hand.
'When did you get so picky?' he said. He held up a small suitcase.
'I've packed some of his things, and I'll bring more around tomorrow.'
'Are you going right away? I've got shepherd's pie in the oven.'
'No, I can stay,' said Donovan.
Louise showed Donovan and Robbie in to the sitting room. She pointed down the hallway.
'Robbie, your bedroom's on the right. There's a bathroom opposite.'
Donovan handed the suitcase to his son.
'And keep it tidy, okay?'
'It's all right, I've got my own bathroom,' said Louise.
'You don't know this one. He never picks up after himself.'
'Oh, he's a guy, then, is he?' laughed Louise.
Robbie took his case to his room while Louise busied herself in the kitchenette.
'You really cooked?' asked Donovan.
'It's only shepherd's pie, Den. It's no biggie. Do you want coffee?'
'Sure. Thanks.' He went over to a sideboard and took his mobile phones out of his jacket pocket and lined them up. There were four of them.
'Expecting a call?' asked Louise.
'Different people have different numbers,' said Donovan.
'Helps me keep track of who's who.'
'Paranoia?'
'Maybe.'
'Which number do I have?'
Donovan picked up one of the Nokias and waggled it.
'Only you've got this number,' he said.
'I'm flattered.'
Robbie came back into the sitting room.
'Okay?' asked Donovan.
'Yeah, it's fine,' said Robbie.
'Are you staying here as well?'
Louise looked at Donovan and raised an expectant eyebrow.
'I'll be popping in and out,' he said.
'Because there's only two bedrooms, and the bed in mine is really small.'
'It's a single,' said Louise.
'Your dad can sleep on the sofa, if he decides to stay.'
'And how long have I got to stay here?'
'It's not a prison, Robbie,' said Donovan.
'Like I said, a few days.'
'Are you hungry?' asked Louise.
'Yeah,' said Robbie.
'Starving.'
One of the mobile phones lined up on the sideboard burst into life.
Donovan picked it up. It was the Spaniard.
'It's not good news, amigo.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Donovan.
'He's not in Paris,' said Rojas.
'He had someone else pick up the papers.'
'Bastard!' hissed Donovan.
'Language,' chided Robbie.
Donovan glared at him.
'If I were to guess, I would say that he is somewhere in France,' continued Rojas.
'A big city. Nice or Marseilles perhaps. But we are not in a guessing game here, of course. He could well have moved on by now.'
'But you're still on the case?'
'Of course,' said Rojas.
'I have a number for him. Do you have a pen?'
Donovan clicked his fingers and waved for Robbie to get him a pen. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a Tesco receipt. Robbie gave him a pen, scowling.
