Stephen Leather - Tango One

But that was. a decade away. Until then he had to be careful. He and Donovan went back a long way, longer than he cared to remember at times, and the friendship was something he treasured. However, friendship alone didn't warrant risking spending ten years behind bars on Rule 42 with the nonces and rapists.

"Just find out what you can, Dicko, yeah?"

"Sure."

"You know I'll see you right."

"Yeah, I know," said Underwood. Virtually every penny of the million pounds that Underwood had salted away had come from Donovan. And at least two of the promotions that Underwood had received had been a direct result of spectacular arrests following up on information provided by Donovan. Sure, Donovan always had an agenda of his own, either settling a score or putting a competitor out of business, but Underwood had reaped the benefits, career-wise and financially. He drained his glass.

"I better be going."

Donovan handed him a folded piece of paper.

"Call me on this number. What about the bitch?"

"Vicky?"

"She is the bitch of the day, yes."

Underwood looked uncomfortable.

"It's bad news, Den. Guess I'm a bit worried about being the bearer.

They left yesterday."

"To where?"

"Spain. Malaga."

"No way."

"Booked on a British Airways flight out of Heathrow. Sharkey left his car in the longterm car park. Left a deposit on his credit card."

"No way they'd go to Spain. I know too many faces out there. And the car is too obvious. He wanted it found."

"I'm just telling you what I was told."

Donovan sat shaking his head.

"It'd make my life easier if they were there." He made a gun with his hand and mimed firing two shots, then blew away imaginary gunsmoke.

"But they're too smart for that." He grinned.

"At least Sharkey is." He frowned, then leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.

"Luggage? They check in any luggage?"

"Hell, Den, how would I know that?"

"You ask. You say, did they check in, and if they did, did they have any luggage? How exactly did you get to be a detective, Dicko?"

"Funny handshake and a rolled-up trouser leg," said Underwood.

Donovan didn't react to the joke. He spoke quickly, hunched forward, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

"It's the oldest trick in the book. Done it myself with Vicky a couple of times. You check in for an international flight. Tickets, passports and all. But you have another ticket for somewhere where they don't check passports. Dublin. Glasgow. The Channel Islands.

You pass through Immigration, then you go and check in for your real flight. Tell them you were late so didn't have time to check in at the other side. No passports, ticket can be in any name. Providing you haven't checked in any luggage, the flight you didn't get on will depart on time, give or take, and they won't even take you off the manifest. They'll just reckon you're pissed in the bar or lost in Duty Free. Once you're in Jersey you get the Hovercraft to France. Or from Dublin you fly anywhere."

"Yeah, maybe."

"No maybe about it. They've flown the coop." His upper lip curled back in a snarl.

"They think they're smart," he whispered, almost to himself, 'but I'm smarter."

Underwood stood up. He smiled thinly.

"I am sorry about you and Vicky. Really."

"I'll have the bitch, don't you worry."

"Don't do anything… you know." He shrugged, not wanting to say the words.

"She screwed him in my bed."

"She's the mother of your child, Den. Any vengeance you wreak on her is going to affect Robbie."

"You think he's not been affected already by what she's done?"

"Sure. He'll hate her for it, but at the end of the day she's still his mother. And you're still his dad. I know this isn't easy…"

"You know fuck all!" hissed Donovan, banging the flat of his hand down on the table, hard. Several heads turned in their direction, but shouted threats weren't an unusual occurrence in the pub and when it became clear that no one was about to be hit, the heads turned back.

"Just take it easy, that's all I'm saying. I know you, Den. Red rag to a bull, this'll be. Like the Italians say. Best eaten cold, yeah?"

Donovan nodded. He knew that Underwood had his best interests at heart.

"Just watch my back, Dicko," he said.

"I'll cover the rest of the bases."

Donovan went back to the hotel and showered and changed. He ate a steak and salad and drank a glass of white wine at an Italian restaurant on the Edgware Road, reading a copy of the Guardian but keeping a close eye on people walking by outside. He paid the bill and then spent five minutes walking around the underpass before rushing above ground and hailing a black cab. He got to Hampstead a full hour before he was due to meet the Spaniard. He walked through the village, doubling back several times and keeping an eye on reflections in the windows of the neat cottages until he was absolutely sure he hadn't been followed.

He walked out on to the Heath, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. He wore black jeans and white Nikes and his New York Yankees baseball cap, and he looked like any other hopeful homosexual trawling for company.

Donovan went the long way around to the place where he'd arranged to meet Rojas, and lingered in a copse of beech trees until he saw the Spaniard walking purposefully along one of the many paths that crisscrossed the Heath. A middle-aged man in a fawn raincoat raised his eyebrows hopefully but Rojas just shook his head and walked on by.

Donovan smiled to himself. Rojas was a good-looking guy, and he was sure that half the trade on the Heath would get a hard-on at the mere sight of the man. He looked like a young Sacha Distel: soft brown eyes, glossy black hair and a perfect suntan. His looks were actually an acute disadvantage in his line of work he could never get too close to his quarry because heads, male and female, always turned when he was around. Donovan could imagine the eyewitness reports the police would get: "Yeah, he was the spitting image of Sacha Distel. In his prime."

That was why Rojas always killed at a distance. A rifle. A bomb.

Poison. A third party.

Donovan waited until he was sure that Rojas was alone before whistling softly to attract his attention. Rojas waved and walked over the grass to the copse. He gave Donovan a bearhug and Donovan smelled garlic on his breath.

"Dennis, good to see you again."

"Don't get over-emotional, Juan. I know you're going to be billing me for your time. Plus expenses. Plus plus."

Rojas laughed heartily and put an arm around Donovan's shoulders.

"You still have your sense of humour, Dennis. I like that."

Donovan narrowed his eyes.

"What have you heard?"

Rojas shrugged carelessly.

"I have heard that Marty Clare is in Noordsingel Detention Centre. And that the DBA want to put him in a cell with Noriega."

"Bloody hell, Juan. I'm impressed."

"It's a small world, my friend. So is it Marty you want taking care of?"

Donovan nodded.

"I hope you never get angry with me, Dennis."

"But who would I hire to kill you, Juan? You're the best."

"Bar none," agreed the Spaniard.

"Bar none."

"Soon as possible, yeah?"

"I took that for granted. My usual terms."

"No discount?"

"Not even for you."

They walked around the copse, their feet crunching in the undergrowth.

"There's something else." Donovan told Rojas about his wife and his accountant and their departure through Heathrow. The Spaniard listened in silence, nodding thoughtfully from time to time.

"I want them found, Juan." Donovan handed Rojas an envelope.

"There's their passport details, credit cards, phone numbers. They know I'll be looking for them and they'll be hiding."