Stephen Leather - Tango One

"I understand."

"When you've found them, I need to talk to them."

"You mean you want to be there when I…" Rojas left the sentence unfinished.

"I need some time alone with them. That's all." Donovan wasn't prepared to tell the Spaniard about the missing sixty million dollars.

"You can finish up after I've gone."

"Both of them?" asked Rojas, his face creased into a frown.

"Both of them," repeated Donovan.

"Amigo, are you sure this is a wise course of action?" said Rojas.

"She is your wife. Business is business but your wife is personal. You punish her of course, but…" He shrugged and sighed.

"She fucked my accountant. In my house. In front of my kid."

"And he should die. No question. But your wife…"

"She's not my wife any more, Juan."

"The police will know."

"They'll suspect."

The Spaniard shrugged again, less expressively this time, more a gesture of acceptance. He could see that there was no point in arguing with Donovan. His mind was made up.

"Very well. You are the customer and the customer is always right."

"Thank you."

"Even when he is wrong."

They shook hands, then Rojas reached around Donovan and gave him a second bone-crushing bearhug.

"Be careful, Dennis. And I say that from a business perspective, not from personal concern, you understand?"

Donovan grinned. He understood exactly.

The Spaniard winked and walked away across the grass and back to the path. Donovan watched him go until he was lost in the night then he turned and went in search of a taxi.

It was just after eleven o'clock when Mark Gardner got home. He dropped his bulging briefcase by the front door and tossed his coat on to a rack by the hall table.

"Don't ask!" he said, holding up a hand to silence her.

"But if Julie or Jenny ever express any interest in entering the advertising industry, take them out and shoot them, will you?"

Laura handed him a gin and tonic and went into the kitchen. Mark stood and walked through the archway that led through to a small conservatory. He flopped down on one of the rattan sofas and swung his feet carefully up on to the glass-topped coffee table. He sighed and sipped his gin and tonic as he looked out of the french windows.

Scattered around the garden were knee-high mushroom-shaped concrete structures in which were embedded small lights. They'd been installed by the previous owner of the house, along with more than two dozen garden gnomes. The gnomes had moved out with the owner, but the mushroom lights had stayed, and while their friends constantly teased them for their lack of taste, Mark and Laura had grown to like the effect at night small pools of light that looked like miniature galaxies lost in the blackness of an ever-expanding universe.

Mark sank deep into the sofa and sniffed his gin and tonic. Bubbles were still bursting to the surface and he could feel the cold pinpricks on his nose. He knew that he was drinking more than normal, but his agency had recently acquired a batch of new clients and he was keen to make a good impression. A good impression meant longer hours, and longer hours meant he was finding it harder to wind down after work.

Without a few strong gin and tonics, his mind would continue to race and he'd find it impossible to sleep. Too many and he'd wake up with a headache, but so far he'd been able to maintain a happy medium. He took another sip and sighed.

Something moved in the garden, something dark, something that was striding towards the french windows. A man. Mark jumped and his drink spilled over his chest. He cursed and scrambled to his feet, the glass shattering on the tiled floor of the conservatory.

"Are you okay?" Laura shouted from the kitchen.

Mark took a step back, away from the french windows. His feet crunched on broken glass. He put his hands up defensively even though the man was a good twenty feet away and on the other side of sheets of security glass.

"Stay where you are, Laura there's someone in the garden," As usual, his wife did the exact opposite of what he asked and came running from the kitchen.

"Who is it?"

"Stay where you are!" he yelled.

Laura appeared in the archway, a tea towel in her hands. Mark looked around for something to use as a weapon and grabbed at a heavy brass vase that they'd bought while on holiday in Tunisia. He hefted it by the neck, swinging it like a club.

The man walked up to the window, his hand raised. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket and had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

Mark flinched, fearing that he was going to be shot, but the man's gesture turned into a wave, and when he pressed his face against the glass, Mark sighed with relief.

"It's Den!" said Laura.

"Yes, darling, I can see that now," said Mark, sarcastically.

Donovan took off his baseball cap and gave Mark a thumbs-up.

"Surprise!" he mouthed.

Mark realised he was still swinging the brass vase and he grinned sheepishly. He put it back on its table and went to unlock the french windows.

Donovan stepped into the conservatory and shook Mark's hand.

"That was some welcome," he said, nodding at the vase.

"Most people use the front door," said Mark.

"In fact, our real friends usually phone first."

Donovan slapped Mark on the back and then rushed over to hug his sister.

"He's still a moaning bugger, then?" he said.

"Like a broken record," she said, hugging him tight.

"I did warn you about him before you got married."

"Yes, you did," laughed Laura.

"I am still here, you know," said Mark. He knelt down and started picking up the pieces of broken glass.

Donovan moved to help him put the glass splinters on a copy of The Economist.

"Didn't mean to spook you, Mark. Sorry."

"I wasn't spooked," said Mark.

"You caught me by surprise, that's all."

"I didn't want to come up the front path, just in case."

"In case we're being watched?" asked Laura, sitting down.

"Who'd be watching us, Den?"

"I dunno, Sis. I don't know who knows I'm here. Better safe than sorry."

Mark carefully lifted up the magazine and carried it out to the kitchen. Donovan went to sit next to his sister.

"When did you get back?" she asked.

"Yesterday. How is he?"

"He's okay. Cried his eyes out the first night, now he's sort of numb.

Shock."

Donovan shook his head, his lips tight.

"I'll swing for that bastard Sharkey. And her."

"That's not going to help Robbie, is it?" She put a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you going to do, Den?"

Donovan shrugged.

"He's going to have to come back with me. I'll get him a new passport and we'll head off."

"To the Caribbean?" she said, scornfully.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"What about his school? His friends? Us?"

"It won't be for ever, Laura. There are schools there. He'll make friends. You and Mark can come out on holiday."

Mark appeared at the door.

"What holiday?" 'I'm just saying, if Robbie and I go to Anguilla, you can come and stay."

Mark and Laura exchanged worried looks.

"What?" said Donovan.

"Nothing," said Mark.

"Come on, spit it out."

Mark hesitated, then took a deep breath.

"Look, it's none of my business, Den, but right now Robbie needs stability. Pulling him out of his environment and dumping him on a tropical island is going to be a hell of a shock to his system."

"It's Anguilla. It's not Robinson Crusoe. We're not going to be fishing with safety pins and drinking from coconuts. It's more bloody civilised than this shithole called England, I can tell you."

"Maybe, but this is home. Anyway, I'm not arguing with you. Robbie's your son. End of story. What do you want to drink?"