Stephen Leather - Tango One

Donovan climbed out of the car. He took a twenty-pound phone card from his wallet and used it to call Juan Rojas in Spain. The answer machine kicked in almost immediately. Donovan didn't bother with pleasantries or say who was calling. He simply dictated the name and address of the firm of City solicitors that Vicky was using then went back to the Porsche.

"Okay?" asked Fullerton.

"We'll see," said Donovan. He knew people in London who'd be capable of getting the information he needed from Vicky's solicitor, but by using Rojas he'd keep himself one step removed.

"Problem?" said Fullerton.

"Nah. Come on, let's get drunk." He twisted around in his seat.

"We being followed?" asked Fullerton.

"Probably," said Donovan.

Fullerton stamped on the accelerator and the Porsche roared through a traffic light that was about to turn red. He slowed so that they could see if any other vehicles went through the red light. None did.

Fullerton took the next left and then swung the Porsche down a side street on the right.

"That should do it," he said, pushing the accelerator to the floor again.

Donovan nodded.

"Just don't get done for speeding," he warned.

Fullerton slowed down. Ten minutes later they pulled up in a car park at the side of what looked like a windowless industrial building. Three men in black suits stood guard at an entrance above which was a red neon sign that spelled out "Lapland'. "My local," said Fullerton.

Donovan looked sideways at Fullerton.

"You know Terry, yeah?"

Terry Greene was the owner of the lap-dancing club. He was an old friend of Donovan's, though it had been more than three years since Donovan had been in the club.

"Terry? Sure. He's in Spain, I think. You know him?"

"Used to be my local, too. Way back when." They climbed out of the Porsche and Fullerton locked it.

"Small world," said Donovan.

The three doormen greeted Fullerton by name, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. They were all in their mid-twenties and selected for their bulk rather than their intelligence. Donovan didn't recognise any of them, and from the blank-faced nods they gave him it was clear they didn't know who he was. Donovan preferred it that way.

Black Porsches with personalised number plates and V.I.P access to nightclubs was a great boost for the ego, but Donovan preferred the lowest of low profiles. The Australians had a term for it the tall poppy syndrome. The poppy that stood taller than the rest was the one that had its head knocked off.

Donovan followed Fullerton inside. The decor had changed since Donovan had last visited the club. The black walls and ultraviolet lights had been replaced with plush red flock wallpaper and antique brass light fittings, and the black sofas and tables where the lap-dancers had plied their trade had gone. In their place were Louis XlV-style sofas and ornate side tables. They'd been going for an old-fashioned bordello look, but it reminded Donovan more of an Indian curry house.

The music didn't appear to have changed, though. Raunchy and loud.

There were two raised dancing areas where semi-naked girls gyrated around chrome poles. Sweating men in suits clustered around the podiums, drinking spirits and shoving ten- and twenty-pound notes into G-strings. A pretty waitress in a micro-skirt and a tight bikini top tottered over on impossibly high heels and kissed Fullerton on the cheek. Fullerton fondled her backside and introduced her to Donovan.

Her name was Sabrina and she was barely out of her teens. Close up Donovan could she had spots on her forehead and an almost-healed cold sore on her upper lip.

She took them over to a table in a roped-off section with a clear view of both dancing podiums. Fullerton ordered Dom Perignon and Sabrina swung her hips gamely as she tottered off to get it.

"See anything you like, Den?" Fullerton asked, gesturing at the dancing girls.

Donovan checked out the dancers. Two brunettes, two blondes, an Oriental and a black girl. The blondes could have been sisters: they were both tall with long hair almost down to their waists, full breasts and tiny waists. Real-life Barbie dolls. They had the same vacant eyes and fake smiles as the dolls, though they were both good dancers.

Fullerton grinned.

"You like blondes, huh?"

"I like women, Jamie, but yeah, they're stunning."

"Been there, have you? I'd hate to have sloppy seconds." Fullerton chuckled and nodded at the Oriental girl, who was on her hands and knees in front of a balding guy in a too-tight suit, taking a twenty-pound note from him with her teeth.

"Mimi's my dish of the day and she's the jealous type," he said.

"Yeah, looks it," said Donovan. Mimi took the banknote and tucked it into her g-string, then stood up and started to make love to one of the silver poles.

"Thai, yeah?"

"Vietnamese," Fullerton.

"Came over here as a boat person when she was six."

"Doesn't look much older now, truth be told," said Donovan.

"Get away, she's twenty-two," said Fullerton.

"And she knows stuff that'll make your eyes water."

Mimi caught sight of Fullerton, waved girlishly and then climbed down off the podium and rushed over to him. She knelt on the sofa and hugged him tightly, giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Where've you been, Fullerton?" she asked in an East End accent.

"You said you'd be here last night."

"Busy, busy, busy," said Jamie.

"Miss me, did you?"

She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smear of red as if he'd just been slapped.

"Let me dance, yeah?" she said.

"That twat over there's got more money than sense. He's given me two hundred already, thinks he's on a promise."

"Wonder how he got that idea," said Fullerton, leering at her ample cleavage.

"Go on, but you're coming home with me, remember?"

Mimi hurried back to her podium. Sabrina returned with their champagne in an ice bucket. She poured the Dom Perignon, winked at Fullerton, then left them to it.

Fullerton sighed and settled back. He put his feet up on the table in front of them and sipped his champagne.

"What's the story with the Srnurfs?" he asked.

Donovan looked at him sideways.

"What do you mean?"

"The Rembrandt. You said you got the money from the Smurfs."

Donovan laughed.

"Nah, you don't get money from Smurfs. You give them money and they clean it for you."

"Now I'm confused."

Donovan leaned over.

"Say you've got five hundred grand and it's iffy. You can't take it into the bank and deposit it. Anything over ten grand and you've got to be able to prove it's not ill-gotten gains, right?"

Fullerton nodded.

"You can take it overseas, but flying out with a case of cash is going to guarantee you a pull. So you call in the Smurfs."

Fullerton was as confused as ever.

"You get half a dozen Smurfs, and you get them to open five bank and building society accounts each. That's thirty bank accounts. Then every day you give them ten grand each and they put between one and three grand into their accounts. It's well below the ten grand limit so they don't get reported. Every day the Smurfs deposit sixty grand.

In two weeks the whole five hundred grand is in the system. Then you can transfer the money to wherever you want."

"And where do you find the Smurfs?"

"Druggies, mainly," said Donovan.

"Don't they ever run off with the money?"

"Not if they know what's good for them."

Fullerton giggled.

"What?"

Fullerton waved him away.

"Just the thought of all the Smurfs traipsing around London with carrier bags full of cash, singing "Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to work we go". Sort of puts the whole thing in perspective, you know."

"That's dwarves, not Smurfs," said Donovan, refilling their glasses.