Stephen Leather - Tango One

Did Robbie drink orange juice? He tried to remember when they'd last had breakfast together. Probably in Anguilla, and there was always a big pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice on the table at breakfast.

He finally reached the tea section and dropped two boxes of PG Tips tea bags into his trolley. He looked around for the milk. Where the hell was it? Wouldn't it have been sensible to put the milk with the tea and the coffee?

Breakfast cereal. He'd need breakfast cereal. He looked around, but the only sign he could see told him that he was in the aisle for tea, coffee and soft drinks.

He reached the end of the aisle and came across lines of frozen food cabinets. He scooped up packs of fish fingers, beef burgers and TV dinners and stacked them in his trolley. Then he found the alcohol section and picked up two bottles of Jack Daniels and two packs of lager. He smiled to himself. At least he was getting the basics.

He finally found the milk section and put two large cartons into the trolley. He spent another twenty minutes wandering aimlessly around the aisles and promising himself that next time he'd make a list, before he headed for the checkout.

On the way home he stopped at a call box and phoned Underwood.

"Dicko, call me back, yeah?" He gave the detective the number of the call box and then replaced the receiver. Underwood phoned back fifteen minutes later.

"Now what?" asked the detective, "I'm fine thanks, Dicko. Yourself?"

"As if you care. I presume this isn't social."

"I need you to check someone out for me. Have you got a pen?"

"Bloody hell, Den. You can't keep using the Police National Computer as your own personal database."

"What crawled up your arse and died?"

"Checks leave traces."

"I just want to know who he is, Dicko. He doesn't seem wrong, but I just want to be sure."

"Okay, but let's not make a habit of this. It's the small things that trip people up. A sergeant over at Elephant and Castle got sacked last week for doing a vehicle registration check for a journalist. Lost his job and his pension for a fifty-quid backhander."

Donovan was going to point out that he paid Underwood a hell of a lot more than fifty pounds, but he bit his tongue, not wanting to antagonise the detective. He gave Underwood Fullerton's name and the registration number of his Porsche, and arranged to call him the following day.

Hathaway read through Christina Leigh's report for the third time.

Putting her in as a lap-dancer had always been a long shot, and he still couldn't quite believe that it had worked. There was no mistake, however: not only had she met the man, but it had quickly become personal. If Christina played it right, she could build on the connection, get in under his de fences All she had to do was to take it slowly. She was Donovan's type, so hopefully he'd do the chasing.

He sent her a congratulatory e-mail and told her to play it safe, that she mustn't do anything to scare him off. Donovan had always been a pursuer of women, he loved the thrill of the chase, so if anything she'd have to play hard to get.

As he sent the e-mail to Christina, he received notification that he had a new e-mail waiting. He clicked on the envelope icon and opened an e-mail from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway scrolled through Fullerton's report with a growing sense of elation. It was working. It was finally all coming together. Not only had Christina made contact, but Donovan was letting Fullerton get close, close enough to do real damage. On Hathaway's desk next to his VDU was a series of black and white surveillance photographs that had been taken outside the lap-dancing club. Fullerton had e-mailed Hathaway to tell him where he was going, so the surveillance was in place long before the black Porsche arrived. There were pictures of Donovan and Fullerton arriving, and photographs of Donovan leaving in the blue MGB. Two cars had been in place to follow Donovan from the club, but they'd lost the sports car at a set of lights. Not that that mattered. Christina's report had detailed in full what had happened later that evening.

Hathaway now had a connection between Donovan, Carlos Rodriguez and Ricky Jordan, a major distributor of hard drugs in Scotland. And whatever they were bringing in had something to do with VW Beetles.

Fullerton had relayed the conversation virtually verbatim, but it was still light on specifics.

After a few minutes on the internet, Hathaway discovered that there was only one place where VW Beetles were still manufactured. Mexico. And Carlos Rodriguez ran most of his drugs through Mexico. Hathaway smiled to himself. Beetles packed with heroin or cocaine. And with Rodriguez involved, it had to be a huge shipment.

It took Hathaway less than an hour to ascertain that a shipment of sixty brand new VW Beetles was on its way to Felixstowe. He gnawed at a fingernail as he read through the details on his VDU. Then he reread Fuller-ton's report. Whatever was going down, it seemed that Donovan was now taking a back seat. Jordan was dealing directly with the Rodriguez cartel, though Fullerton had the impression that it was Donovan who'd set up the deal. Plus there was the two million pounds of Donovon's money that Fullerton had paid to Jesus Rodriguez.

The jumbled pieces of the mystery started to come together in Hathaway's mind. He forced himself to relax, letting his subconscious do the work, and then suddenly the solution to the conundrum popped into his head like a huge bubble of air rising to the top of a black lagoon. Donovan had fucked up, somehow. Maybe he'd failed to come up with the money for the consignment. Rodriguez had taken the two million pounds as a penalty payment, and taken over the deal with Ricky Jordan. Another bubble popped to the surface. Donovan was short of money, that's why he had had to sell the paintings. His money had gone. All of it. Stewart Sharkey had screwed Donovan's wife and he'd cleared out the bank accounts. Hathaway grinned. This was getting better and better. Donovan would move heaven and earth to get his money back, and while he was focused on that, he'd be less likely to realise what was going on around him.

It was time to increase the stakes. Hathaway didn't want to run the operation through Customs or the police. They'd both be tempted to let the drugs run to see where they went in an attempt to blow apart the entire network. That was the last thing Hathaway wanted. There was only one option. It was time to call in the Increment.

The traffic was backed up for almost half a mile to Robbie's school, mainly mothers in four-wheel drives. Donovan sat in the Range Rover playing an Oasis tape at full volume. Noel and Liam, two other Manchester boys who'd done well. Donovan wondered how much money the lads had made from rock and roll. Millions, for sure. Maybe ten million. But had they made as much as Donovan had? Sixty million dollars? Donovan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. One thing was for sure: they hadn't had their accountant rip off every last dollar.

Robbie was waiting at the entrance to the school and he waved when he saw Donovan. He came running along the pavement.

"I thought you weren't coming," he gasped as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"I said I would, didn't I?" The woman in the Honda CRV in front of them was refusing to move, so Donovan pounded on the horn.

"Come on, you stupid bitch, we've got lives here."

"Dad! That's Mrs. Cooper. Alison's mum."

"Well, Alison's mother should learn to drive before she goes out on the road. And that car's way too big for her. She should be in a Mini."

Robbie slid down his seat, his hands over his face.

Donovan pounded on the horn again, then grinned across at Robbie's obvious discomfort.

"Shall I ram her?"

"Dad… please…"

"Oh, come on, I was only joking."