Stephen Leather - Tango One

"She was talking about this painting. It was a huge canvas, the figures were pretty much life size. Two Cavaliers with feathered hats facing each other with a pretty girl watching them." Donovan smiled at her.

"You know, I've forgotten who painted it, but I'll never forget the way she talked about it. It was as if she could see something that I couldn't." He shook his head.

"No, that's not right. We could all see the painting, but she had a different way of seeing. She understood what the artist was trying to say. The story that he was trying to tell. The painting was about the two guys arguing over the girl, of course, but it was way more than that. There were political references in the paintings, there was historical stuff, things that you just wouldn't see unless someone drew your attention to it. I tell you, she talked about that one painting for almost thirty minutes. By the end I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with my mouth wide open."

A multi-racial crocodile of inner-city primary-school children walking in pairs, holding hands and chattering excitedly, threaded its way past them, shepherded by four harassed young female teachers.

"I kept going back. Sometimes I'd join up with classes of kids about my age, sometimes I'd sit in on the volunteer lectures. Sometimes I used to sit on my own and try to read paintings myself He smiled apologetically.

"I'm being boring. Sorry."

"You're not," said Louise.

Donovan smiled.

"It opened my eyes. I know that's a cliche, but it did. You see, a painting isn't just a picture of an event like a photograph is. A photograph is totally real, it's what you'd see if you were there. But a painting is the artist's interpretation, which means that everything that's in the painting is in for a reason. Each one is like a mystery to be solved."

Louise's smile widened and Donovan tutted.

"I'm being patronising, aren't I?"

Louise shook her head.

"I was smiling at your enthusiasm," she said.

"You're like a kid talking about his comic book collection."

They walked through the double doors to another gallery, this one full of Impressionist paintings. It wasn't Donovan's favourite room and he barely glanced at the canvases.

"Can I ask you something?" said Louise.

"Sure."

She looked across at him apprehensively.

"Promise me you won't get upset."

"Sure," he said.

"Your wife left you, right?"

Donovan nodded.

"You must have known her better than you know anyone in the world, right?"

"I guess so."

"And you didn't see it coming?"

"I suppose I was too busy doing other things. I was away a lot."

"Do you miss her?"

"Do I miss her?" said Donovan, raising his voice. Heads swivelled in his direction, and one of the curators flashed him a warning look.

Donovan let go of her hand and bent his head down to be closer to hers.

"Do I miss her?" he repeated.

"She screwed my accountant. In my bed." His face was contorted with anger and she took a step away from him. He put his hands up.

"I'm sorry," he said. Touchy subject."

"I can see."

Donovan looked around. An elderly couple were openly staring at him and he glared menacingly at them until they looked away. He took a deep breath.

"And you're right. I should have seen the signs. There probably were clues when the two of them were together. It must have been going on for a while."

"And there weren't any signs?"

"Like I said, I was away a lot."

"Which is a sign in itself," she said.

Donovan looked at her with narrowed eyes and a growing respect for her intelligence. Louise was a bright girl.

"I mean, if everything was hunky dory, you'd have spent more time with her, right?"

"There were other considerations," said Donovan.

"For instance?"

"This is getting to be like an interrogation," he said.

"I just want to know who I'm getting involved with, that's all."

"Is that what you're doing? Getting involved?"

She turned and walked away, then looked back at him over her shoulder.

"Maybe," she said.

Donovan caught up with her and they walked together through the Sackler Room, where the gallery kept its paintings by Hogarth, Gainsborough and Stubbs. Donovan admired the way that Louise hadn't asked what it was he'd wanted. He'd kept the phone conversation as brief as possible, just saying that he needed a favour and that he wanted to meet her outside the National Gallery. Most people would have arrived bursting with questions, but Louise had seemed happy just to chat.

"I do appreciate you coming, Louise," he said.

"I owe you, Den. Whatever it is you need, I'm here for you."

Donovan nodded.

"How much do you know about what I do?" he asked.

"Enough, I guess. Kris said you had a reputation."

"She's probably told you right. I've got a problem. Some guys think I've double-crossed them and they're going to be after my blood. I haven't, but in my business it's often perceptions rather than the reality of the situation that count. Thing is, I need someone to take care of Robbie until I get it sorted."

Louise frowned.

"You want him to stay with me?"

"Is that a problem?"

She shook her head. "No, it's just…well,hedoesn'tknowme."

"That's the point. I could put him with my sister, but that's the first place they'll look if he's not at home. Nobody knows that I know you."

"Exactly," said Louise.

"You've no idea who I am, yet you're putting me in charge of your son."

"If it's too much trouble, forget I asked."

"No, it's not that," she said earnestly.

"I'm happy to help, believe me, but I'm looking at it from your point of view. With the best will in the world, Den, I'm a complete stranger to you."

Donovan grinned.

"I know where you live and I know where you work. I know the registration number of your car, and I know that you work for Terry Greene and Terry's a mate from way back."

Louise nodded slowly.

"Okay, but there's another thing you've got to bear in mind. I'm not a mum, Den. I've never taken care of a kid before."

"He's nine. He doesn't need much looking after. Feed him, make sure he cleans his teeth and give him the TV remote. He'll be fine. And it'll only be for a few days. Just until I get things sorted."

Louise folded her arms.

"I can't believe you trust me that much."

"Are you saying I can't?"

She shook her head.

"No. I'm just… I don't know, surprised. Touched."

"I'll pay you." Donovan reached for his wallet.

"No!" said Louise quickly.

"I don't want your money, Den. I'm happy to do this for you."

"I'll collect him from school and bring him straight round. It'll mean you not going to work."

"That's okay. I was wanting to stay off until my eye healed anyway."

Donovan hugged her.

"Thanks, Louise. I was starting to run out of people I can trust."

Sharkey's mobile rang. He picked it up. Vicky came in from the bedroom, naked except for a towel, still wet from the shower.

"Stewart Sharkey?"

The accent was Spanish. Sharkey smiled. Den Donovan was so predictable sometimes.

"Ah, Juan Rojas. It would either be you or the Pole. And just between the two of us, I always thought you were the more professional."

"You are making me blush, Mr. Sharkey."

The guy you have knows nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"I realise that," said Rojas.

"I have already released him. I trust you will adhere to your end of the agreement?"

"You gave him the account number?"

"I did."

"The money will be in your account within forty-eight hours. You do realise that it's Donovan's money?"

"While it is in your possession, it's your money to do with as you wish," said Rojas.

"I doubt that Den will see it that way," said Sharkey.