"Stupid bastard. How'd they get him in the first place?"
Donovan shrugged.
"Come on, Dicko, don't give me that Gallic shoulder thing. Someone grassed?"
"More than that, I think."
"You think, or you know?"
"Bloody hell, Den, you don't give up, do you?"
Donovan leaned across the table so that his mouth was just inches away from the policeman's ear.
"My fucking life's on the line here, Dicko, now stop pissing around. I need to know where I stand."
Underwood nodded slowly and put his glass down.
"Undercover Cussie."
"Dutch or Brit customs?"
"Dutch."
"Do you have a name?"
"No, Den, I don't have a name. Why the hell would the cloggies tell me who their secret weapons are?"
"Information and resource sharing, you said."
"Superficial at best. We've linked databases but we all protect our assets. What are you going to do, Den?"
Donovan looked at Underwood, his eyes cold and hard.
"Do you really want to know, Dicko?"
Dicko sucked air in through clenched jaws, then took a long drink of lager.
"How close did they get to me?" asked Donovan.
"Strictly surveillance."
"No one up close and personal?"
An elderly man in paint-spattered overalls and a shapeless hat walked over to the jukebox, slotted in a coin and jabbed at the selection buttons. Underwood waited until the man had walked back to his space at the bar before speaking again.
"Give me a break, Den. What do you think, I can just wander along to SO10 and ask them what undercover agents they've got in play?"
"You're NCS liaison, aren't you? National Crime Squad would have a vested interest."
"Which would have been sparked off by what? Do you want me to tell them you're back? Because if you're out in the sunny Caribbean, why would the Met or the NCS give a rat's arse what you're up to?"
"If they've sent anyone against me, I need to know."
"And I've got another ten years of a career ahead of me."
"You could retire tomorrow."
Underwood grinned.
"Not officially." He had a little under a million pounds secreted away in various offshore accounts, but the money was untouchable until after he'd left the force. Even then he'd have to be careful. A villa in Spain. A decent-sized boat. Maybe a small bar overlooking the sea. 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.