Donovan smiled to himself. Rojas was a good-looking guy, and he was sure that half the trade on the Heath would get a hard-on at the mere sight of the man. He looked like a young Sacha Disteclass="underline" soft brown eyes, glossy black hair and a perfect suntan. His looks were actually an acute disadvantage in his line of work he could never get too close to his quarry because heads, male and female, always turned when he was around. Donovan could imagine the eyewitness reports the police would get: "Yeah, he was the spitting image of Sacha Distel. In his prime." That was why Rojas always killed at a distance. A rifle. A bomb. Poison. A third party.
Donovan waited until he was sure that Rojas was alone before whistling softly to attract his attention. Rojas waved and walked over the grass to the copse. He gave Donovan a bearhug and Donovan smelled garlic on his breath.
"Dennis, good to see you again."
"Don't get over-emotional, Juan. I know you're going to be billing me for your time. Plus expenses. Plus plus."
Rojas laughed heartily and put an arm around Donovan's shoulders.
"You still have your sense of humour, Dennis. I like that."
Donovan narrowed his eyes.
"What have you heard?"
Rojas shrugged carelessly.
"I have heard that Marty Clare is in Noordsingel Detention Centre. And that the DBA want to put him in a cell with Noriega."
"Bloody hell, Juan. I'm impressed."
"It's a small world, my friend. So is it Marty you want taking care of?"
Donovan nodded.
"I hope you never get angry with me, Dennis."
"But who would I hire to kill you, Juan? You're the best."
"Bar none," agreed the Spaniard.
"Bar none."
"Soon as possible, yeah?"
"I took that for granted. My usual terms."
"No discount?"
"Not even for you."
They walked around the copse, their feet crunching in the undergrowth.
"There's something else." Donovan told Rojas about his wife and his accountant and their departure through Heathrow. The Spaniard listened in silence, nodding thoughtfully from time to time.
"I want them found, Juan." Donovan handed Rojas an envelope.
"There's their passport details, credit cards, phone numbers. They know I'll be looking for them and they'll be hiding."
"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."