"You know the Paddington Stop, yeah?"
"Little Venice?"
"See you on the terrace in one, yeah?"
"I'm bringing Ricky with me." It was a statement, not a question.
"Be nice, yeah?" said Donovan.
"We're on the same side here."
"I bloody hope so, Den. See you in one hour."
The phone went dead. Donovan pulled the battery off the back of the phone and removed the Sim card. He dropped it into the toilet bowl in the bathroom and flushed, then put a replacement Sim card into the phone. He put on his jacket and headed out. As he was closing the door he hesitated, then went back into the room and got the two Sparbuchs out of his suitcase. The Paddington Stop was less than half an hour's walk if he went the direct route, but that meant walking past Paddington Green police station, and he'd prefer to give it a wide berth. Besides, a long walk might help clear his head.
"So, Mr. Clare, how are you feeling?" asked the prison governor. He was a small, portly man in his late thirties with a kindly face and gold-framed glasses.
"How do you think I'm feeling?" said Clare.
"He nearly killed me."
"Superficial, I'm told," said the governor.
"If someone stabbed you in the stomach, I doubt you'd think it superficial," said Clare bitterly. He was lying in the prison hospital ward. Only three of the eight beds were occupied. The other two patients were prisoners recovering from drug overdoses and were both on the far side of the ward, connected to saline drips. A guard had been standing by the door ever since Clare had been admitted.
"Neither of your wounds were life-threatening, Mr. Clare," said the governor patiently, 'but that's not to say we're not taking the matter seriously. You say you can't identify your assailant?"
"He was black. In his twenties, maybe. I hardly saw him."
"Many of our inmates are black, Mr. Clare. You can appreciate how difficult it is to identify the man from your description."
"I want out of here," said Clare.
"Now."
"The medical facilities here are more than sufficient for your needs, Mr. Clare," said the governor. He looked at a white-coated doctor who nodded on cue.
"I don't give a shit about my medical treatment," said Clare.
"We all know what this was about. It was Den Donovan. He either wanted to warn me, or he wanted me dead. Either way, I'm out of here. Get me my lawyer, and get me Hathaway. If he wants me to grass on Donovan, he can bloody well make sure I'm taken care of
Donovan walked down Sussex Gardens and across Lancaster Gate to Hyde Park. It was a sunny morning but there was a cold breeze blowing across the park so he zipped up his bomber jacket and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He had his baseball cap and sunglasses on.
Two young women in tight tops, jodhpurs and boots were riding gleaming chestnut horses along the bridle path. Donovan wasn't the only male head to turn and watch them go by. They moved in unison, gripping their mounts with their muscular thighs.
As Donovan watched them ride off, he scanned the park, looking for familiar figures. He'd been checking reflections in windows and car mirrors all the way down Sussex Gardens and had knelt down to tie his shoelaces before entering the park, and he was reasonably sure that he hadn't been followed. He wasn't looking at faces, or even heads, because faces were notoriously hard to recognise, and profiles of heads could easily be changed with wigs or hats or scarves. Donovan checked out bodies. Their shape, their posture, the way they moved. People who were watching or following weren't behaving normally, and no matter how good they were, there'd be signs that could be spotted a stiffness, a momentary hesitation when they were looked at, an awkwardness about disguising the hands going towards a concealed microphone, a hundred and one things that could give them away. Donovan saw nothing to worry him.
Half an hour later, Donovan was on the towpath opposite the Paddington Stop. He leaned against the railings and waited. There was a terrace between the pub and the canal with half a dozen wooden tables and benches, most of which were occupied by midday drinkers from the nearby council estates.
Donovan saw Jordan and Macfadyen arrive in a bright red Ferrari with the top down. They drove into the car park behind the pub and a couple of minutes later walked out on to the terrace. Donovan stayed where he was and watched with an amused smile as the two men checked out the occupants of all the tables. Jordan shook his head and Macfadyen looked at his watch. Eventually Macfadyen spotted Donovan and said something to Jordan. Both men looked at him across the canal. Donovan pointed to the footbridge and motioned for them to come over.
He walked back along the towpath as Macfadyen and Jordan walked over the bridge.
"What's up, Den?" teased Jordan in his nasal Liverpudlian whine.
"Thought we'd be here mob-handed?" Jordan was average build with a beaked nose and a cleft chin and ears that stuck out like cup handles. He was dressed as usual in black Armani and had a chunky gold ring on his right hand that glinted in the sun. Macfadyen was more casually dressed, sporting a black Valentino leather jacket over a pale green polo-necked pullover, and he had a thick gold bracelet on his right wrist. He was balding and had shaved what hair he had left close to his skull, showing off a curved scar above his left ear that looked like a Nike swoosh. Both men, like Donovan, were wearing sunglasses. Jordan's were Armani.
Den smiled and shrugged. The bridge was an excellent way of making sure he knew exactly who he'd be meeting. If they'd turned up with reinforcements, he'd have been able to beat a hasty retreat back under the A4O and disappear into the Bayswater shopping crowds.
"Just being careful." He hugged Jordan and patted him on the back. He felt Jordan's hands run down his back, the fingers probing under Donovan's jacket.
"For fuck's sake, Ricky," he protested.
"What are you looking for?"
Macfadyen was watching, an amused look on his face.
"Yeah, well, you've gotta expect us to be careful, too," he said. He nodded at the bridge.
"No need for that. You think we'd have come near you if we'd had a sniff that Five-O were on our tail?"
Donovan pushed Jordan away, then took off his jacket and undid his shirt. He pulled his shirt open and showed it to Macfadyen.
"Satisfied?" he sneered.
Macfadyen put his hands up and patted the air.
"Calm down, Den." He grinned.
"I mean, keep your shirt on, yeah? You've got to admit, this isn't the gospel according to Den, is it?"
"You think I'm setting you up?" asked Donovan, buttoning up his shirt.
"You haven't said what you're doing, have you?" said Jordan.
Donovan turned and started walking across the grassy area towards a children's playground. A few swings, a climbing frame, a rusting roundabout. Every flat surface had been covered in graffiti. Nothing clever or ironic, just names. Tags proclaiming territory like dogs pissing against trees. I wrote this, therefore I exist. Empty cries in an uncaring world.
Jordan and Macfadyen followed Donovan.
"Who is he?" asked Macfadyen in his thick Scottish brogue.
"Carlos Rodriguez. He's Colombian. He's big, Charlie. No way's he going to rip you off." He stopped to let the two men catch up, then they walked together to the playground.
"He's the supplier?"
Donovan nodded.
"And you're giving him to us?"
"I think Carlos sees it as the other way around," said Donovan bitterly.
"He's cutting you out?" said Jordan.
"Are you two just gonna keep staring this gift horse down the throat?" said Donovan.