The headmistress nodded thoughtfully.
"Obviously I want Robbie back at school as soon as possible. So I want it made clear that if she turns up at the school she's not to be allowed to take him."
"Mr. Donovan, I'm not sure if I can give you that guarantee. Mrs. Donovan is Robbie's mother." Donovan opened his mouth to argue but she held up her hand and raised her eyebrows as if she were silencing a noisy classroom.
"Do you have some sort of legal backing for your request?"
"Such as?"
"A court order. Something like that."
"No, but my lawyer is applying for sole custody and we're confident the court will see it our way."
The headmistress spread her hands, palms upwards.
"Mr. Donovan, unless a court forbids your wife access to your son, I'm not sure that we can ' "You don't understand," interrupted Donovan.
"She might snatch him. She could turn up with a couple of heavies and whisk him away."
The headmistress shook her head sadly.
"Mr. Donovan, I know your wife. She was a regular attender at Parent Teacher Association meetings. She donated money to our arts club appeal."
Donovan stood up. The headmistress jerked back in her seat as if she'd been stung.
"If she comes to the school, she's not to go near Robbie," he said, pointing an accusing finger at her.
"If she does, I'll hold you responsible. Personally responsible."
"Are you threatening me, Mr. Donovan?" she asked, her voice shaking.
Donovan leaned over her desk, invading her space.
"I'm telling you, Miss, Ms or Mrs. Stephenson. You know my wife and maybe you don't know me, but believe me, anything happens to my son and you'll get to know me. Do you understand?"
The headmistress nodded.
"Maybe you don't," said Donovan. He picked up the brass nameplate and waved it under her nose.
"I know your name, and it would take me two minutes to find out where you live." He slammed the nameplate down on her desk and she flinched. All the colour had drained from the headmistress's face. Donovan smiled. He straightened up and took a step back.
"Let's not get off on the wrong foot," he said softly.
"Robbie's a good kid. You've done a great job teaching him and I do appreciate that. If it's donations you want, I'd be happy to help out. I can even come to PTA meetings." Donovan straightened up.
"Thank you for your time. If my wife should turn up at the school, I'd be grateful if you'd call me. Immediately." He handed her a card on which he'd written the number of one of his pay-as-you-go mobiles.
The headmistress sat with her head down and her hands in her lap. Donovan kept holding the card out to her. Eventually she reached up hesitantly and took it.
"Thank you," said Donovan.
Donovan went back to the hotel and told the manager he'd be checking out. He went up to his room and quickly packed his things. He was gathering up his mobile phones when he saw that two of them had received voice messages.
One was the phone that Juan Rojas used. Donovan checked that one first. Rojas said nothing of interest, just that he was on the case but that so far he had nothing to report. The second message was from Jamie Fullerton, saying that he had the rest of the money from the sale of the paintings. Three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.
Donovan phoned Fullerton and arranged to meet him at Donovan's house later that night, then went downstairs and paid his bill in cash.
He caught a black cab back to the house, and looked around before opening the front door. He didn't see any obvious surveillance, but now that he was back to being Tango One he was sure that there'd be watchers somewhere along the street. They could be in a flat across the road, in an attic somewhere, in the back of a van with darkened windows. They might even have set up a remote-controlled camera in a parked car, monitored some distance away. If they were good, he wouldn't see them.
He let himself into the house and took his suitcase upstairs. He stripped off the bedding in the master bedroom and took it down to the kitchen and put it in the washer-dryer, then had second thoughts and stuffed it into black rubbish bags and put them outside by the bins.
He took more rubbish bags upstairs and methodically went through the rooms, putting everything that belonged to his wife into the bags. Clothes. Cosmetics. Videos. CDs. Tapes. Holiday souvenirs. Everything and anything that was personal to her. He filled six bags and threw them out of the bedroom window so that they landed in the back garden with a satisfying thud.
Donovan showered and changed into clean chinos and a polo shirt, and he was combing his hair when the doorbell rang. It was Jamie Fullerton, grinning widely and carrying two red Manchester United holdalls.
"How's it going, Den?" he asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Fine, Jamie. Come on in."
Donovan took him through to the kitchen. Fullerton heaved the bulging holdalls on to the kitchen table.
"Beer?" asked Donovan.
"Sure."
Donovan took two bottles out of the fridge and uncapped them. He gave one to Fullerton and they clinked bottles.
"To crime," said Fullerton.
Donovan froze, his bottle halfway towards his mouth.
"Say what?"
Fullerton took a mouthful of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It was a crime, the way I ramped those paintings. Way over the odds, they paid." He nodded at the holdalls.
"There's your cash. A cool three hundred and fifty, on top of the money I gave the Colombian. Am I good or am I good?"
Donovan put his bottle on the table and unzipped one of the holdalls. It was full of wads of fifty-pound notes. He took out a thick wad and flicked the notes with his thumb.
"It's spotless, Den. You could put that on a church plate with a clean conscience."
Donovan put the wad of notes into his jacket pocket and zipped up the holdall. Fullerton raised his bottle in salute and Donovan did the same.
"Good job, Jamie. Thanks."
"You want a line? To celebrate?"
Donovan's face hardened.
"You brought drugs into my house?"
Fullerton grimaced.
"You know I'm under surveillance, right? Tango One, I am."
"Tango One?"
"That's what the filth call their most wanted. A Alpha, B Bravo, C Charlie. T stands for target and it's T Tango. Tango One, Target One. And I'm it. They're probably out there now. And you brought drugs into my house? How stupid is that?"
"Shit. I'm sorry. It's only for personal use, though. Couple of grams." He grinned.
"Good stuff, too."
"Yeah, I can see that from your face. You look like you're plugged into the mains."
Fullerton took a small silver phial from his pocket.
"Want some?"
"Are you not listening to me, Jamie?"
"Yeah, but if we get rid of the evidence, what can they do?
Unless you want me to flush it, but I have to say, Den, this is primo blow. I get it off a guy in Chelsea Harbour who supplies half the TV executives in London."
Donovan was about to argue, but the cocaine-induced eager-to-please look on Fullerton's face made him laugh out loud.
"Go on then, you daft bastard," he said, picking up the two holdalls.
"I suppose you deserve it."
Donovan took the holdalls through to his study. With the Buttersworth painting now gone, the safe was exposed and Donovan decided against putting the money in it. He went upstairs and pulled down the folding ladder that led up to the loft, and hid the holdalls behind the water tank.
By the time he got back to the kitchen, Fullerton had prepared four lines of cocaine on the kitchen table and was rolling up a fifty-pound note.
"You said a line," said Donovan.
"One line."
"I lied," said Fullerton. He bent down and snorted one of the lines, then held his head back and gasped as the drug kicked in.