"Wow!" he said.
Fullerton held out the rolled-up banknote to Donovan but Donovan shook his head.
Fullerton snorted the three remaining lines.
"Be careful, yeah? Don't carry gear when you're anywhere near me. They're going to be looking for any excuse to put me away."
"Understood, Den." He made a Boy Scout salute and grinned.
"Dib, dib, dib," he said.
"You were never a Scout," said Donovan.
"Was too."
Donovan grinned and shook his head.
Fullerton drained his lager.
"You want to go out and celebrate?"
"What did you have in mind?" asked Donovan.
"Bottle of shampoo. Pretty girls. On me."
Donovan thought about Fullerton's offer. He had things to do if he was going to get the house ready for Robbie, but it had been a while since he'd let his hair down. A few drinks wouldn't do him any harm.
"Okay. But no more drugs."
Fullerton threw him another salute.
"Scout's honour."
Fullerton's black Porsche was parked a few doors down from Donovan's house. Fullerton drove quickly, weaving through the evening traffic, his hand light on the gear stick and his foot heavy on the accelerator.
They'd only been driving for five minutes when Donovan pointed at a phone box.
"Pull up here, Jamie. I've got to make a call."
Fullerton groped into his pocket and held out a mobile.
"Use this."
Donovan shook his head.
"Nah, it's not the sort of call I want to make from a mobile."
Fullerton pulled up at the side of the road. He gestured with the mobile.
"It's okay, Den. It's a pay as you go. Not registered or anything."
Donovan took the mobile off him and weighed it in his hand. It was a small Nokia, the same model he'd bought for Robbie for his last birthday. State of the art.
"Let me tell you about mobiles, Jamie. Everything you say into this, or near this, they can listen in to."
"They?"
"The Feds. Customs. Spooks. With or without a warrant. They're the perfect bugs because you take them with you everywhere you go, and there's so many of them that no one even notices them any more."
"Den, no one but me has ever touched that phone. No way have they put a bug in it. On my life."
Donovan shook his head. They don't have to. It's all done with systems these days. Once they know the number, they can listen in to every call you make. Every call you receive. But it's worse than that, Jamie. They can tell where you are to within a few feet. They can look into your Sim card and get all the data off it. Your address book, every call you made and every call you received. They can see it all."
Fullerton raised his eyebrows. He stared at the mobile in Donovan's hand.
"Shit."
"It gets worse," said Donovan.
"They can send a nifty programme direct to the handset that turns it into a listening device, even when it's switched off."
"Oh come on," said Fullerton.
"I'm serious, Jamie. I got it from the horse's mouth. Customs guy out in Miami who's on my payroll. Anything said in a room, they can tune into from a targeted mobile. Even if it's switched off. Okay, so long as they don't know you, you can carry on in your own sweet way, but I'm Tango One and any mobile I go near is a potential threat." He tossed the phone back to Fullerton.
"And once they've seen you with me, your phone becomes a threat, too."
Fullerton put away the mobile.
"Why do you think they're so cheap, Jamie?" asked Donovan.
"Supply and demand. Economies of scale."
"Bollocks," Donovan sneered.
"It's because the Government wants everyone to have one. Already three quarters of the population have one, and before long every man, woman and child who can talk will have a mobile. Then they've got us. They'll know where every single person is to within a few feet; they'll know who they're talking to and what they're saying."
"Big Brother," said Fullerton quietly.
"It's nearly here," said Donovan.
"Couple of years at most. Between CCTV cameras and mobiles, there'll be no more privacy. They'll know everything about you." He gestured at the phone box.
"So that's why anything sensitive, you use a brand new Pay As You Go mobile or public land line."
Donovan climbed out of the car. He took a twenty-pound phone card from his wallet and used it to call Juan Rojas in Spain. The answer machine kicked in almost immediately. Donovan didn't bother with pleasantries or say who was calling. He simply dictated the name and address of the firm of City solicitors that Vicky was using then went back to the Porsche.
"Okay?" asked Fullerton.
"We'll see," said Donovan. He knew people in London who'd be capable of getting the information he needed from Vicky's solicitor, but by using Rojas he'd keep himself one step removed.
"Problem?" said Fullerton.
"Nah. Come on, let's get drunk." He twisted around in his seat.
"We being followed?" asked Fullerton.
"Probably," said Donovan.
Fullerton stamped on the accelerator and the Porsche roared through a traffic light that was about to turn red. He slowed so that they could see if any other vehicles went through the red light. None did. Fullerton took the next left and then swung the Porsche down a side street on the right.
"That should do it," he said, pushing the accelerator to the floor again.
Donovan nodded.
"Just don't get done for speeding," he warned.
Fullerton slowed down. Ten minutes later they pulled up in a car park at the side of what looked like a windowless industrial building. Three men in black suits stood guard at an entrance above which was a red neon sign that spelled out "Lapland'. "My local," said Fullerton.
Donovan looked sideways at Fullerton.
"You know Terry, yeah?"
Terry Greene was the owner of the lap-dancing club. He was an old friend of Donovan's, though it had been more than three years since Donovan had been in the club.
"Terry? Sure. He's in Spain, I think. You know him?"
"Used to be my local, too. Way back when." They climbed out of the Porsche and Fullerton locked it.
"Small world," said Donovan.
The three doormen greeted Fullerton by name, clapping him on the back and shaking his hand. They were all in their mid-twenties and selected for their bulk rather than their intelligence. Donovan didn't recognise any of them, and from the blank-faced nods they gave him it was clear they didn't know who he was. Donovan preferred it that way. Black Porsches with personalised number plates and V.I.P access to nightclubs was a great boost for the ego, but Donovan preferred the lowest of low profiles. The Australians had a term for it the tall poppy syndrome. The poppy that stood taller than the rest was the one that had its head knocked off.
Donovan followed Fullerton inside. The decor had changed since Donovan had last visited the club. The black walls and ultraviolet lights had been replaced with plush red flock wallpaper and antique brass light fittings, and the black sofas and tables where the lap-dancers had plied their trade had gone. In their place were Louis XlV-style sofas and ornate side tables. They'd been going for an old-fashioned bordello look, but it reminded Donovan more of an Indian curry house. The music didn't appear to have changed, though. Raunchy and loud.
There were two raised dancing areas where semi-naked girls gyrated around chrome poles. Sweating men in suits clustered around the podiums, drinking spirits and shoving ten- and twenty-pound notes into G-strings. A pretty waitress in a micro-skirt and a tight bikini top tottered over on impossibly high heels and kissed Fullerton on the cheek. Fullerton fondled her backside and introduced her to Donovan. Her name was Sabrina and she was barely out of her teens. Close up Donovan could she had spots on her forehead and an almost-healed cold sore on her upper lip.