The mobile phone on the table next to the computer bleeped and Sharkey grabbed for the receiver.
"Stewart? It's David."
David Hoyle. A lawyer based in Shepherd's Bush in West London. Sharkey had known him for years, but this was the first time he'd used him professionally.
"Hiya, David. I trust you're using a call box?"
"I am, Stewart, but is this really necessary?"
"You don't know Vicky's husband, David." That was one of the reasons that Sharkey was using him. Hoyle had never done any work for Den Donovan, or anyone like him. He was a family lawyer who specialised in divorce work and had never been within a mile of a criminal court.
"Even so, Stewart, I feel a bit silly walking out of my office every time I talk to you."
"A necessary precaution, David. I'm sorry."
"Where are you?" Hoyle asked. The number that Sharkey had given him was a GSM roaming mobile. It was aUK number but Sharkey could use it anywhere in Europe.
"Not too far away," said Sharkey.
"Best you don't know the specifics."
"Oh please, Stewart. That would be covered by client confidentiality."
Sharkey smiled. He knew that Den Donovan wouldn't be worried about a little thing like client confidentiality.
"How can I help you, David?"
"We've heard back from his lawyers. The husband is applying for sole custody. And of course he will be trying to have the injunction lifted."
Sharkey grunted. They had expected that Donovan would want sole custody of Robbie. And that he'd want to take him out of the country. So far as Sharkey was concerned, he would be quite happy for Donovan to get what he wanted, but he had to keep Vicky happy, for a while at least, and that meant going through the motions.
"I assume that Victoria still wishes to apply for custody?" asked Hoyle.
"Absolutely," said Sharkey.
"I would expect the hearing to be within the next two weeks," said Hoyle.
"You do realise that Victoria will have to appear in person?"
"That's definite, is it?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Then that's the way it'll have to be."
"I'll get the papers drawn up, Stewart. I'll be in touch."
Sharkey cut the connection and put the mobile phone back on the table. There was no way he could allow Vicky to go back to London. The moment she set foot back in the UK, Donovan would get to her. And from her he'd get to Sharkey. It would all be over. Sharkey shuddered.
He stood up and walked over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy.
"Was that the phone?" asked Vicky, walking in from the terrace.
"The lawyer. He's on the case."
"He served the injunction?"
Sharkey nodded.
"And Den's fighting it, like we knew he would."
"Bastard. He showed no interest while he was away now he wants to play the father."
"It's going to be okay, Vicky. The injunction's in force, Den can't take him out of the country. He does that and he'll go straight to prison."
"What about custody?"
"The lawyer's doing the paperwork now."
"How long?"
"He didn't say. You know lawyers." He raised the glass.
"Do you want one?"
"No, thanks. I thought I'd go out for a walk. Go to the beach maybe. Do you want to come?"
Sharkey sat down opposite his laptop.
"Not right now. Don't forget .. ."
"I know," she said.
"Dark glasses. Sunhat. Don't talk to anyone."
"Just in case," said Sharkey.
"You never know who you might bump into."
"How long's it going to be like this, Stewart?"
"Not much longer."
Vicky walked in to the bedroom to change, and Sharkey sipped his brandy. He was already bored with Vicky. Bored with her dark moods, her insecurities, her constant whining. In a perfect world he'd just leave her, but it wasn't a perfect world so long as Den Donovan was in it. Hopefully the Colombians would soon catch up with Donovan, and when that happened then Sharkey's world truly would be perfect. With Donovan out of the way, he could walk out on Vicky without worrying about the repercussions. He'd be free and clear and in sole possession of sixty million dollars.
"You know I love you?" he called after her.
"I know," she replied.
"I love you, too."
Sharkey smiled to himself. It was all so easy.
One of the wheels on Donovan's supermarket trolley was sticking and the damn thing wouldn't go where he wanted it to. It had been a long time since Donovan had done the weekly shopping. In Anguilla his Puerto Rican cook did the shopping every day, and in London Vicky had handled all the household chores. He'd been putting it of flong enough, but he was fed up with drinking black coffee and he had to prepare for Robbie's return. The freezer was practically empty, and what frozen food was still in there wasn't the sort of stuff that Donovan knew how to cook. He scanned the shelves looking for tea bags but all he could see was coffee. A hundred types of coffee, but no tea. He looked down at the contents of his trolley. A pack of apples, a double pack of Andrex toilet tissue and a sliced loaf. Hovis. He scratched his ear and tried to remember what was in the fridge. Or rather, what wasn't in the fridge. He needed milk. And Coca Cola. Beer. Orange juice. Did Robbie drink orange juice? He tried to remember when they'd last had breakfast together. Probably in Anguilla, and there was always a big pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice on the table at breakfast.
He finally reached the tea section and dropped two boxes of PG Tips tea bags into his trolley. He looked around for the milk. Where the hell was it? Wouldn't it have been sensible to put the milk with the tea and the coffee?
Breakfast cereal. He'd need breakfast cereal. He looked around, but the only sign he could see told him that he was in the aisle for tea, coffee and soft drinks.
He reached the end of the aisle and came across lines of frozen food cabinets. He scooped up packs of fish fingers, beef burgers and TV dinners and stacked them in his trolley. Then he found the alcohol section and picked up two bottles of Jack Daniels and two packs of lager. He smiled to himself. At least he was getting the basics.
He finally found the milk section and put two large cartons into the trolley. He spent another twenty minutes wandering aimlessly around the aisles and promising himself that next time he'd make a list, before he headed for the checkout.
On the way home he stopped at a call box and phoned Underwood.
"Dicko, call me back, yeah?" He gave the detective the number of the call box and then replaced the receiver. Underwood phoned back fifteen minutes later.
"Now what?" asked the detective, "I'm fine thanks, Dicko. Yourself?"
"As if you care. I presume this isn't social."
"I need you to check someone out for me. Have you got a pen?"
"Bloody hell, Den. You can't keep using the Police National Computer as your own personal database."
"What crawled up your arse and died?"
"Checks leave traces."
"I just want to know who he is, Dicko. He doesn't seem wrong, but I just want to be sure."
"Okay, but let's not make a habit of this. It's the small things that trip people up. A sergeant over at Elephant and Castle got sacked last week for doing a vehicle registration check for a journalist. Lost his job and his pension for a fifty-quid backhander."
Donovan was going to point out that he paid Underwood a hell of a lot more than fifty pounds, but he bit his tongue, not wanting to antagonise the detective. He gave Underwood Fullerton's name and the registration number of his Porsche, and arranged to call him the following day.
Hathaway read through Christina Leigh's report for the third time. Putting her in as a lap-dancer had always been a long shot, and he still couldn't quite believe that it had worked. There was no mistake, however: not only had she met the man, but it had quickly become personal. If Christina played it right, she could build on the connection, get in under his de fences All she had to do was to take it slowly. She was Donovan's type, so hopefully he'd do the chasing.