He sent her a congratulatory e-mail and told her to play it safe, that she mustn't do anything to scare him off. Donovan had always been a pursuer of women, he loved the thrill of the chase, so if anything she'd have to play hard to get.
As he sent the e-mail to Christina, he received notification that he had a new e-mail waiting. He clicked on the envelope icon and opened an e-mail from Jamie Fullerton. Hathaway scrolled through Fullerton's report with a growing sense of elation. It was working. It was finally all coming together. Not only had Christina made contact, but Donovan was letting Fullerton get close, close enough to do real damage. On Hathaway's desk next to his VDU was a series of black and white surveillance photographs that had been taken outside the lap-dancing club. Fullerton had e-mailed Hathaway to tell him where he was going, so the surveillance was in place long before the black Porsche arrived. There were pictures of Donovan and Fullerton arriving, and photographs of Donovan leaving in the blue MGB. Two cars had been in place to follow Donovan from the club, but they'd lost the sports car at a set of lights. Not that that mattered. Christina's report had detailed in full what had happened later that evening.
Hathaway now had a connection between Donovan, Carlos Rodriguez and Ricky Jordan, a major distributor of hard drugs in Scotland. And whatever they were bringing in had something to do with VW Beetles. Fullerton had relayed the conversation virtually verbatim, but it was still light on specifics.
After a few minutes on the internet, Hathaway discovered that there was only one place where VW Beetles were still manufactured. Mexico. And Carlos Rodriguez ran most of his drugs through Mexico. Hathaway smiled to himself. Beetles packed with heroin or cocaine. And with Rodriguez involved, it had to be a huge shipment.
It took Hathaway less than an hour to ascertain that a shipment of sixty brand new VW Beetles was on its way to Felixstowe. He gnawed at a fingernail as he read through the details on his VDU. Then he reread Fuller-ton's report. Whatever was going down, it seemed that Donovan was now taking a back seat. Jordan was dealing directly with the Rodriguez cartel, though Fullerton had the impression that it was Donovan who'd set up the deal. Plus there was the two million pounds of Donovon's money that Fullerton had paid to Jesus Rodriguez.
The jumbled pieces of the mystery started to come together in Hathaway's mind. He forced himself to relax, letting his subconscious do the work, and then suddenly the solution to the conundrum popped into his head like a huge bubble of air rising to the top of a black lagoon. Donovan had fucked up, somehow. Maybe he'd failed to come up with the money for the consignment. Rodriguez had taken the two million pounds as a penalty payment, and taken over the deal with Ricky Jordan. Another bubble popped to the surface. Donovan was short of money, that's why he had had to sell the paintings. His money had gone. All of it. Stewart Sharkey had screwed Donovan's wife and he'd cleared out the bank accounts. Hathaway grinned. This was getting better and better. Donovan would move heaven and earth to get his money back, and while he was focused on that, he'd be less likely to realise what was going on around him.
It was time to increase the stakes. Hathaway didn't want to run the operation through Customs or the police. They'd both be tempted to let the drugs run to see where they went in an attempt to blow apart the entire network. That was the last thing Hathaway wanted. There was only one option. It was time to call in the Increment.
The traffic was backed up for almost half a mile to Robbie's school, mainly mothers in four-wheel drives. Donovan sat in the Range Rover playing an Oasis tape at full volume. Noel and Liam, two other Manchester boys who'd done well. Donovan wondered how much money the lads had made from rock and roll. Millions, for sure. Maybe ten million. But had they made as much as Donovan had? Sixty million dollars? Donovan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. One thing was for sure: they hadn't had their accountant rip off every last dollar.
Robbie was waiting at the entrance to the school and he waved when he saw Donovan. He came running along the pavement.
"I thought you weren't coming," he gasped as he climbed into the passenger seat.
"I said I would, didn't I?" The woman in the Honda CRV in front of them was refusing to move, so Donovan pounded on the horn.
"Come on, you stupid bitch, we've got lives here."
"Dad! That's Mrs. Cooper. Alison's mum."
"Well, Alison's mother should learn to drive before she goes out on the road. And that car's way too big for her. She should be in a Mini."
Robbie slid down his seat, his hands over his face.
Donovan pounded on the horn again, then grinned across at Robbie's obvious discomfort.
"Shall I ram her?"
"Dad .. . please .. ."
"Oh, come on, I was only joking."
"I have to sit next to her."
"Alison's mother? You sit next to Alison's mother?"
Robbie laughed.
"No, not Alison's mother. Alison. You know what I meant."
Donovan eased off the accelerator.
"What do you want to eat tonight? I've got fish fingers. Roast chicken dinner. Roast beef dinner. Roast turkey dinner."
"You're going to cook?"
"They're TV dinners. Bird's Eye."
Robbie waved goodbye to two of his friends.
"Can we have Burger King?"
"You're a growing boy. You're supposed to have vegetables and stuff."
"I could have onion rings. And French fries."
Donovan laughed.
"Yeah, why not. Do you know where the nearest one is?"
"Sure. Hang a left."
Donovan grinned and followed Robbie's directions. Ten minutes later they were outside a Burger King. There were no parking spaces, so Donovan thrust a banknote into his son's hands and told him to hurry.
"Dad, this is a fifty-pound note!" complained Robbie.
"They'll have change. Hurry up."
Robbie nipped inside and appeared a few minutes later with two large bags. Donovan held out his hand for the change before driving off.
Half an hour later they were eating their burgers in the kitchen, washing them down with Cokes.
"This was a good idea," said Donovan.
"Saves on the washing up, too."
Robbie wiped his ketchup-smeared lips with a serviette.
"I'm glad you're home, Dad," he said.
Donovan reached over and ruffled his hair.
"You know you can always rely on me, right?"
Robbie nodded.
"You okay for pocket money?"
"I could always use more," said Robbie. Donovan took out his wallet and gave Robbie a fifty-pound note.
"Dad, you can't give me fifty quid."
"How much did your mum give you?"
"A tenner. But usually five twice a week. Monday and Friday."
"Okay, well, how about we give you a raise? You're nearly ten, so I figure we can boost it to twenty a week. Okay?"
Robbie grinned.
"Okay."
Donovan took back the fifty-pound note and gave his son a twenty. Robbie put the note in his pocket.
"What do you want to do tonight?" asked Donovan.
"Do you want to go and see a movie?"
"It's a school night," said Robbie.
"And I've got homework."
"Homework? They give nine-year-olds homework?"
"I've been given homework since I started at that school, Dad."
"Yeah, exams are important. I wish I'd stayed on at school longer."
"No you don't. Not really."
Donovan frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"You've got no qualifications, have you?"
"Just the university of life and the school of hard knocks."