He put on a brown leather jacket, picked up three fully charged mobile phones and slotted them into various pockets. He rolled up the Evening Standard, got the keys to the Range Rover, secured the house, and drove off. He didn't bother sweeping the car or looking for a tail. He drove to Marble Arch and parked in an underground car park, then walked to Marble Arch Tube station. He bought a one-day Travelcard allowing him unlimited use of the underground system, then caught a Central Line train to Oxford Circus station.
After twenty minutes of swapping trains and lines, he finally got off at Charing Cross. He spent ten minutes walking aimlessly around the station, checking reflections, doubling back, walking into dead ends. He was clean. He was sure he was clean.
He went over to a bank of public phones and shoved in his BT phone card. He called Directory Enquiries for the number of the Intercontinental and then called the hotel and asked for Rodriguez's room. The receptionist said he'd checked out two days earlier. Donovan replaced the receiver. With any luck, Rodriguez had gone back to Colombia. That at least gave Donovan some breathing space. Maybe.
He dialled the Spaniard's number, but the answer machine kicked in. Donovan didn't identify himself, just asked Rojas to call him on the mobile.
Next he called the Yardie whom Macfadyen had brought in on the Colombian coke deal. The man answered.
"Yo?"
"PM?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I'm a friend of Macfadyen's."
"So?"
"So he wanted me to talk to you."
"I'm listening."
"Face to face."
"Fuck that."
"He thought I should explain why the deal he cut you in on has gone belly up."
"Say what?"
"Can you read, PM?"
"What the fuck you mean?"
"Buy the Standard. Front-page story. When you've read it, call me back on this number." Donovan gave him the number of one of the mobiles he was carrying, then hung up.
He used another of his mobiles to phone Underwood. The detective wasn't pleased to hear from Donovan, but Donovan cut his protests short and told him to call him back as soon as possible.
Donovan's next call was to Jamie Fullerton. He arranged to meet him at his gallery later that afternoon. Finally he called Louise.
Donovan sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square, rereading the article on the cocaine bust. One of the mobiles rang. Donovan pressed the green button. It was PM.
"What the fuck's going on, man?" asked PM.
"Your phone clean?"
"Only had it two days, and after this the Sim card goes in the trash."
"You don't know me, PM, but you know of me. I put Macfadyen on to the deal. He cut you in. He wants me to talk through what happened."
"Where and when?"
"This evening. Say seven."
"Where?"
"You choose. I don't want you jumpy."
"You being funny?" bristled the Yardie.
"I was actually being considerate. Letting you choose the turf."
PM gave him the address of a house in Harlesden, then cut the connection.
Donovan waited, then walked around the square, watching tourists photographing themselves next to the huge lions that stood guard around Nelson's Column.
Louise arrived at two o'clock, walking up the steps of the National Gallery and standing at its porticoed entrance. She was wearing sunglasses and a long dark blue woollen coat with the collar turned up. Donovan watched her from the square until he was sure that she hadn't been followed.
She waved as she saw him walking towards her. He hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
"It's all very mysterious," she said.
"Yeah, sorry. Had to be. Come on in."
"In here?"
"Sure. You never been inside an art gallery before?"
"Never."
"You'll love it."
Donovan ushered her inside and to the right, into the East Wing.
"God, it's huge," whispered Louise.
Donovan grinned.
"You don't have to whisper, it's not a funeral."
Louise stopped in front of a painting of sunflowers, the colours so vibrant that they seemed to jump off the canvas. Half a dozen Japanese tourists were clustered around the painting listening to a commentary on headphones, nodding enthusiastically. Louise was a head taller than all of them so she had an unobstructed view. She took off her sunglasses.
"It's beautiful," she said. She read the details on the plaque to the left of the picture, then looked at Donovan, clearly surprised.
"It's a Van Gogh," she said.
"That's right."
"But they're worth millions."
"Sure. And some."
They were standing less than five feet away from the canvas and there was nothing between them and it. No bars, no protective glass.
"We could grab it and run," she said.
"We could," said Donovan, 'but there are security staff all around and every square inch is covered by CCTV."
Louise craned her neck but couldn't see any cameras.
"Don't worry, they're there," said Donovan.
"So what is it with you and art galleries?" she asked.
Donovan shrugged.
"Ran into one to hide from the cops. I was fourteen and should have been at school. Two beat bobbies were heading my way so I nipped into the Whitworth gallery."
"Where's that?"
"Manchester. Huge building, awesome art, but I didn't know that when I went in. I walked through a couple of the galleries, just to get away from the entrance, and then I got to a gallery where a volunteer guide was giving a talk about one of the paintings.
"She was talking about this painting. It was a huge canvas, the figures were pretty much life size. Two Cavaliers with feathered hats facing each other with a pretty girl watching them." Donovan smiled at her.
"You know, I've forgotten who painted it, but I'll never forget the way she talked about it. It was as if she could see something that I couldn't." He shook his head.
"No, that's not right. We could all see the painting, but she had a different way of seeing. She understood what the artist was trying to say. The story that he was trying to tell. The painting was about the two guys arguing over the girl, of course, but it was way more than that. There were political references in the paintings, there was historical stuff, things that you just wouldn't see unless someone drew your attention to it. I tell you, she talked about that one painting for almost thirty minutes. By the end I was sitting cross-legged on the floor with my mouth wide open."
A multi-racial crocodile of inner-city primary-school children walking in pairs, holding hands and chattering excitedly, threaded its way past them, shepherded by four harassed young female teachers.
"I kept going back. Sometimes I'd join up with classes of kids about my age, sometimes I'd sit in on the volunteer lectures. Sometimes I used to sit on my own and try to read paintings myself He smiled apologetically.
"I'm being boring. Sorry."
"You're not," said Louise.
Donovan smiled.
"It opened my eyes. I know that's a cliche, but it did. You see, a painting isn't just a picture of an event like a photograph is. A photograph is totally real, it's what you'd see if you were there. But a painting is the artist's interpretation, which means that everything that's in the painting is in for a reason. Each one is like a mystery to be solved."
Louise's smile widened and Donovan tutted.
"I'm being patronising, aren't I?"
Louise shook her head.
"I was smiling at your enthusiasm," she said.
"You're like a kid talking about his comic book collection."
They walked through the double doors to another gallery, this one full of Impressionist paintings. It wasn't Donovan's favourite room and he barely glanced at the canvases.