"Let me worry about that, yeah?"
DC Ashleigh Vincent checked her wristwatch.
"Log him back home at sixteen hundred hours on the dot, Connor. Arrived in a black cab."
Vincent's partner grunted and reached for a metal clipboard hanging on the wall.
Vincent gave him the registration number of the taxi, and then took a swig from her bottle of mineral water.
The two Drugs Squad detectives were in the back of a van painted in British Telecom livery parked about a hundred yards away from Donovan's front door. Vincent was sitting on a small fishing stool on top of which she'd placed an inflatable cushion and she'd stripped down to a t-shirt and jogging shorts. Sweat was trickling down her back. The front windows of the van were open a couple of inches to allow in some air but there was nothing in the way of a breeze to cool them down. The one saving grace was that Vincent's partner hadn't been eating curry the night before. Vincent envied the Customs investigators who were holed up in an apartment in the terrace facing Donovan's house. That was the proper way to do surveillance, she thought. All the comforts of home: a shower when they needed one, a bed for a quick nap and a proper toilet instead of a plastic bucket.
Vincent put her binoculars back to her eyes.
"Hang on, he's coming out again. Heading for the Range Rover. Log him out at sixteen oh-four."
Donovan climbed into the front seat of the Range Rover and started the engine.
Vincent wiped her brow with a small towel. It was such a waste of her time, she thought. At first she'd been excited at being part of the team on the trail of Tango One, but she'd soon realised that she was nothing more than a clerk, noting when he entered and left the house. Word had come down from up high that all surveillance on Donovan had to be non-obtrusive. There was to be no covert entry of his house, no following his car, no attempt to find out where he was going or whom he was seeing. Vincent knew that meant only one thing the powers that be already knew what Donovan was up to. Which meant they had someone on the inside. Which meant that Vincent's input into the operation was close to zero.
She watched through the binoculars as Donovan drove to the end of the street and turned on to the main road.
"I hope they throw away the key," she muttered.
Donovan beeped the horn of the Range Rover when he saw Robbie walking out of the school gates. Robbie waved and ran over.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," said Robbie, climbing into the front passenger seat and throwing his backpack into the rear of the car.
"Said I would, didn't I? O ye of little faith."
Donovan kept checking his mirror as he drove away from the school. They reached a roundabout and he drove around it twice before shooting towards an exit without indicating.
"Dad, what are you playing at?" asked Robbie.
"What?"
"You're driving like a nutter."
"You can get out and walk if you want."
"And this isn't the way home either."
"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that," said Donovan.
"There's been a change of plan."
"What do you mean?"
"I need you to take a few days off school."
Robbie sighed theatrically.
"I wish you'd make up your mind," he said.
"You just told me I had to go."
"I know, but something's happened. Until I get it sorted, I need you to stay with someone."
"What are you talking about, Dad?"
Donovan checked his rear-view mirror. There was no one on his tail.
"I've got a bit of a problem about the house. We can't stay there for a while."
"What sort of problem?"
"A gas leak. I had the gas people out and they said it's not safe."
"So I'm going to stay at Aunty Laura's?"
"Not exactly. You remember that lady who gave me the lift to school with your soccer kit?"
"I'm not staying with her," said Robbie, pouting. He folded his arms and put his chin on his chest.
"Why can't I stay with Aunty Laura?"
"Because I say you can't. You'll like Louise. She's okay."
"I'm not staying with your girlfriend."
"You'll do what I bloody well tell you to do. And she's not my girlfriend."
"You can't make me."
Donovan glared at his son.
"What do you mean, I can't make you? You're nine years old."
"That doesn't mean you're in the right."
Donovan drove in silence, fuming. Robbie sat glaring out of the window, kicking the foot well Eventually Donovan couldn't stand the sound of the kicking any longer.
"Stop that!" he yelled.
"Stop what?" asked Robbie, innocently.
"You know what. That kicking."
"I don't want to stay with that woman. If I can't stay in my own house, I want to stay with Aunty Laura."
"You can't."
"Why not? Has she got a gas leak, too?"
Donovan gritted his teeth. A car ahead of him slowed to turn right without indicating. Donovan pounded on the horn.
"Look at that moron," he said. He swerved around the stationary car, mouthing obscenities at the driver.
They came to a red light and Donovan brought the car to a halt.
"Okay, look, I'll be honest with you," he said.
"I've upset some people, Robbie. Over a business deal. These people aren't very nice and I'm a bit worried about them coming around to the house and doing something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, but I'd feel safer if you stayed somewhere else. And didn't go to school. Normally I'd say stay with Aunty Laura and Uncle Mark, but these people might know where they live, too. That's all."
"So you were lying about the gas leak?"
Donovan nodded.
"I'm sorry."
Robbie looked at him scornfully.
"That was the best you could come up with? Weren't you ever a kid, Dad?"
Donovan grinned.
"It was bad, wasn't it."
"It was stupid. How long do I have to stay with her?"
"A few days. I'll be there most of the time."
"Has she got Sky?"
Donovan shrugged.
"I think so."
"Okay, then. I don't want to miss The Simpsons."
Jamie Fullerton paced up and down his gallery, a glass of champagne in his hand. His computer was switched on and Fullerton stared at the monitor as he paced. Eight thousand kilos of heroin. Den Donovan was planning to bring eight thousand kilos of heroin from Afghanistan into the UK, and Fullerton had the inside track.
Ten thousand pounds a kilo was cheap. Very cheap. Especially for delivery in London. In Amsterdam the price was close to twenty thousand pounds a kilo, and then there was the added risk of getting it into the country. If Donovan was preparing to sell it at ten thousand a kilo, he must be buying it at a fraction of that price. Which meant he was getting it close to the source. Afghanistan, probably. Or Pakistan. Or Turkey. Any closer to Europe and the price would increase dramatically. But if Donovan was getting his heroin at or close to the source, how was he going to get it in to the UK?
Fullerton knew that he should tell Hathaway what he'd found out. The whole purpose of Fullerton going undercover was to gather evidence against Tango One. By rights he should send Hathaway an e-mail immediately. Something was holding Fullerton back, through, and as he paced around his gallery, he tried to work out what it was. Was it that he liked Den Donovan? That he felt guilty about betraying a man who was close to becoming a friend? Or was it because Donovan was offering Fullerton a chance to make a lot of money? Easy money. In the three years since Hathaway had set Fullerton up with the Soho gallery, Fullerton had stashed away almost a million pounds dealing in works of art, legal and otherwise, and it was money he was pretty sure Hathaway was unaware of. Fullerton could put that cash into Donovan's deal and treble it. He'd be a player. It would mean crossing a line, but over the years that Fullerton had been undercover, that line had blurred to such an extent he was no longer sure where he stood, officially or morally. And as he paced up and down his gallery, sipping his champagne, he was becoming even less sure which side of the line he was on.