He began idly to flick through the phone's menu. He flicked through the message section. Robbie had a stack of saved messages. Donovan grinned as he read them. Probably girlfriends. Idle chit-chat. Childish jibes at teachers. Stupid jokes. Then Donovan froze.
"I'M BACK. COME HOME NOW -DAD." The message had been sent when Donovan had been on the beach in St. Kitts, talking to Carlos Rodriguez. That was why Robbie had gone rushing home from school and found Vicky in bed with Sharkey.
The message had been sent from aUK mobile. Donovan didn't recognise the number, but there was something familiar about it. He tapped out the number and put the receiver to his ear. The phone was switched off and there was no answering service.
Donovan looked at the digits on the phone's readout, deep creases across his brow. Where had he seen that number before? He rolled out of bed and pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket. He flipped it open. The Tesco receipt was sticking out of one of the credit card slots. He slowly slid it out and looked at the telephone number he'd written on it. The number that the Spaniard had given him. The numbers matched. Donovan cursed. It had been Stewart Sharkey who'd sent the text message to Robbie. He'd wanted to be caught in bed with Vicky. It had all been planned.
Another phone rang. The landline. Donovan went over and looked at the eavesdropping detector. The green light was on. No one was listening in on the line. Maybe it was Vicky, calling back on the house phone. He picked up the receiver.
"We have to meet," said a voice. A man. English.
"Who is this?" asked Donovan.
"I know what you're doing and I need to talk to you," said the voice.
"Yeah, right. How old do you think I am? Twelve?"
"It's about Stewart Sharkey."
"What about him?"
"What do you think? Do you want your money back, or not?"
Donovan hesitated for a few seconds, then sighed.
"Where?"
"Camden Market. In four hours."
"You've got to be joking." Camden Market on a Saturday morning had to be one of the most crowded places on the planet.
"Safety in numbers," said the man.
"You know you are being watched? A bedroom across the street. And a British Telecom van. I wouldn't want you bringing any strangers to the party."
"I'll make sure I'm clean," said Donovan.
"How will I find you?"
"I'll find you," said the man. The line went dead.
Donovan caught a black cab to Oxford Street and spent fifteen minutes in the Virgin Megastore looking for tails. The record store's clientele was mainly young and scruffy, so police and Customs agents would find it harder to blend. He spotted two definites and a possible.
He left the store, dived into another black cab and had it drive him to Maida Vale and drop him on the south side of the Regents Canal opposite the Paddington Stop, the place where he'd watched for the arrival of Macfadyen and Jordan. He paid off the driver and dashed across the footbridge and ran along Blomfield Road to Jason's, a restaurant with a sideline running narrow boat trips along the canal. The route terminated at Camden Market. Donovan had timed it so that he arrived just as a boat was preparing to leave.
He bought a ticket and climbed aboard. There were almost twenty passengers on the boat, mainly tourists. It was a pretty trip, cruising by the vast mansions of Little Venice and through Regents Park, but Donovan was barely aware of the passing scenery. His mind was racing, trying to work out who had called him. It wasn't the Colombians, that was certain. They wouldn't want him in a crowded place like Camden Market. Ideally they'd want him alone and tied to a chair. Why the market? Safety in numbers, the man had said. But safety for who? For Donovan? Or for the caller? He adjusted the Velcro collar under his wristwatch. The personal RF detector was already switched on.
They arrived at Camden and the grey-haired boatman jumped out and secured the narrow boat then announced that they'd be returning in forty-five minutes and that passengers should be back by then if they intended returning to Little Venice.
Donovan walked through the market. It was packed with tourists and teenagers in shabby clothing. There were shops and stalls everywhere selling New Age rubbish, handmade pottery, secondhand clothes, incense, posters, CDs, T-shirts with smart-arse slogans. Donovan couldn't see a single thing he'd ever want to buy, but figured that Robbie would probably have had a great time. Donovan scanned the faces around him. It would be impossible to spot a tail. There were just too many people milling around, and at times he was shoulder to shoulder with shoppers. It was crazy, thought Donovan. It was the last place in the world he'd choose for a meeting.
Suddenly there was a man standing in front of him. A face that Donovan recognised. A short man with thinning, sandy hair and a cocksure smile on his face.
"Long time, no see, Donovan," said the man.
"Gregg Hathaway," said Donovan, shaking his head.
"Can't say this is a pleasant surprise."
The two men stood with their feet shoulder-width apart, like boxers eyeing each other up at the weigh-in. People were having to flow around them like a river parting around rocks.
Donovan moved his left hand forward, closer to Hathaway, but the detector on his belt stayed resolutely quiet. Hathaway's own left hand also moved and Donovan glanced down. He saw a thin strip of Velcro under the man's watchband and smiled.
"State of the art," said Hathaway, smiling too.
"The difference is, the taxpayer paid for mine."
"Still with Customs, then?" asked Donovan. He edged a little closer to Hathaway and moved his hand again. No reaction from the bleeper. If Hathaway hadn't come wired, then what did he want? A chat about old times? They really were old times, because it had been more than ten years since Donovan had seen him.
Hathaway patted his right knee.
"Not much of a future for me in Customs and Excise after you put a bullet in my leg."
"Sorry to hear that," said Donovan. He looked around. Was he about to be arrested, was that it? Had Hathaway brought him to Camden Market so that he could be grabbed in the crowd? There was certainly no way that Donovan could run, there were just too many people.
"I'm here on my own, Donovan," said Hathaway. He was wearing a dark blue duffel coat with the hood up, brown trousers and brown, scuffed Timberland boots. He looked like a train spotter thought Donovan, and he blended perfectly into the crowds around him.
"What's this about?"
"Let's walk."
Hathaway turned to his right and started walking towards the canal. Donovan went with him, trying to keep close to the man's side, but it was difficult with there being so many people. Donovan's detector vibrated and he jerked. He looked around. Hathaway was also looking left and right, a frown on his face. They both saw the man at the same time. Long hair, sallow complexion, tattered jeans and a camouflage combat jacket covered in badges. Donovan smiled and so did Hathaway as the same thought went through their minds. An undercover drugs officer. As easy to spot as a nun in a brothel. As the man walked away from them, their beepers stopped vibrating.
Hathaway led Donovan through a shop-lined courtyard to a small coffee shop with several outside tables. Two American tourists were just leaving and Donovan and Hathaway grabbed their table. Hathaway ordered two coffees from a young waitress who had half her head shaved.
All the other tables were occupied, so when Hathaway spoke it was in little more than a whisper.
"You've done well over the years," he said.
Donovan shrugged. He knew Hathaway wasn't bugged, but that didn't mean he was going to say anything that was even remotely incriminating. Donovan was there to listen, to find out what Hathaway wanted. He continued to scan the crowds for familiar body shapes and clothing, but he knew that it would be impossible to spot any watchers. There were just too many people.