"That's a dangerous route to start along," said Warren.
"You're saying the rules aren't fair so you're going to break them?"
"What I'm saying is that established procedures aren't going to catch Dennis Donovan. We're going to have to be more .. ." He searched for the word.
"Creative," he said eventually.
"But if it ever gets out that I've been acting as an agent provocateur, all bets are off," said Warren.
"He'd be able to take you to the European Court of Human Rights, any conviction would be quashed, and he'd sue you for millions."
"But he won't ever find out," said Hathaway.
"No one will. You are going to be so far undercover they'll need a submarine to find you. That's why we've gone to all this trouble, Cliff. Only a handful of people will know what you are doing, and they'll never tell. From now on your only contact with the police will be me, and we'll only be communicating via a secure website."
"So I really will be on my own?"
"It's the only way, Cliff. Are you up for it?"
"I guess so." He saw from the look on Hathaway's face that the answer wasn't emphatic enough.
"Yes," he said, more determinedly.
"Yes, I am."
"Good man," said Hathaway. His fingers started to play across the keyboard. Warren moved over to sit next to him.
Tina rolled over and hugged her pillow. She'd been in bed for almost three hours and was no closer getting to sleep. Her mind was in a whirl. Her meeting with Latham. Her briefing from Hathaway. It had all been such a shock. One minute she'd been all geared up for joining the Metropolitan Police, wearing a uniform and pounding a beat. The next, she was preparing to become a lap-dancer, which, no matter how Hathaway had portrayed it, was in her eyes only one step up from being a street-walking prostitute. She'd worked hard for her qualifications. Bloody hard. She'd set her heart on a career, a real career, and that had been taken away from her. By men.
She felt tears well up, but screwed her eyes tightly closed, refusing to cry. It always seemed to be men who were screwing up her life. Her stepfather, crawling into her bed late at night, whispering drunkenly and licking her ear. The punters, always trying to get her to do it for free or without a condom. Her neighbours, sneering and leering as she left to walk the streets in short skirt, low-cut top and knee-length boots. The police, patronizing and condescending. And now Latham and Hathaway. They were worse than pimps. Worse than her punters.
She opened her eyes and sat up, still clutching the pillow to her stomach. A sudden wave of nausea swept over her and she rushed to the bathroom. She barely managed to get her head above the toilet bowl before throwing up. She flushed the toilet and drank from the cold tap, then wiped her mouth with a towel. She stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink.
"Bastards," she said.
"Bastards, bastards, bastards."
She went back into the sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa. Could she trust them? And was she even capable of doing what they wanted? She felt nauseous again and took deep breaths to steady herself. What if it went wrong? What if she wasn't up to the job, what if she slipped up and someone found out that she was an undercover cop? Hathaway had given her a phone number to memorize. Her way out. Her once in a lifetime 'get out of jail free' card. Two years down the line, three years, would there still be someone at the end of the lifeline? She stared at the phone on the coffee table. A voice on the end of the phone and a website were to be her only points of contact, Hathaway had said. She drew her legs up underneath her and rested her head on the pillow. One of the reasons she'd been so keen to join the Met was because she wanted to be a member of a team, to be surrounded by colleagues who could support her if she was in trouble, to be part of a group. The police she'd come across when she'd worked the streets had always been the enemy, but she'd envied them their camaraderie. She knew the girls on the streets with her, but they were the competition. They might help each other out with loans or cigarettes and even offer advice on which punters to avoid, but there was never the familiarity and intimacy that the police had. Tina wasn't sure if she had what it took to work on her own. Undercover. Living a lie.
Tina reached over and picked up the phone. She placed it on the pillow and ran her fingers along the smooth, white plastic.
Twenty-four seven, Hathaway had said. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, there'd be a voice at the end of the phone. One call and she'd be pulled out.
She picked up the receiver and listened to the dialling tone, then put it back. She ran her hands through her hair and then rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of her neck. She stared at the phone. What if he'd been lying? What if there was no lifeline? She snatched at the receiver and tapped out the number on the keypad as quickly as she could, not wanting to give herself time to change her mind. It started to ring. Tina closed her eyes. It was answered on the third ring.
"Yes?" It was a man's voice. It might have been Hathaway, but Tina couldn't tell, not from the single word.
There was a faint buzzing on the line, like static.
"What do you need?" said the voice after a long pause. It was flat and emotionless, almost mechanical, but Tina was sure now it was Hathaway.
"Nothing. Wrong number," she said and replaced the receiver.
She replaced the phone on the coffee table and carried the pillow back to her bed. She lay down and curled up into a foetal ball and within five minutes she was fast asleep.
Three Years Later Marty Clare took a long draw on his joint and held the smoke deep in his lungs as he watched the two girls on the bed. The blonde was on top, the redhead underneath, their legs and arms entwined as they kissed. Clare scratched his backside, then exhaled slowly, blowing blue smoke over the two girls.
"Come on, girls, let the dog see the rabbit," said Clare in his gravelly Irish accent. The two girls moved apart. The redhead reached up for the joint and Clare handed it to her as he slid down next to the blonde. Sylvia, her name was. Or Sandra. Clare hadn't been paying attention to their names. All he'd been interested in was how much they'd charge for a threesome, and the price had been reasonable considering their pneumatic breasts and model-pretty faces. They were Slovakians, the blonde twenty-one and the redhead barely out of her teens. From the way they were going at each other on the bed, Clare figured they were probably genuinely bisexual. Not that he cared over-much either way: the evening was about satisfying Clare's urges, not theirs.
Clare kissed the blonde and she moaned softly and opened her mouth, allowing his exploring tongue deep inside. She reached down between his legs and stroked him. Clare felt the redhead's tongue on his back, gently licking between his shoulder blades.
The redhead reached and gave the joint to the blonde, then pressed her lips against Clare's mouth, practically sucking the breath from him. She rolled on top of him and began to move downwards, kissing and gently nipping at his flesh with her teeth. Clare ran his fingers through her hair and groaned in anticipation of the pleasures to come. The blonde sat up with her back against the headboard and blew smoke up at the ceiling. Clare held out his hand for the joint. As she passed it to him there was the sound of cracking wood and shouts from the room next door, then booted footsteps and shouts. The bedroom door crashed open and half a dozen uniformed policemen burst into the room with a series of rapid flashes that temporarily blinded Clare.
Clare dropped the joint on to the redhead's back and she screamed. The blonde made a run for it and Clare grinned despite himself: she was totally naked and the apartment was on the top floor of a sixteen-storey building. The only way out was blocked by two very large men in black raincoats. They were grinning, too, because the redhead was screaming and cursing and trying to get off the bed. The glowing joint had rolled against her leg and burned her thigh. She fell to the floor and then scrabbled on her hands and knees towards the bathroom door. The blonde had changed direction and decided that she was going to make a run for the bathroom, too, but she col
lided with the redhead and they both fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. There were more flashes as a man in a grey anorak and jeans photographed the two women.
Clare burst out laughing and so did the uniformed policemen. They grabbed the girls and a female officer picked up their clothes. The two men in raincoats moved to the side and the girls were hustled down the hallway. The redhead started to cry but the blonde was more vociferous, screaming that she wanted to call her lawyer. The man with the camera followed them out of the room.
Clare picked up the still-burning joint and took a long pull on it. He held it up and offered it to the two detectives. They shook their heads.
"So what's the charge, guys?" asked Clare nonchalantly.
"Is it the sex, the drugs or the rock and roll?"
The taller of the two detectives picked up an ashtray and carried it over to the bed.
Clare was naked but he made no move to cover himself up. His well-muscled torso was still glistening with sweat. He stubbed out the joint.
"Martin Clare, you are under arrest for conspiring to export four tons of cannabis resin," said the detective.
Clare's face tightened but he continued to smile brightly.
"Cannabis that we currently have in our possession at Rotterdam docks," the detective continued.
"What is it they say in your country, Mr. Clare? You are nicked?"
"That'll do it," said Clare.
"What the fuck. Let me get my pants on, yeah?"
Robbie picked up his sports bag as soon as the bell started to ring, but dropped it by the side of his desk after Mr. Inverdale gave him a baleful look. Mr. Inverdale finished outlining the essay he wanted writing for homework, then turned his back on the class. There was a mad scramble for the door. Robbie pulled his Nokia mobile from his sports bag and switched it on. He'd sent Elaine Meade a text message before the start of class and was keen to see if she'd replied.
"Outside with that, Donovan," said Mr. Inverdale, without turning around.
"You know the rules."
Robbie hurried out into the corridor. He had one text message waiting. Robbie's heart began to pound. Elaine was the prettiest girl in his year, bar none. Blonde with big blue eyes like the pretty one in Steps and a really cute way of wrinkling up her nose when she laughed. He pressed the button to collect the message and tried to ignore the growing tightness in his stomach. The text message flashed up.
"I'M BACK. COME HOME NOW DAD."
Robbie grinned and pumped his fist in the air.
"Yes!" he said. It had been more than two months since Robbie had seen his father.
He stuffed the phone back into the sports bag and headed for the school gates. He looked around nervously but there were no teachers in the playground. It was lunch break and everyone was rushing towards the refectory. Robbie walked purposefully through the gates and broke into a run, his sports bag banging against his leg.
He was sweating and out of breath by the time he reached his house. His mother's silver-grey Range Rover was parked in front of the house. Next to it was a dark green Jaguar, its engine still clicking under the bonnet. Robbie ran his finger along the paintwork. His dad didn't like British cars: he said they were always breaking down and that you couldn't beat the Germans for quality engineering. Robbie walked down the side of the house and through the kitchen door. There were two bulging Marks and Spencer carrier bags on the counter top next to the sink and two mugs by the kettle.
"Dad!" There was no answer.
Robbie put his sports bag on the kitchen table and ran through to the sitting room. Empty. He went back into the hall.
"Dad?" His voice echoed around the hallway.
Robbie went up the stairs, one hand on the banister. He could hear voices coming from his parents' bedroom. Robbie broke into a run and pushed open the bedroom door, grinning excitedly. He froze when he saw the two figures on the bed. Two naked figures. His mother on top, sitting down, her spine arched and her head back. She turned to look at him, a look of horror on her face.
"Robbie?" she gasped.
Time seemed to stop for Robbie. He could see the beads of sweat on her back, a stray wisp of blonde hair across her face, a smear of lipstick on the side of her mouth.
The man on the bed was lying on his back, trying to sit up.
"Oh shit," he said. He put a hand up to his forehead.
"Shit a fucking brick."
Robbie recognised the man. It was Uncle Stewart, but he wasn't really an uncle, he was a friend of his father's. Stewart Sharkey. His father always looked serious when Uncle Stewart came around to the house, and they'd lock themselves in the study while they talked. The only time Dad wasn't serious with him was when it was Christmas and Uncle Stewart came around with presents for Robbie and his parents. He always brought really good presents. Expensive ones.
"That's my mum!" Robbie shouted.
"That's my fucking mum!"
"Robbie .. ." said his mother, pleadingly.
"Shit, shit, shit!" said Sharkey, holding his hands over his eyes and banging the back of his head against the pillow.
Robbie's mother wrapped the duvet around herself and twisted around to face him.
"Robbie, this isn't ' "It is!" he screamed.
"I know what it is! I can see what you're doing! I'm not stupid."
Robbie's mother stood up, and the man grabbed a pillow and held it over his groin.
"What are we going to do?" he asked.
Robbie's mother ignored him. She took a step towards Robbie, but he moved backwards, holding his hands up as if trying to ward her off.
"Don't come near me!" he yelled.
"Robbie. I'm sorry."
"Dad's going to kill you. He's going to kill both of you!"
"Robbie, it was an accident."
Robbie pointed at her.
"I'm not stupid, Mum. I know what you're doing. I'm going to tell Dad."
"Vicky, for God's sake, do something!" hissed Sharkey.
Vicky turned to him.
"Stay out of this, Stewart."
"Just handle it, will you?"
Robbie backed out of the bedroom and rushed down the hallway. His mother hurried after him.
"Robbie! Robbie, come back here!"
Robbie stumbled at the top of the stairs and his hands flailed out for balance. His sports bag swung between his legs and he fell forward, his mouth working soundlessly, panic overwhelming him.
Vicky ran into the hallway just in time to see her son pitch headlong down the stairs. She screamed and let the duvet slip from her fingers.
Robbie banged down the stairs in a series of sickening thumps.
"Robbie, no!" yelled Vicky, as she rushed towards the top of the stairs. Behind her, Sharkey called out, wanting to know what was wrong.
The hallway seemed as if it were telescoping away from Vicky as she ran. She couldn't see Robbie, but she could hear the thuds as he tumbled down. Thump. Thump. Thump. What horrified Vicky was Robbie's silence as he fell. No groans, or shouts or curses. Just the gut-wrenching thumps. Then silence. The silence was a million times worse than the sound of the fall.
Vicky reached the top of the stairs. Robbie was lying at the bottom, face down, his head turned to the side. There was blood on his mouth. Vicky felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
"Please, God, don't let this be happening," she whispered.
She hurried down the stairs two at a time and crouched next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.
"Robbie, love? Robbie?" His chest moved as he took a breath, and Vicky said a silent prayer of thanks.
Robbie's eyes flickered open.
"Robbie, love, are you all right?" Vicky asked.
His face screwed up into a snarl.
"Don't touch me!"
"Robbie, love "Get off me," he said.
"I saw you. I saw what you were doing."
"Robbie .. ."
He pushed he
r away and got to his feet. He wiped his mouth and stared at the blood on his hand.
"You look ridiculous," he said.
Vicky realised that she was naked and she moved her hands to cover her crotch.
"I hate you," said Robbie.
Sharkey appeared at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt.
"Has he calmed down?"
Robbie pointed up at Sharkey.
"My dad's going to kill you!" he shouted venomously.
"Robbie," said Vicky, 'please don't say that."
She reached out to touch him but Robbie hit her hand away.
"And you!" he shouted.
Sharkey started downstairs.
"There's no need to be stupid, Robbie," he said.
Robbie backed away.
Vicky looked over her shoulder.
"Stewart, leave this to me. Please."
"If he says anything to Den .. ."
"Shut the hell up!" she shouted.
"I'm just saying .. ."
"Don't say," she yelled.
"Don't say anything. You've caused enough .. ." Before she finished the sentence she heard Robbie fumbling with the lock on the front door.
"Robbie!" she shouted.
"Robbie, come back."
She dashed towards the door but Robbie was too quick for her. He pulled the door open, slipped out and slammed it behind him. Vicky scrabbled at the lock, but by the time she got the door open Robbie was already sprinting along the pavement. The strength drained from Vicky's legs and she slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sharkey walked slowly down the stairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
"Shit," he said quietly.
"What are we going to do now?"
The wind blowing off the Caribbean Sea tugged at Den Donovan's hair and flicked it across his eyes. He brushed it away and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. The waves of the turquoise sea were flecked with white and Donovan could taste the salt on his lips.
"Thought I might get a boat, Carlos," he mused, staring out across the water.
"What do you think?"
Carlos Rodriguez shrugged.
"I always get seasick," he said.
"I was thinking a big boat. Stabilisers and that. Save me flying between the islands. I could travel with style."
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