"Remember that."
"Thanks, Jesus," said Donovan.
"Did you get that from a Christmas cracker?"
"My father told me that," said Rodriguez.
"A lifetime ago. Before he was shot in the back of the head by a capullo he turned his back on."
Macfadyen and Jordan joined them. Macfadyen nodded at Rodriguez, then jerked a thumb towards the men under the tree.
"They with you?" he asked.
"They are," said Rodriguez evenly.
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"Not so long as they stay where they are," said Macfadyen.
"There are three of you and one of me but you don't see me shitting my pants," said Rodriguez. He blew a tight plume of smoke that was quickly whisked away by the wind. He nodded at Donovan.
"Perhaps you should do the honours."
"This is Charlie Macfadyen. Edinburgh's finest. Charlie, this is Jesus Rodriguez."
The two men shook hands.
"And this is Ricky Jordan."
"From Liverpool," said Rodriguez.
"Birthplace of the Beatles." He shook hands with Jordan.
"I've heard of you, Ricky. You were in Miami two years ago doing business with Roberto Galardo."
Jordan narrowed his eyes and Rodriguez laughed out loud.
"Don't worry, Ricky, I'm not DEA. Roberto is an old friend. And he quite definitely didn't tell me about you and those three lap-dancers." He winked conspiratorially.
"You do know that the Hispanic one was a transsexual, right?"
Jordan's face flushed and Macfadyen sniggered.
"You never told me about that, Ricky," he teased.
"She was female," said Jordan.
"Of course she was," said Rodriguez.
"By the time you met her."
Jordan's brow creased into a frown, not sure whether Rodriguez was joking or not.
The Colombian put his arm around Jordan's shoulder and hugged him.
"So, let's talk business, shall we?" He looked across at Donovan.
"Call me at the hotel about the other thing, okay? Two days."
Donovan nodded.
"You okay now?" he asked Macfadyen.
"Yeah. I guess."
"I'll leave you to it. Be lucky, yeah?" He flashed Macfadyen a thumbs-up.
"She was definitely a girl," Jordan continued to protest as Donovan walked away.
Donovan took his time leaving Hyde Park. He had a coffee in the cafeteria overlooking the Serpentine, checking out the faces of the passers-by, then he walked slowly along Rotten Row towards Hyde Park Corner, stopping twice to tie and retie his shoelaces. At one point he looked at his watch and then turned and quickly walked back the way he'd come, looking out for signs of walkers being wrong-footed or watchers whispering into concealed radios.
Once he was satisfied that he wasn't being followed, he walked quickly to the underpass beneath Hyde Park Corner, took the Grosvenor Place exit and flagged down a black cab.
The glass door to the gallery was locked and a discreet brass plate told visitors that they should ring the bell if they wanted to be admitted. A tall brunette with close-cropped hair and startled fawn eyes studiously ignored Donovan. She was sitting at a white oak reception desk flicking through her Filofax. She'd seen Donovan looking in through the floor-to-ceiling window but had averted her eyes when he'd smiled.
When Donovan finally pressed the bell in three short bursts she slowly looked up, her face impassive. Donovan took off his sunglasses and winked. She gave him a cold look and then went back to examining her Filofax. Donovan pressed the bell again, this time giving it three long bursts.
The brunette stood up and walked over to the glass door on impossibly long legs. She stood on the other side of the glass and put her head on one side, her upper lip curled back in contemptuous sneer. Donovan figured it was the Yankees baseball cap that marked him out as being unsuitable for admittance, but he was damned if he was going to take it off.
"I'm here to see Maury," he said.
"Is he expecting you?"
"Just tell him Den Donovan's here, will you?"
She looked at him for several seconds, then pushed a button on her side of the door. The locking mechanism buzzed and Donovan pushed the door open.
"Do you have many customers?" asked Donovan.
The woman didn't reply. She walked away, her high heels clicking on the grey marble floor like knuckles cracking. Donovan watched her buttocks twitch under her short black skirt, then turned his attention to the painting on the wall opposite the woman's desk. It was modern and mindless, dribbles of paint on over-large canvases, the work of a second-year art student. He took a few steps back, but even distance didn't make the work any more meaningful. There were no price tags on the work, just small pieces of white card with the titles of the pieces. Donovan figured that was always a bad sign, having to give the piece a name. Art should speak for itself.
Scattered around the floor of the gallery were several metal sculptures that looked like the contents of someone's garage welded together haphazardly. Donovan wandered around, shaking his head scornfully.
"Den! Good to see you."
Maury Goldman strode across the gallery, his hand outstretched. His mane of grey hair was swept back as if he'd been riding a scooter without a helmet. Not that there'd be a scooter on the roads capable of bearing Goldman's weight. He was a fat man, bordering on the obese, and his Savile Row suits demanded at least three times the cloth of a regular fitting. As always, his jowly face was bathed in sweat, but his hand when Donovan shook it was as dry as stone. Goldman appeared only days away from a fatal heart attack, but he'd looked that way for the twelve years that Donovan had known him.
Goldman pumped Donovan's hand, and then hugged him. The brunette gave Donovan a frosty look as she went back to her desk, as if she resented the attention that Goldman was giving him.
"When did you get back?" asked Goldman.
"Day or two. How's business?"
Goldman made a 'so-so' gesture with his hand.
"Can't complain, Den."
Donovan gestured at the huge canvases.
"Didn't think you went for this, Maury?"
"Favour for a friend," said Goldman regretfully.
"His son's just graduated .. . what can I say? Maybe Saatchi'll take him under his wing."
Donovan didn't look convinced and Goldman laughed quietly.
"I need a favour, Maury," said Donovan quietly.
Goldman took out a large scarlet handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.
"Come upstairs, we can have a chat there."
Goldman waddled across the gallery and showed Donovan through a door that led to a stairway. He went up the stairs slowly, with Donovan following.
"You should get a lift installed," said Donovan.
"I need the exercise," said Goldman, panting as he reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the door to his private office. He held the door open for Donovan.
The office was a complete contrast to the gallery downstairs, with dark wooden panelling, brass light fittings and a plush royal-blue carpet. The dark oak furniture included a massive desk on which sat an incongruously hi-tech Apple Mac computer. The paintings on the walls were a world apart from the canvases downstairs and Donovan wandered around, relishing the art. Goldman eased himself down on to a massive leather swivel chair behind the desk and watched Donovan with an amused smile on his face.
"This is good," said Donovan in admiration.
"My god, this is good." He was looking at a small black chalk and lithographic crayon drawing of an old woman, her face creased into a thousand wrinkles, yet with eyes that sparkled like a teenager's.
"It's a Goya, right?"
"Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, none other," said Goldman.
"Where the hell did you get it from?"
Goldman tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.
"Trade secret," he said.
"K
osher?"
Goldman sighed theatrically.
"Dennis, please .. ."
"It must be worth seven fifty, right?"
"Closer to a mill, but I could do you a deal, Dennis," said Goldman, taking a large cigar out of a rosewood box and clipping the end off with a gold cutter.
"It's the other way around," said Donovan, rubbing his chin as he scrutinised the painting.
"I need to sell what I've got."
Goldman lit his cigar and took a deep pull on it, then blew a cloud of blue-grey smoke towards the ceiling.
"Have you any idea how much damage the smoke does?" asked Donovan.
"I smoke two a day, doctor's orders."
"I meant to the paintings."
Goldman flashed Donovan a cold smile.
"Do you want to sell everything?"
"Everything in the house."
Goldman raised his eyebrows.
"Are you sure you want to do that? Rock solid investments. It's quality you've got there, Den."
"I'm not doing this by choice, Maury, believe me."
Donovan walked over to a green leather armchair opposite the desk and sat on one of the arms. He took out an envelope and dropped it on to Goldman's desk. Goldman opened it and took out a sheet of paper on which Donovan had written down an inventory of all the paintings he wanted to sell.
Goldman took out a pair of gold-framed reading glasses and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose. He nodded appreciatively as he ran his eyes down the list.
"We must be talking two mill, Den."
Donovan nodded.
"Maybe more if they went to auction, but I need this doing quickly."
"It's never a good idea to rush into a sale, Den." Goldman leaned forward and tapped ash into a large crystal ashtray.
"You know any bank would lend against those paintings, don't you? Shove them in a vault and take out a loan. You'd pay six per cent, maybe seven."
"I'd only get half the value. Maybe seventy five per cent if I was lucky. I need all of it, Maury, and I need it now."
"Now?"
"Tomorrow."
Goldman's eyes widened.
"Are you in trouble, Den?"
"Not if you sell those paintings PDQ, no. Can you buy them off me?"
Goldman exhaled deeply.
"Two million pounds is out of my league, Den. Give me a week or so and I could maybe fix something up, but you know I could only offer you trade. You need a private buyer."
"Do you know anyone?"
Goldman shook his head, then took another long pull on the cigar.
"No one who'd buy the lot, Den. It's a great collection you've got, but it's your taste, right. I mean, if they were all Picassos I could shift them within the hour, but you've got a mixed bag. Quality, but mixed. We'd have to split the collection up, find buyers for them individually."
"Can you do that?" Donovan tried to sound relaxed but he knew that the Colombian's goodwill had been stretched to its limit and there was no way he'd get an extension. It was three million dollars within two days or it was the rest of his life on the run. Or worse.
"I can try, Den."
Donovan nodded glumly. He could tell from Goldman's voice that the dealer wasn't optimistic.
"I tell you what, I'd be happy to take the Van Dyck sketches off your hands."
"I'm not giving them away, Maury."
"What do you think's fair?"
"You should know, Maury, I bought two of them from you."
"How much did you pay again?"
Donovan grinned. Goldman had a mind like a steel trap and never forgot a trade.
"You sold them to me for twenty grand apiece, Maury, and that was eight years ago. I paid thirty-five grand for the third one, but as they're all preparatory sketches for the same painting, they've got added value as a set."
Goldman tapped ash into his crystal ashtray.
"A hundred and fifty?" Donovan smiled tightly and Goldman sighed mournfully.
"You're a hard man, Dennis. Two hundred?"
"Two hundred it is, Maury. Cash tomorrow, yeah?"
Goldman nodded.
"I'll get on the phone right away about the rest of your collection. Okay if I come around to the house tomorrow morning?"
"Worried I might not have them?"
Goldman ignored Donovan's sarcasm.
"Ten o'clock all right for you?"
Donovan nodded.
Goldman continued to scrutinise the list.
"I know someone who might help," he said.
"In what way? A buyer?"
"A dealer. Young guy, he's been making a bit of a name for himself. Bit of a chancer, it has to be said, but he turns over some good stuff. Sails a bit close to the wind when it comes to provenance, but he has cash buyers. Buyers a bit like yourself, if you get my drift."
"You trust him? This is personal business, Maury. I mean, the paintings are kosher but there's going to be a money trail. I don't have time to do any laundry."
"He's never let me down, Den. And he knows the faces. God forbid I should put you in touch with my competition, but if you're in a bind, he might be able to help."
Donovan nodded.
"Okay, then. What's his name?"
Goldman blew a cloud of smoke across the desk, then waved it away with his hand.
"Fullerton. Jamie Fullerton."
Robbie's thumbs were getting numb, but he didn't want to stop playing with the Gameboy, not while he was so close to beating his personal best. His mobile phone started to ring. He glanced sideways at the phone on the grass beside him. It was a mobile calling him. He put the Gameboy down and picked up his mobile. He didn't recognise the number. He pressed the green button.
"Yes .. ." he said hesitantly.
"Cheer up, you look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders."
"Dad!" Robbie shouted. He grinned and pumped his fist in the air.
"That's better," said Donovan.
"You haven't forgotten how to smile, then."
Robbie realised what his father had said. He stood up and looked around the garden, the phone still glued to his ear.
"Where are you?"
"Why? You want to see me?"
"Yes!" Robbie shouted.
"Where are you?"
Donovan stepped out of the kitchen, waving at his son.
"Dad!" Robbie screamed, running towards him. He threw himself at Donovan. Donovan picked him up and swung him around.
"I knew you'd come back," said Robbie.
"I said I would. You know I always keep my word."
Robbie put his arms around Donovan's neck and hugged him tight.
"When did you land? You should have called me, I would have come to the airport."
"I wanted to surprise you," said Donovan. He didn't want to tell Robbie that he'd been in London for two days, or that he'd been in Mark and Laura's house while he was asleep.
"You want a Big Mac?"
"Burger King's better."
"Since when?" Last time Donovan had been in London, Macdonald's was his son's fast food of choice.
"Burger King's better. Everyone knows that. Are we going home?"
"Home?"
"Our house. You're not going to stay with Aunty Laura, are you?"
Donovan put his son back on the ground and ruffled his hair.
"We can talk about that later," he said.
"There's something we've got to do first."
Laura came out of the kitchen.
"Are you staying for dinner, Den?"
"Father and son time," laughed Donovan.
"Junk food's a-calling."
They caught a black cab to Queensway and Donovan took his son into Whiteley's shopping centre. Donovan headed towards a photograph machine on the ground floor.
"What are we doing, Dad?" asked Robbie.
"Passport pictures," said Donovan, helping him into the booth. He gave him two one-pound coins and showed him how to raise the seat.
"I've a
lready got a passport," said Robbie.
"Your mum took it," said Donovan.
"Why?"
"I don't know. You'll have to ask her."
"Why do I need a passport?"
"For God's sake, Robbie, will you just do as you're told?" Donovan snapped.
Robbie's face fell and he pulled the curtain shut.
Donovan leaned against the machine.
"Robbie, I'm sorry."
Robbie didn't say anything. There were four flashes and then Robbie got out of the booth. He didn't look at Donovan. Donovan ruffled his son's hair.
"I'm having a bad day, Robbie. I'm sorry."
"It's all right." Robbie's voice was flat and emotionless and he still wouldn't look at Donovan.
"We'll go to Burger King, yeah?"
Robbie nodded.
"What are you going to do to mum?"
Donovan's jaw dropped.
"What do you mean?"
"You're not going to let her get away with it, are you?"
"Your mum's made her bed, now she's got to lie in it."
"Will you get divorced?"
"After what she's done, Robbie, she can't come back."
"Yeah, I know. I won't have to stay with her, will I?"
Donovan knelt down so that his face was level with Robbie's.
"Of course not."
"Most of my friends, when their parents split up, they have to live with their mums."
"Yeah, but this is different."
"I know, but it's the judge who decides, right?"
Donovan shook his head.
"After what she did, no judge is going to let her take you away from me. That's as long as you want to stay with me. You do want to stay with me, right?"
"Sure!" said Robbie quickly.
"So that's sorted." Donovan gently banged Robbie's chin with his fist.
"You and me, okay?"
"Okay, Dad."
The strip of photographs slid out of the machine. Robbie picked it up and studied it.
"I look like a geek."
Donovan took the photographs off him.
"You look great." He put the photographs in his pocket. One of the two mobiles he was carrying started to warble. It was the one Rojas was supposed to use. Donovan pressed the phone against his ear.
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