Zac spooned a huge ball of peanut butter into the pot and stirred the simmering red broth, watching it thicken. Domoda: a recipe he and Etta had picked up on holiday in Gambia over a decade ago. The tinkling of a blues piano filled the kitchen. Kofi careened about in his Spider-Man pyjamas, clutching a toy digger. Zac could hear the rise and fall of Etta’s voice from the living room, on the phone to a friend. Business as usual in the Boateng household.

Except for one thing: he was crackling with nervous energy. Home was always where he relaxed, no matter what Lewisham had thrown at him. But not today. It wasn’t Jones’s inability to locate Trent Parker, Wallace’s possible next target. If they couldn’t find him, it was unlikely Wallace had managed it yet. Nor was it the ‘near miss’, where Malik had chased a Sri Lankan asylum seeker who didn’t speak English through the streets of Thornton Heath, culminating in a Tasering by one of Croydon’s finest. That was unfortunate, and there might be questions from on high, but he’d put it out of his mind quickly.

Or rather, it had been displaced by the urge to hide away somewhere and scour the data he’d acquired on Clarence Thompson, aka Night Vision. Zac couldn’t stop thinking about him. What did he know about the hit that killed Amelia? If he’d had decent access to the gang, he might have information about why the target was murdered. Maybe Thompson even had a theory about who had done it. Zac knew he couldn’t pin all his hopes on this guy. At best, it was a long shot. The only thing he could do was locate Thompson and find a way to speak to him, if he was still contactable. Starting place was his listed address. First thing tomorrow morning. He tasted the stew, added pepper.

Through the wall, Etta’s intonation suggested her call was coming to a close and moments later she appeared through the doorway. Zac sipped his beer and resolved not to tell her anything. Could he break away after dinner, call round at Thompson’s address? Slow down, he told himself. Plan it out properly. Besides, he’d already promised Etta they’d watch TV together after Kofi had gone to bed.

‘Ah yes.’ Taking a dramatic sniff, Etta docked the cordless phone on the granite counter and craned on tiptoes to kiss Zac’s cheek. ‘Makes me think of Cape Point every time I smell that.’ She stroked his lower back, nodding at Kofi, who was loading the digger’s bucket with nuts from a bowl. ‘Think that’s where this one started life.’

Zac pressed his lips into a line, turned to her. ‘Amelia was four. She wanted to know who Gambians were. We had to explain the idea of nationality.’

‘She said, “Mummy, if your parents are from Nigeria and Daddy’s parents are from Ghana, what am I?”’

‘“British,” you told her. “West African. And you’re Amelia Boateng of course.”’

‘That confused her.’ Etta laughed softly but Zac didn’t join. She cocked her head. ‘You OK, love?’

He nodded vigorously, began tearing chunks of smoked fish. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Sure?’

‘Fine.’

Etta reached for a glass and removed a half-finished bottle of wine from the fridge. Poured, took a sip, murmured her approval.

‘Can you take Kofi to school tomorrow morning?’ he asked without looking up.

She frowned. ‘Tuesday? You always take him in on Tuesdays. I do the earlier shift at the office.’

‘I know, love, it’s just – there’s a meeting first thing tomorrow. Got to be there at eight. It just came up this afternoon.’

‘Try and let me know about these things earlier,’ she said, irritated. ‘I could’ve arranged it with Chandeep if I’d known by the end of the day.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Bit late to ask her now.’

‘Could you be on emails?’

‘What, while I’m driving the car?’ She shook her head. ‘OK. You make his lunch, I’ll take him in.’ Jabbed a finger. ‘And you owe me one.’

Zac allowed himself a brief smile in return. ‘Thanks.’ It felt horrible holding something back from her, but without knowing more, he wasn’t even sure what he was holding back. If she thought he was just digging aimlessly around Amelia’s death, she’d tell him to stop. Move on. Put it in the past and look forward, like she was trying to do. But if he could tell her he’d got real evidence, she’d want to know. Humans were programmed to seek out certain things. Closure and justice were two of them. He just needed something tangible.

Zac clapped his hands. ‘Right, time for all construction foremen to down tools and go to bed.’

Kofi picked up his digger and pointed to the wall clock. ‘It’s only twenty-seven past eight, Dad. I’ve still got three minutes.’ He grinned.

‘If you want a piggyback upstairs then you’d better stop playing now.’

‘Yay,’ squealed Kofi as Zac bent down and he climbed on.

‘Need to get a good rest tonight,’ said Zac over his shoulder as Kofi bumped against him up the stairs.

‘Why’s that, Dad?’

‘Important work to do tomorrow.’

---

It was absurd.

The Smoking Room, and you weren’t allowed to smoke. What was the point of paying for a private members’ club on Pall Mall if you couldn’t even puff the odd cigarette indoors when you felt like it? Susanna Pym was trying to quit. Not good for the image of the Parliamentary Under Secretary of State for Health. The PM would bollock her with both barrels if she was caught fag-in-mouth by some paparazzo with nothing better to do than hang around the Oxford and Cambridge Club of a Monday night.

Tobacco would be just the ticket at this moment though. She wasn’t nervous as such, but there was a certain anticipation to her impending encounter. It was why she suggested the Oxford and Cambridge. Not her usual haunt, but ideal for a meeting you didn’t want many people to observe. On a Monday night at the O&C you could more or less guarantee privacy in the Smoking Room, with the exception of a dribbling old boy in the corner and one or two ‘young members’ quaffing happy-hour port. And discretion was essential to the gentleman on his way.

Pym knew that Tarquin Patey had left the army at colonel, having commanded the 22nd Special Air Service in Afghanistan and Iraq. He then founded his own private military company and sold services back to Her Majesty’s Government, and presumably whoever else could afford them, mostly using ex-SAS chaps from his former regiment. She recalled the television footage of the Iranian embassy siege back in ’80: smoke, grenades and abseiling men in black. Fearsome bunch. But it wasn’t Patey’s CV that had Pym on edge. It was the job she was planning to offer him. Bit of a gamble, and the stakes were rather high. She glanced at the grandfather clock, laboriously ticking. He should arrive any minute now. She took a large sip of Speyside single malt. As she set the glass down, a tall figure entered, paused, then zeroed in on her with silent recognition.

Patey strode over to Pym’s table. The cut of his navy-blue suit was impeccable: probably tailored. He thrust out a hand and the flash of garish lining confirmed her hypothesis.

‘Delighted to meet you, Under Secretary of State. Tarquin Patey.’ The voice was rich, authoritative.

‘Susanna, please.’ She motioned him to sit on the red leather armchair opposite. ‘Drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Very well.’ She crossed her legs, tried to relax. ‘You come highly recommended.’ Patey said nothing; evidently it didn’t pay to inquire into clients’ grapevines. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. There’s someone I’d like you to find.’

Patey smoothed his thinning hair. ‘That is one of our specialties,’ he smiled. ‘Where?’

‘London, probably.’

He nodded. ‘Who?’

Pym took another sip of whisky and settled back into her chair. ‘Did you hear about a robbery three years ago, safe deposit boxes in London?’

Patey shook his head.

‘Around three million’s worth stolen, mostly jewellery. They caught the thief but half of the items were never recovered. Including a rather precious heirloom of mine.’ She unfolded a piece of paper displaying a chunky art deco pendant, silver with inset emerald.

‘And you believe this person knows the whereabouts of your piece?’

‘Quite. After all, he stole it.’

‘Are the police involved?’

Pym grimaced slightly. ‘Very much so. They made an appeal for information leading to his arrest this morning. That’s why I need your help. You see, the pendant isn’t just a bit of jewellery. Bloody ugly if you ask me, he can keep the damn thing. But there’s something inside it that is considerably more important. With… personal implications.’ She decided not to mention the memory stick or its contents at this point. ‘I need you to retrieve it before the police find him – or worse, he escapes abroad and tries to flog it.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He studied the photo. ‘What’s his name, this fellow?’

‘Darian Wallace. He spent two years in prison for the robbery and has just been released.’ Pym swilled the whisky round her glass. ‘That’s why I called you. I expect he’ll be heading straight for the buried treasure. Perhaps he’ll take you to it. There’s a mobile number on there, too, someone you can call in the Met if you need a steer on their progress. A friend of mine. They’ll need paying, of course, but you can tell them to expense me for any services they supply.’

Patey nodded, carefully re-folded the photograph and began tucking it into an inside pocket.

‘There’s one other thing,’ she said. ‘He’s wanted on suspicion of murder.’

He froze, hand still inside his jacket. Raised his eyes to her. ‘I don’t think that’ll trouble the chap I’m sending after him. He’s dealt with far worse.’

Pym finished her drink. ‘I don’t want to know.’ In her experience, it was preferable to keep above the details. You never knew when they might come back to bite you in the arse.

Patey didn’t respond. She imagined his view was much the same when it came to politicians and details. The less they knew, the better.

---

The Bucket of Blood.

So much of the stuff had been spilled here, the patrons gave the Lamb and Flag pub a new name. Two hundred years ago, blokes beat the shit out of each other most nights, bare-knuckle boxing for cash. A hundred and fifty years before then, a famous poet got done in by hired muscle in the pub’s alleyway. The irony wasn’t lost on him. For all our modern ‘progress’, people were still paying for violence. Employing others to fight and take down their enemies. Normally that was why the gaffer needed him. He assumed this job would be no different. At least it gave him an honest wage: day’s work for a day’s pay. Spike grunted a laugh and took a big mouthful of Guinness.

The pub was lively: usual mixture of Covent Garden tourists, office drones out on the piss and a few awkward dates all crowded in under the low ceilings. He’d arrived first. In the army they told squaddies to get wherever they needed to be five minutes early. Some lads always turned up five minutes before that. ‘Five minutes before the five minutes before,’ they called it. Spike favoured five minutes before that. Bagged the corner table and sat facing the door, avoiding the ‘dead man’s chair’ opposite. Old habits.

He was halfway down his pint when the gaffer came in, holding a lager. Patey still looked weird in a suit. He was more used to seeing the boss in his Hereford ‘uniform’ of polo shirt, jeans and Timberlands: exactly what Spike was in now. Suppose if you run a business you’ve got to look the part.

‘Spike.’ Patey sat and glanced around, evidently uncomfortable with his back to the door.

‘Colonel.’

‘You look well.’

‘Just done a week BASE jumping in Norway.’

‘Christ. Do you have a death wish, man?’

He sipped his Guinness. ‘One geezer did croak actually. Cocked up his own chute rigging. Fair play to him though, he died doing what he loved. That’s how I wanna go.’

‘Well don’t go anywhere just yet. I’ve got a job for you.’ Patey produced the photograph, slid it across to Spike. Outlined the brief. Didn’t name his client.

Spike pocketed the photo. ‘Find Darian Wallace. Get this emerald pendant back,’ he confirmed. ‘And whatever’s inside it.’

Patey rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers. ‘Correct.’

‘What do you want me to do with Wallace? Thames drop-off?’ Spike had picked up the phrase in Iraq, where bodies turned up in the river all the time. Made death sound like a form of transport.

His boss recoiled. ‘God, no. The client doesn’t want any mess, neither do I. Wallace is a murder suspect. If you can see your way to alerting the authorities on his whereabouts once you’ve retrieved the item, you’ll be doing the public a favour.’ Patey gave a mock salute. ‘Dyb dyb.’

‘Sod off.’ They both laughed. That was one reason he’d loved the regiment – still did. There was nowhere else you could’ve said that to a commanding officer. ‘Murder suspect?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Should I be worried?’

‘Are you ever?’

‘No.’ Spike sniffed. ‘And suppose he doesn’t want to tell me where the stuff is?’

‘Then get creative. Baghdad rules. Standard comms, updates as and when.’

‘Colonel.’

Patey stood, buttoned his jacket, shook hands and left. His pint was untouched. Spike finished off his Guinness then helped himself to the lager. Waste not want not, especially when he’d be off the beer for a few days now.

Old habits.