‘I’m not hungry.’ Zac placed a hand over his belly, then took a swig of coffee.

‘Eggs?’ Etta arched her eyebrows, tipping the pan to show him.

‘Gotta leave soon.’ It was quarter past seven. He would’ve happily scoffed a plate of scrambled eggs before work on any other day. This morning, though, he’d woken early with a nausea that hadn’t yet shifted. Anticipation. Drinking coffee probably wasn’t a great idea, but he had to have something.

‘Your loss.’

‘I’ve done his lunch,’ he added, nodding to the Batman tin on the granite counter.

Kofi followed his gesture to the lunchbox. ‘Batman fights the criminals like you, Dad,’ he said, mouth full. ‘Except he does it at night so no one sees him.’

‘That’s right.’ Zac stepped over to his son and ruffled his hair, the tight curls soft on his palm.

‘You’re a caped crusader!’ he exclaimed, still chewing.

‘Don’t know about that,’ said Zac quietly.

Etta turned, coughed theatrically, eyes wide. ‘What have I told you about speaking with your mouth full, young man?’

‘Sorry, Mum.’

Zac winked at him. ‘See you later on, mate.’ He kissed Kofi on top of his head, hugged him close.

The boy stuck out his tongue in disgust. ‘Get off, Dad!’ he laughed.

‘You’re very precious to me.’ Zac stood back, studied his son. Kofi looked up from his cornflakes, confused by his father’s unusual show of emotion at the breakfast table. Mornings were normally all business: get up and out. Cuddling was for the evenings, bedtime, weekends. Zac realised Etta was watching him too.

‘Hope your meeting goes well, love.’ She reached out a hand to him and he briefly squeezed it.

‘Yeah, thanks. I should go.’

Zac could still feel Etta’s gaze on him as he hurried through the front door.

---

Night Vision had been easy to find. Or more accurately, his parents had made him easy to find through their choice of name. There was only one Clarence Jeremiah Thompson in the whole of Britain. The Experian database search had confirmed that yesterday, with matching date of birth, and provided a new address near Kennington Oval. Thompson had moved house since 2012, but he hadn’t changed his name. That suggested he’d got away from informing for Trident unscathed. Despite this positive sign, Boateng counted many more unknowns. Anything could have happened in the last five years. He’d not been able to check if Thompson was still on the books for the Met or if he’d been discontinued. A source could be dropped for all sorts of reasons, including the risk they posed to the officers running them. Boateng was unarmed; had to rely on his bare wits. If this developed, he might need to think about some personal protection. Just in case anything went pear-shaped.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, Dizzy Gillespie’s ‘Soul & Salvation’ floating around the car on low volume. Soul. Salvation. He snorted a laugh as he realised. Maybe he’d chosen the album unconsciously. Did he think this private – what could he call it? – ‘inquiry’ into the people and circumstances around his daughter’s death would bring redemption? He felt that he’d failed twice that day – first to protect Amelia, then to resuscitate her – and there was no way to change those facts. So why this? Why now?

Another part of the motivation surely came from a simple character trait. It was present long before he joined the police, perhaps even helped him select the career: his drive to know, to understand. To use that knowledge to protect and seek justice. But did the drive go further in this case, even as far as revenge? Boateng wasn’t yet sure. He’d thought about it countless times, especially just after her death, when he was so often angry. But without the first clue as to who’d killed his daughter, any possibility of revenge was purely hypothetical. That meant he didn’t really have to deal in advance with what he’d do, if push came to shove.

He pulled the herringbone flat cap low over his head and cracked the window to avoid steaming up the inside. Tried to relax, focus on his task. He had a good line of sight to the front door of Lockwood House. Took out the team mobile and opened the image of Thompson’s mugshot, studied it once more. People came and went. Boateng knew the clock was ticking: his team would need him in Lewisham soon.

Thirty-five minutes later a skinny young black man emerged wearing a Post Office uniform. Same high cheekbones. Identical chinstrap facial hair. Boateng wasted no time. Got out and intercepted him alongside the building.

‘Clarence,’ he began, spreading his arms to show he posed no threat.

Thompson looked around. ‘Yeah…’ he replied slowly.

Boateng stepped forward and lowered his voice. ‘I’m a police officer. I need to talk to you about the South Side Playaz.’ He flashed his warrant card without it leaving his jacket.

‘I don’t do that any more, man.’ Thompson sucked his teeth.

‘OK. I just need some information. About back then.’

‘Where’s the last guy?’

Boateng had anticipated this. A source would always be wary of new contacts, especially with an unscheduled meeting. It took time to build trust. He’d clocked an alias used by the Trident handler from Night Vision’s file. ‘I work with Nathan.’ He saw the recognition in Thompson’s face. ‘We’ve got this for you.’ He produced a roll of twenty-pound notes from his pocket. Had to use his own savings for it; no way he could explain to Etta how two hundred quid vanished from their joint account.

Thompson paused, nodded. ‘Alright, I got ten minutes. Late for work already.’

Boateng gestured towards the car and Night Vision slid into the passenger seat.

‘I’m working a cold case. Murder of Draymond King in July 2012.’

‘Shit. Now you’re interested in that?’

‘What do you mean?’

Thompson’s eyes narrowed. ‘You sure you’re working with Nathan?’

‘I’m in the same unit, but he’s moved on now.’ Boateng didn’t know if that were true; he was improvising. Hoping his bluff wouldn’t get called. ‘Like I said, it’s a cold case.’

‘Only thing cold about it was the feds. Nathan told me not to ask no questions. Cos of the op.’

Boateng didn’t know what he was talking about, so kept quiet.

‘They was tracking guns and food – crack,’ resumed Thompson. ‘I told Nathan I wanted to work on the murder, you know, dig around. Draymond was my boy. Whatever mu’fucker done it, I wanted him found. But Nathan said I had to focus on his op. Said there was “too much at stake”.’ He spat the words. ‘They’d deal with the murder later.’

‘Except they didn’t.’

‘Yeah, right. They wasn’t interested.’

Boateng’s heart was beating faster now. ‘So what did you think, at the time?’

Thompson shook his head. ‘It’s a waste, man. Draymond. Damn,’ he sighed. ‘Mans thought it was GAS – Guns and Shanks – cos they was bringing in crack as well. Trying to sell to the same customers. But Dray was a younger. No reason why they’d pop him.’

Boateng could follow the logic. ‘So you think his murder wasn’t gang-related?’

‘Nah, man,’ said Thompson. ‘I don’t think. I know it wasn’t.’

---

No safety catch.

That’s what he liked best about the Sig Sauer P229. Meant you could get rounds off much quicker. Didn’t have to worry about flicking a lever before brassing someone up. He’d known that to be the difference between us and them. Between alive and dead.

Spike surveyed the components of the pistol laid out on his workbench. Slide, barrel, recoil spring, frame. He set about carefully wiping down, cleaning and oiling each part in turn. Poked a wire brush through the barrel, pulled it back and forth. You didn’t want the thing jamming on you with a target in range. Again, difference between alive and dead. Spike had survived the West Side Boys in Sierra Leone, Balkan snipers, the Taliban, al-Qaeda and the Mahdi Army in Iraq. He wasn’t about to let some thieving scrote-bag from south London take him down.

Still, shouldn’t underestimate this Wallace guy, he’d pulled off a half-decent burglary job and the police reckoned he killed the pawnbroker. That took balls. Had to be prepared for him carrying something. But if Wallace was armed and knew how to shoot, the skills would be rusty. He’d been in prison for two years so couldn’t have got any rounds down in that time. A lot of these gang types used converted replicas anyway. Unless you were standing right next to your enemy, they were gash: inaccurate, unreliable. Mostly for show, intimidation. If Spike’s kit was a hundred per cent, and he had to draw, he fancied his chances. Taking care of your tools – that’s what these street guys didn’t understand.

One man who had understood that was the Engineer, a bomb-maker from Baghdad. His explosive devices had already killed around a hundred people by the time they caught him. Spike was part of the Special Forces group that tracked him down. Took four months. Had a few near misses – even lost a man on one failed detention op – but they didn’t give up. Eventually they got eyes on the Engineer, holed up in a disused factory. Spike set an explosive charge on the front door and it blew a splinter through his cheek. Adrenalin was going so hard he didn’t realise till they got back in the helicopter. Great big cut in his face, bit of wood sticking out. The boys all started calling him Spike after that. More importantly, they’d found the Engineer and the bombs he’d built; probably about two hundred lives saved. Worth a hole in your face.

Shifting the anglepoise lamp over the case trimmer tool, he opened the 9 mm ammo box and took out a round. Locked it in place and lined up the drill bit. Began to punch through the tip of the bullet, ribbons of lead streaming to each side. Hollow point rounds were the better option for his work. They expanded on contact with the target. That meant less collateral damage – useful if you were out in public. And it caused more problems inside the body – worse for your enemy. The Firearms Act 1968 made them illegal in the UK – some human rights shit – so Spike had to manufacture his own. It wasn’t that hard. All you needed was a drill and steady hands.

Forty-five minutes later the hollow points were ready. He loaded them into three mags and pushed one into the Sig. Pulled back the slide and drew a round into the chamber. Packed the pistol and mags in a rucksack along with a prepaid mobile, portable charger, GPS, Maglite, camera with zoom lens, Gerber multitool, shove knife, some rope – never knew when you might need that – and a thermos flask of tea. The gaffer had said Baghdad rules, so Spike added a stun gun. Commercial model bought online from Latin America: gave a bastard of an electric shock.

He switched off the anglepoise and went downstairs to the garage. Yanked the cover off his Kawasaki Ninja H2R. A thousand CC beast of a bike. Spike had treated himself to the new edition. Forty-one grand well spent. He unscrewed his usual number plate and selected one from the batch custom-made by his mate who ran a garage. Each was single use only, culled or copied from other bikes. Enough to confuse the police automatic number plate recognition system if a job went tits up and the coppers started investigating, reviewing CCTV. Spike lived in the Kent countryside, so even with ANPR he’d drop off the grid somewhere outside town.

He donned the neoprene face mask and black helmet with tinted visor. The heat in summer was a hassle – or ‘nause’, as they’d say in the regiment – but worth it to keep your face hidden from cameras. And people, once you got close enough for them to see you.

Destination was south London. First stop, the most logical place to find Wallace. Think like your enemy.

Spike gunned the throttle and the Ninja roared to life.