‘You did the right thing.’ Jones laid a hand on Fletcher’s arm. ‘Took a lot of courage to make that choice.’

Fletcher’s cheeks were slick with tears and mascara. Jones gave her a tissue and she wiped her eyes with a shaking hand. ‘“Game over”, that’s what he said.’ She gave a juicy sniff. ‘He’s gonna kill me. Reece too. My son.’ Another spasm of grief screwed up her face.

‘We’re doing our best to find him,’ Jones said gently.

‘Bit fucking late now, isn’t it?’ Fletcher produced small gasps between her words.

Jones swallowed. ‘Sorry.’

Boateng knelt on the carpet next to Reece, who was rolling a toy car back and forth, staring at it. ‘Are you OK, Reece?’ The boy nodded. Zac got closer. ‘It’s going to be alright.’ He was no longer sure if that was the truth. Wallace, Parker, Fletcher, Harris. Amelia, Thompson, Two-Ten. Him and Etta. Any of it. His head bowed as if pulled by a huge invisible weight. He gazed at a point on the floor, guilt creeping in again. Responsibility for failure was his. He was senior officer on the ground. The arrest tactics had been his call. OK, Wallace must’ve clocked the squad cars before they arrived, but he’d requested them with no briefing, no plan. Couldn’t blame the PCs who just happened to be closest when they’d radioed. The tip from Fletcher was real-time, but that was the nature of police work. Should he have waited for Tactical Support, held off altogether and staked out the flat? He’d need to explain every choice to Krebs soon. She wouldn’t like the bad press one bit.

For now, they were doing what they could. Connelly was briefing the unit from Brixton who remained on standby. Malik was in with security personnel at King’s College Hospital, reviewing the footage, trying to work out how the hell their target had vanished. Boateng had underestimated Wallace. The ex-con nearly twenty years younger had outsmarted him, outmanoeuvred them all. Maybe if he’d been more focused…

A knock at the door made everyone start. ‘Scene of crime officer,’ called a female voice outside. Boateng walked over, checked the spy hole before letting her in. The SOCO was head to toe in black, including her stab vest and gloves. ‘Where shall I start?’ she chirped, opening the briefcase and removing a camera.

By being less cheerful, Boateng thought.

He turned to Fletcher. ‘Jasmine?’ She pointed under the sofa. They dragged out the canvas holdall. The SOCO removed, photographed and dusted a mallet for prints. Repeated the process with two chisels, an angle grinder, electric drill and a box of nails. Boateng took a nail, held one up. ‘These what your handyman uses?’

Fletcher sniffed. ‘I couldn’t tell you then, I was scared.’

‘And now it’s too late,’ he retorted. Instantly wished he hadn’t. ‘Sorry. I know he threatened you and Reece. I’m just frustrated.’

‘We all are, Zac.’ Jones glared at him.

‘You’re right. My bad.’ Boateng pulled himself up: time for action, not blame. Then his gaze alighted on the angle grinder, a small handheld one. The image of Harris strapped to the chair came to him. Severed fingers. Blood pooled on the carpet under his hands. ‘Could you match that blade to a cut on a body?’

The SOCO stuck out her lower lip. ‘In a lab, maybe.’

Boateng glanced at Jones, his spirits lifting. ‘Could be just what we’re looking for.’ Took out his mobile and hit Volz’s number.

---

They rode in silence. Boateng driving, Jones alongside. He stared ahead, she sideways at the Peckham shops flashing past. It was just the two of them; Malik was still at King’s and Connelly had joined him to take witness statements.

‘Do you think it’s about empathy, in the end?’ she said without turning.

‘What is?’ He fiddled with the stereo, tried to find a decent station. The speakers hissed.

‘The Job.’

‘It’s about solving crime. And preventing it.’

‘Yes, but can you do that if you don’t empathise with the victims?’

His eyes flicked to her. ‘Is this about Jasmine Fletcher? I know I was a bit heavy-handed, fair enough. But she could’ve made that call to us earlier, then we’d have our man and she’d be safe.’

Jones snorted. ‘The only reason she called us at all is because I bothered to relate to her, build some kind of trust.’ She paused, swivelled in her seat. ‘Sorry, boss. Didn’t mean to—’

‘Oi.’ He raised a palm at her. ‘Speak your mind. I want people in my team who tell it like it is. Within reason,’ he smiled briefly. ‘Everyone gets it wrong sometimes. I did today.’

‘Zac, you couldn’t have—’

‘The kid. Not even started school yet and what has he seen so far in life?’

Jones knew it was rhetorical.

‘I wanted to pick Reece up and take him out of there,’ he continued. ‘Make sure he never claps eyes on Darian Wallace again. Call it a dad’s instinct. Put him and Jasmine Fletcher somewhere safe. But you’ve got to have limits to empathy. Can’t solve everyone’s problems. If you believe you can, it just creates more for yourself. Before you know it, you can’t do the job any more. I’ve seen coppers get to that point. Then you don’t help anybody.’ He adjusted the radio again and music crystallised.

Jones broke the silence. ‘I understand why you’d want to protect a child.’

Boateng stared at the road.

‘I heard what happened, Zac. Five years ago.’ She chose her words carefully. ‘Can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you and Etta. For Kofi. How do you…’ She faltered.

‘You hope.’ His face twitched. ‘That one day the person responsible will get what they deserve.’

‘Justice?’

He hesitated a second. ‘Yeah.’

‘They never caught the guy who did it.’

‘Not yet.’

‘What do you mean?’

He kept looking ahead, but she could tell his eyes were moistening. ‘Never give up. You owe it to that person you loved. To the memory you still love, that no one can take away.’

Jones nodded slowly. Boateng didn’t need to ask her if she was thinking about her father.

---

Wallace stood opposite the Colombian café that was also a money transfer and clothing store. Nobody was watching. No CCTV either, far as he could tell. Wallace slung the crutches and dressing gown into the industrial bin and pulled a wooden pallet over them. Headed for the market down the road at Elephant and Castle junction. Descending filthy iron steps towards stalls by the underpass, he felt anonymous again, one molecule in a sea. Sellers hustled under tarpaulins and crude plastic sheeting that did little to block the intensifying sun. Racks of cheap clothing, hats and shoes sat alongside fruit and veg in crates piled between the hawkers. The scents of deep-fried food wafted from kiosks by the underground station. Wallace heard conversations in at least five languages inside a minute. Without a word, he paid cash for aviator shades to cover the teardrop tattoo. Then he purchased a sun hat, new T-shirt and trousers. All in lighter colours than his existing outfit, the one they’d be looking for on cameras. Next he picked up a mobile phone handset, scratched and worn but described by the South Asian man selling it simply as ‘used’. Stolen and unblocked most likely. That didn’t matter; he wouldn’t need it for long, and no one would bother tracking the IMEI now. Bought a Lebara SIM card: one of the hardest to trace. No paperwork for any of it. He had to duck inside the shopping centre itself to find a small rucksack and sleeping bag. Wallace changed in a grubby public toilet, putting his original clothes and new bedding in the pack. Checked his roll of notes: two hundred and eighty-five quid left from his winnings at the track on Saturday night. Enough.

---

There was nothing in the town hall lobby, nor in the public library. Same in two GP surgeries, a Post Office window, and the big Methodist church. Told himself to be patient. Finally in the community centre, scouring his seventh public notice board, he found it.

Lock-up garage to rent.

Wallace tore a strip with a printed mobile number from the advert, fired up his own phone and called. Two minutes later he was walking towards Old Kent Road.

---

The owner was on time. Older white guy, probably fifties, thin grey hair. Solid-looking. Introduced himself as Derek. ‘What d’you need it for then… John, wasn’t it?’ he asked, twisting the lock and heaving the metal door up.

‘Storage,’ replied Wallace.

Derek squinted. ‘For what?’

‘My car.’

They stepped inside. The guy flicked on a single, bare electric bulb. It was still so dark that Wallace was obliged to remove his sunglasses to see properly. Breeze-block walls, bare concrete floor. His prison cell had more atmosphere. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. At least there was a plug socket.

‘Twenty-five pound a week,’ said Derek.

‘I’ll take it for two weeks.’

‘Minimum’s a month.’

Wallace clenched his jaw. Recognised he had no power here. ‘Fine.’

‘Got any ID?’

‘Aw shit.’ Wallace patted his pockets. ‘Must’ve left it in the car. At my girlfriend’s place.’

Derek stared at him. Wallace held the gaze, which drifted to the corner of his right eye, the black teardrop tattoo. The older man coughed, jammed hands in his pockets. ‘If you ain’t got no ID,’ he said at length. ‘It’s fifty pound a week.’

He weighed it up. ‘OK.’

‘Plus twenty quid deposit for the key.’

Wallace peeled off the notes from his roll. Didn’t bother winding up the rest: there weren’t enough.

Derek grasped his cash, counted it and extracted one of two keys on a fob. ‘Gimme this back in a month then, ’less you wanna extend. You got my number.’ Gave a final glance at the teardrop and moved towards the door.

‘Wait,’ said Wallace. ‘I’ll give you two hundred more at the end of the month.’

Turning, Derek sized him up. Nodded, and was gone.

Wallace shut himself inside the garage, unrolled the sleeping bag and lay down. Damn, the floor was hard. Used his old hoody as a pillow. Stared up at the bare bulb, its filament glowing weakly, like it was about to give out. A wave of tiredness washed over him. It was early afternoon, but he felt like he’d been awake for days. Closed his eyes. Would the guy see him on the news, call it in? Maybe, but he’d have to be quick. Wallace wasn’t planning to hang around this shithole any longer than necessary. Then again, the old bugger might be so venal he wouldn’t go to the feds even if he knew something was up. Like the landlords who know their properties are being used by hookers, hydroponic skunk farmers or ten-to-a-room illegal migrants. Long as the rent comes in, it was hear no evil and all of that. Problem was that Derek no doubt had another key, the spare on his fob, so if he was curious he might come back and check.

Minor. Now Wallace had a place to hide, sleep and plan. Knew what he had to do. Finish his business then get off this island. It started with Trent Parker. For that, he needed new tools. Sixty-five quid in his pocket wasn’t going to cut it.

Then he remembered: it was Wednesday. Thursdays were race nights at Wimbledon greyhound track.