Spike had begun to doubt himself. As usual he’d arrived early, but now it was twenty minutes until closing time at the gallery and still no sign of his boss. Was he definitely in the right place? Knew there were two Tates in London, and the gaffer had said the one opposite the Spooks. That was Tate Britain in Pimlico. No mistake, be patient. He stood in front of the four-by-three metre canvas, staring. Didn’t get it. Just a load of words on a massive board. He could’ve done that. Checked the tiny information sign next to it. ‘Break Point, 1998. Fiona Banner b. 1966.’

‘Rather good, isn’t it,’ remarked Patey, gliding alongside him.

Spike glanced left, pissed off that he’d been caught unawares. They made an odd pair, the boss in his skinny-cut Savile Row suit and Spike in a light fleece, jeans and hiking shoes. Since most other visitors had already cleared off, though, no one seemed to notice.

‘What…’ began Spike. Tilted his head. ‘What is it?’

Patey smoothed his regimental silk tie, its tiny silver-winged daggers the only hint of his previous life. ‘It’s a scrambled narrative. Illustrating the limits of our comprehension.’

‘Scrambled bollocks, more like.’ Spike wasn’t comfortable here, not his turf. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure when he’d ever been in a gallery outside of a surveillance job. Parents had never brought him to places like this as a kid, why would they? Waste of time. ‘Not gonna pay the bills, is it?’ as his old man always said of anything other than work. Miserable bugger grafted himself to a heart attack on a building site at fifty-five, died in hospital, and Spike’s mum wasn’t too far behind. They never had any money, but their early deaths taught Spike that once you earn some, best enjoy it while you can. Hence his need for the colonel’s cash.

Patey gave him an indulgent smile. ‘The piece describes a chase scene from the film Point Break, where the hero is in pursuit of a robber. Seen it?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Well, you see, by flipping the title words around and condensing a textual description of events, the artist conveys the rising psychological pressure our protagonists find themselves under. Before they snap.’

Spike frowned. Was the boss talking about him? He’d never snapped. Wasn’t a jellyhead. Never once got PTSD in twenty-two years, and he’d seen a lot of stuff.

‘It’s not going very well is it?’ Patey thrust hands in his trouser pockets, rocked back and forth.

‘I had him in the bird’s flat,’ Spike’s voice was a low growl. ‘Waiting for her and the kid to head out, then I was going in for him. She must’ve tipped off the coppers or something.’

Patey glanced around, checked they weren’t being overheard. ‘You couldn’t pursue?’

‘I was on the roof of the building. Been there all night.’

‘So you’ve lost him?’ Patey snorted. ‘Christ, after our contact got us the lead intelligence. That wasn’t cheap. I don’t need to stress the urgency of this to you again, do I? Our client is particularly keen we action their request double-quick time.’

‘I ain’t been sitting with a thumb up my arse.’

‘I know. But nevertheless, failure to meet our brief is bad for business. Which is bad for your status as a contractor with our firm.’ Patey paused long enough for Spike to appreciate this before smirking. ‘And the sooner you get this done, the faster you can get back to throwing yourself off buildings or however it is you spend your ample free time.’

Spike cracked his knuckles; pops echoed around the room. ‘Got an idea where he might be.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Whatever he wants to do, Wallace needs money. Another burglary’s too risky, even a mugging, and he’s probably run out of people to stay with who might lend it to him. So, he’s trying to work out how to get cash. Must be holed up somewhere he can’t be traced.’

‘Where?’

‘No idea. That’s not the point. In the bird’s flat I found a greyhound racing guide from Wimbledon track. He’s well into it. Looked like he knew what he was doing and all. There’s a meet there tomorrow night. You always told us think like the enemy, right? If I’m Wallace, I need untraceable money and I know how to bet, then I go down the dogs.’

Patey pulled a face. ‘Rather speculative.’

‘Well, unless our noble Metropolitan Police Force can supply any more suggestions, there aren’t a lot of other options.’ Spike let the statement hang.

‘Fine. Follow your instincts. I’ll speak to our contact.’ Patey spun on his heels and began striding towards the door.

‘Boss,’ Spike called after him. ‘What happens in the end?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The chase.’ Spike jerked a thumb at the canvas. ‘This bollocks.’

Patey shot his cuffs one by one. ‘He dies.’

‘Which one?’

‘I forget.’

---

Etta was sitting up in the little bed while Zac had pulled a chair close beside. Kofi was tucked between them, reading aloud from The Hobbit. He finished a paragraph and let the book fall on his lap. Looked from one parent to the other.

‘Was he scared? Bilbo Baggins.’

Etta stroked his head and looked at Zac as she spoke. ‘I expect he was, love. Everyone gets frightened sometimes, especially when you’ve got some monsters to face.’

Zac blinked.

‘But he kept going, didn’t he? Even when he was scared and he had to go into the woods with the big spiders and stuff.’

‘Yes, he did. Because he was very brave.’ She kissed the top of Kofi’s head.

‘And if he was really scared he could just make himself invisible with the magic ring.’

Etta lifted the book from his lap, closed it gently. ‘But every time he did that it changed him, destroyed a little bit of his life. It’s not good to hide from things, whatever kind of monster it is.’ She placed Tolkien on the bedside table and stood. ‘Time to go to sleep now.’

‘Night, son.’ Zac reached across and pulled the X-Men bedcovers up to Kofi’s chin as he wriggled down. Kissed him on the forehead and switched the reading lamp off. ‘Sleep well. See you in the morning.’

---

Zac took off the saucepan lid. Okra soup simmered inside, their favourite Nigerian dish. Etta’s mum’s recipe, with salted cod and crayfish. Mrs Adichi’s secret was frying the Okra in palm oil before adding it to the broth. Zac was supposed to be losing a bit of weight, cutting out saturated fats and the like. Palm oil was top of the list of banned substances. He took a lungful of the aroma. Dieting was overrated. He stirred it and began to dish up.

As they ate, Etta talked about her day: a new legal aid project they were setting up, gossip that a senior associate was being headhunted by their rival firm, the incredible pulled pork sandwich she got for lunch from Borough Market. Zac listened to it all, knowing that by the end of the meal he would have lied to her once more, disappointed her again. That the distance between them would be slightly greater. Began to hate himself for it. Wondered how long he could keep this up.

‘Soup’s amazing,’ he said, to stop the rumination.

‘Thanks. And to Mum. You could tell her yourself on Sunday.’ She placed a hand on his. ‘How about after this we snuggle up on the sofa with a little cognac? See what’s on TV. Watch a film, maybe?’

He met her eyes. ‘I’d love to…’

Etta sensed the intonation. ‘But?’

‘I’ve got to go out.’

‘Zac.’

His forehead and palms felt clammy, the soup’s heat and spice only partly responsible. ‘Have to meet a contact for work.’

‘Can’t you delegate some of this stuff?’ Her exasperation was clear. ‘We’ve got to have a life, too. It’s great that you lead by example and everything, but if you don’t relax once in a while you won’t have the energy to run a team. Especially in your job.’

‘I’m sorry love, I—’ He circled the spoon in mid-air, fumbling for words. ‘That was the deal I made with my guys. I’d come home early so I could put Kofi to bed and we could eat, then I’d head back out. Go see this guy.’

‘For your case?’

Split-second hesitation. ‘Yeah.’

She looked hurt, searched his expression. Gave a long, slow breath. ‘OK. Don’t forget,’ she wagged a finger, ‘you’re taking me out dancing on Saturday night. We’ve got Kof a babysitter. Can’t get out of that one, Detective Inspector Boateng.’

He managed a smile. ‘It’s a date.’

---

No denying it, he felt a rush of excitement about the encounter. More than four years without a new lead and tonight he might step closer to the truth of Amelia’s murder. Just one pace on a long path that could go nowhere, but he was moving nonetheless.

Boateng parked on an outlying street and walked back until he hit the centre of Brixton, where the railway met Coldharbour Lane. Only that morning he’d been chasing Wallace a mile up the other end of this massive road that cut its way through south London. It was a Wednesday but the place was buzzing, drinkers spilling from bars into the streets, shouting over music that pumped from every doorway. The sun refused to go down on the year’s longest day.

Approaching Dogstar he could see two men working the entrance, one the giant figure of Samuel Agyeman. The hulking Ghanaian doorman wore a black T-shirt and trousers, a high-vis armband displaying his ID. Agyeman patted down a couple of youngsters and opened the door for them, releasing a blast of sound. Spotting Boateng, his whole face lit up. ‘Akwaaba!’ he cried, slapping hands and pulling him in for a bear hug with arms like granite. The Akan greeting literally meant ‘you have left and come back’. It was accurate: last time he saw the big man was over a year ago. They’d met eighteen months before that, when Agyeman’s cousin had been the target of an attempted murder in Lewisham. Boateng had caught his attackers, dealt personally with the family. Comforted the grandmother with an explanation of events in her native Twi language that he grew up hearing his parents speak. Agyeman said he’d never met a police officer like him. Promised that whatever Boateng needed, whenever, he just had to name it. And he was a man who could supply a lot of things in this city.

‘Too long, my friend.’ He looked Boateng up and down, jabbed a finger in his belly. ‘What happened? Did you forget how to find the gym?’ he grinned.

‘Easy. Some of us have families. Can’t spend every spare hour of the day chucking weights around.’

Agyeman flexed a thick bicep. ‘This is part of my job. It’s a professional responsibility. And the ladies like it, too.’ He laughed loudly, slapped Boateng’s palm again.

Boateng removed his flat cap. ‘Somewhere we can talk?’

‘Come with me.’ Agyeman nodded to his colleague. ‘I’ll take my break now.’

Boateng followed him inside. Trap music thumped out of a sound system. The DJ worked off a laptop in the corner, headphones wedged under one ear. High-pitch autotuned voices laid over staccato snares and basslines that made his whole body vibrate. Was this what young people were listening to? Suddenly he felt older than his forty-three years.

Agyeman led the way into a back room. Took a plastic flask out of the little fridge and shook it up. ‘Protein,’ he explained. ‘Chest workout today.’ Bass reverberated through the walls, but at least they were alone.

‘Does the name Two-Ten mean anything to you, Sammy?’

The big man frowned. ‘Like the numbers two one oh?’

‘That’s it.’

Agyeman swigged the pink liquid. ‘I think they were a gang, few years ago. Small outfit from this area.’

Boateng’s pulse accelerated. He was talking to the right guy.

‘Don’t hear much about them today,’ continued Agyeman. ‘Mostly the young guns around here now, y’understand? Lot of these gangs don’t last but new ones always spring up. Why’re you interested in them?’

‘It’s about a case.’

Agyeman sucked on the drink, narrowed his eyes. ‘The finest detective in south London. You don’t need me to help with your work, Zachariah. So what’s the real story?’

Boateng said nothing. The subwoofer next door was making his hairs stand on end.

‘If I don’t know what you’re after, I’m not gonna put myself in the firing line. Some of these boys would murder each other over a bag of chips.’

Silence. Bass.

‘My daughter. I think someone in Two-Ten killed her.’

Agyeman crossed himself, shook his head. He knew about Amelia. After a few seconds he looked square at Boateng. ‘Tell me what you need.’

‘I want you to find a member of Two-Ten or someone who knew them personally. Set me up with a meeting. Don’t give them my name or real job. Say I’m a mate with a business proposal. If they play hard to get, mention that I’ve got information to trade. For extra reassurance I’ll meet on their turf. No undercover cop would do that.’

Agyeman drained his protein shake, proffered a huge hand. ‘Consider it done.’