Since getting Kofi out to school at quarter to nine, Boateng’s thoughts had been consumed by his personal inquiry. When he’d seen Agyeman on Wednesday night, the big man had told him it would probably take a day or two before he could generate an introduction. His call was overdue. On the short drive from school to the MIT base at Lewisham Police Station, Boateng had already checked his phone four times. He knew he needed to curb the obsession; his team would quickly spot it, want to know what was going on. And this was something he needed secrecy to pursue.

Moreover, the hunt for Wallace was demanding his attention. Boateng’s own reputation was under threat. Krebs seemed particularly concerned about Wallace. Could it really just be the media spotlight? He resisted the temptation to tap his mobile screen again and turned up the stereo instead.

---

Jones, Malik and Connelly were already in when Boateng dropped his flat cap on the coat stand before helping himself to the cafetière. He filled his favourite Ghana Black Stars mug from the 2010 World Cup – the year they reached the quarter-finals and were denied a place in the semis by a last-second handball – and dropped into his chair. Took a sip.

‘Christ, who made this?’ he exclaimed.

‘Guilty.’ Malik raised a hand. ‘Iraqi rocket fuel for you, boss.’

‘I’m not complaining.’ Boateng reached for the milk.

‘I am,’ chipped in Connelly. ‘About the lack of any CCTV images of Wallace coming out of East Street. Must’ve taken some back roads.’

‘Right. What’s your plan, Pat?’

‘Get footage from the main thoroughfares around it within thirty minutes of the cab drop-off, then run the lot through FRS.’

Boateng had known the Met’s bespoke Facial Recognition System to produce spectacular results, albeit only occasionally. Storing over three million images, the IBIS Face Examiner could pick out a convicted criminal from a sea of people. Minority Report stuff – assuming you gave it the right film to work with and your target was more or less facing front on. Last year the Met even trialled it as a live-feed system at Notting Hill Carnival – Europe’s biggest street party – with some success. Still needles in haystacks, but worth a go here.

‘Good shout,’ he replied. ‘Nas, I’d like you to give Pat a hand with that today. Also get Wallace’s mugshot out to homeless shelters. He’s got to be sleeping somewhere. What about our breakdancing friend?’

Jones spun her chair to Zac. ‘We dropped in on Parker yesterday. Still giving it the hard-man routine, doesn’t want our help. Also claims he’s told us everything he knows about Harvey Ash and the jewels. I wasn’t convinced – it was all too neat. But soon as we pressed him, he tried turning on the “charm” with me again. Said the only protection he needed was the Durex in his pocket, asked if I wanted any of it.’

‘Prick,’ interjected Malik.

Jones glanced his way, gave the young DC a little smile. ‘Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.’

Boateng could believe that. Still, he wondered whether Jones should report it; the Met was hot on recording sexual harassment incidents now. About time. He’d seen too much of it in twenty years. He’d have a private word later, didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the others. ‘Good job, guys. There’s only so much—’

He was interrupted by the vibrating mobile on his desk. Snatched it as a reflex before the first ring even finished, but saw it was Volz rather than Agyeman. Excused himself and stood to take the call, wandered over to the window. A minute later he returned with a broad smile. ‘Volz has matched the blade on Wallace’s angle grinder to the wounds on Harris’s fingers. And there was some blood in the mechanism too. Harris’s. Now we’ve got something to tell the Standard before they go to print at noon. Wallace isn’t just a suspect any more – we can charge him with the Harris murder.’ Across the desk from him, Connelly and Malik low-fived. Boateng swigged his coffee. ‘That should cheer Krebs up.’

---

Three hours later, with the Irish-Iraqi duo ensconced in the video room running footage through FRS, Boateng and Jones were alone at their desks, combing Experian for new individuals who cropped up mid-2015, just as Harvey Ash disappeared. GB Accelerator IQ was a more powerful database but their access had been cut after the Met failed to renew its subscription. It was damned slow progress. Each name had to be cross-checked with both immigration and deed poll records to be eliminated as candidates for a reinvented Ash. All 100,000-plus of them. There was bulk processing of course, but it was still serious desk work. Modern policing. Some days you were on the streets chasing a suspect, but most of the time you were at a computer, crunching data, analysing information.

‘Looks like we might be at this all day,’ observed Boateng.

‘OK by me,’ said Jones. ‘Beats chatting with a breakdancing perv.’

‘Sorry about Parker.’

‘Don’t be, it’s not your fault.’ She stopped typing. ‘Want me to work overtime on this?’

‘Yeah, if you can. Please. I’ll get Krebs’s sign-off, pay you time and a half.’

She leaned back in her chair. ‘Thanks. Didn’t have any big plans tonight anyway.’

‘On a Friday night?’ Boateng knew millennials didn’t like to be tied in too much, but even so.

‘It’s been a long week.’

‘Come on.’

Jones hesitated. ‘Alright, my date bailed on me. Told him I was fifty-fifty with work anyway, I think that made up his mind.’

‘His loss.’

She smiled. ‘Wasn’t that bothered about the guy anyway. What about you?’

‘Promised my son I’d take him to the park for a kick around before dinner.’ He paused, remembered that Kofi was going home from school with Neon this afternoon and needed picking up from there. ‘There’s gonna by one pissed-off ten-year-old if I don’t show by six thirty. And I could use the exercise.’ He patted his belly.

Jones laughed and they returned to their computer screens, continued searching.

---

A bell tinkled as the hardware shop door creaked open. Wallace stepped through, inhaled thick odours: machine oil, paint, lumber, fertiliser.

Glancing up from his Quran, the elderly Pakistani shopkeeper smiled. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ He gave a tiny bow from behind the counter.

Wallace clocked the holy book immediately. A sixth of the inmates with him at Pentonville followed Islam. One guy even told Wallace he ‘looked Muslim’, whatever that meant. Invited him along to their study group. In a darker mood, ruminating on forgiveness, Wallace went. Concluded he still didn’t believe in any supreme being. But a few words of Arabic he’d picked up went a long way with other Muslims, built trust. In this case, it might be enough to stop a call to the police. Another lesson from prison. Some would call that manipulative; to Wallace it was just logic. He removed the hat and sunglasses. ‘As-salaam aleikum.’

‘Wa aleikum as-salaam.’ The shopkeeper closed the Quran, stowed it above his head. ‘Muslim?’

‘Al-hamdulillah.’ Wallace nodded.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked gently.

Wallace scanned the shelves. ‘Kitting out my business, need a few tools. Some big jobs coming up. Got an angle grinder?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. This way.’ He walked down one aisle to the end where a wooden board displayed the selection hung by nails.

Beautiful, terrifying machines. Wallace spotted his favourite, the Bosch cordless. Portable, compact, powerful. ‘I’ll take this,’ he told the shopkeeper. ‘Diamond blade?’

‘Not as standard, sir, but I have them.’

‘Gimme two.’

A diamond blade at 325 revolutions per second cut through anything – iron, concrete, never mind bone. Pretty much the planet’s hardest substance. Scientists measured that on Mohs’ scale. It was all about scratches, leaving marks. One material scores another and comes out unscathed, it’s harder. And nothing scratched diamond. Wallace used to think the same applied to people: the harder you were, the fewer things in life made a mark on you. But it turned out that wasn’t true. No matter how hard you thought you were, some stuff left its trace.

Years ago, the psychologist at school said he had a ‘pathological disregard for others’ feelings’. In most cases that was true when Wallace hurt someone. At best he was numb, a blank slate. Worst, active pleasure. After years of taking beatings off his Dad, he remembered the first time he’d stood up for himself, struck back. Not at his old man, that would’ve been a death sentence. It was at school, age thirteen. Bigger kid in his class kept calling him dirty, cos his uniform was second-hand. Wallace told him to watch his mouth, and the kid punched him in front of everyone, hard. He lay on the deck with a bloody face, humiliated. Didn’t fight back then – he waited. Knew the route the kid took home. Days later Wallace hid behind a wall and cracked the kid over the head with a rounders bat he’d stolen. Remembered the thrill, the satisfaction of seeing him drop unconscious. Kid spent a month in hospital after that. And though no one could ever prove it was Wallace, the guy never called him dirty again. Wallace preferred to use his brain, but sometimes violence was the only way to protect yourself or get what you wanted. Not surprising it didn’t take him long to go the next level. And once he’d got there, it became second nature.

But what no one told him about taking a life was that your mind replays that moment, over and over again. Regardless of why you killed them. Without warning, the slightest thing could remind you of it, take you right back there. At those times, he felt something like fear. And that was just in the day. At night he had no control over the images. They’d been coming more frequently over the last few weeks. He didn’t know why. Grim Reaper or whoever it was. Bag of dry bones armed with a pistol, putting the muzzle to his forehead. Wallace pleading with it, begging like a pussy. Other times saying nothing, pathetically resigned to the single outcome of each nightmare: a slow trigger-pull, a bang that wrenched him awake.

‘Sir?’ A soft voice brought the room back. ‘What is your line of work, if I may ask?’

He coughed. ‘Handyman. You know, odd jobs.’

‘Ah, jack of all trades. I was just considering the size of tool you might require.’

‘This one’s good.’ He stroked the small angle grinder like a pet. ‘How much is that with two diamond blades?’

‘It’s £134. Anything else?’ The little man folded his hands.

Approaching another group of hanging tools, Wallace’s mouth curled into a grin as he pointed to one. ‘Is that steel?’

‘Yes, sir, single piece, twenty-two ounces. Very powerful.’

‘Good. Gimme a claw hammer as well then. And a bag of plastic ties.’ Wallace peeled notes off a thick bundle. ‘Cash OK?’

---

What a nause.

Spike crushed the teabag to bursting point against the inside of his mug. He was still royally fucked off about the greyhound track. Angry with himself. Chucked in some milk, two sugars: NATO standard. Stirred it and sent a teaspoon clattering into his kitchen sink. Took the brew over to his Panasonic Toughbook, set up on the dining table. Chunky old thing, but it was nails. Functioned in any environment, even Iraqi deserts or Afghan caves. Drop it off a building and it’d still work. He grunted, realising that could’ve been a description of himself. Except the laptop was probably more reliable than him on current form. Spike hadn’t told Colonel Patey the outcome of his trip to the dogs. Was hoping he could rectify the gigantic balls-up before he had to check in. Find Wallace some other way.

Once his rage had subsided, early this morning, Spike had to admit the little bastard had played a blinder. Couldn’t have got out of it better himself. But with his experience, Spike should’ve foreseen the problems. Tested and checked. Recce’d the place twice as thoroughly. Found an exit that didn’t go through the bar. Or dealt with the wanker more effectively in the bogs. Done him a broken ankle. Belfast-style kneecap maybe, stop him running off. All those tactics had counterarguments, obviously. Bottom line was that Wallace had escaped. Again. Pretty soon, serious questions were going to be asked.

He sipped his brew and fired up the web browser. Private window. It’d still leave a trace, but like WhatsApp, it was good enough for now. Typed in Darian Wallace, filtered to results from the past week. Scanned the hits. One was a page he’d already seen on the Met website, a public appeal. The anonymous Crimestoppers number along with it for those without enough balls to leave their names. Same shit. Then a new article from the Evening Standard. He clicked in and read that Wallace had just been formally charged with Ivor Harris’s murder in Deptford. That meant the coppers had proper evidence. They’d be stepping up the search now too. Bollocks.

Hang on.

Spike grabbed his unregistered phone, flicked through to the scanned Crimint files on his target. If he did stiff the pawnbroker, it was probably revenge. Checked the original conviction. Wallace went down while some other little scrotebag called Trent Parker walked free for giving evidence. After two straight Houdini acts, Wallace had to be sticking around for something important. Hopefully jewels, that was the brief. But maybe he was gunning for the snitch too. If that was true, then if he found Parker, Wallace would come to him. Spike gulped his brew. Tasted better now than when he’d first made it.

Thirty minutes later he was squared away. K Studios in Bermondsey. Photo on the website matched the Crimint mugshot of Parker. Dancing. Spike shook his head; he wasn’t one for dance floors. At Play nightclub in Hereford, he preferred standing still with other lads from the regiment in ‘SAS Corner’. Just putting away the pints, checking out the talent. Couldn’t stop even once he got married. Maybe that was part of the problem. Lifting a glass was the only movement you needed to make. Sooner or later a local bird who wanted a bit of blade would come up to him. Wouldn’t mind some of that now, it’d been a while. Oi, focus. After the job.

His limited-edition SAS Breitling read 2.12 p.m. On the bike he’d be back in south London by three. Recce the studio, get eyes on. Hurry up and wait, as they say in the army, then follow Parker home from work. Jobs a good ’un.

---

The policy briefing on NHS waiting times was predictably dull, but there was no chance of Susanna Pym nodding off in the post-lunch ‘graveyard shift’. Her attention was well and truly captured. Just not by the mid-ranking civil servant droning away in front of her. The chap was clearly relishing his audience with a minister, had probably prepared for weeks. He would’ve been rather dismayed if he’d been able to see behind Pym’s desk. What she hoped looked to him like deep concentration, thoughtful consideration of his brief, was in fact the act of reading from a tablet on her knees.

Darian Wallace’s mugshot stared back at her from the screen. The Evening Standard’s website carried a brand-new article saying the Met had now charged him with the murder of pawnbroker Ivor Harris. Her hands felt a bit clammy; fingertips left a sweaty residue on the screen as she scrolled down. Police were well and truly on to him now. And she knew the stats: over ninety per cent of murders these days were solved. Did that make it more or less likely she’d get the pendant back? No bloody idea. The memory stick contained within it was encrypted pretty damn well, which gave her some confidence. But encryption was only as good as a hacker’s ability to penetrate it. And there were people out there who could. That was why she’d tried to restore some control to the situation by hiring those military fellows to find Wallace first.

At the Oxford and Cambridge Club on Monday, she hadn’t mentioned a memory stick, fearful it might leave her vulnerable to exploitation herself. That wasn’t the point of the stick and its contents, quite the reverse in fact. But that was always the gamble in politics – in life, perhaps: how much should you tell others in order to get what you want? Colonel Tarquin Patey was a smooth operator, but she didn’t completely trust him.

Nevertheless, now the ante was upped on the Met’s hunt for Wallace, every piece of information she had might offer a slight advantage for her side. Like it or not, she was lumped together with Patey and his private soldiers now, her fate tied to their performance. How had she ended up here? The whole business had started out as a single mistake, nearly twenty years ago. But if the consequences of that moment became public, it was all over for her. Career down the pan, disgrace, perhaps prison.

The memory stick was her insurance policy against the worst threats of blackmail from the police officer who’d let her go scot-free that day in ’99, pretended he hadn’t seen her snorting coke in the House of Commons toilets. At thirty-four, one of the youngest MPs serving, her future was too bright to compromise. So, she made a pact with the devil. Agreed to help with the officer’s request to push a promotion through for him, spoke to some Home Office friends. But the policeman hadn’t gone away after that. He’d come back too many times, demanding more ‘favours’ be done to advance his interests, and in return offering his assistance. Which she’d taken. Over the years they’d become bound together, requests ebbing and flowing, both in too deep to stop. But she’d managed to record some of their conversations. If he tried to take her down, she’d bring him with her – or threaten to, at least. That was the memory stick’s purpose. Therefore, Patey’s man did need to know about it, otherwise how could he check it was there when he found the pendant? That was the whole point of the search.

She’d bite the bullet, make a call. Soon as the tedious little man in front of her and his cheap suit had buggered off.