Five p.m., give or take. Quiet. Schoolkids home, but just before London’s offices and shops disgorged their worker ants. Wallace stared up at the horseshoe of brickwork peppered with satellite dishes, balconies full of crap. Metal cages for ground floor entrances, bit like prison. At least these people were free to leave. He didn’t have a lot of good memories, but those he could recall were here: Spalding House, Honor Oak Estate. Neon Grant’s flat. He tucked the Evening Standard under his arm, pressed a buzzer. The door clicked open and he mounted the stairs. Knocked and heard scuffing feet, high-pitched squeals. Neon opened the front door.

‘Didn’t your mum teach you to ask who it is before you let them in?’ Wallace tilted his head.

The boy gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Darian!’ His face lit up, enormous grin revealed several missing milk teeth.

‘Gotta be careful, you know.’ He wagged a finger, returned the smile. ‘Your mum in?’

‘No, she’s at work. She said you went away.’ He bent sideways, still gripping the door handle. Not sure if he was allowed to ask, knew he probably shouldn’t. Curiosity got the better of him. ‘Where did you go?’

‘I had to move somewhere for a while,’ replied Wallace. ‘So, you miss me?’

Neon nodded furiously.

‘When’s she back then?’

‘Six o’clock.’

‘And your brother?’

‘He’s gone out.’

‘That’s lucky, I’ve come to see you. What you doing?’

‘Playin’ PlayStation.’

‘Show me.’ Wallace glanced over his shoulder as he stepped in, closed the front door. Took the hat and shades off.

Neon wrinkled his nose. ‘You smell.’

‘Watch your mouth.’ Wallace knew he needed a shower, change of clothes. ‘Listen, don’t tell your mother I’ve come here, yeah?’

‘Why not?’ said Neon, scrambling up the stairs on all fours.

Wallace walked up after him. ‘Cos she’ll want help with her maths too.’

Neon giggled loudly as they reached the top, synthesised noises of a football match rising. Wallace entered Neon’s tiny bedroom to see his drop-kicking friend from the school playground sitting there, holding a video game controller.

Wallace sprawled into a plastic chair covered in clothes. ‘Alright.’ He nodded. The boy stared at his teardrop tattoo. ‘I’m Neon’s mate. What’s your name, cuz?’

‘Kofi.’

‘Ghanaian bredda! Hanging out with an original Jamaican rudebwoy here. You two don’t let no African versus Caribbean beef get in the way. I like that.’

Sitting next to each other, the ten-year-olds exchanged glances, laughed.

‘So how’s school, Neon?’

‘Good.’

‘Yeah? How ’bout your grades?’

‘Good.’

‘You working hard?’

‘Every day!’

‘My man.’ Wallace held out his fist and Neon spudded it with his own. ‘What ’bout the maths?’

‘Good.’

‘Shut up!’ Kofi pushed Neon. ‘Don’t lie. It isn’t good.’ Wallace’s eyes widened; Neon looked down. ‘He’s sick,’ said Kofi. ‘Best in our class at maths.’

Wallace felt the swell in his chest. He’d seen this boy come a long way under his tutelage from the timid five-year-old too shy to have a go at anything with numbers. Neon had kept growing in stature and maturity over the two years Wallace had been in prison. Now he was a confident ten-year-old getting top marks in maths. Pride, that’s what this feeling was – not something that happened too often. Wallace couldn’t resist. ‘Two hundred and fifty-six divided by eight?’

Neon shut his eyes, silently mouthed numbers. ‘Thirty-two.’

‘Yeah!’ Wallace grinned. ‘Like you said, Kofi, he’s a mathematical badman.’ The two fidgeted slightly, waiting for the grown-up to tell them what to do. ‘Come on then.’ Wallace jerked his head at the screen. ‘Let’s see you play.’

‘I want to be Portugal.’ Neon bounced on the bed as he selected his team. ‘They won Euro 2016.’

‘Well, I’m going to be Ghana,’ said Kofi proudly. ‘Kevin-Prince Boateng.’

Neon tried to grab the controller off him. ‘Only cos it’s your name!’

Wallace tensed. ‘Whose name?’

‘His.’ Neon pointed. ‘Kofi Boateng.’ The boys wrestled over the controller, giggling.

Twice he’d heard that surname in the last three hours. Both times in this little part of south London and with a connection to him. Common name in Ghana, but in Lewisham? Twenty minutes earlier he’d picked up the Standard at Brockley train station. There it was on page eight. Wanted for murder now. He’d admired the mugshot they’d found – CCTV of him exiting the cab opposite East Street. Senior Investigating Officer on the Harris murder: DI Zachariah ‘Zac’ Boateng, from Lewisham MIT. Described as ‘experienced’. Wallace stared at the boy, tried to register any similarities. Inconclusive: maybe the kid looked more like his mum.

‘Boateng… Think I might have seen your Dad on the telly once. Is he a policeman?’

‘Yeah. He’s like Batman.’ Kofi kept his eyes on the screen, tapping the controller. ‘He fights the criminals around here and stuff.’

‘I bet he does,’ chuckled Wallace. Schoolmates. That meant Boateng junior had to live nearby. Two Boatengs in the same borough, both feds? Unlikely. There were barely any black officers in the Met to begin with. Must be the one. That feeling of pride from moments ago had already dissolved. In its place was a strange sense of inevitability. Split-second flash of a skeleton, a gun muzzle. This boy’s Dad was tracking him. And Neon could tell the kid exactly who he was. Kofi might even have heard him shout ‘Darian’ five minutes ago at the door. Realising the implications of all this, a twitch of sadness hit Wallace. He’d have to do something about it. And his relationship with Neon was over. Wallace had known that already, but now it was definitive.

‘And my Dad’s good at football,’ continued Kofi, locked in combat on-screen with Neon as the little figures danced around, lunged sliding tackles at each other. ‘We’re going for a kick about later on.’

Wallace folded the newspaper tighter. ‘Where d’you guys play?’

‘Hilly Fields Park.’

‘Yeah, I know it.’ Short walk from here.

‘By our house.’

‘Is it? He coming to pick you up then?’

‘Yes.’ Kofi stabbed buttons, shot at the goal. ‘Six thirty, when he’s finished at work.’

Wallace nodded, didn’t reply.

---

After the match had ended 8–8, Wallace got rid of the kids, told them he needed to use the PlayStation. Sent them downstairs to play with the remote-controlled car he knew Neon owned, the one he’d bought for him. Alone, Wallace fired up the console’s Internet browser and began searching. Coastal map of the English Channel. Maritime companies in Kent and Sussex that dealt in rigid inflatable boat hire, day charter fees. Calculated speeds and fuel costs for a 180-kilometre trip from London, enough to reach France. Small ports like Gravelines in France, with no customs checks. Looked up shipping lanes, tides, forecasts. Browsed back issues of Motor Boat & Yachting magazine, trawled the classifieds and chat pages. Noted down four names, each a south-coast skipper offering his RIB for private hire. Cross-referenced each on Google, built mini profiles. Knew exactly what he was looking for, just a question of turning over enough stones. Boateng senior would be on his way soon; it was six already. Hurry up. Click, scroll, back, double click. Heard the whirring of a tiny engine downstairs, laughter, an argument quickly resolved.

Jackpot.

Steve Miller. Based in Whitstable, Kent. RIB with forty-horsepower two-stroke outboard motor. Six hundred quid a day to hire the RIB with Miller as skipper. Pricey but no deposit needed. Good sign, probably meant few questions asked. And London was within his pickup range. Deciding factor was the piece on a local paper’s website saying Miller and his brother went down back in ’09 for cross-channel cigarette smuggling by boat. Obviously he’d served his time and was back in business. Wallace allowed the smile to creep across his face as he stored Miller’s mobile number on his phone. Just the sort of bloke he could work with.

Checked the clock: 6.25 p.m. Time to leave.

Downstairs, Wallace stuck his head into the living room. Neon was steering the car, brow knitted with concentration. ‘Yo, I’m out. Behave yourselves, yeah?’

‘Are you coming back, Darian?’

Wallace hesitated. Neon needed to stop saying his damn name. ‘I…’

‘Can we do some more maths?’

‘Look, I need to travel again, there’s something I’ve gotta finish.’

Neon stopped moving the car, looked up wide-eyed. ‘Are you leaving forever?’

That sadness struck him again. Don’t be a sentimental pussyhole, he told himself. Wallace hovered in the doorway. You could count on Boateng being prompt. Leave now.

‘Look, I’ll come say goodbye. I promise. And don’t tell no one I was here right?’ Turned to Kofi. ‘Specially not your dad. You both know what happens to boys who tell tales.’

The approaching car engine was his cue to get out. As the Grant’s front door clicked shut, Wallace realised he hadn’t erased the Google search history.

---

‘OK.’ Zac placed his tracksuit top and Kofi’s jacket two metres apart on the grass.

‘That’s not fair! Make it bigger, Dad.’

‘Standard width!’ protested Zac, before cracking a grin. ‘Alright,’ he relented, shifting the goalpost out.

‘I’m going to beat you today,’ asserted Kofi, restless with excitement.

‘We’ll see about that. Game on!’ Zac blasted the ball over his son’s head and the boy tore after it. Took a deep breath. It’d been a long week. Devastating, frustrating, knackering. Couldn’t remember a week like it for ages. He drank in the scene. Warm sunlight bathed the lower slopes of Hilly Fields Park alongside the cricket pitch. Dog walkers, parents with prams, a few people working out on hanging bars up the hill by the tennis courts. A carefree summer evening. He wondered how many other people here tonight were waiting for information that could change their lives. Agyeman still hadn’t called, so Zac’s mobile was stuffed in his trouser pocket. Just had to remember not to dive right. Kofi dribbled back and punted a shot; Zac stuck out a leg, blocked it.

‘How was Neon’s?’

‘Alright.’ Kofi jogged backwards to receive the ball.

Zac threw it out to him. ‘What did you guys do?’

‘Played video games.’

‘That it?’

His son thought about the question. ‘Yeah.’

‘Fair enough.’ Clapped his hands. ‘Play on!’

Kofi approached, shot to Zac’s left. Could’ve saved it, but let the ball go under his body as he sprawled to ground.

‘Goal!’ screamed Kofi, and flung both arms up in celebration.

Zac collected the ball, ran back. ‘Nice shot.’

‘Da-ad…’ Kofi elongated the word. Usually that signified a request was on its way. ‘Can we go to the cinema tomorrow?’

‘What if it’s sunny? Don’t you want to be outside?’

‘I want to watch the new Transformers with you.’

Boateng knew his response depended entirely on events that were outside his control. ‘Let’s see.’

Kofi groaned and Zac felt guilty. Just like he had an hour ago, leaving Jones to carry on searching for the ghost of Harvey Ash, lurking somewhere in a database. She seemed up for it though, still keen to prove herself. Long may it continue. He could always go in tomorrow if need be. Jones had dealt with a lot over the past week. Zac was really warming to her – she had drive, intelligence, compassion; the ability to learn and revise her assumptions; toughness under the surface. Everything you needed to be a detective. Provided you didn’t burn out and have to leave the pitch for an early shower. He hoped she wasn’t sacrificing too much of her private life for the Job.

Racing towards him, Kofi faked a shot, shimmied left and dribbled closer. A burst of vibration hit Zac’s right hip and he froze. A ball he’d intended to save shot past him at waist height between the posts. Kofi squealed in delight, sprinting off and sliding towards an imaginary corner flag.

Zac retrieved the ball and drop-kicked it as hard as he could, sending Kofi running. He whipped out the phone, stabbed in his PIN. Agyeman had kept it brief.

Meet me @ 2am corner of Akerman and Loughborough. It’s on.

---

In the shade of a tree, Wallace sat back against the trunk. Gazed down at the father and son kicking a ball to one another a hundred metres off. Like something out of a film, their relationship. An advert for how to be a family. Briefly pictured his own dad, too boozed to ever play football with him, when he was even around. His main sport was fighting; that game had been a bit one-sided when Wallace was a kid.

So this was Detective Inspector Zac Boateng. Zachariah. What kind of a name was that? Like some old guy out of The Bible. He didn’t look much. About average height, bit overweight, early spread of a belly on him. Probably forties, grey in his short hair, clean-shaven. Square shoulders, though – might be stronger than he seemed. Not a bad touch on the ball either, must’ve played as a youth.

Impossible to know what was going on inside though, how his mind worked. Could he be approached, bribed? Some Five-O were like that. Wallace had heard stories in prison of officers who’d say they knew about your crack-cocaine store then offer to keep their mouths shut for cash. This guy looked the decent sort, so the answer was probably no. They said everyone had a price, but watching Boateng deliberately letting his son beat him at football, Wallace wasn’t sure that was true. In any case, the stakes were too high now to risk deal-making.

If corruption was out of the question, that always left threats. He knew well how much you could hurt a person through what they loved most in life. That was worse than anything physical. Some would even choose their own death over harm coming to family. Boateng was probably that kind of man. Wallace thought of his own mum, lying in the care home bed without a clue what was going on. He’d seen her for the last time, no way to change that now. She’d been good to him; the only one who had. Bit his lip, scratched at one eye behind his shades. The teardrop wasn’t tattoo ink.