You couldn’t miss him. Six foot four, twenty stone. Standing on the street corner, checking his mobile. For a clandestine contact, it wasn’t exactly low-profile, but there was no choice. Hopes of unravelling the Two-Ten story – off the books at least – rested on Agyeman: if there was a thread to follow in Brixton, he’d find it. Boateng considered his own appearance. Did the flat cap and overcoat he’d grabbed to keep out the night’s chill have ‘undercover cop’ written all over them? Perhaps he should’ve thought more carefully about it, but his priority had been leaving the house without waking Etta.

This time there were no effusive greetings. Their simple palm slap became a brief clinch before the Ghanaian doorman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘This way.’

Walking towards the main road, Agyeman explained that he’d briefly worked at The Jamm way back. Boateng knew the club by name: one of Brixton’s late-night venues. Discreet inquiries by Agyeman had turned up a resident DJ who’d spun backing beats some years ago for a rapper ‘linked’ to Two-Ten. The DJ, stage name Optikon, was finishing his set at 2 a.m., after which they could catch him. Boateng fought back disappointment at the vagueness of this lead. Tried to focus on the positive: it was somewhere to start.

‘I didn’t say much about you.’ Agyeman’s voice was low. ‘Just that you’re a friend of a friend with some interest in the rap scene. Tell the rest yourself, whatever story you want. Just don’t make me look like an informer.’ He clipped Boateng a punch on the shoulder, hard enough to show he meant it.

Boateng thought quickly as they approached the Victorian red-brick house on the corner, a muffled hip hop beat pounding through blacked-out ground floor windows. Young people milled outside, the air heavy with weed smoke. Could he be a sax player looking for vocalists? Picking his way through empty bottles strewn across the pavement, he concluded that simple was best. ‘Freelance journalist’ gave licence to ask questions. And he’d used the cover before in police work. This time though, no one had signed it off. ‘Freelancing’ was the operative word.

Agyeman led the way around metal barriers to the door, queue parting automatically around his colossal frame. Following in his wake, Boateng noticed a group of men staring. One pointed at him, said something to a mate. Perhaps they thought he was a performer arriving with his bodyguard. Better than the unthinkable: someone recognising him from the day job. Would’ve preferred a low-key approach, maybe via a back entrance, but he was in Agyeman’s world now. The big man whispered something to one of the doormen out front, who nodded and waved them in.

Agyeman clapped hands with another bouncer inside; no search. A heavy door shut behind them, streetlamps gave way to darkness punctuated by blue and green beams of light that spun and swept the room from an overhead rig. Boateng was enveloped by sound, swallowed up, eardrums vibrating. The room was crammed with bodies, mostly males in big jackets. They navigated their way forward.

The music cut out sharply, and the crowd bayed and whistled as new figures climbed on stage. A gangly youth in a baseball cap introduced himself, told his DJ to ‘run the track’. Bass cranked up again, his man at the turntables scratching a sample that Boateng recognised. Might’ve nodded along if he wasn’t so tense.

Boateng stopped, backtracked. He shouldn’t even be here. This whole idea was madness. They hadn’t reached the front yet; he could still call it off. Go back home, slip into bed with Etta. She might not even know he was gone. Almost immediately, caution was pushed aside by another voice, louder. The desire to understand what had happened to his daughter. To Amelia. Five years without an answer. Now he had a chance to find out.

Agyeman turned, mouthed, ‘Alright?’

Boateng blinked, nodded. His companion fist-bumped a guy who’d just stepped off stage, said a few words and gestured at Boateng.

Optikon was a slightly-built South Asian man in his twenties with thick-rimmed glasses, shaved head and Parka jacket. Boateng extended a hand. ‘Roy.’

The DJ shook it. ‘Ishaq. Wa gwan?’

‘I’m a journalist.’

‘What?’

Boateng noticed the young man had earplugs in. Raised his voice. ‘Journalist.’

‘Ah, is it? Who d’you write for?’

‘Drum.’

Ishaq looked blank.

‘Pan-African lifestyle magazine. Music, news, all sorts. I want to do a piece on the relationship between rapping and gang culture.’

‘I’m not in no gang. Got my crew, but we ain’t—’

‘That’s OK.’ Boateng held up a hand. ‘I was hoping to speak to a guy Sammy said you used to spin for. Rapper who was around Two-Ten a few years ago.’

‘Froggy?’

Boateng took a chance. ‘Yeah.’

Ishaq fidgeted, rubbed the back of his hand. ‘You know that clique don’t exist no more.’

‘Right. It’s more of a retrospective angle. Don’t want anyone getting in trouble.’ He barked a laugh, aware of his own nerves. Ishaq didn’t respond. Time to push it. ‘What’s his real name? Froggy.’

The DJ glanced over Boateng’s shoulder at Agyeman, who was leaning against the wall. ‘Who d’you say you were again?’

Boateng swallowed. ‘Roy.’

‘Roy what?’

‘Ankrah. Listen, you don’t have to promise anything right now. Ask Froggy if he’ll do an interview with me. I can get some exposure for his music if he’s still in the game. Or off-record, however he wants to do it.’

‘What if we’re not in contact no more?’

Boateng produced a wad of notes, counted off a hundred quid in twenties. Rolled them up, angled it at waist height towards the DJ. Leaned in. ‘Call this an introduction fee. Same again when you set it up. Tell Froggy I’ve got funds to pay him.’

Their faces close, the young man pursed his lips, squinted like he was trying to see into Boateng’s soul. Sweat pricked Boateng’s lower back and armpits. Seemed like the bass was shaking his internal organs. Ishaq took the notes in his left hand and with the right produced a mobile. ‘Gimme your number.’

---

Hurrying back to his car, Boateng’s ears were still ringing from the sound system. What had he achieved? He’d left Etta and Kofi in the middle of the night without a word. Driven across south London to dispense a hundred quid for one nickname and the possibility of a meeting. Now he had to creep back into his own home. Could smell the weed clinging to his Chesterfield overcoat. Resolved to leave it in the car boot, get a dry clean tomorrow. Remembered the quote about weaving tangled webs…

Froggy.

The only solid outcome of his nocturnal mission. Sounded laughable, more goggle-eyed geek than associate of a group responsible for murder. But Boateng knew nicknames could deceive and no one should be underestimated. Often kids joined gangs in their early teens, when childhood had barely ended. In communities where they’d grown up, old monikers stuck. He’d come across guys known on the street as Young Pup, Scoot or Haribo who’d stabbed their victims in cold blood over nothing more than a tenner owed or a wrong look.

Whoever this Froggy was, Boateng hoped he’d take the bait.

---

Shoes off. Tiptoeing up the stair edge, Zac heard Kofi’s soft breathing through his open door. The night light cast a milky glow on the landing. Peered into the bedroom. His son was sleeping deeply, mouth open, an arm thrown behind his head. Zac straightened the duvet he’d kicked aside, covered him. Gazed down at his son. Along with Etta, this boy was the most precious thing in his world. He’d do anything to protect him – give his own life if need be. A primal feeling. He knew at some point he’d have to let go, allow Kofi to make his own way. But part of him didn’t want to, not after what happened to Amelia.

How many times had he replayed that morning, wished he’d told her to slow down and walk with him, or imagined he’d been there to shield her with his body? His right brain told him the bullet could’ve passed straight through him and still hit her. Left brain said wrap her up, take the impact and then throw yourself at the attacker despite his handgun. Also futile. Nothing could’ve made a difference, except not being in that shop. Amelia’s death was the ultimate example of wrong place, wrong time. Chance, bad luck, whatever you called it. Even so, Zac wondered if he could ever let himself off the hook, assuage his guilt. The same voice that propelled him towards Optikon an hour ago now whispered that Froggy was the next step to redemption. Reversing the injustice that had been gnawing at the edge of his ego ever since, its bite deepened by his chosen profession. A police officer whose daughter was murdered and whose own force was incapable of solving it. Or perhaps unwilling. The latter was worse, raised too many questions. His brain was already overloaded, and Zac couldn’t slow his thoughts down to allow himself some respite.

He undressed outside their closed bedroom door and, turning the handle silently, stepped in barefoot. Held a breath. Crossing to deposit his clothes on the chair, a floorboard creaked under him and Etta turned over, murmured something. He could still pull this off. Just needed to get under the covers without waking her and—

‘Where’ve you been?’ she mumbled, voice thick.

He slipped under the sheets quickly, felt her warmth. ‘Nowhere.’

‘Your hair smells of weed.’

Damn. No other way to explain it. ‘Had to go out for an emergency call. Didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Wasn’t sleeping that much anyway. Heard you go out.’ She tensed, stretched. ‘Who was smoking?’

‘Guys in a suspect’s house.’ More freelancing only piqued her interest.

‘Couldn’t the duty team have done it?’ she mumbled. ‘Why’d they call you?’

‘Connected to my case, guess they knew it was high priority.’ Zac felt his adrenalin stab, willed her not to probe further. A few more questions and her lawyer’s skill would catch him out. Had to change the subject. ‘You couldn’t sleep?’

‘Not a lot’ She sighed. ‘My brother called earlier, couldn’t wait to tell me about his latest conquests. I’ve given up trying to convince him to slow down and act his age, take some responsibility for his future.’

He knew how Etta felt about her younger brother’s playboy lifestyle. Particularly when he was her parents’ golden child and she took all the flak. Boateng pressed himself closer to her. ‘Don’t listen to him, love. Think about something good. We’re going out tomorrow night. We’ll have a dance, forget all that stuff.’ He was including his own issues in that.

She sighed again, said nothing.

‘Come on. Can I take your mind off it?’ Stroking her stomach, he could sense her relaxing.

‘Naughty boy,’ she whispered. ‘Well, now you’ve woken me up…’