‘Zac!’ Etta called down the stairs.

‘Mm?’ Sounded like he had a mouthful of food.

She pulled on the Paul Smith suit jacket. ‘Have you done his lunchbox?’

‘Mm.’ Wasn’t clear what that noise meant.

‘Make sure you put the carrot sticks in for him.’

‘Mm.’ Equally vague. Better see what was going on.

Her boys were in the kitchen. Big one making sandwiches on the side while shovelling in toast. Little one at the table, bent forward drinking from his cereal bowl. ‘Kof! What’ve I told you? Use your spoon.’

‘Sorry, Mum.’ Bowl and spoon clattered to the table.

About to intervene further, Etta checked herself. Remembered her mindfulness class at work: breathe, notice, let it go. ‘Be a good boy today, OK? Work hard.’ She kissed Kofi on the head then touched Zac’s arm. ‘See you tonight, love.’

He pulled a face. One that normally excused bad behaviour. ‘Maybe.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Work.’ Zac shrugged. ‘The usual right now.’

She frowned. ‘You’re picking him up from school though?’

‘Yeah, but once you’re back I might have to go out again.’

‘Come on, Zac.’ Frustration rose but she told herself to chill. What was all this about? He’d been so weird lately, creeping around, hiding things. She knew the Met had frozen overtime on all but critical cases, yet her husband was working 24/7. And it seemed like something had changed in Zac recently. Part of him felt out of reach from her. They’d been through so much together, for better and worse, tackled it as a team. Over the past week, though, his behaviour had become erratic, secretive. Last time he acted like that – a year ago – it turned out he was planning a surprise weekend in Berlin for their fifteenth wedding anniversary. But there were no big dates coming up except for Ammy’s passing. More than that, she’d caught him out a couple of times: uncharacteristic omissions rather than clear lies.

Zac was a sharp guy but he’d become distracted, unfocused in the last few days. She’d even seen it at the club on Saturday night, when normally he loved that place. He’d drunk too much, wasn’t into it when they danced. Was there something else going on? A few years back, one of her best friends found her husband cheating, the awful cliché of a younger female colleague. Etta didn’t have any reason to think he was being unfaithful, no evidence suggested that. Even so, there was this Jones woman he’d started working with in the past couple of weeks, Zac had talked about her in glowing terms…

Stop. Notice that thought. Come on, surely this was just paranoia talking. It was her Zac. She trusted him. And they could talk about anything, couldn’t they? Not knowing was starting to get to her though, and the frustration returned.

‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

‘What do you mean?’ he said through a mouthful of toast. ‘Nothing.’

‘You’re acting weird.’ She was aware Kofi was listening.

Zac shook his head. ‘You’re imagining things.’

‘Don’t tell me what I’m thinking,’ she snapped, then checked herself. Took a breath. ‘Look, do whatever you need to do. I’ll be back at seven.’

‘Thanks, love.’ He didn’t look up. Just crammed more toast in his mouth, cut the sandwiches.

She’d confront him about it properly when the time was right. Without Kofi there, and with more tangible evidence than just his odd behaviour.

---

Eyes level with the ground, Wallace lay prone between two thick bushes and scanned the park’s horizon. Someone who wasn’t Ash had come to the caravan yesterday afternoon. Wallace had got out just in time, caught nothing more than a glimpse of the guy before legging it. After that near miss, he’d gone back to the lockup to sleep before returning here at 5 a.m. and taking up his current position at first light. Ready for Ash to come off the night shift. He’d risked using the angle grinder for a second, sliced branches off a tree further back to cover himself. Confident he was pretty much invisible now to anything except dogs snouting around for a place to shit.

Trap laid, he just needed the prey to arrive. Initially that sparked a familiar thrill. But it had worn off in an hour and Wallace found himself losing concentration, dozing again. The nightmare had jolted him awake. Thought he might’ve made a noise at the gunshot ending, but if so he reckoned nobody heard. That was a couple of hours ago, just after dawn, and the park had been silent.

The rota said Ash was working night shift in Penge till seven, so the fat boy should be back around now. If anything, he was late. What must it be like to know you were about to die? Of course, Ash wasn’t aware of that yet, not in a real sense. Unlike Parker, when he’d seen the hammer raised two nights ago. Ash would be in the same position soon, strapped to the flimsy chair with plastic ties, his melon head an easy target. That brought a smile briefly.

Wallace needed to occupy his mind. He’d already run through the plan in detail three times, the last things he had to do. Daydreamed about a new life in Europe. Once he’d got the cash he could even relocate somewhere warm – Jamaica, maybe? Felt like a turning point, a chance to start again.

As the waiting continued, Wallace found himself going back over certain decisions he’d made. A lot had been motivated by money. Drug dealing after he left school, small robberies to start off and then the safe deposit box job. But cash wasn’t his sole objective. He wanted respect too.

That was why he killed.

Money came and went but your name was everything. It outlived you. It was you to people you’d never met; it shaped others’ decisions across space and time. Life had taught him by his mid teens that you don’t let anyone push you around. Meet force with more force. Someone throws a punch, crack ’em over the head with your belt buckle. Someone snitches on you, dead them. Simple rules.

But there was one thing that nagged him. What about the people close to those you killed? Did the effect on them matter? Might make you think twice about revenge if it did. He imagined his own mum before she’d lost the plot, how his death would’ve destroyed her, eaten away till there was nothing left. He’d done that to people, and for what – his name? Did his name mean anything to the guy who came at him in prison with a switchblade? Course not. So what good was—

There he was.

Ash appeared from behind some caravans, waddling towards his own. He rubbed both eyes. Looked exhausted, like a wildebeest that’s been chased by a lion in one of those documentaries on Africa. Before the lion rips its head off. Rage swelled within Wallace at the thought of this flabby joker plotting with Parker to take him down. Who did those snakes think they were dealing with?

Wallace inspected his holdall. Plastic ties ready. Rotated the safety cover off his angle grinder and returned it to the bag. Hammer in hand, he began to slide himself out from under the branches – a crocodile creep forward. Ash had his back turned now, fumbling in his pocket for keys. Payback time.

Stop.

A middle-aged man wandered in from the right, all cheery smiles and greetings to Ash. Had a kid behind him on a tiny BMX with stabilisers. Guy was waving some kind of electrical cable, pointing to it and asking questions. Ash stared at it like a moron then flapped a hand at his caravan and invited the guy inside.

Wallace watched the kid circling on the bike. Pushed himself back into the bush on his forearms.

He could wait a bit longer.

---

Private number.

Boateng stared at his mobile on the office desk. Already working out where to escape if it was Froggy using another line, he swiped the screen, picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s Maddox.’

‘Oh, hi.’ Must’ve got the number through switchboard. Boateng wandered across to the window. ‘How are you, sir?’

‘Knackered. Anyway, I wanted to apologise for yesterday. You lot were trying to work out what was going on and I didn’t do you any favours. Duty night shift plus other stuff. Bastard twenty-four hours. You know how it is sometimes with the Job.’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Look, I was out of order not helping you guys more.’ Maddox gave a throaty cough. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise, sir. We’ve all been there.’

‘How’s the hunt for Wallace going?’

‘Not much further on. We’re trying to find the other bloke implicated in the burglary back in 2014, Harvey Ash. Reckon he could be the next victim and we want to get to him first. Except he’s vanished. And the public appeal hasn’t turned up anything on Wallace. Our other long shot is CCTV and facial recognition around his last known whereabouts. But…’ He trailed off, sighed. Articulating it, the probability of success now seemed pretty damned remote. ‘When someone’s got no regular network and doesn’t want to be found, it’s tough.’

‘Tell me about it. Well, I’ll let you get back.’

‘The struggle continues, as my old man used to say. Appreciate the call, sir.’ He rang off, frowned at the mobile.

‘Boss!’ Malik was waving him over, jabbing the monitor. ‘We’ve got a result off the phone company.’

Boateng marched to the desk, where his team was studying a map overlaid with clusters of tiny triangles.

Jones glanced up. ‘Number’s most active in two spots. One’s industrial units in Penge, likely he works there, so the other one’s probably his home. Crystal Palace Park. Resolution’s good enough to see it’s this bit.’ She circled a grey area among the green with her biro. ‘Google Maps says it’s a caravan site. Makes sense, doesn’t it? No council tax or utility bills, stay off the electoral register.’

‘Sneaky bastard.’ Boateng shook his head. ‘Alright, which borough?’

‘That part’s Bromley,’ said Connelly, leaning over the back of Malik’s chair. ‘Although if you stand in Crystal Palace park you can chuck stones into Lewisham, Southwark, Lambeth and Croydon. Assuming you’ve got enough rocks. Though why you’d want to do that…’

‘Thanks, Pat, we don’t want to piss off the locals. Nice work, guys. When was it last pinged?’

Malik clicked and scrolled through a window full of digits. ‘7 a.m. at the industrial park. What d’you reckon boss, early shift or late?’

‘Could be either. Kat and I will head to the caravan park, you two check out the industrial estate.’ Boateng rapped knuckles on the desk. ‘Let’s go.’