‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

‘Hm?’ Boateng looked up from the kitchen counter.

‘Are you cutting onions?’

‘No, I’m making your lunch. Come on, finish those cornflakes.’

‘Normally you cry when you cut onions.’

Boateng pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m not crying.’

Kofi giggled. ‘Liar.’

‘Oi!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t be so cheeky. Something went in my eye, that’s all.’

Boateng wiped both hands over his face. Last night’s encounter had left him a physical wreck. Hadn’t slept much, thoughts chasing each other, looping round, incessant. Now his body felt light, disconnected. Adrenalin-sapped yet still on high alert. Drawing the Glock on Mamba had been instinctive. In that moment, his desire for the truth had overpowered reason and once it happened, all bets were off. Ordinarily he’d trust his self-control, coolness under pressure that the Job trained you for, demanded. But he hadn’t been in control for those few seconds while his finger curled on the trigger. Like it wasn’t him pulling it. Knew that both he and Mamba were lucky to escape in one piece; he’d fired a shot in the struggle, for God’s sake.

Physical danger aside, there was Etta. If he’d woken her last night when he returned at three, she pretended to be asleep. They hadn’t touched in bed, an invisible barrier bisecting the mattress. She left for work early without speaking to him. Each new secret he kept from her – and every lie to cover them up – chipped away at the trust built in their relationship over almost two decades. There had to be a limit. Felt like either an explosion was coming or this slow, inexorable drift away from each other would continue past the point of no return. That didn’t bear thinking about.

But what could he tell her? He’d finally discovered who killed Amelia, after nearly five years? That he’d achieved this by breaking the law he was paid to uphold, behind his colleagues’ backs? Worse still, that at least one officer had impeded the original investigation. What would it do to her to know all that?

Of course, he was taking information at face value. Night Vision’s story about Draymond King, Mamba’s account of the shooting – either could be mistaken, lying or have a hidden agenda. And yet, it made sense. Facts that added up, had plausibility. Most murders in London were solved, so perhaps someone in the Met did help Wallace one way or another. And he’d never considered that Amelia’s killer would be in prison for a different crime. Maybe those two features explained the lack of new leads despite his regular inquiries, and the case ultimately being shelved. Then Harris had been murdered in Deptford and ten days later Boateng was here.

These logical operations of his brain were jabbed by raw emotion. Some of the helplessness he’d felt for years was gone, now he knew. But there was still unprocessed grief at Amelia’s loss. Flashbacks to her lying there, the red stain growing on her yellow dress as he tried and failed to revive her. Anger at the man who did this, murderous rage from a place deep within that most of us pretended didn’t exist. He’d experienced those sensations for years, ebbing and flowing, but the last ten days had brought them back centre stage. All of it could now be directed at Wallace.

Next question was what to do about it. For a few seconds last night, he’d considered pulling the trigger on Mamba. Something had stopped him, the last tendrils of self-control. But with each day that passed, pressure rising and sleep escaping him, that resistance was diminishing. If it was Wallace in his gun sights, would he give in to that brutal, base desire?

‘Are you going to be Batman again tonight, Dad?’

Zac started. ‘What?’

‘You know, when you go out at night to fight baddies. Like last night. And the other nights.’ Kofi’s eyes widened. ‘Must be a lot of bad guys out there.’

Looking at the boy, Boateng softened. ‘True. Sometimes they’re hard to find.’

‘But when you do find them…’ Small hands mimed shooting. ‘Po-pow!’

‘It’s not like that, Kof.’ Normally. His son was right about one thing though: he was going out again tonight. In the absence of legitimate channels, he had few intelligence-gathering options on Wallace. He needed to see Night Vision again.

---

‘Hang on, yeah?’

Three bolts scraped, two locks turned. Decent security measures; Wallace was pleased about that. Only last year a similar establishment in London had been robbed of a hundred grand’s worth of stock. This place was off the radar, but even so. His hostess took one confirmatory glance through the crack with large darting eyes. A chain fell slack, the door swung open and she walked away. The woman was mid twenties, petite, with bare sinewy arms and a shock of hair like Sideshow Bob. Wallace followed her inside, grimacing as the fetid odour of corpses hit him for the second time that day. He wasn’t squeamish, but decaying flesh still made him want to throw up; maybe she’d got used to it. Turning death into art was Stella Winberg’s business. At least, some people called it art. More like a horror show. Scanning the cluttered studio for his item, Wallace clocked some monstrous hybrids. An erect black cat with no forelimbs, crow wings spread from the flanks, a bird’s tail in place of its own. The four-headed white rat climbing out of a lab beaker. Most grotesque was a fox’s head mounted on four pairs of dog legs so it looked like some giant furry spider. Drawn closer, he gazed into the lifeless eyes.

‘Sorry it’s a bit like Fort Knox,’ called Winberg across the studio. ‘Gotta have bolts and stuff, otherwise the animal rights lot’d be in here torching the place.’

‘Wouldn’t want that.’

She noticed him staring at the creature. ‘If you like the Arachnofox, check out what I’m doing here.’ The young woman gestured to the bench behind her. ‘Working title’s “See No Evil”. What d’you think?’

Wallace stepped across. One squirrel had impaled another using a knitting needle while a bystander third theatrically shielded its eyes. In some ways, taxidermists saw life at its most honest: that any animal was nothing more than skin, bone and a ton of blood and internal organs. This woman was good at what she did. Twisted too, or maybe just immune to gore. Spotting a crucified bat up on a shelf, labelled ‘Stigmata’, its mouth contorted into a scream, Wallace began to feel creeped out. Wasn’t a pussy; just something about being surrounded by reanimated dead bodies that made him want to finish the transaction. Get back outside in the fresh air. He recalled his reason for coming here in the first place. Logistically it would’ve been simpler to go to London Taxidermy, round the corner from Wimbledon greyhound track, but they were pros running a business and the bullet hole in the dog’s head would have raised suspicion, not to mention the stuff he’d wanted put inside the animal. After a bit of searching he’d found Stella Winberg, an independent artist operating out of a unit behind the Bussey Building in Peckham, who referred to herself as a ‘rogue’ taxidermist. A recce of the studio had convinced him her morals were sufficiently flexible to accommodate his request. And her income sufficiently low to need his patronage.

‘Have you got what I came for?’

‘Yeah, course. Been looking after her for you.’ She pointed to the corner. Wallace dragged the big cardboard box out. It was heavy. Knelt and took a penknife from his pocket, cut the tape. ‘So, where you been?’ she adjusted the vest top under her apron.

‘Away.’ Obviously she hadn’t been watching the news. He opened the flaps, checked inside. Bambam was lying on her stomach, paws extended ahead. Fine dark grey fur was perfectly preserved. Smaller than her brother Blaze but with the same sleek face. Wallace pointed to the brass winding key protruding from the bullet wound in the top of her skull, turned to Winberg. ‘What’s that?’

‘Soz, couldn’t resist putting something in the hole. She’s a beauty. Bag’s inside the shell, like you wanted. Made it from a polyurethane cast with wire support. Strong as hell.’ She bent down, gave a coy smile. ‘What’s in it then?’

Wallace leaned forward, their faces inches apart. ‘I didn’t pay you a grand to ask questions.’ His thumb stroked the penknife blade. Her smile vanished but she didn’t seem scared. Oblivious rather than brave. He tried lifting the box. No way he could get this thing on the bus, not without drawing a lot of attention. ‘You got a car?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Give you fifty quid to drive me and the dog to my storage spot.’

‘Alright.’ Winberg’s response was instant. The trade in mutilated animals hadn’t picked up while he was inside then. ‘Now?’

Wallace nodded and she grabbed a bunch of keys, began removing her apron. He sheathed the penknife, hoped she didn’t get any more inquisitive.

---

Jones arranged her briefing notes. It was past three, but Boateng didn’t look ready for the meeting yet. She scanned the office, wondered briefly if she’d got the time wrong, missed some unwritten rule. Normally her boss was all over it, ready before them. His gaze was fixed on Wallace’s mugshot, in the centre of the large whiteboard. Boateng just stood staring at their target through puffy eyes, arms hanging limp. Looked exhausted. Hadn’t touched the coffee Malik made in his favourite mug. She’d expected the MIT to be stressful, but this looked like something more.

Malik and Connelly pulled chairs over, Connelly insisting on a steaming mug of tea despite the afternoon’s warmth. The Irishman was explaining the phrase ‘trot a mouse’ to Malik, referring to tea so dark and strong the little creature could walk across it. At least the other two thought there was a meeting as well.

She cleared her throat gently. ‘Are we starting, Zac?’

‘What do you want now?’ he snapped.

Wow. Didn’t see that coming. Normally he was so chilled. ‘I was just asking about the meeting,’ she said, more tentatively. ‘Um, are you OK?’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, rasping a hand across chin stubble as he sat down slowly. ‘Yeah, let’s start.’

Jones waited for instructions that didn’t arrive. ‘Shall I update on the mystery man first?’

‘You’ve got a new boyfriend?’ Connelly grinned, and she rolled her eyes. Should’ve seen that coming. Before she could think of a reply, Malik cut in.

‘Shut up, Pat.’ He scowled. ‘Let her speak.’

‘It’s not you, is it, big man?’ Connelly winked.

‘Piss off.’

Malik was sweet, she liked him. Fit, too. And he seemed keen. Should she…? Jones wasn’t sure about dating a younger guy. Particularly one she sat opposite all day in the office. On the other hand, Malik had a lot more going for him than the losers she often seemed to draw: drunken lads on nights out with her mates, friends of friends who flaked and bailed, or blokes off Tinder who never matched their descriptions. It was a source of ongoing embarrassment to her that in a city with five million men she couldn’t find a decent boyfriend. The working hours didn’t help, and maybe the job title put some guys off. Perhaps that was why most police ended up getting together with each other, single or not. For now she was determined to keep her love life out of work. Nonetheless, she gave Malik a little smile.

‘Ash came in earlier and checked security footage from outside the dance studio,’ Jones said, glancing at her notes. ‘Reckons the guy who goes in after Wallace could be the same man that broke into his caravan. I’ve contacted Ministry of Defence on the basis of his SAS theory, gave the description and year we think he served at Hereford. They shut it down immediately, said the identities of Special Forces personnel were secret even after they’ve left the regiments. When I told them it was a murder inquiry, they asked if he was a suspect. I had to say no, just a possible witness. They didn’t budge.’ She paused. No reaction. ‘Boss?’

‘Great,’ replied Boateng.

‘No, it’s not.’ She frowned. ‘We don’t have a clue who he is.’

Boateng seemed to wake up, focus. ‘Sorry, I mean, good work following it through. I’ll go back to Krebs, get her to take it up the hierarchy for us.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said Connelly. ‘Military look after their own.’

‘At least it’s a lead,’ said Boateng. ‘I’ll take anything right now. Bringing Ash in kept Krebs happy for a day, but we met an hour ago and she bollocked me for not knowing more about Wallace.’ He shook his head.

Jones felt for him, taking the flak. ‘But Ash didn’t have anything to give except his intel on the soldier.’

‘That’s not how she sees it.’

Connelly broke the silence. ‘Nas and I were down in Crystal Palace this morning, spoke to a bunch of people. Found an old fella that lives near Ash’s pitch. Once his false teeth were in, he told us a man matching the soldier’s description came by yesterday looking for Ash. Backs up the story. Nothing else though.’

Boateng bit his lip, nodded slowly.

‘It’s not all doom and gloom,’ offered Malik. ‘Something just came in from Surrey Police. Get this. Animal cemetery in Cobham had a grave desecrated last night. Manager said they’d never seen anything like it. Massive greyhound coffin dug up, broken open, bones just chucked on the side. Staff couldn’t get hold of the owner, so reported it straight to police. Lucky for us, Guildford’s finest had nothing else to do, so they put the owner’s name through the national system and found it flagged by us.’ He leaned back, smiled. ‘Darian Wallace.’ Malik snapped his fingers.

Boateng sat bolt upright. ‘His share of the safe deposit box stash, has to be. Hidden in a grave. Of course.’ Hands gripped his knees, eyes darting around. ‘It’s been done before.’

‘Hatton Garden raid, couple of years ago,’ said Jones. ‘Guy used his father-in-law’s grave. Didn’t dig up the body though.’ She was chuffed at recalling the fact, but Boateng didn’t acknowledge it. Just sat still, said nothing.

‘What do you reckon that means, boss?’ ventured Malik.

Boateng spoke quietly. ‘It means I don’t have much time.’

‘I?’ Last Jones checked this was a Major Investigation Team.

‘We.’ He glanced at her. ‘We haven’t got much time. He’s probably going to flee the country. No reason for him to stay here any longer.’ Boateng numbered off on his fingers. ‘We’ve had Wallace’s picture on telly and in the papers last few days, so it’s risky for him to be out much. He can’t get to Ash since we’ve stuck him in the hostel round the corner to keep out the way. And it sounds like he’s got the loot now too.’

‘Should we brief UK Borders again?’ suggested Jones.

‘Definitely. Pat, see if Wallace crops up on any train station cameras coming back into London from Surrey. Might tell us where he went.’

Jones raised a hand. ‘What about the MP? Ash said it was a woman. That narrows it down to around two hundred possibles. I can cross-reference with the safe deposit burglary report from 2014, find the match. Could go and speak to her?’

‘Just don’t expect her to tell the truth,’ added Connelly.

Boateng wrinkled his nose. ‘Krebs is not going to like your theory about her tasking some kind of hitman to go after Wallace. Doesn’t get more political than sticking an MP on our suspect list. We’d need better intel before doing anything. Hold off on that for now.’

She bit her lip. Trusted his judgment but still felt deflated.

Noticing, Boateng managed a nod. ‘Keep the ideas coming though. Let’s focus on Wallace and how we think he’s going to leave.’ Clapped his hands. ‘Alright, back to it.’ As the others moved away, he returned to examining Wallace’s mugshot.

Jones approached, touched his arm gently. ‘Seriously, are you OK, Zac?’

‘Fine.’

‘You just look, you know, really tired.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Appreciate the concern, but don’t worry about me.’

‘Look, if there’s anything you need me to do with the investigation, I don’t mind staying later or whatever. Without overtime, just until—’

‘Thanks.’ Boateng cut her off again. He swivelled back to the mugshot.

She noticed his fists were balled. Jones went back to her desk, glanced over again at him. Her boss’s behaviour was weird, uncharacteristic. Maybe just stress. Jones admired his sense of responsibility, but still, he was being a bit of a dick.