‘Hello?’ a voice crackled through the speaker.

‘Takeaway for number fifteen. Think their bell’s broken.’

A buzzer sounded and Boateng pulled open the heavy front door. Didn’t want to stand outside Lockwood House at 11 p.m. explaining over intercom who he was to Night Vision or anyone else in his home. He’d rung eleven flats before someone let him in.

Calling on Clarence Thompson was a long shot, but he had few alternatives. Might only be a matter of hours before Wallace vanished, gone forever. Boateng had considered levelling with his team about what he’d discovered but couldn’t bring himself to reveal the extent of his duplicity. Perhaps he was just making excuses for what he really wanted to do: find Wallace alone. Get face to face, hear him confess. And then… he didn’t know. Try to keep control. Thompson was about the only ally he could think of in that quest; Agyeman would help, but he’d done enough. Boateng knocked on the door, stepped back as he heard footsteps inside and locks turning.

‘Yes?’ The chunky middle-aged woman in a loose green dress looked him up and down. ‘Whatcha wan’ this time a night?’

‘Sorry to disturb you. Can I speak to Clarence please? I’m a colleague from the Post Office.’ Paused. ‘It’s a personal matter.’

The lady sighed, as if this were a daily occurrence. ‘Wait ’ere.’ She shuffled inside and moments later Night Vision appeared.

‘What you doing?’ he whispered. ‘You can’t be here.’

‘I know. Need to speak to you alone.’

Thompson hesitated, narrowed his eyes. ‘Come on.’ Closing the front door, he directed Boateng down the corridor to an empty stairwell of bare concrete. ‘What d’you want?’

Boateng bit his lip. No point messing around. ‘Look, Clarence, when we spoke before, I wasn’t straight with you.’

‘What fed ever is? Your money was good though.’

‘I’m not working with Nathan. When I asked about Draymond King, it wasn’t because I had an interest in him.’

‘What then?’

‘My daughter died that day. In the shop.’

Thompson met his eyes as if to verify the statement, then simply nodded.

‘So we want the same thing,’ said Boateng. ‘To find the guy who did it.’

‘If I knew who it was I’d have popped him myself.’

‘I do know.’

Eyes bulging, Thompson’s jaw set hard before the words burst out. ‘Fucking tell me. I’ll go there right now,’ he shouted, jabbing a finger in air.

Boateng held up his hands. ‘There’s nowhere to go, he’s AWOL. The killer’s called Darian Wallace, from Two-Ten crew. Went by the street name Sy back then.’

‘Heard of him. Bastard.’ Thompson ground his teeth, body tensing.

‘Listen to me.’ Boateng spoke calmly, voice low. ‘Draymond was targeted because of a woman. She’d dumped Wallace and started seeing him instead, so Wallace decided to kill him. Somehow he got away with it, then went to prison two years ago for burglary. Did his time, came out and murdered two of the people that sent him down. Now I think he’s trying to leave the country. Can you help me find him?’

‘How?’

In truth, Boateng didn’t know, but he had to project authority. ‘Wallace is hiding somewhere. But no one’s truly off the radar. There’ll be contacts he’s visiting from the past, could be business or just people he’s saying goodbye to. Try to think of places he could be, ask whoever you need to for information. Come back to me with anything you get, quick as possible.’

Thompson nodded slowly, relaxing. As a trained source from his Trident days, he’d understand the role of intelligence in carrying out an operation. This was no different. ‘Then what?’

Boateng drew aside a coat flap, revealed the Glock in his belt. After last night’s incident he’d emptied the ammo; this evening it was just to show Thompson he meant business. ‘We’ll take it from there.’ Still didn’t know what would happen when he did find Wallace, but it was important to give the impression that executive action would be taken. Didn’t want Thompson going alone if he did somehow locate their target.

‘Damn, you don’t mess around. I’m in.’

‘Obviously I’ll pay, too, if the intel’s good.’

Thompson blinked slowly, shook his head. ‘No need, man. This is for Dray. I’ll start now.’ They exchanged numbers, slapped hands and the younger man returned to his flat.

Descending the concrete steps, Boateng realised he should’ve got a description of Nathan off Thompson, and cursed silently. That could wait; the priority was Wallace. Crossing the central yard area towards his car, he spotted a group of three young men on the path ahead. They were huddled in dark jackets, faces hidden. A squat, muscular dog stood between them, its chain leash taut. Looked to Boateng like a pit bull: a banned breed in the UK. Legit to own one with a special exemption, but this wasn’t the time to be inquiring after its provenance. In daytime on normal work routine he’d be over there asking questions. Now he kept his flat cap lowered, picked up the pace as he arced past them.

‘Yo!’

Boateng carried on, head down.

‘Hey! Where you goin’ so fast, man?’ They began walking across to him. ‘Gonna introduce yourself? This is our manor and we don’t know you.’ The pit bull was already slobbering, pulling forwards. Some fighting dogs were trained to be aggressive with strangers. Boateng kept going, realised he was encircled and stopped, glancing around.

‘Hold up.’ One cocked his head sideways, wagged a finger. ‘I know his face. Seen ’im on TV, innit? You know who this is?’ He looked at the others. ‘A fed man. Five-O.’ They closed in on him. ‘These ain’t your ends. So what you doing here on your own?’

‘You must be thinking of someone else.’

‘Bullshit, he’s a fed.’

‘Man don’t live ’ere, that’s for sure,’ said another. His companions chuckled. ‘Who you after?’ The dog began a low growl, front paws lifting off the tarmac.

‘You meetin’ a snitch? Or you bent?’

They were between him and his car. Boateng considered the options. He couldn’t tell if these guys were armed. The Glock in his belt was literally an empty threat. Drawing on them might work if no one called his bluff, but that was a last resort. Only real thing he could do was hit them over the head with it. And worse, nobody knew he was here. His mouth went dry. Could they be reasoned with?

‘Say something, cuz.’ Each man stepped closer and he could see drool on the dog’s jowls. ‘Stand up for yourself.’

‘OK. I’m off duty, alright? Got a relative here. On my way home,’ Boateng replied quietly, began walking again.

‘Whoa, slow down.’ One blocked him off. ‘Who’s your relative?’

‘Look, I make a call and half of Kennington Station will be down here.’

They laughed together. ‘They don’t come around these streets, man, it’s not safe. Plus you ain’t got no backup. That’s not how you lot roll when you work. I’ll ask you again, who’s your relative? Cos you know what? My little brother come runnin’ to tell me there’s a man pressing every buzzer outside the block. No one visiting a relative does that. So what the fuck you doing here?’

Nothing for it. Boateng reached back for the Glock, but as he lifted his jacket the punch from behind hammered into his kidney. Pain shot through his back but he lashed out, caught something solid then lunged forward. Grabbed at clothing, threw the guy blocking his path into his mate and ran. Sprinted away, willing his legs to move faster. Could see the car about fifty metres off but a scrabbling noise made him turn. Drawing his pistol he saw the young men in pursuit flinch, but saw too late the pit bull in mid-air, launching itself at him. Boateng was knocked to the ground, head crashed into tarmac, but he kept hold of the gun. Dog was on top of him now, all noise, slobber and paws as he fought it off. Then a vice closed on his forearm and Boateng howled. The animal bit deeper, jaws locked on his sleeve. He pitched over but the dog’s teeth clamped down, pain spreading through his arm. Boateng rolled, saw the men advancing towards him. Two had drawn weapons he couldn’t make out. Quick. He shook his arm but that only hurt more. Smacked the pit bull’s head with the pistol butt. It pulled away for a second then attacked again, biting harder and into the flesh of his hand this time. Bellowing, he writhed on the ground, trying to twist and kick out at the beast, couldn’t get an angle. The men were closer now and Boateng could see a large kitchen knife glinting beneath the street lights. He spun again onto his back, the dog bounding on top of him. Fighting through agony, knew he had to get his arm free before—

A shot echoed between buildings and the pit bull’s body went limp on his chest. The men froze then began stepping back, scanning balconies and rooftops. Boateng wrenched his arm free, heaved the dog away. It’d been shot clean through the skull, inches from him. But no exit wound. What the hell? Didn’t matter. He scrambled to his feet, bolted. Still disorientated, horizon pitching as he made the final few yards to his car, popped the doors. Glanced back: his attackers had already disappeared. Boateng shoved the gun in the glove compartment. Noticed his left sleeve was drenched with blood. Hand shaking, he jammed the key in, revved and pulled away with a screech of tyres.

---

Etta couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

‘I’ve got to go, Mum.’ She hung up immediately and stood as her husband lurched into the kitchen, blood all over his jacket. ‘Oh my God! Zac, what happened?’ She rushed over, helped him into a chair.

‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked. ‘I’ve been such an idiot. Damn!’ Boateng winced as she rolled back the sleeve.

She shuffled closer, inspected his left arm. Touched the skin, blood slick on her fingers. ‘What the hell is this?’

He gulped. ‘It’s a dog bite.’

‘We have to get you to hospital.’

‘No, it’s OK, if—’

‘It’s not OK, Zac, you’ve got to get that cleaned up, checked for rabies. How on earth did it happen? Were you at work? Why didn’t your colleagues take you to A & E?’ The questions tumbled from her without pause for answer, each angrier than the last. ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’ She snatched up the phone.

‘No.’

‘What?’ she shouted, incredulous.

‘Listen, Etta. I— I’m so sorry.’ He reached out, touched her arm with his good hand.

She met his gaze, recognised the sadness. But the fear she also saw there was something her husband rarely displayed. She fought back her own frustration at him. ‘What’ve you done?’

Zac took a couple of breaths. ‘I know who killed Amelia.’

Etta’s mouth opened but no sound emerged. She let go of him, slumped back against the chair. When she spoke several seconds later, her voice was quiet yet firm. ‘I’m going upstairs to get the first aid kit. Then you’ll tell me exactly what’s happened, from the start.’

He nodded.

When she returned and began cleaning the wounds, Zac relayed the whole story to her: Scotland Yard’s informant vault, Night Vision, Agyeman, Optikon, Froggy, Mamba and Wallace. His Roy Ankrah journalist cover, the money he’d doled out for information. How he’d planned to spend those savings on a holiday for them. And how a pit bull had torn into him tonight before some guardian angel saved his life. All done solo with no backup. It was almost too much to take in, too fantastical to believe. She listened to the whole thing without interrupting her husband. At last there was an explanation for what had been going on these past ten days. It wasn’t an affair. But it was egoism and poor judgement and recklessness. In some ways that was worse: lies as well as putting his career in jeopardy, his life in danger. After disbelief her next reaction was anger, rising quickly. She didn’t hold back applying antiseptic into his cuts, her fingers taut and trembling.

‘What the hell were you thinking? Selfish bastard. How could you be so, so—’ She searched for adequate words, spat them at him. ‘So fucking stupid?’

Her husband didn’t respond, dipped his head in shame.

‘You lied to me, Zac!’ She jabbed his chest, left a bloodied fingerprint on the jacket. ‘Do you know how I felt? I was scared. Thought you were…’

‘Didn’t know what else to do.’ He shook his head, eyes moistening. ‘Started out as almost nothing and before I knew it I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to tell my colleagues because of what Thompson said about the cover-up, or whatever it was. If one of my own got in the way of that investigation…’ He shook his head, lips tight. ‘I’ll—’

‘You’ll what?’ She unwrapped another antiseptic wipe, dabbed the wound. ‘Take the law into your own hands? This whole thing is madness. Just—’ Etta held up a hand, but instead of more words a dam of tears burst and she wept, shuddering next to him.

He laid a hand on her back. ‘I’m so sorry, my love.’

She could feel him sobbing gently too, his broad shoulders shaking, and pulled herself into him. ‘You’re a fool, Zachariah Boateng. A damned fool. But I love you.’

His head bowed, touched the top of hers. ‘And I love you,’ he whispered.

They held one another a minute. Eventually she raised her head, the fury dissipating. ‘So, you’ve discovered this. What’s your plan now?’ She took a roll of bandage and scissors.

‘Find him.’

‘Not on your own.’

‘Course not.’ His reply was instant.

She studied him. ‘You can’t go on like this, Zac. You’ve got to own up, tell people. Longer you leave it, the worse it’ll get. Even if you personally find this guy, imagine what a defence counsel will make of your freestyling in court. And the others can help you catch him. After all, he’s the target of your team’s double murder investigation. Use their resources.’

‘I’ll bring him to justice, I promise, I—’

She tutted loudly, anger welling again. ‘I don’t want this me, me, me, Zac. It’s not all about you. Forget your ego for a minute. I lost a daughter too. Remember that. Not one day goes by I don’t feel her absence. The girl I gave birth to, breastfed, nurtured. Nothing’s been the same since that day. Like a piece of me’s gone forever. I still feel it now, same as every day since she died. I’m not losing a husband as well. Kofi’s not losing a father, do you hear me? He’s scared enough as it is that one of us might just vanish from his life, like his sister did. You and your team can bring Wallace in, make him stand trial, then we can live knowing the monster who murdered our daughter is locked up for life, not that he cost our family more…’ She tailed off, swallowed. ‘OK?’

He bit his lip, blinked agreement.

She reached for her phone, opened the minicab app. ‘Right now you need a doctor to look at your arm.’ He made to speak but her glare cut him off.

---

With an injury like that there was no point trying to be a hard man. The dog bite had looked gross. Absolutely gopping, claret all over the place. The copper needed to screw the nut: sort himself out and get a medic. Instead, he’d driven home like a maniac, stumbled inside. Not come out since. Maybe the missus was patching him up. And perhaps he didn’t want to explain to anyone what he was doing alone on the estate in Kennington when he got attacked.

Spike watched the Boateng residence from across the road. Checked his watch: 12.23 a.m. He’d parked up, killed the ignition and cracked a window. What was this Boateng bloke playing at? He’d let three muppets get a step on him, drawn a sidearm, not fired it, then almost got mauled to death by a mutt. If Spike hadn’t been there, either the dog or those street kids would’ve done him in. Lucky he only had to shoot the animal. Human injuries were a lot harder to explain away, especially to the colonel.

During surveillance earlier today he’d briefed the boss on his plan to let the coppers lead him to Wallace. Patey wasn’t pleased, but recognised they didn’t have a lot of options left. Fat lad in a caravan was being looked after by the Met and their insider had produced sod all else by way of leads. What did they mean by Boateng being ‘closer to it’ than anyone else? Some sort of connection between him and the safe deposit heist. Boateng hadn’t investigated it at the time, so maybe it was a personal link to Wallace. Spike had googled his new assignment and found a ton of articles. Detective Inspector Zachariah Boateng had enjoyed a decent career spanning murder investigations, missing persons, kidnaps and drug work. Could be that his path had crossed Wallace’s sometime then, but there was no record of that on the Met system. One news story stood above the others though: his dead daughter. No one ever caught for it. Was that what Patey’s person in the Met was referring to? Perhaps Wallace brassed up Boateng’s girl in the newsagents five years ago. But if the case was never solved, how could the insider know that? All the nause was making Spike’s head hurt. Whatever way you looked at it, one thing was obvious: people were out to get Boateng. And he didn’t seem that great at handling himself. So better keep him safe until he located Wallace.

A taxi pulled up outside the house and Boateng emerged a minute later, clutching his left forearm. Wife hugged him for ages on the doorstep and they kissed. Soppy bollocks. Then Boateng got in the back of the car. Spike followed them until it turned into Lewisham hospital. Finally he was getting a medic to sort him out. Nothing else likely to happen tonight then. Time for Spike to drive home and get his head down for a few hours before the hurry-up-and-wait routine started again tomorrow morning. He’d be ready.