‘Dad, what happened?’

Kofi froze, spoon mid-air, eyes wide. Etta watched her zombified husband lurch towards the kettle, flick it on. He eased himself painfully against the kitchen counter and inspected the bandage on his left wrist. In A & E he’d been given two stitches for the puncture wound plus a rabies shot. Doctors said there appeared to be no tendon or joint damage: a lucky escape. They didn’t know the half of it. Despite that good fortune, her husband still looked as if he’d been ten rounds in a boxing match or ten minutes in a bar brawl.

‘Were you fighting the bad guys?’ their son persisted.

Zac snapped out of his trance. ‘This?’ he held up the bandaged arm, grinned. ‘You should’ve seen the other guy.’

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Kofi, glancing at Etta to gauge the reaction.

Both her boys knew she didn’t like them joking about violence. ‘Zac…’ The single word was usually enough to remind him.

‘Not really, Kof, sorry.’ He chucked a teabag into his ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug, a title she wasn’t convinced he still merited. Zac looked away as he added the boiling water. ‘It was just a little accident at work, I’m fine though.’

The kid gave a whine of disappointment.

‘Your father’s got to be more careful,’ explained Etta. ‘Like I’ve said to you, Kof, never run off without telling someone where you’re going.’ She caught her husband’s eye. ‘Sometimes the same goes for grown-ups.’

---

Derek left it till midday before he began walking to the lock-up. He’d get this errand done then jump in the cab for a late shift. Had to psych himself up a bit, going alone. Back in the days when he ran with the football firm at Millwall, being around the other lads after a few pints was enough. Mob mentality, they called it. That was years ago. But he could still turn on ‘Old Derek’ if necessary, when a customer was taking the piss.

Before leaving the house, he’d reached to the back of the odds ’n’ sods drawer and pulled out his old brass knuckleduster. Just in case. Didn’t expect any trouble though. Wallace might be wanted for double murder but he wasn’t a moron. A few choice words from the older man and he’d see sense. It was like collecting tax, that’s all. And he definitely needed it; just that morning two new bills had dropped onto the doorstep.

Derek took out his mobile and called the number. No harm in having some backup. If everything went according to plan, he’d be at home with a cuppa and a pocketful of cash before the Old Bill arrived at his garage. He could just claim ignorance when they asked about Wallace. Or identify himself as the source and maybe even blag a reward off them too.

His call was answered on the third ring. ‘Hello, Crimestoppers. How can I help?’

‘Yeah, I wanna report the location of a murder suspect…’

---

No good keeping his head down. DCI Krebs had already spotted Boateng and was striding towards his desk. Wasn’t long before her six-foot frame was looming over him.

‘DI Boateng,’ she said, using his formal title in front of his team. ‘What’s your progress on the Wallace murders?’

‘Ma’am. Other than the SAS lead…’ He let the words hang.

Krebs shook her head quickly. ‘No joy there yet.’

‘We’ve had one other development. DS Connelly?’

‘That’s me. Facial Recognition had a hit on Wallace from yesterday evening, halfway down Old Kent Road. Target was walking south-east, holding a bag.’ The Irishman jerked his thumb at his laptop. ‘I’ve been collating CCTV footage to track his movements before and after. Got him going into King Rooster for his dinner but we lose him either side of it when the coverage drops out. Our working theory is he’s holed up somewhere nearby, eatin’ his chicken.’

Krebs planted her hands on the desk, leaned in. ‘So what’s your operational plan?’

The brief silence was interrupted as Malik’s desk phone rang and he reached across and answered it.

Boateng cleared his throat. ‘We continue searching CCTV for other signs of him and deploy surveillance on Old Kent Road. If he’s been to King Rooster once, chances are he’ll go back. He’s obviously not worried about being recognised there.’

‘Time to up the media coverage,’ stated Krebs. ‘We need to show London we’re doing all we can to catch this man. He’s clearly psychotic.’

‘Psychopathic.’ Boateng couldn’t resist correcting her. ‘I don’t think he’s lost contact with reality at all, but I reckon he is capable of killing someone without losing much sleep. Believe me, that’s scarier.’ He reached for a cup of water, bringing his left hand above the desk. If Krebs was going to take issue with his psychological profiling, she was distracted by the bandage.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Oh.’ He rotated the injured wrist. ‘Damned dog in the park last night. Didn’t like my football skills.’ He forced a smile as the others chuckled. ‘Five hours in Lewisham A & E getting stitches.’

‘Well, if we see you foaming at the mouth we’ll know who to blame.’ Krebs’s attempt at humour fell flat. She smoothed her bob cut. ‘Right then. Back to work, everyone. Keep it up. Remember, efficiency. We all have to do more with fewer resources.’

‘Er, sorry to interrupt, ma’am.’ Malik was still holding the phone. ‘Anonymous tip’s just come through Crimestoppers. Member of the public says he knows Darian Wallace’s exact whereabouts. Location’s a lock-up garage off Old Kent Road. Could be a load of rubbish like the rest of—’

‘Shit!’ Boateng slapped the desk harder than intended and his team stared. Much as he wanted to, there was no way to go solo. Best he could hope for was some recon and the chance to come back after work. A story about extra surveillance was already forming in his mind. Golden opportunity to nick the suspect presenting itself to the lone officer on detail… quickly followed by a darker tale, arriving to find Wallace shot, his enemies having finally caught up with him. Despite what he’d told Etta, his personal quest was still on. And his anger was as visceral as ever.

Boateng stood. ‘Location tallies with Pat’s hit on facial recognition. That’s good enough for me. Arrest warrant’s been issued so we’re ready to go. Let’s keep it low-key. Two unmarked pool cars to go check the place out then we’ll radio in for borough units. Don’t want to spook him.’

‘Er, DI Boateng.’ Krebs had folded her arms. ‘Surely after the previous two attempts to nab Wallace you’ll be waiting for Armed Response or Tactical Support? You can’t risk him getting away again.’

Boateng hesitated. If only she’d come in twenty minutes later, they’d have been gone. Just had to sell his plan on her terms. ‘Staking the garage out could help us gather intelligence on anyone assisting Wallace,’ he began. ‘That’s more arrests. And even better, we might learn where his jewellery stash is hidden. Lots of happy customers if we get that stuff back. Great publicity.’

Krebs frowned. ‘Unlike you to think with a PR hat on, Zac. Don’t take that the wrong way. You’ve got a point though. Mount the surveillance with your team. But wait until armed backup is available first, then deploy.’

‘But with respect, ma’am, if they’re on another job it could be hours. We may not have that kind of time. Do we really need them? There’s no reason to suspect Wallace has a firearm.’ Boateng realised he didn’t know if that was true.

‘Well, I’m not having another innocent man Tasered or mayhem in a public place slapped on social media. You’ll do this one by the book.’

Boateng bit his lip. Bollocks. ‘Ma’am.’

---

Wallace turned the memory stick over in his hand, examined it under the bare light bulb. The device looked ordinary. He’d found it inside a big piece of jewellery that must’ve got bumped about in transit. The back had come loose. No markings, no clues, no means of checking what was on it. Maybe he could head to a call shop nearby, some of them still had PCs you could rent, with USB drives…

Or not.

Probably a waste of time; he’d guess it was encrypted. He’d investigate later. Main thing right now was getting out of London. Still, the question gnawed at him: who hides a memory stick inside silverware then puts it in a safe deposit box? Either someone very paranoid or a person with big secrets. Perhaps both.

A sudden bang on the metal of the garage door sent adrenalin shooting through him.

Wallace kept still, silent. Could they see in broad daylight that he had the bulb on? Another slap came on the garage door. Someone who could put force into it. The lock turned and Wallace shielded his eyes as sunshine slanted in. Squinted to focus.

The old man.

‘Alright.’ He stepped inside, shut the door behind him. He was big, solid. Seemed to fill the space. ‘Come to talk about your rent.’

Pocketing the memory stick, Wallace shifted his body to block the holdalls behind him. ‘I’ve paid it.’

‘Yeah, but I’m talking about an extra fee.’

Wallace already knew what was coming. He said nothing.

The old bloke moved towards him, one hand fidgeting in his trouser pocket. ‘I thought you and I might come to some sort of understanding. What with your position and all.’ He sniffed. ‘I want a thousand quid.’

‘Or?’

‘The coppers are gonna be round here quick sharp.’ Derek coughed. ‘So?’

First reaction: pay the man. Could give him a grand’s worth of stuff, hard-to-trace items he could sell on. But no guarantee it’d shut him up. Pay an extortionist today and he’s back tomorrow wanting more. Or calling the cops anyway. That’s how they operated, these people. Parasites. The familiar sense of injustice was already kindled. Being taken for a mug. Wallace felt the rage ballooning, making his limbs stiffen, teeth grind. So close to the end, and now this pussyhole was trying to fuck him over. Who did the old prick think he was dealing with? Wallace pictured his dad for a second. He wasn’t having this. One more name had just been added to his list. He blinked, slowed himself down. Smiled.

‘OK,’ he conceded. ‘Grand, yeah?’

Derek stepped forward. ‘Should do the trick.’

‘Or something worth a grand you can ship on?’

‘Fine, long as it’s not marked.’

Wallace turned, knelt. Unzipped both holdalls, displayed the contents of one to Derek. The older man stooped, reached towards a Rolex as Wallace put his hand in the second bag. The angle grinder whirred to life and Derek looked up in time for the blade to plough into his face, opening a cheek, biting into bone and out again. At first he made no sound, just stared at the tool. Wallace slashed the whining disc hard across his throat. A jet of blood hit him, another sprayed upwards and within five seconds the old man’s lifeless body was on the floor, leaking crimson expanding into a pool around his head and shoulders.

The lock-up was silent except for Wallace’s slightly accelerated breathing. He could hear seagulls screeching outside. Chucked the angle grinder back in his bag and stood there looking at the corpse. Blood everywhere. Couldn’t stay here now. Only question was how much time remained. He patted Derek’s pockets. Knuckleduster in one, mobile in the other. Wallace took out the antiquated handset, scrolled through its calls. Clocked the last number dialled. He’d seen it before. Grabbed his copy of the Evening Standard from Friday, flicked to the article and found it. Crimestoppers anonymous tip line. Thirty minutes ago.

Wallace scanned the garage, chucked a couple more items into the holdalls. Swapped the bloodied T-shirt for another one, pulled on his hat and sunglasses. Knew he hadn’t got everything but there was no time to waste. Cracked the garage door, peered through. Nobody there. Hefted both holdalls outside. Closed the big metal slab behind him, locked it and set off into the warm summer afternoon.

---

‘Armed police!’

The Enforcer smashed into the top of the door, snapping open the lock. Two officers moved in on either side, hoisted up the metal, while three more covered the garage, Heckler & Koch MP5 guns trained on the interior. Boateng could see from five metres back that the figure wasn’t Darian Wallace. From the amount of blood on the concrete he could also see that whoever it was had long since died. He pulled on the basic kit to enter: gauze mask, gloves, overshoes. Told his team to stay put.

It’d taken two hours for Armed Response to come off another job, during which time he’d nodded off twice in the car with Jones, exhaustion getting the better of him for a few seconds. Krebs had insisted on regular updates during their surveillance. When no one came in or out of the garage for a further three hours and the firearms lads were bored, complaining about being needed elsewhere, she made the decision to send them in. He’d voiced opposition by radio, still quietly hoping to be able to send his colleagues home one by one until he was alone. But given the lock-up’s contents, it was the right call to enter. Assuming this dead man was the source of the Crimestoppers intel – and it was legit – logic suggested Wallace had killed him and fled.

Boateng stood at the perimeter of pooled blood. Adult humans had about five litres inside them, though to look at this poor sod you’d think it was twice that. Open neck wound indicated a severed artery. The unidentified man’s limbs were already curling slightly with the first stage of rigor mortis, so they were about five hours too late. About the same time since they got the Crimestoppers call. Who was he? That’d become clear soon enough. If Wallace had been here the lock-up could offer a clue to his next move. He’d obviously left in a hurry. Rubbish everywhere: toilet roll, fast food boxes, a plastic Coke bottle filled with what looked like piss.

After taking a good look at the gore, the Armed Response boys had left and were conferring outside, clearly planning to move on. Boateng signalled his team to join him beside the body and they stepped carefully through. Jones suppressed a small gag but stayed put. Connelly shook his head, crossed himself. No humour this time.

‘Who do we think he is?’ Malik didn’t take his eyes off the victim.

‘The source?’ suggested Jones.

‘Maybe.’ Boateng swept a hand around the lock-up’s cramped interior. ‘Let’s check all this stuff.’

‘Should we wait for the SOCOs?’ asked Malik.

‘Normally, yes. But this is a live manhunt, could be actionable leads here. Look for anything that tells us where he might’ve gone. Nas, grab some forensic bags from the car.’

‘Boss.’

Boateng squatted in the far corner, began sorting the detritus of Wallace’s hidden existence. An old Evening Standard lay over a dark shirt reeking of body odour. Lifting the garment, his breath caught. A mobile, plugged into the single socket, charging. Boateng glanced over his shoulder. Jones and Connelly were facing away, absorbed in discussion. Malik hadn’t returned. He took up the device – airplane mode. The simple handset had no PIN. Shielding it with his body, he opened the call log and toggled it to outgoing only. Just two numbers, both mobiles.

Cognitive psychologists have found most people can remember seven digits, give or take. Boateng knew he could manage a whole phone number, but two? Impossible. Could choose one, but what if the other was a better lead? He heard the car boot thunk outside, footsteps. Had to risk it. Took out his own mobile, selected its camera. Snapped a photo of the outgoing calls screen and dropped it back in his pocket. Closed Wallace’s mobile again as Malik approached, and held it out.

‘Get this bagged up and sent to the lab, will you, Nas?’

The young man cocked his head. ‘Might take a couple of days to get anything back.’

‘I know. But if it’s going to be evidence we need to do things by the book. Like Krebs said.’

Malik took the phone. ‘Boss.’

---

Dickhead.

Wallace bashed the heel of his hand into his skull. Why did he lose control with the old man like that? Surely there was an easier way of dealing with the situation – didn’t need to kill him. The guy probably had a wife, kids, family, mates, whoever. A life ended in seconds over a Rolex watch or two. Then again, if he’d paid him off, the feds still might’ve come round; wasn’t clear what Derek had told Crimestoppers. So perhaps he had made the right choice, if you could call it that. Happened so fast, like his unconscious had taken over. Survival instinct or hardwired violence? Maybe he was fooling himself that moving countries and starting again would make a difference. If that rage was in him, like it was in his dad, perhaps he’d never escape it. Magma seething under rock, always there, waiting for a fissure to erupt.

Wallace sat among dense trees below the bridge at Deptford Creek, Thames water lapping against the brick wall below him. Just had to wait a few more hours. Then he could get away from all this shit.

But before that, there was one last person to see. He’d made a promise.