Boateng popped his car’s central locking, slid into the driver’s seat. Reached across, pulled out the pistol. Glancing up his street and checking the mirrors for passers-by, he quickly reloaded the clip with 9 mm rounds from the ammo box. Gloves made sure he left no prints on the casings. He’d wiped the whole thing down earlier too. Filled a mag, inserted it, but didn’t rack the slide: a bullet in the chamber risked accidental discharge, like in Mamba’s car the other night. If the gun did go off, it would be deliberate. His numbed brain started attempting to work through a ‘heat-of-the-moment’ defence as he stared at the pistol. Snapping out of the trance, he stowed his weapon in the door pocket and gunned the engine, tearing off towards Neon’s house. Drove like a madman, overtaking at every chance, slamming the horn to any dawdlers.

He parked down the street from the Grant residence in Honor Oak Estate. Tucked the gun into his jacket and crept towards the front door, scanning the pavement, open spaces, shadows. Wasn’t sure what he expected to find at the tiny flat in Spalding House. Realistically nothing except the Grants and his own son. Best he could hope for was something to help close the net on Wallace. Still, a small part of him hoped the murdering bastard might actually be there. With surprise on his side, Boateng would confront him and make the arrest. Reassured himself that was the plan. But if Wallace had laid a finger on Kofi…

No answer when he knocked on the door. Maybe Shanice Grant didn’t hear him. Surely not asleep already? It was only ten fifteen. Boateng knocked gently again. Eventually movement came from within and she appeared, rubbing her eyes. Opened the door fully once she saw him. ‘Zac, is everything alright? Must’ve dozed off in front of the telly, y’know? Didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow mor—’

‘Is he here?’ whispered Boateng, right hand inside his jacket.

‘Kofi? Of course, he’s in Neon’s bedroom. They should’ve put the light out by now, I told them—’

‘Not Kofi. Darian Wallace.’

She swallowed, glanced upstairs.

Boateng clapped his left hand on her shoulder, spoke quietly through gritted teeth. ‘Is he in your house?’

Shanice bit her lip.

‘Up there?’

She nodded.

He drew the pistol into a cup-and-saucer grip, moved in towards the staircase. Above him the first floor was all darkness. Put one foot on the bottom step, which groaned as his weight shifted to it. Boateng froze. He mimed quiet to Shanice, motioned her to kill the hall lights by the front door. Then he directed her back inside the lounge, where the TV murmured, a burst of laughter followed by applause from a studio audience. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, he edged up the stairs, back to the wall. Hoped Wallace hadn’t heard their exchange, that he’d assume the creaks were simply Neon’s mum heading up to bed. Heart thumping quickly as he reached the top, everything was still.

Boateng had been here enough times to know the basic layout. Three small bedrooms and a bathroom. Neon’s door off the landing was ajar, and he approached slowly. Aiming his pistol into the gap, he eased it open with his foot. Saw Neon lying in bed, duvet twisted around him. Moonlight spilled through thin curtains onto a TV and little desk. One slow breath and he kicked the door, rounding it with pistol raised.

Kofi’s sleeping bag lay empty on the roll mat.

Telling himself to keep calm, Boateng pushed the bedroom door to, shook Neon gently. ‘Where’s Kofi?’ he asked the bleary-eyed kid.

‘Uh?’

‘Neon! Where is he? Kofi.’

‘Dunno.’

‘What about Darian Wallace?’

The toilet flush outside cut through their exchange. Boateng stepped back, covered the bedroom door with his pistol sights. Lowered a flat hand to Neon, who lay still. Soft footsteps approached. The door creaked open and Boateng felt his hands start to tremble as it swung inwards. Held his breath.

‘Dad!’

Kofi stood in the doorway, his features picked out by light from the window. Boateng exhaled heavily, lowered the Glock. Beckoned his son in. ‘Both of you need to tell me right now: where’s Darian Wallace?’

The two boys broke their stares at the gun, exchanged a guilty look.

‘Come on!’ he hissed.

‘He left,’ replied Kofi. ‘But we don’t know where he went.’

---

Ten minutes later, Boateng was sitting in front of the TV, using a video game controller to navigate its web browsing history. Neon had told him about Wallace’s previous visit, his demand to use the machine. Boateng inferred it was his means to obtain online information with minimal exposure. Amazingly his list of pages was still there. Had Wallace been too rushed to delete it, or too confident? Perhaps he didn’t know the process. It wasn’t straightforward on a games console; Boateng had to pull up a YouTube video to help him find the archive. All this cost time in which Wallace would be putting distance between them. But he knew that haring off into the night wasn’t the way to find his quarry. He needed intel.

As Boateng read, Neon recounted Wallace’s parting advice on making the right choices in life. Then he’d said a serious goodbye. Probably meant he was planning to leave very soon. Maybe even tonight.

Scrolling down the sites visited, Boateng noted extensive research that made sense of one number he’d discovered on Wallace’s mobile. Vessel and engine types, ports in France, examination of maritime message boards. Wallace had looked for boat skippers and followed up with background searches on some of them. He’d also accessed a tide calculator for North Woolwich. The UK Hydrographic Office data had been examined for several days, but only tomorrow’s results were cross-referenced with a weather forecast. A further search of locations around Docklands appeared to focus down on Trinity Buoy Wharf. Boateng’s thoughts raced as he pieced it all together, willing his brain to work more efficiently. The boat skipper’s phone number, the tidal and weather data, the potential departure site at East India Docks, the goodbye to Neon. His best guess was that it all pointed to one thing: Wallace was planning to escape in the early hours of tomorrow morning.

He told the two boys to go back to bed, kissed Kofi goodnight and went downstairs. Didn’t know what to say to Shanice Grant about letting Wallace into her house, he’d deal with that later. Had to get to East India Docks right now. Maybe he was already too late. Briefly considered calling it in, or even sending a text to Connelly, Jones or Malik. Dismissed the idea quickly without further exploration. ‘No time’ was the reason he gave himself.

Driving away from Honor Oak Estate towards the main road, heading east, Boateng twice glimpsed another vehicle behind him. The same dark saloon on two quiet streets with no other traffic. Checked his rear-view mirror again on the main road but saw nothing except the snaking red and white lights of night traffic.

Passing the sign for Blackwall Tunnel to take him under the river, he floored the accelerator.

---

Things were getting a bit tasty.

Spike struggled to keep up without making it obvious he was in pursuit. The copper was driving like a lunatic. Less chance he’d spot the car behind, at least. Heading north towards the river, the O2 arena loomed up ahead like some giant spacecraft. Boateng’s dark green car was six in front.

Emerging from Blackwall Tunnel, the copper hooked a left onto the A13 before quickly circling back south again. Spike stayed with him as the road twisted around the River Lea and it became obvious Boateng was aiming for a spit of land off the docks. The solo mission, urgent driving and random location meant the geezer probably knew something important. Could be a false alarm. Could be Wallace.

Spike slowed, watched the copper as he turned into the road leading to Trinity Buoy Wharf. Bunch of giant warehouses. Killed his lights, spun the car round and parked up a hundred metres away from Boateng’s wagon. Made sure his nose was facing out for a quicker getaway after. Old habits.

The wharf was dark and quiet, a low traffic hum the only background noise. Spike retrieved his bag from the boot, slung it over one shoulder. Needed high ground. He scanned the buildings, mostly big units of corrugated iron and shabby brickwork. Saw the red glow above of Bow Creek lighthouse. That’ll do. Pulled on his motorbike face mask.

Scaling the drainpipe and scrambling up the pitched warehouse roof, Spike used the iron ladder to reach the lighthouse dome’s top deck. Clocked the camera. Bollocks. Considered taking it out before concluding no one was likely to be watching at ten past eleven on a Wednesday night. Sabotaging it would only draw attention, set off an alarm somewhere. If he kept low and still, any mug looking probably wouldn’t see him directly beneath it, all black gear at dark o’clock. Worth the risk for his 360 view.

Spike took out the Diemaco sniper rifle, screwed on a sound suppressor, extended its stock and bipod, settled into the prone position. Flicked on his night scope. The world became a grainy circle of greens, white and black. Not much wind tonight, that was good. He’d tested the rifle last week with his usual home-made hollow point rounds, zeroed the sights for around 150 metres, got a nice grouping. Boded well, although not for Wallace.

Or the copper, if necessary.

---

Unpaid overtime. The worst kind. Still, Jones didn’t have other plans tonight. She’d done a good gym session this morning, and after they’d discovered Wallace’s newest victim in the lock-up garage, working on their main case seemed like the most useful thing she could do right now. She had been tempted earlier by the cinema trip her flatmates suggested, it’d be a great way to switch off, but Boateng would appreciate the help here, and it seemed like he was under a lot of pressure right now. That was understandable: the buck stopped with him on Wallace. Well, technically it stopped with Krebs, but Jones suspected any failure would rapidly slide off her and hit Boateng.

Maybe that was just the way you got on in the Met, and Krebs was certainly doing well. And Jones would be lying if she said she herself hadn’t been strategic to get to DS in only five years. But letting others take the blame was something else… Would it ever come to that for her? Dad wouldn’t have done that. He always said you needed to be able to ‘look yourself in the mirror and know you did the right thing’. But how did you know what the right thing was? She’d discovered that reality was often more complex than her Dad had made out, though his moral compass never seemed to waver. Neither would hers, Jones resolved: whatever her career ambitions, she liked and respected Boateng too much to let him take sole responsibility for failure on this case. That’s what kept her in the office at 11 p.m., crunching data. Her boss was probably home with his family, putting a boundary around the Job, hopefully getting a few hours to relax. Good for him. She admired Boateng’s work-life balance. Which was why she’d agonised over interrupting his evening.

Jones had retrieved the log off Wallace’s phone before it’d gone to the lab. Figured there could be something urgent on there. Bit weird that Boateng wasn’t fussed and had asked Malik to bag it up before they’d done a quick-and-dirty on the SIM. She’d used her initiative: actioned the request immediately then followed up with a call to the mobile company’s contact. A sweet, geeky guy she used to chat to back in her Cyber Crime days. Told him what a legend he was, asked him very nicely if there was any way he could possibly run the billing data before leaving for the night. He’d obliged.

Wallace hadn’t done much with the phone: he was obviously savvy about using it, leaving traces. But one number stood out, called six times in the last few days. Jones had hit the online research from all angles in the past couple of hours and worked up the profile. Steve Miller, a forty-six-year-old boat owner from Kent who chartered his vessel out for day trips. Police National Computer said he did two years for smuggling cigarettes from France with his brother in 2009. She felt her excitement grow as Wallace’s plan crystallised, and with it the realisation she had to tell Boateng. Now.

No answer from his mobile. Jones left a message saying she needed to speak to him now. Tried again five minutes later, same result. Texted, no reply. Went to the intranet spreadsheet of Lewisham MIT staff, called his home.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

‘Er, is this Zac Boateng’s home?’

‘Who is this?’

‘I’m DS Kat Jones, I work with your husband. Could I speak to him please? Sorry to call so late. It’s urgent.’

A brief snort came down the line, then a moment’s silence. ‘I thought he was at work. He’s not with you?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And it’s urgent?’

‘Yes.’

‘About his current case?’

‘That’s right.’

Boateng’s wife clicked her tongue. ‘You’re in Lewisham now?’

‘Yup.’

‘I think you’d better come over.’

---

Etta had been feeling great. Sweated buckets at circuit training, jumped in the shower and headed for dinner and a drink with Jennie. Nattered away to her old mate, swapped funny stories about their kids. Hoped she’d return to find Zac at home, and with Kofi at Neon’s house for the night, perhaps they could even…

But he hadn’t been there. She’d assumed he was still at work till this Jones woman called. Zac’s younger, female colleague. Who was attractive, as Etta had suspected. Whom she’d briefly worried was getting it on with her husband, until he’d fessed up to the real problem. And who was now standing in their kitchen saying the same thing as her: I thought he was with you. They faced one another across the flagstones.

‘Zac told you he was at home?’ asked Etta.

‘Yeah, said he was hoping to have an early night for once. That was about seven.’

Etta folded her arms. ‘Do you think he’s gone after Darian Wallace?’

‘Alone?’ Jones frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’

Etta hesitated. She was reluctant to breach Zac’s confidence, but after the dog attack and God knows what else he’d done, she was concerned. For his safety if she did nothing; for his career if she did something.

‘If I tell you what he told me,’ she began, searching the young woman’s face for a signal of trust. ‘Do you promise to keep it to yourself?’

Jones swallowed. ‘OK.’

Etta took a breath. ‘Darian Wallace murdered our daughter.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Jones. ‘How? I mean, sorry, how do you know?’

‘Zac said a gang member who’d driven the motorbike away from the shooting confessed to him.’ Etta fought to muster her self-control but could feel tears coming. ‘He even thought someone from the Met was involved with shutting down the inquiry at the time.’

‘Oh my God. Why?’

‘He wasn’t sure.’

‘How did he find this out?’

Etta flexed her eyebrows. ‘He’s been doing some freelancing…’

Jones nodded. ‘Explains why he hasn’t seemed himself at work. I’ve been worried about him.’

You’ve been worried about him, thought Etta. Try being married to the guy.

‘Think he wants to find Wallace on his own?’ asked Jones.

‘I know my husband. He was full of anger about Amelia’s murder for years. I was too, at the beginning, but for me it shifted over time to something else, to sadness. Zac held on to the anger much more. He’s pretty bloody stubborn. And he’s been taking some risks recently.’ Etta gave the true account of his dog bite, Jones’s eyes widening in shock as she spoke.

‘Any idea where he might’ve gone?’ asked Jones.

Etta reached for the tablet, tapped and swiped across. Opened Glympse, held it up for Jones. ‘If we find him with this, can you go look for him?’ She was trying to sound calm, knew she wasn’t pulling it off. ‘Just make sure he’s OK?’

‘Of course.’

‘Without involving your other colleagues? Please.’

Jones held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.