‘Making enough for two?’ Etta wandered into the kitchen, tying the belt on her dressing gown. Zac stood at the hob, stirring porridge. He was already showered, dressed in a pink shirt and navy slacks.

‘Always.’ He grinned, and kissed her. ‘That way if you don’t show I get seconds.’

She punched his shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist, pulling herself into him. ‘When did you get up?’

‘About an hour ago. Kofi and I were playing video games. He’s still in there.’

‘Big day ahead?’

‘Reckon so,’ he replied, dishing up the porridge and scattering blueberries on top. ‘Probably back tonight, sorry.’

‘Kofi and I will be at church this evening.’

He didn’t respond.

‘Come on, love, you know it’s important for Mum and Dad that I’m there. It’s good for Kofi to see his grandparents. And they have nice gospel music.’

Although he liked the traditions of church, Zac had been a religious sceptic since his late teens. Etta, however, had started questioning beliefs held for a lifetime only when Amelia had died. She’d often asked how a loving father could have let that happen. Zac knew she was talking about God, but applied the words equally to himself. He ate a spoonful of porridge too quickly, scalded his mouth.

‘So where are you going this morning?’ she asked, pouring coffee.

He looked up from his bowl and swallowed. ‘To dig up the past.’

---

Heading north on Old Kent Road towards Elephant and Castle, Boateng tapped the steering wheel in time to some blues. The sky overhead was cloudless; it would be one of the year’s longest days.

Krebs had confirmed yesterday that Harris was a Met informer. Now they needed details. Boateng’s destination was Curtis Green Building, the art deco home of New Scotland Yard since late last year. The move to Victoria Embankment had prompted a lot of piss-taking about Met bigwigs just wanting a penthouse bar closer to the Thames. Boateng imagined the roof was a decent spot for cocktails, but this morning he was interested in what lay below ground.

Locked in the basement were hard copies of informant files dating back to 2000, when the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act had begun. The system was only fully automated in 2015, meaning any sources recruited in those fifteen years had a dossier of paper notes. These were kept in case of future inquiry, like the one right now. Harris had been on the payroll, but who had he shopped in exchange for that money?

Having confirmed ID and deposited his phone at reception, Boateng followed the duty constable along a drab corridor, down the stairs. The uniform barely said two words to him as they navigated the building’s underbelly. Probably pissed off about being here on a Sunday. Stopping in front of a large door, the constable tapped a code into the electronic keypad. Curious, Boateng peered over his shoulder; the display was one that shuffled the numbers each time. A click granted them access.

Lights flickered overhead and illuminated a space the size of his entire office, filled with identical filing cabinets, back to back in rows. Each was labelled with acronyms and code words. Boateng recognised many: MAXIM and GENESIUS – the Met’s projects to counter human trafficking and document forgery; SVU – Stolen Vehicle Unit; SIS – Special Intelligence Section. Tough-guy names for operations: VIPER, FALCON, HAWK. This repository housed the sum of civilian lives risked to prevent or detect crime. Most sources were mixed up in dodgy business themselves, hence their access to information. At some point, they’d decided the best chance of surviving was betrayal. Each dossier was trust broken, ends justifying means.

‘Flying Squad’s over there.’ The constable jerked a thumb to the far corner. ‘You want 2004. Your man was known as Cobweb. They’re alphabetical. Nothing can leave here, so make notes and destroy them before you exit the building. Sir.’

Boateng nodded. He found the file, a thick manila folder with string ties. There was Harris, alias Cobweb. Thirteen years on the books. Recruited by Flying Squad officers – the Met’s robbery specialists – in ’04 after being caught flogging stolen goods. Harris flipped on his supplier and the arrangement with Flying Squad became regular. Since then he’d helped convict six men and one woman. None of them was known to Boateng; no reason why they would be. Flicking through, he noted each name and key points of the crime. Armed robbery, smash-and-grab jewellery raid, art theft, muggings for luxury watches, a safe deposit box vault job. Much of Harris’s work was opportunistic, based on spotting when something came his way that wasn’t legit and notifying his handlers. Pausing, Boateng made a list of them too, just in case. He was aware the constable was watching him from the doorway.

‘I’m done,’ he called over. ‘I need a secure terminal upstairs.’

‘Follow me, sir.’

The names he’d scribbled down comprised the best guess they had so far at a suspect list. Next step was to email it to his team and let them get searching on the Met’s Crimint and Police National Computer databases. With any luck there’d be something for him by the time he arrived back at the station.

Replacing the Cobweb file, Boateng turned and headed back to the doorway. That was when he saw it.

TRIDENT.

A row of filing cabinets, one for each year of the Met’s programme to counter gang crime in London, beginning in 1998. Trident developed from an advisory group into an Operational Command Unit, focusing on shootings in black communities. By 2008 it had grown to encompass all firearms incidents in the capital, expanding again in 2012 to cover gang activity more broadly. Gang violence accounted for half of all shootings. And two thirds of gun victims in London were males under twenty-four years old. Like the young man he had found face down in the shop the day Amelia died. Boateng hovered by the drawers marked 2012.

‘If you’re done, sir.’ The constable let the words hang.

‘Yeah,’ replied Boateng, walking past him and out into the dim passageway. ‘I’ve finished.’

But something told him he’d only just started.

---

The low-rise block on Denmark Road in Camberwell was unremarkable. Exactly what Wallace needed. A couple of days here would work before he’d have to move again. He glanced up at the balcony. Damp laundry hung from a slack wire. Good. She was in, or nearby. Jasmine Fletcher was his ex. In two years he’d screwed her around, cheated four times and lied more often than not. It ended when he went to jail. No visits, no heart to hearts. She’d just texted him on the day he had to give up his mobile: We’re done. She’d made a choice. Had a three-year-old to look after, not his. But Wallace knew she still liked him, drawn to the glamour of a real roadman. Someone who could keep her safe. Now he needed her protection.

Wallace tapped gently on the door. ‘Jas?’

‘Who is it?’ came the voice inside.

‘Your special man.’

Pause. ‘Darian?’

‘Yeah, girl.’

He heard footsteps. Door opened a crack, still on the chain. Half a face appeared, one eye scrutinising him. More make-up than last time he’d seen her, glossy hair in a high ponytail. Looked even better than she had before he’d gone to Pentonville prison.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice was quiet.

Wallace chuckled. ‘Come on, baby, I’m out. Had to see you.’

‘We’re kind of busy.’ She shut the door but Wallace blocked it with his foot.

‘Thought you might need some help.’ He displayed a wad of notes.

She stared at them.

‘If you’ve got company I’ll go someplace else,’ he added.

The chain slid back and she opened the door. Wallace stepped inside, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Kissed her cheek, felt her go rigid.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he smiled, teeth showing. ‘Been thinking about you.’ He wandered into the cluttered living room, where a small boy was smashing toy cars together on the carpet. ‘Hello, lickle man,’ beamed Wallace, ruffling the kid’s hair. ‘Remember me?’

‘Course he doesn’t.’ She folded her arms. ‘Why’d you come here?’

He slumped down onto the sofa, peeled off two hundred pounds in twenties and put them on the coffee table. ‘Can I stay a couple nights?’

Silence.

‘Come on, Jas.’ He held open palms up to her. ‘Hook me up. I just need a place to crash for a bit, till I sort something out.’

‘You tagged?’ she said at length. ‘I don’t want no one coming round at night looking for you. Breaking the door down.’

Wallace pulled up both trouser legs. ‘Nope. I’m clean. Gonna get myself a job ’n’ that.’

‘What kind of job?’

He unzipped the duffel bag. Inside was an angle grinder, mallet, chisels and an electric drill. ‘Handyman,’ he replied, drawing out a four-inch nail and pressing its tip into his thumb. ‘Got trained inside.’

Arms still crossed, she said nothing.

‘Two hundred pounds a night?’ he suggested.

‘Two fifty. Two nights max. And you sleep on the sofa.’

Wallace grinned. ‘That’s my girl.’