‘Just pull the trigger. Go on.’

The boy’s hand wasn’t big enough to wrap around the grip of the electric drill. Extending it to him, Wallace came off the sofa and knelt on the carpet. ‘I’ll hold it for you.’

Wide-eyed with concentration, the boy reached out and pushed the plastic trigger. The bit whirred to life, a loud shrill. He giggled, reaching for the drill with both hands. Wallace held it slightly out of reach, chuckling, before presenting it again and letting the boy hit the trigger to release another burst.

‘Oi! What you doing?’

Wallace turned to see Jasmine, hands on hips, staring him down.

‘Gettin’ him started early,’ he grinned. ‘He could be a handyman like me.’

‘That’s not funny, Darian, take it away from him. Reece, you know you’re not allowed to play with things like that.’

‘Let him have some fun, Jas,’ protested Wallace. ‘It’s just a game.’

She leaned forward, raising her voice. ‘No one’s gonna be laughing when he cuts his hand open, are they?’

‘Chill out.’ Wallace sucked his teeth.

‘Chill out?’ she screamed. ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do in my house!’

‘It’s not your house, is it? It’s Lambeth Council’s.’

Her face darkened. ‘If your mum could see you now… You’re a disgrace. Maybe your old man didn’t hit you hard enough.’

Wallace shot up and in one stride closed the gap between them. He clamped his left hand over Jasmine’s mouth, driving her backwards. Her body thumped against cheap plasterboard. His right hand pressed the pointed tip of the drill bit into her neck. She froze.

‘Don’t you ever talk about my Mum and Dad. Never.’

Eyes bulging, she searched his face, looking for mercy, humour. There was nothing. She glanced at her son, watching silently from the carpet. ‘Please, Darian,’ she managed to whisper through his hand. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t. I didn’t mean to say that.’

Wallace relinquished his grip on her face, held the drill out to one side and pressed the trigger briefly, revving the motor. He cracked a smile. ‘I’m only playin’, babe.’

Jasmine was silent, shaking.

Examining a tiny drop of blood where the bit had pierced her neck, he tutted. ‘You’ve cut yourself, Jas. Here, let me.’ He leaned in and kissed her throat slowly. She remained against the wall. Wallace pulled back and his expression softened. ‘You know I’d never hurt you or Reece, right?’

‘Course not,’ she replied quietly.

‘Look, I’ll put this stuff away.’ He dropped the drill into his holdall, zipped it shut and pushed it under the sofa. ‘Reece, you don’t touch any of that, you understand?’ The boy nodded.

Wallace flopped down on the sofa and let out a sigh. ‘Jas, gimme your phone.’

She picked the iPhone up from the table and handed it to him without a word.

‘What’s the passcode?’

‘Twenty-one oh-five.’

Wallace frowned. ‘Your birthday? That’s not very secure, is it?’ His eyes flicked to Reece. ‘You’ve gotta think about safety, Jas.’

‘Sorry.’ She stared at the floor, picking a nail. ‘Um, do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Yeah, white one,’ he said without looking up. ‘Cheers.’ Wallace tapped in the passcode and opened the web browser. He googled ‘Breakdance classes London’ and began scanning the hits.

---

‘Sick tune, Zac.’ Jones moved her head to the beat as a harmonica solo filled the car. Denmark Hill sped past, hospitals flanking the road. Their destination was two minutes away. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Junior Wells. “Messin’ with the Kid”. Classic.’

‘Need some of that in my collection.’

‘He nearly didn’t make it. Wells, I mean. Got arrested for stealing a harmonica at fourteen. Thieves were in deep shit in forties America, all the more so if you were a “Negro”.’ He made quotation marks with his fingers. ‘Judge asked him to play in court. Apparently he was so good they dropped the case and his judge paid for the stolen harmonica himself. Set him on the right path in life.’

Jones laughed. ‘If only all criminals could be redeemed with talent. Any chance our man Wallace is using his massive brain for good now he’s out?’

Boateng turned to her. He didn’t need to say anything.

---

Trent Parker was his name. Snake in the grass. Wallace used to roll with him on the regular. They were tight like brothers. Met at primary school, stayed close and were mixed up in all kinds of shit by their teens. Parker was a white kid from the Akerman Road estate. Small but strong, breakdancer in a b-boy crew called Flying Daggers. He’d done some time inside too, for theft. The safe deposit box job had been his idea. Heard about it in prison. Maximum takings, minimum collateral – the places were unstaffed at night. No weapons, didn’t need any violence. Non-domestic target, so even if you were caught your sentence could never be higher than ten years. Plead guilty, reduce it to eight. Serve half, out in four or less. Worth the risk.

Parker came to Wallace for the planning. Said he knew a guy who worked there called Ash. Wallace was tempted by the money. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions. He’d be able to start a new life someplace else. He’d planned it to the finest detail, and the job went smoothly. There was just one thing he didn’t factor in: human weakness. They’d agreed to leave the takings for a year, let things blow over. But Parker had tried to flog his share to that pawnbroker snitch. Then the feds turned Parker on him. There was a code. Parker had broken it. Wallace had to make him understand that.

The ninth website he checked yielded what he wanted. No name, but a photograph of a dance instructor surrounded by half a dozen kids in the studio. Image posted one month ago. He had a new beard, and his face was angled away from the camera, but there was no doubt: it was Parker. Wallace memorised the Bermondsey address, and dumping his unfinished mug of tea on the table, he left the flat.

---

‘This is the place.’ Boateng checked his notebook and pocketed it. ‘I was thinking, Kat, why don’t you lead? Fletcher’s about your age, might help engage her. Give me a chance to snoop as well.’

Jones knocked on the door. ‘Jasmine Fletcher?’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Sorry to trouble you, Ms Fletcher, it’s the police.’

‘I didn’t call you.’

‘Of course, we just wanted to ask for your help.’

‘Hang on.’

They heard Fletcher speaking in maternal cadences before a chain slid back and a slim, pretty woman in her mid twenties opened the door. She wore cut-off denim hot pants and a tight T-shirt. There was a small plaster on her neck.

‘Could we come in for a few minutes, please, Ms Fletcher?’

She barred the doorway with an arm. ‘What’s it about?’

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding Darian Wallace. You’re not in any trouble,’ Jones said, smiling to confirm it.

Fletcher glanced from Jones to Boateng, then stood aside to let them in.

‘Hello there,’ exclaimed Boateng as he discovered the little boy playing with cars in the living room. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Reece.’

‘And how old are you, Reece?’

‘Five.’

Fletcher sat on the sofa. ‘He starts school in September. Can’t believe it.’

‘Happens so fast,’ he replied. ‘I have a ten-year-old.’

‘Aw, sweet.’

Jones cleared her throat. ‘Ms Fletcher, we believe you know a man named Darian Wallace, is that right?’

Fletcher stiffened slightly. ‘Did.’

‘Sorry to ask a personal question, but were the two of you a couple?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Did you know that Mr Wallace was released from prison last week?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might be, do you?’ continued Jones.

‘No.’

‘Does the name Ivor Harris mean anything to you?’

She shrugged. ‘No.’

As Jones explained their interest in Wallace, Boateng scanned the room. The walls were bare except for a mirror and a forty-inch plasma screen with CBeebies on mute. There was a mug on the table. His gaze travelled over the carpet and toy cars towards Reece and alighted on a straight metal object beside the table. Boateng leaned over and picked it up. About four inches long, steel. He waited for a lull in the conversation. Held the nail out to Fletcher.

‘Did you know this was on the floor?’

She stared at it in silence for a moment before taking it from him. ‘God, the handyman must’ve dropped that.’ She glanced at Reece. ‘Lucky you spotted it. He could’ve got hold of it.’

‘Handyman?’

‘Yeah, he put up the mirror the other day.’ She gestured above the sofa.

Boateng nodded. ‘Is your neck alright, Ms Fletcher?’

She instinctively touched the small circular bandage. ‘Oh, yeah, thanks.’

‘How did you hurt yourself?’

Fletcher blinked. ‘Accident in the kitchen. Stupid really. I’m ok.’

Boateng caught Jones’s eye and turned his wristwatch.

‘Well,’ beamed Jones. ‘Thanks for your time, Ms Fletcher. If you think of anything that might help us locate Mr Wallace, here’s my card. Mobile’s on there. Call any time.’

---

Boateng spun the car around and parked down the street, with a line of sight to the front door of Fletcher’s block.

‘What did you think?’ he asked.

‘She was scared, when we mentioned Wallace.’

‘Yup. And she was lying.’

‘Probably. About what specifically?’

‘I think she did know Wallace was out. He may even have been there.’

Jones turned in the seat. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You’d notice a shiny four-inch nail on your floor pretty fast. She said the handyman dropped it the other day. But the mirror had a ton of dust on top. I’d guess it’s been up weeks – months, even. She must’ve lied for a reason. Maybe because the nail belonged to Wallace. He seems fond of tools.’

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

Boateng continued to watch the street. ‘Her breath smelled of coffee.’

‘I noticed.’

‘Mug on the table had tea in it. Caught a whiff when I picked up the nail.’

‘Doesn’t prove anything, does it? Perhaps she had tea earlier,’ suggested Jones. ‘Or a friend dropped by?’

‘And maybe her five-year-old drank it.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Plus the injury. Who cuts their neck in the kitchen? She lied to us, and I think it was to protect Wallace. Not because of love. She’s scared of him. Body language changed when you mentioned his name.’

‘I know what you’re saying,’ conceded Jones, ‘but what can we do about it? There’s no proof she committed a crime. Maybe she just didn’t trust us – a lot of people don’t. Especially in these communities.’ She indicated the housing blocks around them.

‘Right. That’s why we’re staying here for a while to see what happens. She might be our key to finding Wallace.’

---

One hour passed. Then two. Three. No one resembling Wallace entered or exited the block. Though not a long stint in surveillance terms, it was more than Boateng could justify given the speculative lead. It was nearly 7.30 p.m. They checked in with Connelly and Malik: no sign of Wallace at his previous address either.

‘We could be here all night,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s call it a day. Not a lot more we can do without the forensics report. Enjoy what’s left of your weekend. Plans?’

‘My flatmates are heading to a comedy gig in New Cross. Might still be in time to join them.’

‘I could do with some laughs.’

She paused. ‘If you wanna come along, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind—’

‘Thanks,’ he smiled. ‘Maybe another time – recce it for a team night out. I’ll drop you off.’

---

Unlocking the front door, Zac remembered that Etta and Kofi would still be at church for another hour. He felt drained. It’d been two long days working on the Harris murder, without much to show for it. And after his visit to the Scotland Yard vault that morning, there were other things on his mind. Zac made himself a quick plate of scrambled eggs on toast, wolfed it down and took a cold bottle of Brockley Brewery pale ale up to his little music room.

The 1957 King Zephyr tenor saxophone gleamed on its stand. A beautiful creation. He smiled, recalling how he’d begun on a clapped-out sax, courtesy of his first Met pay cheque. His dad had bought a watch when he found a proper job in London, and Zac wanted to commemorate starting work in some way too. He’d no idea how to play the damn thing. After twenty years of jamming and the occasional lesson he was starting to get the hang of it, though the neighbours might not agree.

Lifting the sax, he looped the strap round his neck and moistened his lips, gently touching the keys. Warming up with a few scales and twelve-bar blues, the image of the Trident 2012 filing cabinet came back. He’d been cut out of the investigation into the triple murder at the newsagent. He’d offered all his help, but top brass said he was too close and it was Southwark MIT’s case anyway. Their leads had gone nowhere: stalling on witnesses, getaway motorbike stolen, escape route lost on CCTV, no ballistics trace. Some rumours circulating in gangland were picked up by sources, but the intended victim was a junior and few seemed to care. Dead ends piled up until the case was shelved. Zac lobbied tirelessly, but nothing changed. Amelia’s death – like the other two that day – were added to the Met’s list of several hundred unsolved murders.

The Trident files kindled the faintest hope of something new. Could an informant run in 2012 reignite the case? Chances were slim: the stable of sources would have been pumped for intelligence at the time. Some might be dead themselves, in prison or moved out of London. Pursuing any fresh inquiry through official channels would be impossible. There was no way the Trident team would allow Zac to delve into their work on a whim. He’d have to find another way. That’d be tough, risky.

But Amelia deserved it.

Zac switched his fingering, began to play ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’.