Chapter Twelve
The industrial estate was in a run-down part of Bermondsey, enveloped by high-rise housing blocks. Even the late morning sunshine couldn’t make it pretty. Still, there were signs of development spreading through anywhere central in London. Supply and demand: the logic of business. Warehouses used three years ago by struggling artists or food packers now housed architects, artisanal coffee roasters and brand management creatives.
Thumping bass became loud funk as Boateng pushed open the door to K Studios. He recognised it immediately: James Brown’s ‘Super Bad’. Exchanging a glance with Jones, they followed the sound to a room off the reception. A gaggle of boys and girls in their late teens circled a guy squatting on the laminate wood floor. He was small, a muscular upper body evident despite his loose tracksuit. The grade one all-over buzz cut left his scalp visible.
‘Your right foot comes around here, yeah?’ he explained without looking up. ‘Right to left. Then step back with the left and back again across with the right, so you’re in like a push-up position. Got it? Right, left, right.’
‘I never could manage that,’ Boateng grinned at Jones, before rapping his knuckles hard enough on the door to be heard above the music. The whole group turned towards him. Boateng flashed his warrant card. ‘Trent Parker?’
Parker froze for a second, still in a press-up, then flipped himself into a standing position in one movement. ‘Work on the six-step, yeah?’ he told the students, who were unable to hide their excitement. ‘Back in a minute.’
They took the low sofas in reception. There was no one else around and James Brown’s screams were too loud for the students to overhear the conversation.
‘The Godfather of Soul,’ said Boateng. ‘Good choice. My favourite track by him is “The Boss”, though.’
Parker smiled. ‘What’s this about?’ The accent was pure south London. He had lean features, almost good-looking if they hadn’t been so rat-like.
‘Darian Wallace.’
Parker swallowed.
‘Did you know he was out?’
‘I heard something like that.’
Boateng leaned forward. ‘Have you seen him?’
Parker made a brief choking sound. Might have been a laugh. ‘Nope.’
‘Why’s that funny?’ asked Jones.
Parker looked her up and down before responding. ‘You lot know. Must’ve read the file. Man’d kill me.’
Boateng clasped his hands. ‘Wallace is the main suspect in a murder investigation we’re running.’ He used the term ‘main’ rather than ‘only’.
‘Murder?’ Parker’s face became even paler.
‘Did you see the London news yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘Seems he didn’t waste any time after his release. Victim was a pawnbroker in Deptford called Harris.’ Boateng paused, watched Parker recognise the name and tense up, shrinking in his seat. ‘We think the motive was probably revenge.’
Parker was silent. Ran a hand over his head. Glanced from Boateng to Jones and back.
‘Do you know where he might be?’ Boateng held his gaze, searching for any sign.
Parker didn’t blink. ‘Ain’t seen him for over two years. And like I said, man might come cut me up after what happened. Did what I had to do. Back then my baby was six months. Couldn’t leave the kid and her mum alone. Now I’m just on a quiet thing.’ Turned his head side to side, took in the dance studios. ‘Do my job, pay my rent, stay out of trouble, away from man like Wallace.’
‘That’s the main reason we’re here, Trent,’ said Jones. ‘We’d like to offer you some protection.’
Parker sniggered. ‘Protection? By you lot?’ Slumped back on the sofa, bravado regained.
‘We consider Darian Wallace to be highly dangerous,’ Jones continued. ‘It’s standard procedure that in these situations we—’
‘I’m not shook, yeah?’ Parker stared at her, jaw set. ‘Not scared of no one.’
‘Nobody said you were, Trent.’ Boateng’s voice was even. ‘But there’s no shame having a bit of help sometimes.’ He’d known that line to work before on younger guys, pride and machismo stopping them from admitting fear.
‘I don’t need no help,’ Parker snapped. ‘Specially not from no Five-O. Take care of my own self.’
Boateng nodded. ‘OK. But don’t do anything you’re going to regret.’ Paused. ‘That’s just my personal advice.’
‘I’ve got a class to teach.’ Checked out Jones again. ‘Want some new moves?’
‘No, thanks.’
They stood.
‘Appreciate your time.’ Boateng held out his card. Parker let it hang in the air. Boateng placed it on the sofa arm. ‘In case you change your mind. Or you see Wallace.’
Parker turned and tried to walk casually but Boateng perceived new tension in his limbs. Seen it a thousand times. Fear.
James Brown’s scream pierced the room again.
Bit windy up here.
Spike sipped tea from the lid of his thermos. Not a bad brew. He was in a decent spot, with eyes on Jasmine Fletcher’s flat, seven floors down. Shifted position slightly, leaned his back on the chimney. Calculated it from the ground: he’d be invisible here to most of Crawford estate. It was easy enough to get up the block’s internal stairs. Fire escape brought him to the roof.
Recon. That’s what they called it in the military. Posh word for sitting and watching for hours. But it had to be done.
Colonel Patey’s contact in the Met – the one the client gave them – had pulled the file on Wallace off the Crimint system and whatsapped the photos of it to Spike’s unregistered mobile. He didn’t much care for apps – load of bollocks, mostly – but WhatsApp was alright. Hard to crack: a closed network with decent message encryption. Good enough for this kind of job.
The first page of the file had given Wallace’s address in the hostel in Peckham. Pure Delboy and Rodders territory. But when he’d gone there, Wallace’s room was kicked open and the place was empty. Police tape across the door, but no coppers. One geezer there was having Polish lager for breakfast. For twenty quid he told Spike he’d not seen Wallace since Friday night. Spike thanked him and issued a simple threat never to tell anyone they’d spoken. Didn’t even need to say ‘Or…’ – the fella got the message, clutching his can and nodding furiously. Might’ve been reliable, might not. Spike gave him the benefit of the doubt. Made sense that Wallace had vanished if he smashed the pawnbroker’s head in. Only a mug would stay in his registered address after that with an electronic tag. Might as well send up a flare. Grunted a laugh to himself.
Think like your enemy. If you’re on the run, you can’t use a hotel, can’t go anywhere central. Gotta stay with someone you trust, off the radar. Use other people’s phones and computers. File said his old man was an alcoholic ex-squaddie who’d disappeared off to Scotland. So not him. Mum was in a care home. Probably couldn’t go there either. Wallace had no siblings. Next most obvious: girlfriend or ex.
If it were him, Spike thought, he’d go to an ex. Not his ex-wife, she’d turn him in. An ex who still liked him, if that existed. He thought about it. Nope, no such thing. Spike always burned his bridges, somehow. Maybe it felt safer that way. Didn’t want to get too close to anyone or stay too long, it made you weaker. Vulnerable to… he didn’t know what. Slapped his own cheek; he was getting distracted.
File listed Jasmine Fletcher as Wallace’s bird when he did the robbery. So here Spike was in Camberwell, sitting and watching her flat. Recon.
Didn’t have all day though. She and a boy had come in about two hours ago with Co-op bags. Three hours later they were still at home. Just needed them to go out again and he could take a look inside the flat. See if Wallace had been there. If not, he might need to use Plan C: widen the network.
Spike peered through the zoom lens at Jasmine Fletcher’s window, focused it manually. Nothing going on.
Police car cruised past her building. Skoda Octavia estate. He’d seen the same one twice in twenty minutes now. Call sign in big black letters on the roof: thanks for the confirmation, lads. Too frequent to be their normal beat. Helpfully, one of them pointed through the window towards Fletcher’s block. So the coppers were keeping an eye on her too.
A curtain closed in the flat and less than one minute later Fletcher and the kid appeared at the communal doorway to their low-rise block. Started walking south. Spike considered tailing in case she was heading to an RV with Wallace. Possible, but more likely he was in the flat – if he was here at all. He removed the pistol from his bag and tucked it into the small of his back, handle resting over his belt and to the right.
Spike put his ear to the door. Nothing. Nudged it forward with his toe. Slipped the shove knife into the jamb and worked it up, through and down to the lock. Over the catch. Pulled gently towards him. Click. Piece of piss. Right hand reached back under the jacket to his Sig. Left hand teased the front door open.
Messy interior. Normal small kid signs. Listened. Scanned around quickly: living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. Checked the wardrobe and long cupboard. No one here.
Back in the living room, he clocked the sofa. Slight angle to the wall, little compressed circle of carpet where one foot usually rested. Spike lay prone and examined the gap under it. Canvas bag. Probed it with a gloved finger. Tools. Pretty sure they weren’t the chick’s. And a roll of banknotes, looked like a grand at least.
On the small table sat a half-eaten bowl of cornflakes, a newspaper underneath. He lifted the corner. A cheap magazine lay beneath, face down. He extracted it. Greyhound racing programme, Wimbledon track. Flicked some pages, saw hand-jotted notes. Bloke’s writing. Maths. He was briefly thinking how he was never much good with numbers when he heard something slam.
Spike’s left hand whipped back and lifted the jacket as his right drew. Instantly his aim covered the doorway. Slow breaths. Pistol level, arms steady. Nothing happened. He crept sideways, peered through. Front door was still shut. Must’ve been a neighbour. Damned flats so close together. Replaced the Sig.
Wallace had been here, Spike was sure. And he’d want those tools, they were his MO. So, assuming the cops didn’t have him, it was very likely he’d return. Probably after the bird and her kid got in. Which meant all Spike had to do was head back up to the roof and wait. He slid the dog-racing programme back under the newspaper.
The night light cast long shadows across Zac’s face. He sat on the top stair, cradling his chin with both hands. Kofi was tucked up in bed, but he wasn’t ready to go back downstairs, despite the teriyaki smell coming from the kitchen. He heard the sizzling pan and notes tumbling rapidly from John Coltrane’s sax in the kitchen. Play a snatch of Coltrane and you hear chaos. Listen to the whole track and there’s order. That’s what he needed now: order from chaos.
Talking to Night Vision this morning had sent Zac’s head into a tailspin. Could his Met colleagues have put a lid on the murder investigation five years ago to work their own op? Same guys he’d line up next to in the canteen, join for five-a-side football, share a beer with at someone’s leaving drinks? Boateng couldn’t fathom it.
Thompson had given him a single name, or rather, three digits: 210. It came from a thread on the chatroom page set up by King’s mates: Draymond RIP. People had been posting under aliases like Killer Clown and Gatman about how Draymond had been in too deep. Others replied to say those guys didn’t know what they were talking about. Some – mostly females – just appealed for the violence to stop. Enough is enough. Thompson had found the still-active page on his mobile and showed Zac in the car. Buried among the hundreds of comments, one user with alias IceKing99 had written, Dats wot u git wen u fuk wid da 210.
Thompson thought Two-Ten was responsible. He’d suggested that because there was no drug connection, it must have been something personal. But he couldn’t say what. Draymond didn’t tell him anything before he died, though Thompson hadn’t seen him around as much in the few months before. The name Two-Ten was alien. Didn’t even know if it was a person, group, place – or all three, like Thompson believed.
‘Ready, love!’ Etta’s voice snapped him out of it.
‘Smells good,’ he said quietly as Etta placed salmon fillets on heaped noodles. Realised he could have been more enthusiastic. He needed a beer. Automatically, he reached into the fridge for a bottle, cracked it open.
‘I already poured you some wine.’
‘Alright,’ he protested. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘You could’ve looked on the table.’
‘I’ll drink both.’ Zac scraped his chair back, sat down heavily. Grabbed a half lime and crushed it over his food.
‘Hard day?’ Etta spun some noodles around her fork.
‘Yeah.’
They ate in silence.
‘So how was your meeting?’
‘Which one?’
‘This morning. The early one. Reason I had to take Kofi to school.’
‘OK.’
‘Who did you have to meet?’
‘Can’t say, it’s about the case.’
She nodded, sipped her wine.
After a while, Etta spoke. ‘You know, you don’t have to act like this. Whatever it is, you can talk to me.’
Zac didn’t respond.