Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday, 21 June 2017
‘Gimme some juice, bitch.’ Reece pointed at the carton in his mum’s hand.
Jasmine Fletcher slammed it down on the table. ‘What did you say?’
The boy laughed, waving toast in one hand. Turned to Wallace for approval.
‘Never talk to me like that.’ She bent down next to the table, got close to his face, eyes wide. ‘You don’t use that word to a woman. Least of all your mother. D’you understand?’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ he conceded, giggling. Looked at Wallace again, received a smirk in reply.
‘This has to stop,’ Fletcher said, still gripping the orange juice. She raised her voice. ‘You come into this house, disrespect me in front of my boy, put bad words in his mouth and dangerous stuff in his hands.’
Wallace winked at Reece. ‘Calm down, Jas. Time of the month?’
‘Fuck you!’ Fletcher screamed.
‘Not supposed to say that word either.’ Wallace arched an eyebrow at Reece.
Fletcher wiped both hands down her face, calmed herself. ‘Look, the only reason you’re here, Darian, is cos you’re paying. Two fifty a day and it’s supposed to be only two nights. You been here three and you haven’t given me anything yet.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Dickhead.’
He leaned back. ‘You’ll get your money.’
‘Not good enough.’ Fletcher shook her head, limbs taut with rage. ‘I want the cash now.’ She slapped the tabletop.
Wallace chuckled. ‘Or what?’ Swigged his tea.
‘I’ll call the police,’ she blurted.
Wallace banged the mug down. He was out of his seat in a flash. Pushing her backwards. Fletcher stumbled, lost her footing and fell. Howled as her coccyx hit the floor. Wallace straddled her on the ground, knelt on her arms. Grabbed her cheeks in his right hand and squeezed hard, concentration on his face. Lips splayed, she made a gargling noise. Wrenched one arm free and tried to hit him but there was no power in the blow. Wallace turned her head to the right and pressed hard with the knuckle of his left middle finger behind her jawbone. The mandibular nerve. She wailed, but the sound was diluted, soft. Reece watched in silence.
‘I stay as long as I want.’ Wallace hit the nerve again with his knuckle, deeper. Her body bucked under him. Pressed once more. ‘Got that?’ She nodded furiously, tears forming. He stood, towering above as she lay on the carpet, massaging her face. ‘And if you call the feds…’ Wallace shot a glance at Reece. ‘Then it’s game over.’ He flopped down onto a chair. ‘Ain’t that right, lickle man?’
‘Game over,’ mimicked Reece.
‘Sorry, Darian,’ she whispered, and wiped eyes with the back of her hand.
Wallace drained his mug. ‘Now make me another cup of tea. I’m gonna have a shower.’
Fletcher watched him walk out of the living room. The bathroom door clicked shut. Heard him pissing. What was it the policewoman said? Abuse was physical, but it was also about restriction of liberty, often humiliation. Jones told her that a lot of men thought they could tell women what to do. But nobody had the right to control someone else. Fletcher couldn’t take this any more. Neither she nor Reece should have to live with the fear of Darian Wallace hanging over them. Money or not, whatever he threatened. The toilet flushed.
‘Where’s that tea, Jas?’ he yelled from the bathroom.
‘Coming.’ She went over to the kettle, flicked the switch. Heard the shower go on next door. Took her mobile off the counter. Keyed in Jones’s number from memory. Deep breath.
DW in my flat now. Jas.
Her thumb hovered over the send icon. She looked over at Reece, kicking his feet in the air under the table and gazing out the window. Enough. Sent. She deleted the message history. Exited and locked the phone, slipped it into her pocket. Noticed the tremor in her hands as she made tea.
The shower was still running.
‘Anything?’ Boateng looked up hopefully.
‘Nothing,’ replied Jones, turning back a page and scanning some numbers. A soft ping sounded on her mobile.
‘Me neither.’
They sat across from one another in the office, Malik and Connelly at the two adjacent desks.
Boateng swivelled left. ‘What about you boys?’
Connelly blew out his cheeks. ‘Sweet FA, boss.’ Clicked the mouse a few times, pulled up an image of an overweight young man. ‘This is our Harvey Ash. I got the picture from a newspaper – they ran it when police questioned him after the burglary. But it’s like he just vanished off the face of the earth a year later.’
‘Same here.’ Malik tossed the document in front of him. ‘Not a single member of the public knows a damn thing about Harris or Darian Wallace or any of it. One fella does claim he saw a UFO over Deptford that morning though. What a waste of time.’
Boateng was trying to digest Volz’s pathology report on the Harris post-mortem. Jones was reading the same write-up, the idea being that two sets of eyes were better than one. Despite his experience, she probably understood more than him with the biology and genetics of her human sciences degree. Genes were conspicuously absent from the report though – meaning Volz hadn’t found Wallace’s DNA or anyone else’s on Harris. He read the same paragraph a third time, failed to absorb it.
Problem wasn’t the science, he got ninety-nine per cent of that. Wasn’t his patchy sleep either, though that didn’t help. What his brain was really working on was Thompson’s lead, same as it had been all night. And he knew multitasking was a myth. Every time he returned to Volz’s report, the words Two-Ten came back into his mind. He had to find someone who knew the group, but how? Apparently they were from Brixton. Boateng ran a hand over his face. Needed an in there. Who could he trust?
‘Do we have enough to charge him?’ Jones asked.
Boateng pressed his lips together, shook his head. ‘Motive, timing: yes. Pat’s CCTV link to his residence is solid, and we can strengthen it if the others who live there have alibis. But we’ve no forensics from the crime scene. We have to prove he was there. Right now the only charge that’d stick is skipping parole with the electronic tag scam. Arrest warrant’s out for that. We can nick him on suspicion, then either hope he confesses, or some new evidence turns up while he’s on remand.’
‘Smoking gun?’ said Connelly.
‘Smoking hammer more like.’ Malik looked across the desk. ‘Kat, how do you not read your texts instantly? I can never wait.’
She held up the report. ‘I’m working on this.’
‘What if it’s your boyfriend?’ A tiny grin twitched at the corners of his mouth.
‘I don’t…’ She cut herself off, flustered, reached for the phone.
Connelly shot Malik a conspiratorial glance.
‘Holy shit,’ whispered Jones. Rotated the phone screen to them. ‘Wallace is in Fletcher’s place now.’
Boateng squinted to read it. Stood immediately. ‘Crawford estate?’
Jones nodded.
‘Right. Nas, get onto Firearms. If there’s a spare Tactical Support Team I want them on the ground ASAP. If not, just Armed Response. Kat, give us a couple of local units nearby with eyes on.’
‘Lambeth or Southwark? It’s on the boundary.’
‘Both. And tell them to keep it low-key, let’s not spook him before we’re ready to go in. Pat, grab your Taser from the armoury. Vests, everyone. I’ll tell Krebs and sign out an unmarked pool car. Outside in three minutes.’
Wallace turned off the water and stepped out into clouds of steam. Wasn’t going to lie, he’d got a hard-on when he was on top of Jas just now. Had to finish himself off in the shower. Took a while, but there was no rush. He was heading back to Bermondsey later today. Go see his old mate Trent. Fingers rubbed a circle in the misted mirror. Smile spread across his face, imagining the moment he confronted Parker. Stared at the teardrop under his right eye. Maybe room for one more of them to mark the occasion. Or two, when he had time. He’d tell the story when it suited him, once he’d gone and started a new life. Big himself up. Nobody screws with Darian Wallace. See what happens when you do? Took in his grinning reflection as the glass fogged again. He opened a window. It was just a flash of white but he registered it.
Police car.
Cautiously, Wallace craned his neck to see better. Two feds inside, standard. It was the spot that stood out. They’d backed in along the wall by a low-rise opposite, nose forward. Like they were trying to be discreet. Wasn’t a patrol, they didn’t sit in the middle of estates. No other reason to park up there. And they hadn’t got out. So they were waiting for something, someone. Not a snitch, they’d be in an unmarked car. Wallace quickly dried himself, pulled his T-shirt, jeans and hoody back on.
Stomped into the living room, eyes darting around. Fletcher’s mobile was gone from the counter. It’d been there before. ‘Jas?’ he called. No response. Went to the bedroom, tried the door. Locked. ‘Can I use your phone?’ Silence. ‘I know you’re in there.’
Wallace went to the front door, peeped through the spy hole. Nothing. Opened it a crack to widen his view. A hundred metres across the tarmac, another police car rolled out of sight. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Carefully closed it. Strode over and smacked his fist on the bedroom door: once, hard. ‘Bitch! You’re fucking dead, you hear me? Dead.’ Stepped back, checked his anger. That wasn’t going to help him now. Had to get out. Couldn’t carry the tools. He scanned the living room. Balcony.
Wallace gently opened the door, lifted a piece of damp laundry on the line. No feds on this side. Picked one of Jas’s baseball caps off the plastic chair. Rolled it up, stuffed it in his pocket. Pulled his hood over. Climbed up and lowered himself off the metal railing, dropped one storey to the ground.
Started running.
Boateng cut the blues and twos long before they reached Camberwell, the district where Fletcher lived. There was no music this time. They’d made it from Lewisham in ten minutes at fifty miles an hour. Jones and Malik rode in the back. Connelly worked the radio, in contact with the two patrol cars already in place. Southwark and Lambeth had both offered more but Boateng declined. Too many cooks: they needed skill, not numbers. An Armed Response Unit was prepping in Brixton, ETA six minutes.
The radio crackled. ‘Papa Lima Two Five One, this is Lima Delta Three.’
Connelly grabbed the Airwave mic. ‘Receiving.’
‘Figure seen running on Lowth Road south towards Coldharbour Lane. Appears male, black hoody, jeans.’
Boateng needed confirmation of ethnicity. He asked for the identity code.
‘Nine,’ came the reply.
Unknown. Boateng chewed his lip, the Croydon Tasering fresh in his mind.
Connelly pushed the mic button again. ‘Lima Delta Three, is it our man?’
‘Papa Lima Two Five One, uncertain.’
Boateng scanned the areas between the housing blocks on the estate. ‘Tell them to stay where they are, Pat, keep eyes on Fletcher’s building. We’ll pursue.’ Connelly did so. Boateng spun the BMW X5 round and stopped sharply. ‘Kat, Nas, head over to Lowth Road on foot, we’ll box to the south side on Coldharbour.’ Car doors clunked shut and he watched them both vault the fence and begin sprinting across the tarmac. ‘Get that Taser ready, Pat.’ Boateng pulled away, gunning the engine hard in first up to the corner. His exit was blocked by cars stopped at the lights. He swore and hit the siren, but the traffic was nose to tail. Smacked the steering wheel, backed up and edged onto the pavement to find a way through.
Wallace saw two shapes from the corner of his eye. Maybe a hundred metres off, moving quickly. About fifteen seconds to make up on him. He accelerated. Traffic was stopped on Coldharbour Lane at the lights and he headed straight across into the next road towards the hospital. Glanced over his shoulder, couldn’t see them yet. Ran to a low wall bordering the car park, hopped across and crouched beside a four-by-four. He’d probably be on camera but there were more important things right now. Stay calm, no time for emotion. Breathe. Plan. Glanced up to the entrance of King’s College Hospital. The road parallel to the main entrance was rammed with vehicles, teeming with people. Patients, family, staff. Old and young, coming and going. A mob. Perfect.
He took off his hoody. Removed the cap from its pocket and pulled it low over his brow. Rolled up the hoody, stuffed the ball under his T-shirt and tucked it in. Did his belt one notch tighter. Leaned against the car, eyes flicking from person to person outside. Saw what he needed. Stooped and walking slowly, he advanced on the smoking area. One geriatric guy with a tube up his nose was puffing away, eyes shut, oblivious. Wallace stole up behind him and lifted the dressing gown he’d slung over the bench. Pulled it on and tied the cord around his new belly. Across the path, a patient was being transferred from her wheelchair at the side door of an NHS minivan. Two crutches were stacked against the rear doors. Wallace swiped both and slipped around the far side of the vehicle. Jammed them into his armpits, began limping. Merged into the mass of humanity milling around the steps. Didn’t look back as he entered the building. People even made way for him. Knew the giant corridor made an L-shape to A & E on Denmark Hill. Kept moving, now just another body in the crowd.
Jones and Malik had radioed to say they thought Wallace had taken the main road into King’s College Hospital. Boateng found it blocked by stationary vehicles on each side and a third line up the middle queuing to park. He swore again, reversed and took the parallel one-way street against the traffic flow. Slalomed an ambulance and two more cars coming at him, hands working quickly to manoeuvre the hefty BMW X5. Connelly had already drawn his Taser and jumped out as they halted, running for the buildings. Boateng cut the engine and followed. Picked out Jones and Malik in their black stab vests jogging between groups of people around the hospital steps. Boateng signalled and made eye contact with them in turn. Each shook their heads. He jabbed a finger towards the entrance, motioning his team inside.
For a second he stood alone, grimaced. Knew it was probably too late.
Wallace emerged from the Denmark Hill doors next to A & E. Three taxis sat outside. They’d be pre-booked but he had to chance it. Shifted himself on crutches over to the first and popped the door.
The driver turned. ‘No, mate, I’m here for…’ Checked his tablet. ‘Mrs Gupta.’
Wallace shut the door without a word. Glanced around, checked the exit. Heard a siren in the distance. Approached the next car.
The cabby put down his paper. ‘Mr Henderson?’ he beamed.
Wallace nodded. Opened the door.
‘I can help,’ the driver got out.
The siren grew louder.
‘It’s OK, I’m good,’ Wallace waved him away.
The driver got back in as Wallace threw his crutches inside and slumped into the seat. Opened the robe, checked his jeans pocket. Few hundred quid, the rest was back at Jas’s with the tools. Bollocks. She’d got her money after all.
Cabby glanced in the rear-view. ‘East Street, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ Good enough.
They pulled out. Wallace sunk lower into the upholstery as a Met Police van screamed past and into A & E. Smiled to himself.