Long. Saturdays always were: solid classes till half nine. Finally everyone had gone home, but Trent Parker stayed in the studio. Training time. He closed the door, selected a breakbeat track off his phone, cranked up the sound system. Let the drums and organ riff echo around the room. Got warm with some toprocking moves, back and forth, side to side. Watched himself in the full-length mirror, checked his footwork. Thought about that buff girl from his street dance session earlier. Turned up with those hot pants on. Fitter than his baby mum. Worth getting her number if she came again next week. Had to be eighteen, right? Seventeen, maybe. Imagined teaching her all kinds of extra things…

The thud and tinkle of shattering glass wrenched him back.

Must’ve come from the corridor, since the building was soundproofed. One of the framed photos fallen off the wall? Seemed weird. Then another possibility dawned on him and his pulse quickened.

Parker stopped dancing, walked towards the doorway. Thought he heard movement but the music was too loud to be sure. ‘Who’s that?’ he called. No response. Stepped silently into the dim space outside the studio. Saw the mess of broken glass down to his left. Then his head snapped around and the burst of light in his vision turned to black as his legs buckled.

---

Next moment he was awake, head swimming. What happened? Felt like he was pissed, drugged up. Last thing he remembered was warming up in front of the mirror. Same windowless studio he was in now, except he wasn’t dancing. He couldn’t move. Seated, wrists tied down. Ankles too. Hard plastic that bit his skin. Belt around his waist held him to the chair. Side of his head started to throb, blood pulsing inside his right temple. Parker looked up to the big mirrors, clocked himself, then the figure standing behind him wearing a white face mask. Tried to say ‘What the fuck?’ but it came out slurred: ‘Whahefu?’ Brain started processing. He knew who it was.

Darian Wallace’s face came into focus as he lifted off the mask. Teardrop tattoo, lean face, sharp cheekbones, thin smile. ‘Thought it would make things a bit more dramatic, you know?’

Parker stared at his old friend’s reflection in the mirror, swallowed.

‘One ninety-nine from a fancy-dress shop.’ Wallace pushed out his lower lip. ‘Not bad. Like the Jabbawockeez crew wear. You’d appreciate that, Trent, dancers who choose to hide their faces.’

‘Let me go, man.’ Parker pulled his wrists against the chair arms. He was sharpening up now.

Wallace chuckled. ‘No fun being held captive, is it?’

‘Fucking psycho!’

‘Let me give you some advice, mate. Don’t make this any harder for yourself. You’re not in a position to be backchattin’ me.’

Parker’s breathing was quicker; he fidgeted in the chair, drove his legs against the plastic clips at his ankles. ‘The fuck do you want? I’m the one who lost his jewels, his money.’

‘Didn’t lose your freedom though, did you? Your girl. Your name on the street.’ He came closer to Parker, bent down. ‘Didn’t have to defend yourself against some big fat battyman in the pen. Or anyone else who decides you looked at them funny in the lunch queue when no one’s got your back. Man get all kind of shit flown inside by drones.’ Wallace lifted his top, revealed a six-inch scar above the hip. ‘Including a switchblade, turns out. Some guy tried to do me in, God knows why. He smoked a lot of skunk, probably made him hear things. Might’ve died if it’d gone any deeper. I was lucky. You did that. Course, things didn’t work out too well for that kid. I couldn’t risk him having another go, so I got myself on cleaning duty in his wing. Two weeks later he was staring off the fifth-floor balcony outside his cell, high off the smoke again. Didn’t see me. I caught his knees from behind, tipped him over. Man landed head first, it was a mess. But I wasn’t on cleaning rota for the ground floor,’ he chuckled.

Parker was silent.

Wallace’s laugh ended abruptly. ‘That’s before we get to my mum. On her own in a care home for two years. Couldn’t see her. She couldn’t visit me. Didn’t know where I was. You made that happen too.’

There was anger in Wallace’s voice, but not as much as Parker had expected. That worried him. He was detached, calm. Distant.

‘Had to kiss man’s arse, suck up to the screws, do laundry for time. Clean the floors. Go to classes on good behaviour where a psychologist that didn’t know me chatted shit. Then I got a year off. And here I am. You should’ve got out of London while you had the chance, Trent.’

‘Where could I go? You know I got no money now. The feds are on me, too – I’m watching my back the whole time.’

‘Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? You’re a snitch.’

‘Darian, I had to. My kid was only—’

‘Had to? Jesus Christ. We were like brothers, man. And you betrayed that. Like some Biblical shit. You know what the Old Testament says? Eye for an eye.’

‘Please.’ Parker felt his resolve weaken. Knew he couldn’t escape.

‘Code of the street, innit? Nuff man have died for less where we came from. Know what the judge said to me? “I sentence you to five years in prison.” Five.’ Wallace bent down, and Parker felt his breath on his ear as he spoke, the words more venomous now. ‘Well, I find you guilty, Trent Parker, of breaking the law of brotherhood. Know what the price for that is?’ He barked a single laugh. ‘The Grim Reaper. I sentence you to the death penalty.’

‘Don’t kill me, Darian.’

Wallace cocked his head to one side, relaxed. ‘You know what? I’ve got an idea. Since you were so good at negotiating a deal for yourself before, I’ll offer you one now. How about your life in exchange for the location of that fat prick Harvey Ash?’

‘What?’

‘I want to know where he is. And if you’re lying, I’ll come back for you.’

‘I don’t know where he is.’ Parker was blinking rapidly, felt tears pricking his eyeballs.

‘Hm.’ Wallace frowned. ‘See, I find that hard to believe. Your mate who helped you sell your soul for your freedom, send me down, then between you try and work out where I’ve hid the stash? You’re telling me you ain’t spoken to him, even though you knew I was gettin’ out? Come on.’

His hands flexed. ‘I swear.’

Wallace studied him for a moment. Then he walked back to his bag and pulled out a small blue-black object. ‘Remember this?’ He rotated its safety cover and flicked the switch, releasing a high-pitched whirring. Parker knew exactly what it was. The tool that’d let them cut through metal hinges on the safe deposit boxes. Didn’t need a demonstration but Wallace gave one anyway. Knelt down, put it to the floor. Its blurred disc bit into the hardwood like butter before he shut it off. ‘I’ll give you one more chance. Where’s Ash?’

Parker filled his lungs and screamed. Loud as he could. Yelled for help – somebody, help. Wallace kicked over his chair, squatted alongside him.

‘Shut up, man. Givin’ me a headache. Place is soundproofed, in case you forgot.’ He held the angle grinder to Parker’s left hand. ‘Where is he? I’m not playing.’

Parker was sobbing, his hand vainly jerking around. ‘Please.’

‘Wrong answer.’ Wallace flicked the switch, grabbed Parker’s pinky by its tip. Yanked out sideways, sliced it off. Dropped the digit. Parker stared at it for a few seconds in silence. Watched blood running from the stump. Then he began howling, wailing. Couldn’t control it.

‘Tell you what,’ said Wallace. ‘I’ll leave it here, even call an ambulance for you when I go. Doctors can reattach that shit nowadays. And if not, well, you can probably still breakdance with a finger missing. Let’s try again.’ He turned the angle grinder on.

‘OK, OK!’ Parker let out another scream. Retched, held it down. Gasped. ‘Just put that thing away.’ Gave a long, low moan.

‘Where?’

‘Crystal Palace. In the caravan park.’

Wallace nodded. Backed away, replaced the angle grinder in his bag.

Parker exhaled. ‘Please just let me go,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve told you everything.’

‘Right.’ But Wallace didn’t move.

‘That was the deal.’ His words were choked, desperate. ‘What you said, just now. My life for his location, right?’

Wallace reached down, pulled the chair upright. Stood behind him.

‘Darian, please.’ Parker made eye contact in the mirror, turned his head wildly. ‘Cut me loose, man.’

‘Alright.’ He walked over to the bag.

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Parker.

Wallace pulled out a claw hammer.

Hyperventilating, Parker watched him cross back towards the chair. Dark metal with a bright yellow handle. Big. Hung at his side as he walked.

‘Know what I’ve learned?’ said Wallace. ‘Life ain’t fair.’ He raised it overhead. ‘Payback time.’

‘Darian, no!’

‘Might take a few goes. Ready?’

‘No!’

‘Fuckin’ snitch.’

The hammer came down. Once was enough.

---

Boateng couldn’t fault the rendition of Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’ that the singer and his eight-piece band were dropping. Across the table, Etta was clicking her fingers, eyes closed. He wished he was that relaxed. Normally Boateng loved coming to the Hideaway; he and Etta had been regulars at the Streatham nightspot since their third date. A small candlelit place where, no matter how many years went past, they could still own the dance floor. Dinner was fantastic, as usual. They’d both ordered a house special: Moroccan tagine with lamb that fell off the bone, washed down with a bottle of red wine. All perfect. Except tonight, again, his mind was elsewhere.

He took a mouthful of wine that was too big, felt it burn his throat slightly.

The afternoon’s encounter with Froggy and his crew had left Boateng in the hinterland where excitement and fear blurred. On the plus side, he’d won the young rapper’s trust enough to get time alone with him. That had resulted in Froggy – after serious ego massaging and the offer of more cash – agreeing to contact someone in Two-Ten. Despite shelling out six hundred quid of family holiday money for leads that ultimately might come to nothing, Boateng felt that tingle under his skin. He was drawing nearer to the truth about what happened to Amelia. Can’t have been more than a dozen guys in the group when it existed. A chance, then, that whoever Froggy would introduce him to might’ve been the gunman himself. Either that, or could tell him who was. A tiny stab of adrenalin coursed through his belly.

But this produced the obvious question: what would he do with the answer when he had it?

Another large slug of red.

As investigations went, he was making progress. Apart from letting his team down by not giving a hundred per cent to the Wallace investigation, the biggest problem was his freelancing. The Met didn’t know about any of it, which served his purposes right now. But it meant that no one had his back. That tall guy with the Puffa jacket in Angell Town had very likely been carrying a pistol today. Next bloke might be packing something too. At this rate, law of averages said he’d see a weapon up close before long, especially if he was asking awkward questions. No amount of fast-talking could help him then. Was it time to protect himself?

Boateng caught the waiter’s eye, signalled for another bottle.

Were these morbid thoughts only about security, or something more… proactive? He hadn’t explicitly considered what he’d do if he came face to face with Amelia’s killer. Follow his training, right? Minimise personal risk and maintain cover. Gather solid evidence and present it to the relevant murder squad, despite question marks over trust. Logical advice from his right brain. Left brain told him to get creative. He’d read psychology research on how common it was to have violent fantasies of retribution against an attacker. One of many normal processes after a trauma. How many times had he imagined beating that man to death with raw, bloodied knuckles? Slowly choking the life out of him, another favourite. Boateng allowed these dark daydreams to come, sometimes even cultivated them as a safety valve for the frustration of his powerlessness. For almost five years they’d just been abstract. Now, meeting his daughter’s murderer was steadily becoming a possibility. Of course, he knew reason would get the better of his emotions if that point of confrontation ever arrived. Wouldn’t it? The image of his hands gripping the killer’s neck returned, squeezing with all his strength—

‘Zac!’

Etta was standing before him, her red dress hugging her full figure. She nodded towards the stage. The guitarist had struck up the riff of Horace Brown’s ‘Things We Do For Love’.

‘Come on,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t break your promise.’

Enough thinking. Boateng gulped down the rest of his wine, took her hand and stepped onto the dance floor.

---

Time for another shufti out back.

Spike had been watching the front of the building solidly all afternoon and evening. Knew there was a rear door, but it was accessible only via a fifteen-foot wall from a locked car park on the other side. Had to pick one entrance, and front was more likely. Plus he had cover to be there. Have to be Spider-Man to get in the back way. Half an hour ago, Spike had climbed over carefully – didn’t want to do an ankle – and checked on Parker. Couldn’t hear much, but some light spilling from the studio into the corridor at the rear suggested he was inside. Probably still dancing like a muppet. Spike had returned to his recon position at the front. Earlier, he’d clocked everyone else in and out of K Studios. It was now 10.15 p.m., and by Spike’s calculations, Parker was the only one left in the building.

He returned to the rear yard, peered in the window. Same dim corridor. Same hint of sound from the studio. But there was something new this time: small dark patch on the floor by the doorway, catching light. Spike knew blood when he saw it.

He took out his shove knife, slipped it down the side. Had to work hard – the door lock was heavy. After a few attempts it clicked open. Music grew louder but no alarm tripped. He had a feeling what he might find.

Spike drew his Sig and entered. Crept towards the light, pistol raised. Corridor was clear. Blood trail ran inside the studio. Spike followed it around the doorway.

Parker was strapped to a chair, head forward, great big claw hammer sticking out of his noggin. Eyes shut. Finger on the floor. Jesus. Like something out of one of them torture-porn films. Not the worst he’d ever seen, mind.

Spike approached, aware he might already be contaminating the crime scene with his own fibres and DNA. Pulled his bike snood up over mouth and nose. Bent level with Parker, pressed a knuckle to his arm. Still warm. Touched the carotid artery, waited ten seconds: nothing.

Parker’s eyes opened.

Spike recoiled. Not expecting that. Poor fella wasn’t long for this world. Chance for some intel though. He got closer.

‘Where’s Darian Wallace?’

Parker stared ahead, gave one laboured breath.

‘Oi. Can you hear me? Where is Wallace?’ He cocked the hammer back on the pistol. ‘Tell me where he is and I’ll do this quick for you. Make the pain stop.’

Parker seemed to register the words; one eye flickered. Tried to say something. Sounded like ‘Gaaa’. Pure gibberish.

‘What?’

Blood dribbled from his mouth. ‘Cara… van.’

‘Caravan? Where?’

Parker gave one long breath, his gaze fixed. That was it. Little bastard had died before he could say any more. Spike de-cocked the pistol. Was Wallace living in a caravan? For now, he needed to get out of here before anyone else showed up. Spike spent three minutes erasing any trace of his own presence, closed the rear door behind him.

Wallace had maybe a fifteen-minute head start. Spike had a motorbike.

Someone would find Parker’s body in the morning.