Boateng had a serious feeling of déjà vu.

Early start on a weekend. Tape across the building frontage, white suits moving inside, camera flashes. Chair, restraints, blood on the floor. Hammer embedded in the victim’s skull. But it was Southwark this time, and the dead man wasn’t a pawnbroker. Like Harris though, he was on Wallace’s list.

Trent Parker.

The other difference was Jones. Although they had both attended the scene in Deptford last weekend, this time she was like a different officer. Boateng could see her confidence had grown in just eight days on the case. Her shock subsided quickly and they began analysing together, Boateng letting her lead. Malik and Connelly had come too and were outside interviewing the dance studio manager and night security guard. With Volz on her way, they got started.

‘What d’you reckon?’

Jones stared at the body, spoke through her mask. ‘Restraints and hammer, like an execution. Planned in detail. Cut a finger off as well – only one this time. Clean, probably same kind of mechanical blade used on Harris. Could’ve been a punishment, or maybe the killer wanted information. Got to be Wallace, right?’ She turned to Boateng. ‘We knew he was after Parker.’ There was guilt in her voice.

‘Did everything we could. Told him he was in danger, offered protection twice. His right to refuse it.’ That was accurate, but Boateng still felt the pang himself, the weight of personal responsibility, followed by a burst of frustration at Krebs’s refusal to sanction the surveillance he’d recommended on Parker. The hangover wasn’t helping either, further sapping his minimal energy reserves. He’d been in the Hideaway with Etta while this was happening, drinking and dancing. If he’d worked harder, could this death have been prevented? The young man had been arrogant, offensive, a thief. But he didn’t deserve to die. And no one should have to endure this end. Now there was another kid without a dad, parents without a child. ‘I know it’s worse,’ he told Jones. ‘When you’ve met the victim, seen them alive.’

‘I’m OK.’ She paused a beat, gathered herself. Scanned the room, traced an arc with her finger from the door into the studio. ‘Let’s say it’s Wallace then. He knows Parker’s in here alone, could’ve been watching him. Comes in the back way, less chance of being seen, overpowers Parker somehow. Maybe that was the bruise on his face. Same as the blunt force trauma on Harris’s head. Then he ties him up, chops off a finger, kills him with the hammer, leaves.’ Her eyes flicked around. ‘We think Wallace wanted to find Ash too, right?’ Boateng nodded. ‘What if the finger was about that? He took one digit off Parker but four from Harris. Maybe Wallace stopped torturing Parker because he gave up what he knew. That means he might have some connection to Ash still, even if the man’s off the grid in every other respect.’ Before Boateng could respond, she called over to the SOCOs: ‘Did you guys find a phone on Parker?’

‘Yup,’ replied one, pointing. ‘In the bag over there. Was plugged into the stereo.’

‘We get full analysis on that,’ said Jones to Boateng, ‘it could tell us about Ash. Call log, texts, emails. Cross-reference with known numbers and look for anomalies. A mobile that’s on and off, remote, or doesn’t move much. The odd one out. Cell site data might even take us to Ash. Which is probably where Wallace is heading next.’

Despite the grim scene and his own negative emotions, Boateng managed a smile. In two minutes she’d mastered the disgust any normal person would feel then used deduction and inference to produce a credible operational lead. He could see why she was one of the fastest-promoted officers in the Met.

‘Good work, Kat,’ he said. The corners of her mask rose as she took the compliment.

Malik appeared in the doorway. He couldn’t help glancing at the body. ‘Manager’s in a right old state. One of the lads had to go get her another cup of tea. I’ve said no one’s to let her in, don’t want her to get an eyeful of this.’

Boateng frowned. ‘The manager hasn’t seen him? As in, she didn’t call us?’

‘Nope. Says the place is closed on Sundays.’

‘OK, back up a second.’ Boateng raised his hands, looked from Jones to Malik. ‘Then how come we’re even here?’

‘Sorry, boss?’ Malik looked confused.

Jones answered. ‘Homicide Assessment Team called it in. Lambeth lot.’

‘Yeah. But how did they know Parker was dead? Studio’s got no windows. And no other staff came this morning to open up. Follow me.’ He led them out to the courtyard and across to a picnic table, where a man about Zac’s age sat smoking. His receding hairline was visible despite his shaved head. Stubble across his face and neck, above a loosened tie, made it look like he hadn’t slept in days. A ridged brow and prominent jaw fixed his expression in a scowl. That didn’t change as Boateng approached and introduced himself.

‘DCI Dave Maddox,’ he replied.

‘From?’

‘Lambeth MIT.’ He took a big drag on the cigarette, stared down his crooked nose at Zac as if the encounter was already an imposition.

‘Thanks for calling us, sir. Appreciate you checking the link to our case off a night shift.’ He received a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Your people first on the scene?’

Maddox exhaled a big cloud of smoke towards them. ‘Southwark patrol car was, they belled us.’

‘Where’d the original tip come from then?’ Boateng smiled, making an effort.

‘Anonymous call to the Crimestoppers line.’ He stubbed out the fag, stood up. He was taller than Boateng would’ve guessed from his slumped posture at the table. Six four, built like a rugby player. ‘No name or number, before you ask. Details are in the email.’ Without offering a hand he turned, walked away.

‘Thank you, sir,’ called Boateng after him. Shook his head. Maybe Krebs wasn’t so bad. His thoughts quickly returned to the mystery call. Could Wallace have alerted the police to a murder he’d committed? But what did that mean? Letting his guard down perhaps, or playing a game?

Malik clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, boss. If you acted like that we’d tell you quick sharp.’

‘Cheers, Nas.’ He saw Connelly jogging towards them. ‘And Pat has full permission to Taser me.’

‘What did you say to that fella?’ asked Connelly. ‘Face like a bag of dead rats.’

‘Never mind.’ Boateng stared after Maddox a second. ‘What did our security man have?’

‘I think you’ll like this, Zac.’ The Irishman’s eyebrows jigged. ‘He’s got a hidden camera showing someone leaving via that little car park behind the studio at 10.04 p.m.’

‘Wallace?’

‘Probably. Then a second figure going in and out ten minutes later.’

Boateng and Jones exchanged a look of disbelief.

‘Gets better,’ continued Connelly. ‘Second one’s armed – nine-millimetre handgun by the look of it.’

‘Our anonymous caller?’ suggested Jones.

Boateng nodded. ‘You’re on fire today, Kat. And I’d be really impressed if you can tell me who he is.’

---

Nothing. Sweet FA. That’s what his search last night had achieved. Spike felt like he’d been down every street in south-east London, hunting for Wallace into the early hours. No trace. So he’d gone home, brewed up and re-examined the background stuff from Patey’s contact. Tried to make sense of Parker’s last word. If Wallace was out for revenge, who was he after? He’d done the pawnbroker and the dancer, and the cops would be all over Fletcher’s place – if she wasn’t in protective custody already. Who was left? Harvey Ash: the muppet with no known address. Spike did the obvious with two plus two and realised it was probably Ash he was looking for in the caravan, not Wallace. Sent a WhatsApp message asking the insider to confirm it.

After a couple of hours’ kip he was back on the motorbike.

Needles in haystacks though. Wished Parker had given him better intel before croaking. By 11 a.m. he’d already been to two London caravan sites. Shown a photo, given the story about a dead relative and some inheritance. Offered money. But nobody knew anything, no one had seen Ash. Just had to check all the caravan parks one by one, that’s what the colonel would expect. But Spike had the feeling time was running out. He was grasping at threads to find Wallace. If he screwed up again it might be his last chance to earn eight hundred quid a day working for Patey. Not to mention nailing the cocky little bastard he was hunting. Money and respect.

Spike walked slowly down the close in South Bermondsey, paralleling the railway line over the fence. This place was one of four official traveller sites listed by Southwark Council. Sort of place you might find someone living in a caravan. But they didn’t look like a bunch of pikeys. More brick housing than caravans. People had even stuck up hanging baskets for decoration.

Taking out the photo, he approached a chubby young woman with bleached hair hanging laundry off a line. Forced himself to smile. ‘Hello, madam.’

‘Top o’ the morning’ to ye,’ she replied flatly.

He unfolded the paper, held it out. ‘I’m looking for this man.’

‘Bailiff?’

‘Nothing like that.’ He kept grinning. ‘I represent a solicitor’s firm, tracing relatives who’ve been left money in a will.’

‘Lucky folk.’ She studied the image a second. ‘Well, I haven’t seen the fella.’

‘Are you sure? There’s a fee in it for anyone who has.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Is there anyone else around here I could—’

‘Who’re you?’ The voice behind him was deep, aggressive.

Spike wheeled round, clocked the man. Tall geezer, heavyset. Huge scar on his jaw. Couple of knuckles missing: a fighter. And clearly pissed off. Bloke didn’t wait for an answer, stepped towards him. ‘What business’ve you talking to my wife here?’

Be nice, he told himself. ‘I was just asking—’

‘Asking what?’

‘Leave it, Jimmy.’ The woman had stopped pegging clothes. ‘The man’s no bother, he’s from a lawyers’.’

‘What’s he doing in my yard then?’ Big lad’s body was tense, ready for drama. ‘You’ve no right to be here. Tell your lawyers they can piss off.’

‘It’s not about us,’ said the woman.

‘You keep out of it.’ He jabbed a finger at her. ‘I’m speakin’ to him.’

He played it through in his mind: man takes another step forward, Spike’s left hand lifts the shirt at his back, right grabs Sig from belt, left comes around into cup and saucer grip, double tap – boom-boom – two rounds in the chest. Dropped. Less than a second start to finish. Even drawing would be enough to stop this guy acting a silly bollocks. Not so hard now, are you? Spike loved that moment when someone giving it all the chat saw a weapon and realised they weren’t the man any more. But if you draw, gotta be prepared to use it. And he wasn’t, at least not here, with a witness standing right next to him. Woman already said she hadn’t seen Ash. Sounded like the truth. Best option now was a tactical retreat. Let this bloke think he’s got the upper hand.

He backed off slowly, hands spread. ‘You’re right, my mistake. I’ll be on my way.’

There were more caravan parks to check. He’d do the other three traveller sites then head south to Crystal Palace.

---

Boateng had made excuses about needing to go back for a briefing with Krebs, leaving his team to continue wrapping up with the SOCOs and on-site interviews. Said he’d see them at the office for coffee, doughnuts and operational planning in two hours. Enough time before the pre-arranged meeting in Brixton to hit the bank and empty his personal savings account of another two thousand pounds. Definitely the end of his plan to take Etta and Kofi on holiday to South Africa. He felt like the bank teller could see his betrayal. At that moment, he hated himself. Tried to ignore the heavy feeling of shame and concentrate on why he’d got the cash: Agyeman.

Off shift, his doorman pal had told Boateng to come over to Block Workout in Brixton. The rugged outdoor gym was a maze of kit for body-weight training, against a backdrop of bright colours and heavy basslines. Tractor tyres, oil drums and kegs for lifting lay strewn around, more stacked at the side. At 10 a.m. on a Sunday the place was heaving and he found it harder than usual to spot the giant Ghanaian amongst the crowd of hulking athletes. Agyeman was doing dips on parallel steel bars, thick arms repeatedly pushing up with muscles visible that Boateng wasn’t sure he even possessed.

Agyeman spotted him, finished the set. Dropped down, ripped off his gloves. They slapped palms. ‘Strict form,’ grinned the big man. ‘That’s the secret.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Boateng wasn’t much in the mood for banter. He’d thought very carefully about what he was going to ask. Considered it from all angles. Repercussions for himself, for Agyeman. The doorman had already done him a favour to locate Optikon, whose introduction to Froggy meant Boateng was close to meeting someone from Two-Ten proper. His feeling of vulnerability had crystallised into a desire for protection. That’s what he told himself.

They wandered over to the high perimeter fence, stood alongside a brick wall. Boateng briefly felt as if the cartoon faces on its street-art mural were watching him. Kept his voice low. ‘I know I’ve asked a lot of you, Sammy, but there’s one more thing I need.’

‘Name it.’

‘A gun.’

Agyeman emitted a high-pitched laugh, clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Zac! Please, you’re talking crazy.’

‘Nine-millimetre pistol, ideally a Glock. And a box of ammunition.’

‘Are you on drugs?’

Boateng produced a wad of fifty-pound notes. ‘I’ve done my homework. Here’s two grand.’

The smile faded as Agyeman realised he was serious. ‘What the hell are you thinking?’ He sucked his teeth, pushed Boateng’s hand away.

‘I need to be safe where I’m going,’ replied Boateng. Wasn’t sure if he believed himself. ‘You’ve helped me enough already, so you can tell me to piss off. Wouldn’t want to cause any trouble for you.’

‘Why don’t you get a replica? People can even make those with 3D printers these days. They look good. If we just ask—’

‘Sammy.’ Boateng jabbed the money at him. ‘It’s got to be the real thing. Can’t go into another situation like I did before without backup.’

‘Then take me along with you.’

Boateng gestured towards his bulging arms. ‘Sometimes that’s not enough. Anyway, I can’t put you in danger. I’ll take that risk myself, but I won’t bring it to anyone else. It’s your call if you want to do this for me. No problem if you don’t.’

Agyeman was silent.

‘Look, Sammy, I can’t trust my colleagues. I’ve got to bring this guy in alone. I can’t live knowing that I walked away when I was so close to finding Amelia’s killer. The man who took my daughter from me. I’m not about to let him take me down too.’

The big man gave a long breath, fixed Zac with a stare. ‘Tell me the truth. When you find this man, are you going to kill him?’

Boateng kept eye contact, swallowed. ‘No,’ he said quietly.

‘Swear?’

‘I swear.’

Agyeman nodded, made a discreet beckoning motion with one hand. Zac handed him the cash.