Time’s up.

Wallace had waited nearly half an hour. Bloke had gone inside, emerged at the caravan door ten minutes later with a cup of tea. Chatted away to Ash like they were old buddies while the kid cycled around. Eventually he’d walked off, holding a different extension lead, with more waving and thanks, taking the boy with him. Jesus. They were so friendly it made Wallace feel sick. But now they were gone and Ash was alone.

He had to act quickly – the park was getting busier. Wallace manoeuvred forward out of the bushes and stood up. Shook off stiff limbs, flexed his fingers. Picked up the holdall and walked over to Ash’s caravan, checking side to side. Listening. Switched the bag to his left hand, pulled out the hammer in his right. Heartbeat quickened slightly: he was the Grim Reaper again.

Now he was right outside and could hear Ash’s movements within, the caravan creaking as his bulk shifted around. Sounded like he was cooking. ‘Course he was, fat bastard. Wallace reached for the door handle.

‘Danny Ellis’s pitch is just over here, officers.’

Instinctively Wallace dropped, rolled under the caravan. Footsteps approached and he saw three pairs of shoes outside Ash’s door. Just two metres away from him, maybe less. Large Crocs with hairy legs, a pair of plain black lace-ups under dark grey suit trousers and smaller, flat-heeled leather ankle boots below jeans. Two men and a woman. A male voice said thanks, they’d take it from here, and the Crocs departed. He recognised the voice from that time watching in the park. Boateng.

They banged on the side and politely asked for Mr Ellis. Door opened and after a brief exchange the shoes rose and disappeared. Began moving around above his head, heels tapping on the floor. The cheap unit swayed under the weight of three people and for a second Wallace thought it might collapse on him. He took a moment to think. Could he slide out and attack? Three birds with one stone. Stop Boateng and his sidekick investigating any more, remove the risk of them blocking his escape to France. And take out Ash. He’d have surprise on his side and they’d be trapped.

He gripped the angle grinder, stroked his thumb across the blade.

---

Boateng looked down at the portly younger man in front of him. He’d automatically sat in the chair as if expecting an interrogation. Like he knew he’d done something wrong before they’d even said why they were there. The sausages he’d been frying were getting cold.

‘Harvey Ash,’ stated Boateng.

The guy flicked his eyes to Jones and back. Trying to work out if this was a good cop, bad cop routine and if that meant the woman was on his side.

‘That’s your name,’ Boateng continued. ‘Or at least it was until a couple of years ago.’

Ash said nothing, simply nodded. His cheeks wobbled.

‘Given us quite a runaround, this name-changing business. You’re in trouble, you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Ash.

‘Not with us, of course. Do you know Darian Wallace? Don’t play games.’

‘I did.’

‘Seen him recently?’ asked Jones.

Ash swallowed. ‘No.’

‘We think he’s looking for you,’ said Boateng. ‘Not sure if you follow the news much out here, but he’s already put a hammer through two skulls in the past ten days. One of whom you know, I believe. So, Detective Sergeant Jones and I would like you to come back to Lewisham with us. We’ll look after you while we find Wallace, and in return you’ll tell us everything you know about the guy.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘It’s probably in your interests to help us find him.’ Jones leaned back on the narrow counter.

‘Am I under arrest?’

Boateng smiled. ‘No. So it’s up to you whether you accept our offer or not. Could always spend another day here, visit us tomorrow…’

‘I’ll come. But…’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re not the only ones asking about Wallace.’ Ash pivoted with difficulty, plucked the little card from under a mug on the counter next to Jones. ‘Some bloke was here yesterday, he left this.’

Boateng and Jones exchanged a look. ‘We want to hear all about him too. Come on.’

‘Can I take my sausages?’ Ash pointed to the frying pan.

Boateng suppressed a smile, blinked slowly. ‘Go on then. But no grease on the car upholstery.’ He threw open the door, stepped down. Something felt different. He stood still a moment, tried to work out what. Shook his head; probably just the fresh air after Ash’s stuffy caravan.

Walking back to the car, Boateng checked his mobile. Damn! Must’ve missed the text from Agyeman while they were driving over. He stabbed the screen. Heart leapt in his chest, the fatigue he’d felt all day temporarily lifted.

Got what you wanted. Am at home now. Pick it up soon as.

‘You alright, boss?’ Jones’s face tightened with concern. ‘Anything important?’ Ash had stopped too, watching.

Boateng realised he’d frozen, mobile held in front of him. ‘No,’ he replied, pocketing the phone. ‘Just my wife. I need to go and see her once we’ve taken Mr Ash to the station.’

---

One hour later, Boateng was sitting in Agyeman’s flat. The big man slid the shoebox across his kitchen table. Boateng hesitated, then pulled it towards himself with both hands. Even without lifting he could tell there was more inside than just the size nine Nike trainers stated on the label.

‘Your change is in there too.’ Agyeman gestured at the box. ‘Call the trainers a gift. You could do with some more exercise,’ he grinned.

‘Sammy,’ began Boateng. Didn’t know what to say next. Stared at the orange cardboard. Flipped up its lid, carefully took out the shoes. Paused, glanced at Agyeman. The doorman nodded. No one else was home and they couldn’t be observed: his friend’s gigantic frame was blocking any view in from the window. Boateng slowly peeled away layers of tissue paper.

The dark grey pistol lay next to a small ammo box, atop some of the fifty-pound notes he’d given Agyeman at Block Workout. Boateng recognised its angular shape; almost any police officer would. He read the barrel engraving: GLOCK 19 AUSTRIA 9x19.

‘Serial’s been removed,’ said Agyeman proudly. But Boateng knew that wasn’t enough to avoid identification. Not only could chemical techniques recover a firearm’s unique number, but the rifling in its barrel also bore a signature: one left on any round fired through it. That enabled ballistics experts to match a slug to its weapon, crucial in prosecutions. Great for investigators: such evidence had been decisive in two convictions during Boateng’s career. But now he was seeing things differently. Those features had become means to link him to an unlicensed gun and any related incidents. His request had been a trade-off: older weapons had fewer elements susceptible to forensic scrutiny, but they were rarer and harder to obtain. Sometimes unreliable too, depending on how they’d been looked after. Glocks were among the most widely used 9 mm pistols in the world. Boateng knew it wouldn’t be hard to get hold of one in London. Whoever sold this to Agyeman probably got it off a supplier smuggling from Europe, jacked the price up a hundred per cent and passed it on without much thought to its use. He didn’t want to know the history of this particular gun. It looked new, at least.

Reaching cautiously, as though it might scald him, he picked up the pistol. Pretty light, a plastic frame. He racked the steel slide, confirmed it was unloaded. The action was smooth and he felt a pulse of excitement. Last time he’d fired a handgun was seven years ago. Boateng had been given a session on the range by Troy, his old mate from basic training at Hendon, who had worked in the Met’s firearms unit. Hadn’t been the most accurate back then, and what skill he had developed under Troy’s brief tutelage was perishable anyway. He didn’t feel confident hitting much with it other than at close range. But at least it had been a Glock he’d shot on that occasion with Troy, albeit the larger 17 model. Another reason he’d stipulated the brand.

Hold on.

Boateng caught himself. He was thinking about firing a handgun. Step back a second. What did that mean? Most likely nothing – the chance of him actually using it was tiny. But not zero. Take it into a situation and you could never guarantee the outcome. At two extremes lay terrible possibilities: killing someone, or being killed. He’d long been an opponent of arming UK police as standard, arguing it would just up the ante and increase illegal gun demand. He’d debated the pros and cons with Troy over a pint more than once in twenty years of friendship. Now he was holding a pistol which he could go to prison just for possessing. If he was caught, Etta and Kofi would be on their own, his son growing up with a convict for a father. Like so many of the young men he’d come across through his work. He’d pitied them, wondering at the relationship between their criminality and the fathers’ time inside. And that wasn’t the only risk. What if he lost control of the pistol in a struggle? Troy had told him that several scenarios in the Met’s firearms training involved stopping an attacker from taking your weapon. Let that happen and, well… He took a deep breath.

‘Are you sure you want this, Zac?’

Boateng didn’t reply. He just stared at the pistol in his hand, no longer taking in its manufacturing details or physical properties. He was only considering what it represented. Danger, yes. But also power. The ultimate threat in service of his obsession – getting to the truth about Amelia. Something there seemed to be no other way to achieve. He’d always rejected the idea of carrying a weapon himself. If it had to be done in London, leave it to specialists like Troy. But things had changed in Boateng’s world, and he was no longer sure his original argument held. That daydream of beating Amelia’s killer to death flashed back, only this time he was armed with the Glock. He quickly replaced the pistol, tissue paper and trainers. Put the lid back on, moistened his lips.

‘Thanks, Sammy. I promise that nothing from this will come back to—’

‘Just be careful, OK?’ The big man’s jaw set tight.

Boateng nodded. Took the shoebox and left without another word.

---

No comms from the muppet.

Ash hadn’t been in touch for a day, so Spike decided to make another visit to the caravan park. He’d spent the morning checking homeless shelters for Wallace. Been up Vauxhall, St Mungo’s at Tower Hill, New Cross. Asked around, shown the photo. Offered cash and ten per cent lager. Plenty of takers, zero intel. Had to give the prick some credit: Wallace knew how to stay off the map. Lucky for him it was summer – made it easier to sleep rough, move at night, whatever he was doing. The whole thing reminded Spike of the escape and evasion phase for SAS selection. Sent off on your Jack Jones and tracked for days by men and dogs. A mutt had got Spike in the end, smell gave him away. Should he have used a dog for Wallace? No, they couldn’t track in cities like out in the woods.

Curtains were closed on Ash’s caravan. He did night shifts, obvs. Door? Locked. Spike banged on it. Nothing. Again, harder. Still silent. Slapped the side where he knew the bed was.

‘He’s gone out, you know.’ Spike turned, saw an old boy standing there. ‘Mr Ellis.’

‘Oh, right. D’you know where?’

‘Nope.’ The man smacked his lips. ‘But he walked off with the two people who came to visit him.’

‘Two?’ Couldn’t be Wallace then. Spike fished in his jeans for twenty quid. Did the story about the dead relative, handed over the note. ‘What did they look like?’

‘One woman with a ponytail, younger. Then a black fellow, bit older.’

Had to be the coppers. ‘When?’

‘About two hours ago.’

Bollocks. Spike grunted thanks to the old geezer and walked back to his motorbike. Ash was with the police, Parker in a body bag, Wallace nowhere, and he’d run out of ideas. Much as it hurt his pride, he had to go back to the insider. Better that than Patey. Made the call via WhatsApp.

‘Yes?’ said the voice.

‘It’s me.’

‘I can’t talk now. What do you need?’

‘Something to go on.’ He paused, made himself say it. ‘I’ve run out of options.’

There was a cough down the line. ‘We don’t know any more than you now. So your best chance of finding our man is to follow us. Stick with Boateng.’

Spike couldn’t hide his irritation. ‘Can’t you get anything else?’ he snapped.

‘You have everything there is. Boateng’s the best person to follow, he’s closer to it than anyone.’

‘Got it.’ Spike rang off. Gobbed on the ground. Sat there a minute, thought. No other way now, Patey’s contact was right. He made a new operational plan. Gun it home on the motorbike, brew up a tea and get on the database. Find out where this Boateng lives and works. Leave the bike, take the wagon back into town, then clap eyes on him. Hurry up and wait till Boateng located Wallace then bam! SAS. Speed, Aggression, Surprise. Couple of nice stun grenades, few shots overhead. Hit ’em hard. Coppers would still have thumbs up their bums by the time he’d extracted with Wallace in the boot of his car. There was no threat from the Old Bill, the best they had was Tasers. And when the flashbangs went off they wouldn’t have a clue which direction to fire them anyway. Spike grunted a laugh. Maybe he should’ve done this all along, saved himself a lot of nause.