Jones looked up as Boateng entered the office. ‘Is she OK, boss?’

‘What?’ He looked confused, distracted.

‘Your wife. Weren’t you just—’

‘Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. Medical stuff. You good to go?’

Jones scooped the manila file off her desk, nodded. She’d put together everything they’d dug up relating to the safe deposit box burglary back in 2014. They were hoping it could jog Ash’s memory, rake up something that might resemble a clue to Wallace’s plans. She’d watched Ash sweat the whole way to Lewisham station in the back of their car, poor guy: dark circles at the armpits of his T-shirt. How much of that was the rising summer heat and how much guilty conscience wasn’t clear. She did feel sorry for him though. Couldn’t be much of a life, sleeping on your own in a caravan, working nights in security at industrial units. And that’s before you factor in Darian Wallace and his angle grinder.

‘I thought you could lead,’ said Boateng. ‘You know more than any of us about the safe deposit job.’

‘Sure,’ she replied, heart beating slightly faster. Stay calm, follow the training. She didn’t want to get it wrong, damage her chances of being asked in future. She hadn’t needed to do many interrogations in Cyber Crime. But maybe that was life in the MIT: whatever came up, you just got on with it, until eventually you did know what you were doing.

‘Where’s Pat?’

‘Dunno, boss. He was around a few minutes ago.’ She riffled through the pages, checked all her notes were there, anything that could be useful. Grabbed a biro. And a backup one.

Connelly jogged across to them, clutching his mobile. Jones thought how light on his feet he was for someone more than twice her age. ‘Sorry about that.’ The Irishman smiled briefly. ‘Had to take a call.’

‘Can you sit on the other side? Kat’s in charge.’ Boateng pocketed his own phone.

‘Grand.’

Boateng led the way to the little interview room, held the door open for her. Inside, Ash was sprawled on a cheap metal chair, sweat patches still growing. Jones saw the light go on as Connelly flicked the switch from behind the observation mirror. She placed a polystyrene cup of water on the table in front of Ash. ‘Here you go, Harvey. Or do you prefer Danny?’

He downed the drink, slapped the cup down. Still looked scared. ‘I’m definitely not under arrest?’ Glanced between them again, checking for disagreement.

‘No,’ she answered, taking a seat opposite him. ‘But you can call a lawyer if you’d like.’

‘I’m alright.’ Ash wiped a hand across his face.

Boateng stood against the wall, arms folded. It was his idea she lead, but Jones felt like she was the one under scrutiny.

She started the CDs recording, did the introductions. ‘So, Harvey. Can you tell us everything you know about the robbery of Capital Securities on Holbein Place in 2014, please? The safe deposit box vault where you were employed.’

‘I…’ Ash hesitated, pulled the T-shirt away from one armpit. ‘All I know is that the place was raided. Two guys accused of it. Parker got out, Wallace went to jail. Half of the stuff they nicked was still missing when I stopped working there.’

‘What role did you play?’

‘None.’

‘The alarm was disabled. From the inside.’

Ash shifted in the chair, scratched a man boob. ‘Can I have some more water?’

‘Perhaps DS Connelly can—’

‘Stop the recording, Kat.’ It was Boateng. ‘We’ll get Mr Ash his drink.’

Following procedure, she announced the interruption, paused the machine, shut the file and scraped her chair back. No one else moved. Boateng was staring at Ash, arms still folded. ‘Go on.’ He nodded.

Ash spread his hands on the table. The backs of them were dimpled with fat at the knuckles. ‘It was Trent’s idea. I promised to help on condition that if it all turned to shit he wouldn’t name me. He kept his word. Wasn’t till later I found out that psycho Wallace was in on the job too. If I’d known that I would’ve…’ His head slumped.

Jones leaned forward. ‘What happened after the vault job?’

‘Parker and Wallace each took half. Supposed to hide it for a year then gradually sell the stuff on, bit by bit. Twenty per cent of the cash was gonna be mine. But Parker messed up, couldn’t wait. Money problems. So he took some gear to the pawnbroker and then, well, you lot got him.’

‘What about Wallace’s stuff?’

‘Far as I know it’s still out there, somewhere. Sooner he gets it and fucks off the better.’ The last words were bravado. People in his position often tried to show they weren’t scared, even if their body language said otherwise.

‘Where could he have hidden it?’ Jones asked.

Ash shook his head slowly. ‘Somewhere personal, I guess, that only he’d know.’

‘How much are we talking about? Physical size.’ She made a sliding scale with both hands.

‘Depends how full the deposit boxes were. About four big holdalls’ worth total, so two each, maybe.’

‘And you’ve no idea where it might be?’

‘I’d say wouldn’t I, if I knew?’

She studied him. ‘Tell us about that number on the card.’

‘Another psycho. In my caravan when I come back from the shops yesterday. Had a gun aimed right at my face. He thought Wallace was coming for me. Wanted a tip-off, said he’d pay me a grand and protect me.’

Boateng might have some ideas but Jones was stumped. Who would be looking for Wallace? A former enemy? They weren’t sure what he’d done between leaving school and robbing the vault. Seemed the sort to piss people off. ‘Describe him to me, please, Harvey, in detail.’

Ash shut his eyes. ‘White bloke about six foot, kind of skinny but looked strong. Wiry, you know. Had a scar in his cheek, like a hole that’d been patched up. Short brown hair, stubble.’

‘Could you tell where he was from? How did he sound?’

‘British, English, whatever. Like maybe he was from round here.’

‘Anything else distinctive about him?’

‘Only his watch,’ Ash sat up, animated for the first time. ‘It’s just, I know a bit about nice watches. I’m into them – good investments, yeah? He had a Breitling. Big thing, special edition too. SAS one. You had to be in the regiment to buy them back in 2005, limited numbers, you know? Some guys obviously stuck ’em on eBay, got four, five times as much. But he didn’t seem like one of those pretend soldiers who buys all the gear second-hand off squaddies. Military fantasists. Geezer broke into my caravan and pulled a pistol on me calm as you like. He’d obviously done it before.’ Ash paused, pushed out his lower lip. ‘Reckon he was the real deal.’

Jones tried to think clearly. If Ash was right, that’d narrow the identity of the man pursuing Wallace to less than a thousand names, even fewer once you factored in the physical description. Maybe just one man if the scar was rare enough. Should they get on to the Ministry of Defence? More immediately, it meant they were dealing with a pro. Was he a hired specialist? Why track Wallace? It didn’t sound like your average criminal payback. She tapped her biro on the desk. Think. Boateng didn’t say anything. Then it came to her.

‘Was there anything stolen from the vault that was particularly valuable?’

‘All of it, that’s why it was in the boxes.’

‘You’d imagine so. I’m not talking about monetary value, Harvey. I mean something more… significant.’

‘No. Don’t think so. I don’t know what was in the boxes. Some people there used to talk about dodgy stuff, a personal cocaine stash or—’

Jones silenced him with a hand. ‘What about after the theft? You still worked there, right?’ Ash nodded. ‘Did anyone who owned a stolen box make a particular fuss about what they’d lost?’

‘A lot of ’em. People who had heirlooms and that nicked, family stuff.’

‘But compared to the cash value or whatever. Anything stick out?’

Ash rocked the chair back, narrowed his eyes. Was silent a few seconds. ‘There was one, actually, now you mention it. Receptionist told me some MP kept ringing up the boss. I remember it cos normally they’ve got secretaries and that, haven’t they? But she personally called every day after the robbery. I thought it was weird – her stuff was only two thousand quid, nothing special. And you reckon someone like that’d have too much else going on to spend time checking up.’

That buzz passed through her, a mini shockwave. The thrill of something new that might be crucial. A logical connection. The ex-SAS guy looking for Wallace, an MP obsessing over a small item he’d stolen…

Boateng’s phone went off. Jones watched his expression change as he saw the screen.

‘I have to take this,’ he blurted, already half out the room. Heard him say ‘Roy’ as he answered the call. Then the door closed behind him.

She hoped Zac was OK. For a guy leading a double murder investigation he had a lot of other stuff going on.

---

Wallace lay supine on the floor.

The day’s heat had turned the lock-up into an oven. But being stuck here with the door shut was preferable to spending time outside where he could be seen. He knew he needed to let go of Ash – the Five-O had him now. Three people who broke the street code were on his list, and he’d done two of them. That didn’t count Jas grassing last week. Initially the rage had got the better of him, winding up until he’d sliced a big gash in the breeze blocks with his angle grinder. After that it ebbed away, leaving him less certain of his purpose. When he was back in prison, the objective had been clear: take out the snitches that sent him down. Protect your name with extreme force. Had to be done. Harris, Parker: fine. But with Ash he’d failed. And it didn’t seem to matter that much.

Maybe he should add Fletcher to the list. Go back and make her understand why betrayal has to be punished. Hat, sunglasses, head down, walk to Camberwell as darkness came over London. Take the angle grinder. But he found himself thinking about Reece, the ‘lickle man’, left without a mum or dad. Something crystallised when he saw Boateng playing football with his son. Revenge isn’t isolated, a single hit. It spreads its tentacles out, coils around people who don’t deserve it, haven’t done anything wrong. He could choose to leave Jas alone, then Reece would have a parent as he grew up. Like Wallace had his mum. The youngers like Reece and Neon needed to be given chances, not dragged into feuds about reputation that had nothing to do with them.

Once he had 1.5 million quid’s worth of stuff in bags and he got to Europe, he could buy a different identity, a new existence. One where maybe he wouldn’t ruin any more lives. But for that he needed the jewels.

It was time to get them back.

---

Derek flopped down into the armchair, cracked open the can and gulped down a few mouthfuls. Christ, it felt good, drinking cold beer at the end of his shift. Every day in his black cab was longer now. Had to grind out each tenner, competing against these Uber guys, even with tourists in the West End. And his lock-ups weren’t bringing much in either; demand for them seemed to have dropped off. Except for the bloke with the tattoo under his eye, he paid two ton upfront. Might be more where that came from. He belched, breathed out slowly. Things would pick up, he just had to cut down his spending. Mortgage, running the cab, football season ticket. It all added up. Pints were a fiver these days. Seemed like life got more expensive while he earned less and less.

He reached for the remote, put his feet up on the coffee table. Swigged his lager. Zapped from a reality show to Eggheads then a sitcom. All crap. Hit ITV London news. Might as well see what’s going on.

When the face appeared on his screen, Derek dropped the can. Spilled beer on the sofa. Didn’t curse or mop it up. He just nudged the volume higher.

It was the guy from his lock-up.

Darian Wallace, they were calling him, not John. Funny that. Charged with a murder, wanted in connection with another. Bloody hell. No wonder he was hiding in a garage. Derek had known the story about his car was bollocks. Wasn’t going to lie though, the cash had been useful. Obviously the coppers had no clue where he was or they wouldn’t be putting it out on the news. He grabbed a pen, scribbled the anonymous tip-off number. The right thing to do was call it in. But he knew John or Wallace or whoever he was had cash, he’d seen it. Notes he wouldn’t need in prison. Perhaps he’d visit the lock-up, see how much the guy had. What he’d be willing to pay for Derek to pretend he hadn’t seen the news. He smirked to himself. Then he’d call the cops anyway. Was he scared? Been in enough scraps himself over the years, some with weapons. That was part of the deal when you were old-school Millwall, practically royalty when it came to football hooliganism. He’d gone against top boys from other teams and some of those lads had definitely done people in. Alright, that was back in the nineties, but he still knew what he was doing. He’d take some protection along just in case. One young bloke cornered in a garage? Derek fancied his chances, murderer or not. Most likely the guy would just pay up.

He finished the rest of his lager. Noticed the slight tremor in his hand as he crushed the can.