Baked beans.

That was what Etta found on the hob when she returned home. Zac hadn’t even bothered getting bread out for toast. Her husband was poking a saucepan, transfixed by the steaming orange contents. More evidence of something wrong: Zac loved cooking; he was great at it. Secretly, Etta preferred the days when she took Kofi to school and worked later, because it usually meant coming back to a feast from Chef Boateng. The chilli, spice and palm oil-laden aromas of West African dishes would fill the kitchen, drawing her in. But not this evening, clearly.

She dropped her keys on the counter. ‘You alright?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Kofi in bed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you go to the supermarket?’

‘No.’

Etta pulled the clips out of her hair, shook it loose. ‘It’s not twenty questions, Zac.’

‘Eh?’

‘You’re allowed to say more than just yes or no.’

‘Sorry.’

She put on some toast; at least now it would vaguely resemble a meal.

The only sounds as they began eating were the scrape and clip of cutlery. She tried to lift the mood by talking about her plans for them to visit Greenwich Park at the weekend, take a picnic. Maybe call some friends, see if they were free. Offered to play football with her boys. But Zac’s responses remained terse, monosyllabic. His mind was somewhere else entirely, not ‘present’, as her mindfulness teacher would say. She’d known him to withdraw during the most intense cases; occasionally it was his way of dealing with pressure. Normally he could compartmentalise, separate home and family off from the dark places of work. Not this time, evidently: the division was between them.

She placed a hand on his forearm. ‘I meant what I said before. Whatever it is, you can talk to me. We’ll work it out together.’

Zac raised his head and met her gaze for a few seconds. His eyes wide, searching, enveloped by tiredness. Lips made tiny movements with no words. Then he looked down again, prodded the beans.

‘I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.’ Her tone was tougher.

‘There’s nothing going on,’ he replied slowly.

‘Obviously there is, since you’re out all hours now and even when you’re here it’s like the room’s empty.’

‘It’s the case.’

She slapped the table. ‘Bullshit.’ Surprised herself with the aggression.

He pushed away the plate. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Hey! You can’t just run away, whatever this is. Where are you going?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Why not?’

He strode to the door without looking back.

‘Zac!’ she screamed after him.

Etta sprang up, tipping her chair over, raced out. Saw him grab flat cap, jacket and an orange shoebox in the dim hallway before the front door slammed. Footsteps echoed on the tiles, fading to nothing. She stood there, suddenly feeling alone and scared and angry all at once. How dare he treat her like this? Nineteen years together and in that moment they were strangers. Her throat thickened, face tight as she held back tears. She turned to the photo of a young Zac in uniform staring out from the wall. Without thinking she lashed out at the frame, shattered the glass. Instantly regretted it and stooped to pick up the shards, grateful none had cut her.

She went back into the kitchen, took the tablet. Swiped till she found the Glympse tracker app. Eighteen months ago she’d made Zac install it after he misplaced his mobile twice. At the time he’d been embarrassed, claimed he didn’t need it. He hated any challenge to his practical skills. But she’d persisted, volunteering first then convincing him to follow with the argument that it would be useful in emergencies. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind, but it definitely qualified. She tapped the icon, scrolled through. There he was under ‘Favourites’, so the app was still on his phone. Since they were already connected, there was no need to send a location request. It’d be automatic if she selected his name. One tap would show exactly where he was.

She shut down the app, pushed the tablet aside. Maybe a part of her didn’t want to know, rejected stooping to tracking her own husband covertly. She just needed to talk to him. Etta massaged her eyes with the heels of her hands. Then topped up her wine glass and trudged to the living room to see what was on TV.

---

Wallace emerged from the trees, crept towards the cluster of headstones. Darkness in the countryside was deeper, blacker than the city. Fine by him, he needed cover. Not that it really mattered, there was no one within a mile and his only company was a hooting owl.

As night fell he’d taken a train from Waterloo to the village of Cobham in Surrey. Walked down lanes and across fields, finally reaching the specialist Silvermere cemetery through the woodland.

Didn’t take him long to find the grave. It looked like many others, the standard package. Small marble memorial stone and surround marking the plot, grass neatly tended. Eight hundred quid well spent. Given what had happened, it was one of the smartest investments he’d ever made. Wallace set down the holdall, removed a folding spade from inside and squatted down.

He traced his fingertips across the single word chiselled into the marble: BLAZE. At four quid a letter, that was all the information he needed. He’d been fond of the dog, got some wins with him on the track in racing days. Had his ear tattooed to stop anyone nicking him. But no way he’d have paid that kind of cash, not to bury an animal. It was unbelievable how much people spent on sticking their pets in the ground here. When you were dead you were dead, simple. In London, Wallace would’ve dropped Blaze in a canal with a sack full of stones when his time came. No big deal if the same thing happened to him. We were all worm food ultimately; it was your name that lived on. Or so he’d been telling himself for years. Prising the headstone up and hefting it aside, he drove the spade tip into soil, began digging.

Forty minutes later he struck the coffin. Sweeping the earth away, he saw its wood hadn’t degraded much. Probably couldn’t say the same for the corpse inside. Wallace took a screwdriver from his holdall and set to work. Recoiled as the lid came off: smelled like a kitchen bin left in a sauna. Fur had sloughed off the bones, most of it decayed but some still recognisable. He pulled on industrial rubber gloves, lifted limbs and ribcage out. A single bullet hole in the top of the skull. For a second he froze while a film played of the skeleton with its slow trigger action. Then he snapped back and dumped the skull to one side, peeling off the gloves. Unscrewed the coffin’s floor panels piece by piece. Removing them, he could just make out two slim, silver flight cases in the gloom.

Wallace reached down to the handles, hoisted them up. Laid the cases carefully on the grass, popped the combination locks and peered inside. Sealed cloth bags lay among foam padding. Reckoned each case was around half a million quid. Maybe more after a couple of years’ inflation. The other third of his share was in a backup spot; he’d get that tomorrow. He stuck both flight cases in the holdall, heaving it onto his shoulder. Considered putting the grave back together. Then decided against it; he was leaving anyway. Let the local feds work it out, see if any of them were sharp as Boateng. He snatched a final glance at the pile of bones and set off towards the trees.

---

Susanna Pym couldn’t sleep. She squinted to bring the alarm clock’s neon digits into focus: 01:03. None of the usual sources of night-time wakefulness were bothering her: no urban foxes screwing each other to death, no snoring from her flabby husband, no impending parliamentary debates. It was lack of results in the search for her pendant – memory stick, more precisely – that kept her brain whirring. Slipping out of bed, she grabbed a packet of cigarettes and some perfume and crept into the guest bathroom. Cracked the window and lit up. Her own bloody home and still she couldn’t smoke freely – other half would give her grief for it. Strange that although nicotine was a stimulant, it somehow soothed her. That was addiction, she supposed. The problem she’d never quite shaken. At least it wasn’t cocaine these days. Not often, anyway.

A whole week had passed since she’d met Tarquin Patey in the Oxford and Cambridge Club. His crack team of operatives had found bugger all in that time. Had it been a mistake to give the police officer’s number to Patey for his inside info? People like him probably had their own contacts. But it could help, and the officer would have no idea that they were searching for her memory stick; he didn’t even know it existed.

She needed that stick back. Her future hinged on it. The intention in recording her conversations with the police officer was to have some protection, some leverage should he try to expose her. He was a cocky sort and a few years ago – over several whiskies – she’d managed to get him talking about his ‘business’. Sidelines to his police work. With typically male bravado he’d shown off about his contact with a heroin importer, his ability to get hold of weapons, even a kidnap and ransom he’d organised. To Pym’s shame, her acquiescence to his demands over the years meant she might even have contributed to one or two of these awful exploits. But at least she had them on record.

Her thoughts travelled over the reason for all this nonsense. Would she be better off if the policeman were removed altogether? She would be free from his demands, from the risk of her career disintegrating, free to make her way to the top. It didn’t feel like being blackmailed, perhaps because he offered her favours as well. Things the police didn’t normally do. The embarrassment of a speeding ticket gone; a full and proper investigation when her home was burgled; a stalker warned off in no uncertain terms. She’d benefitted from her devil’s pact.

It was a chronic problem rather than an acute one. Sometimes those are the worst though, eating away at you slowly until it’s too late, and you haven’t even realised the end is coming. Did Patey’s firm offer that kind of service, removal of a tumour or tapeworm? She’d bet they did. But that was a different game altogether, one she wasn’t ready to play. Not yet. So, she’d just have to give them a little longer to find her memory stick. And hope that the police didn’t get there first.

Pym stubbed out the cigarette and sprayed herself with perfume. Then she went back to lying in bed, wide awake.

---

The old BMW with blacked-out windows pulled into Benedict Road, parked up under an overhanging balcony and killed its headlights. Boateng watched from the back fence of Stockwell Skatepark. He’d got there early, spotted the vantage point and taken up position. At 1 a.m. the skatepark was quiet, a few youths sprawled on the undulating concrete passing a joint and cognac bottle between them. This was the location Froggy had given him on the phone. Said a guy called Mamba who drove a ‘bimma’ would be there at midnight. No one else with a BMW had come or gone since 11 p.m., so this was probably him. Froggy had only supplied two other details to Boateng: first, the interview would cost five hundred pounds; second, Mamba had been in Two-Ten.

Since the call he’d been unable to think about anything else, practically ignoring Jones, Ash, the Wallace case, even Kofi and Etta. Especially her: she was most likely to try stopping him. Walking out on her earlier had been inexcusable. But shame wasn’t the only feeling. Boateng had the premonitory sense that this could be one of those points in life where a decision is made by reaction rather than reason. Despite the week’s worth of tiredness that clung to him, his pulse was racing. He had to calm down. He checked his outside jacket pocket for the money. Then reached inside the left breast, felt the Glock’s hard frame. Handle facing up and out towards his right hand. Just in case. Self-protection, he reassured himself. Pulled the zip up to cover it and began walking.

Approaching the vehicle, Boateng caught the hum of bass reverberating from within. Took a deep breath, knocked on the driver-side window. It dropped smoothly, releasing wisps of tobacco smoke into the night air. A black face turned in the gloom, features highlighted by white and green lights from the stereo. A cigarette butt flicked past him.

‘I’m Roy.’

Dark eyes studied him before the head jerked towards the passenger door. Boateng climbed in. ‘You Mamba?’

A grin spread slowly across the face. ‘My man said five hundred.’ The voice was baritone. Boateng caught a whiff of booze.

‘Two fifty now, the rest when we finish.’ He produced a roll of notes, handed it over. ‘That’s how I work, I’m sure Froggy told you that.’

‘Whatever man.’ Mamba tucked the cash into his shirt pocket.

‘Can you tell me about Two-Ten?’

‘Everything stays here, get me? No recording.’

‘Nothing.’ Boateng spread his hands. ‘Look, I don’t even know your name. Where did “Mamba” come from anyway?’

‘Black Mamba,’ the guy smirked. ‘Ask the ladies about that one, yeah?’

Boateng played along, chuckled. ‘So how did the group start?’

‘We was raised together in Brikky, all lived in the same ends. You get to know certain man, trust them more than others.’ Mamba lit another cigarette, tip glowing as he sucked and blew two jets from his nostrils. ‘Started to run on the road together, usual stuff. Shifting weed, few stick-ups, moved on to crack. Sy had linked up with some Jamaican mans that imported the raw stuff. We was making two grand a day. Bought anything we wanted.’ He gestured to his shirt and jeans. ‘Gucci, Louis V, Rolex, Dom Pérignon. Life was good them days.’

‘Was? What happened to you guys?’

‘Sy happened, man. Tore us apart.’ Boateng let the silence hang, pulse thumping at his neck. ‘He starts seeing this girl out of Peckham. I said it was a bad move, you know how Peckham-Brixton beef goes. But he did it anyway, cos Sy was Sy. Didn’t nobody tell him what to do. Then one day she broke up with him. They always did in the end, he used to slap ’em around and that. Sy couldn’t deal with it, started losing his shit. First he was making mistakes with the gear, missed an appointment with the Jamaicans. Took me weeks to smooth it over. Then he found out some guy was banging his girl and that was it, man.’

Boateng’s body was rigid. ‘Who was the guy?’

‘Man called Dray.’

Boateng’s mouth felt dry, he swallowed, moistened his lips. ‘Draymond King?’

The eyes narrowed. ‘You know him?’

‘No,’ replied Boateng quickly. ‘Read about it at the time though.’

‘Sy planned the hit. Got himself tooled up with a new piece, a nine mil. Killed Dray at the newsagent but took down two other people with him. Shop owner and a little girl, man. Both innocent.’ Mamba shook his head, dragged deeply on the cigarette. ‘That was wrong. Just…’ He tailed off.

‘Go on.’

‘Me and the others couldn’t really trust him after that, the man was a loose cannon, get me? That’s when it started to fall apart. That day in Peckham. A year later it was every man for himself, some of us had joined new crews. I did my own thing.’

‘What about Sy?’

‘Guess he did too. Mans drifted apart, innit.’

So close. Boateng took a chance. ‘Who was Sy?’

He sensed the body alongside him stiffen. ‘Why d’you need to know that? I’ve told you, he was just Sy.’ Another drag, jets through the nose.

‘What was his real name?’

Mamba sucked his teeth. ‘Man, fuck you, get outta my car. This shit is over. Matter of fact, gimme my other two fifty first.’ He pushed the central locking button, a thunk resounding from the doors.

Boateng steadied his breathing. ‘OK, sure. No problem,’ he said quietly, reached to his pocket. ‘Sorry, it’s just—’

The flat of his right hand hammered into Mamba’s neck before he lunged with the left, grabbing his wrist in a lock, pressing the burning cigarette tip into Mamba’s skin before the guy squealed, dropped it. Boateng pushed back to his seat, reached inside the jacket. Mamba made to move forward, froze when he saw the pistol trained on him.

The younger man raised hands, spoke carefully. ‘Just chill, yeah?’

‘Unlock the doors. Now hands on the steering wheel,’ barked Boateng. ‘What’s his name?’

‘C’mon, man, please,’ he whispered, voice catching.

‘His name?’ growled Boateng.

‘Don’t do nothing crazy—’

He racked the slide.

‘Wallace.’

Must have misheard. ‘What?’

‘Darian Wallace. He’s inside now for robbin’ some safes.’

Boateng felt like the floor was dropping away, sensation in his limbs draining. The car interior blurred, his head falling along with the gun. Became aware of hands on his own, pulling, wrenching. The Glock jammed into the armrest between them as his focus returned, Boateng’s finger squeezing the trigger under Mamba’s grip until the bang smacked him round the ears, the air a single high-pitched tone of confusion. Boateng twisted his body left, bending Mamba’s arm and forcing him to let go before crashing a right elbow into his face. Whipping back round he trained the muzzle on Mamba, whose nose was streaming blood.

‘No more games,’ shouted Boateng, almost unable to hear himself over the tinnitus. ‘Describe him.’

‘He – he’s light skinned,’ Mamba spoke quickly. ‘Half Scottish, half Jamaican. So we used to call him Scotland Yard, S-Y, Sy, yeah? Got a tear inked under his eye after the hit on Draymond, cos of the girl. Said he didn’t mean to kill her, it was just a stray, but that don’t matter now.’

Just a stray. Boateng ground his teeth, lips trembling. Hold it together. He needed one more piece of information. ‘How do you know for sure Wallace did the newsagent murders?’

Mamba sniffed at the blood trickle. ‘I was there, man, I rode the motorbike.’

Accessory to murder. Amelia’s murder. Boateng’s finger curled on the trigger, taking slack off its mini safety catch.

‘I didn’t know anyone else died till I saw it on the news.’

Tone from the gunshot still buzzing in Boateng’s ears; things seemed to slow down, his own heartbeat a bass drum. His control was slipping.

‘I swear.’ Mamba’s face contorted. ‘Please.’

He could pull the trigger now, it would be so easy. Eye for an eye. This guy had helped Wallace take Amelia from him, from their family. Dimly aware he was shaking, Boateng found his breath quickening, limbs tensing. Just let go. Follow your instinct, to hell with the consequences. His forefinger tightened a fraction more.

Then it was like he came to, finger easing off the trigger. Boateng wound up and smashed the pistol butt into Mamba’s face with a satisfying crack. His left hand reached forward, took the money from Mamba’s pocket. ‘Give me your keys too.’ Keeping eyes and gun fixed on him, Boateng reached back, popped the door handle. Slid along until his shoes touched asphalt, stood and replaced the pistol in his jacket. Dropped the keys, turned and sprinted past the skatepark into the night. Didn’t stop running until his thighs ached and lungs burned. Only then did his tears come. He wiped them on trembling hands. Realised his entire body was shaking.