Zac cracked open the beer, took several big gulps then held the cold bottle against his forehead. He had to think. Checked his watch: 8.36 p.m. Another slug of beer. Mounted the stairs, reasoning that his sax might help. Etta was out at her Wednesday gym class, and Kofi was staying at Neon’s. His son was spending a lot of time there recently, but Zac was glad to have the space tonight.

He lifted the King Zephyr sax, set his fingering and began some warm-up exercises. Any chance of staking out the lock-up was blown once the firearms team had gone in. Out of desperation he’d even bought dinner from the King Rooster chicken shop on Old Kent Road, hoping vainly his target might return. Pathetic. He felt completely impotent. Wallace could be anywhere now. Maybe already gone.

Worse still, when presented with the chance to action a lead at the murder scene, he’d recorded the mobile numbers for himself. Lying by omission to his teammates. That wasn’t how it worked. You had each other’s backs, and he should be setting the example to junior officers. If what he’d done today came out in the wash, disciplinary proceedings were guaranteed. Directorate of Professional Standards would trace it all, unpick his movements, tug on every thread until his covert investigation unravelled entirely. It’d cost him his job; he might even go to prison. Is that what Amelia would’ve wanted? Zac took his lips off the sax. Reached for the bottle, drained it. Closed his eyes a minute. Eventually he opened them, moistened the mouthpiece again.

Slowly, he began to play – a lilting, melancholic tune that pretty much summed up his state of mind. That fool’s errand last night could’ve got him killed, and in the cold light of day what chance did Night Vision have of finding anything? He wasn’t an active informer any more and his old contacts had probably vaporised. But Zac didn’t know who else to ask.

His own leads were somewhat better, but hard to action. He’d googled those two numbers from the garage. Had to do it on his own laptop, couldn’t risk a trace of his search on the work system. One was listed on the website of an artist in Peckham, whose speciality seemed to be dismembering and recombining animals. Perhaps that was a dead end – no pun. Something to do with Wallace’s greyhound? More interesting was the other mobile, dialled three times in six days, most recently this morning. Linked online in classified ads to a boat skipper based in Kent. Surely the escape plan.

Zac knew what he should do with the information. What he wanted to do was another matter. A little voice was whispering, telling him how good it would feel to give in to the rage and put a bullet through Darian Wallace’s head. With the fuzz of tiredness in his brain, he couldn’t think clearly enough to counter the idea. Started to improvise on the sax, louder and faster, blues turning to pure frustration.

Behind two closed doors, downstairs in the kitchen, his mobile rang. ‘N Vision’ flashed across the screen before voicemail kicked in.

---

Wallace knocked on the door, pulled his hood down, took a half step back. Didn’t want to seem threatening. The latch clicked and behind a taut chain he recognised Neon’s mum peering out. ‘Hello, Shanice, how’re you doing?’

She gave a long, slow breath, looked him up and down. ‘What do you want, Darian? You not bring no trouble to my house.’

‘Course not,’ he grinned. ‘Just came by to see Neon, that’s all.’

‘It’s nine thirty. The boys are in bed.’

Boys. Someone else with Neon. The Boateng kid?

‘I don’t mean no harm, Shanice, just thought I’d say goodbye to Neon.’

‘I watch the news, you know. You’re a wanted man.’

Wallace nodded, leaned forward and dropped his voice. ‘I didn’t kill those guys, you have to believe me. You know how it is once you get a criminal record – everyone judges you. Certain people tried to set me up. Including the police.’ He could see she was less sure of herself now. ‘That’s why I have to leave. Don’t want to, you know how my mum is.’ The woman’s lips pursed in acknowledgement. ‘Neon’s like a little brother to me, helping him was probably the best thing I’ve ever done with my life. I know it’s late, but can you let me speak to him? Please. I wanna give him some advice. Keep the lickle man on point with his maths, yeah?’ He gave a small laugh, held eye contact.

She smiled too and slipped the chain off. ‘Alright. Only a few minutes though, you understand?’

Wallace climbed the stairs, heard the noises of video game football before he’d reached the top. Easing the bedroom door open, he stepped in and closed it behind him. Neon was under his duvet, game controller in both hands, face tight with concentration. Battling him on screen was the Boateng kid, sitting up inside a sleeping bag on a roll mat spread across the floor. Both boys froze when they noticed him, like a ghost had appeared.

‘Keep going,’ he told them, gesturing at the TV. ‘Two minutes left in the half.’ Did he ever have carefree days and nights like this, where the result of gaming against your mate was the most important thing in life? What a luxury. Watching the clock tick towards forty-five minutes on screen, Wallace wished for a moment that he could just stay here, be part of this world. Have another chance. He wanted to tell these kids to make the most of what they had. Listen to their teachers, the good ones anyway. Do their homework. Go university if they could get the money.

‘You came back, Darian,’ said Neon when the time expired.

‘Yeah, wanted to see you, innit.’

‘Are you going away again?’

Wallace pursed his lips, nodded. ‘Got to.’

‘Will you come and visit?’

He blinked. ‘Dunno.’ Why was he getting emotional? Pussyhole. Just say bye-bye and get out. There was a boat coming for him any time. ‘You know, Neon, gots to make the right choices as you grow up. Otherwise you have to keep running and hiding, and that’s no life. Get it?’

The boy looked confused.

‘Don’t make the mistakes I’ve made. You understand? Don’t mess up like me.’

Even as he said the words, a small voice nagged him about the Boateng kid. The same voice that told him he was owed because of what happened in his family. The same voice that told him drug dealing, robbery, burglary, violence were all fine. Even murder; if people got in your way, put them on your list. The world and most of its people were out for themselves, so why shouldn’t he be? Why lie down and get crushed by the stronger, tougher ones? You had to be the predator, ahead of the competition. A lion stalking the grassland, feeding on the weak. Or else you were the gazelle getting its throat ripped out. That was life. And right now this voice told him to ditch the sentimental talk and focus on Boateng’s son. Here he was. The perfect insurance policy for his getaway. A gazelle at the edge of the pack.

---

Boateng had played his lungs out. He’d been up there well over an hour. Lost himself in the zone. He remained in that zombified hinterland – too wired to rest, too exhausted to make progress. And still no inspiration on what to do next. Trudged downstairs to get another drink. Remembered the ten-year-old whisky his mate Troy had given him a couple of years back. Too smoky for Etta, so he normally drank it alone. Now seemed ideal. He reached to the back of the kitchen cupboard, pulled out the bottle. Poured a generous measure. He took a first sip and felt the warmth spread around his mouth and throat. Despite the quality he was considering downing the rest when his mobile chirped. Missed call? Checked the screen, saw Thompson had rung him an hour ago. Damn. He dialled immediately.

‘It’s me. You called.’

‘Yeah.’ Sounded like Thompson was in a factory. ‘I’m at work, gimme a second.’ Receding noise suggested he was navigating to a quiet spot.

‘Have you got something?’ Boateng couldn’t conceal the urgency in his voice.

Pause. ‘Probably not. Dunno.’

‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. More disappointment. Shouldn’t have got his hopes up. ‘So why did you call?’

‘Easy. I’ll get to that. Tried everything I could think of, yeah? I’m talking blanket social media coverage. Messaged everyone I knew that might’ve known him, friends of friends and whatnot. Sent messages all night long.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing.’

Boateng’s heart sank again. Why was Thompson bothering to tell him? Every communication between them carried a risk. Perhaps he should’ve been tighter on his instructions.

‘Then I changed up my tactics,’ continued the young man. ‘Wallace was in Pentonville prison, right? So I belled my man who was locked down there too. He knew someone who knew someone. Called in a favour or two. Eventually I get on the phone with a guy that’s still inside.’

Boateng knew that, although banned, mobiles were common in most prisons, smuggled in by visitors or drones over the walls. ‘Go on.’

‘He was the guy that used to do laundry shift with Wallace. I figured since they spent hours together every day for like, months, he might know more about the man than anyone outside that used to see him. Up to date, you know?’

‘Good thinking.’ Boateng was impressed with the initiative; he wouldn’t have been able to generate leads on his target from inside Pentonville. ‘What’d he say?’

‘Wallace was damn smart, did everything the screws asked, on his best behaviour the whole time. That’s why his sentence got reduced, innit?’

‘I know. What else?’

‘Come on, man, let me tell my story.’ Thompson chuckled. ‘So the laundry guy says they used to talk about this and that, plans for when they got out, how many days left, usual stuff.’

‘And?’

‘He told me Wallace only cared about two people in the whole world. Didn’t give a damn about nobody else. One was his mum. She’s in a care home down Croydon – she’d had a stroke and started losing her memory. He wanted to take care of her, move her somewhere nicer, pay the bills, you know? So I was thinking if we locate his mum, Wallace is probably gonna go there and then bam! We got him. I’ve started making some calls to the homes. Do you know how many there are in Croydon? Hundreds, fam.’

Boateng felt like throwing his phone at the wall. All that for something they already knew and had discounted. ‘We’ve traced her. She… never mind. Might as well—’ He stopped, the fog in his mind clearing for a second. ‘What about the other person?’

‘Just some kid he used to teach maths. Like a mentor or whatever. Wasn’t his son or nothing.’

‘Who was he?’

Thompson laughed. ‘Boy had a mad name. Neon.’