Etta had urged her to keep going, head for Trinity Buoy Wharf at the docks: the last known location of Boateng’s mobile. She was monitoring it from their home in Brockley while Jones drove Etta’s car – until the signal had gone and Glympse informed Etta the mobile could no longer be found. This worrying news had made Jones drive even faster, reassuring Boateng’s wife via the hands-free that she was almost there.

Turning into the docks, a car passed her on the corner. Too dark and quick to get a good look at it. Standard five-door saloon. Glanced in her rear-view: one occupant. Could be relevant but she had to continue. Rounding the bend, Jones recognised Boateng’s car among a handful of vehicles. Stationary, no one inside. She parked behind it, climbed out. Started running towards the river. As the road bent and looming warehouses gave way to a central square, she needed no further directions.

Boateng was lying on the ground. He wasn’t moving.

Her run became a sprint.

First thing she saw up close was the blood around his shoulder. There was some on the ground too. Jones knelt next to him, fought back rising panic, wiped clammy hands on her jeans. Tried to think clearly; DR-ABC, they were taught at Hendon.

Danger: a quick scan showed a figure moving towards the river with difficulty, dragging something. Could be Wallace. Had to let him go for now.

Response: she shouted Boateng’s name. Nothing.

Airway: she tilted his chin, no blockages.

Breathing: leaned over his face, waited.

Still nothing.

Then air on her cheek, barely perceptible. Adrenalin shot through her.

‘Zac! Come on.’ As the flow of air increased, she sat back to give him space. He opened his eyes, stared at her, momentarily confused. ‘Can you hear me?’ she called.

‘Kat,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s Wallace, he—’

‘You’re bleeding, Zac, and right now I’m helping you. She tore off her leather jacket, wrapped the sleeves tight round his shoulder. He gasped as she pulled hard, checked the blood flow. ‘OK, I’m calling it in.’ Punched 999 into her phone, hushed his protests. Gave her rank, name and badge number, said she needed an ambulance for one injured officer and local units for a possible suspect. Calmly stated the location. Then hung up.

Examining the wound, she could see what looked like a bullet’s entry point in his jacket on the left side of his chest. Felt behind it, touched several hard, jagged objects. Gently lifted the jacket flap. His mobile, shattered. Bullet must’ve ricocheted off it and out through his shoulder. Damn sight better than entering his lungs.

Boateng began to move, shifted his legs. Slowly pushed up onto his good elbow, breathing easier now.

A noise made her turn.

The stooped figure was still pulling his holdall towards the jetty. He froze a second, looked right at her, shifted his gaze to Boateng, turned, staggered on. Then collapsed.

Jones didn’t know what to do.

‘Go!’ croaked Boateng.

She looked from her boss to Wallace and back. ‘But I’ve got to make sure you’re stable, I—’

Boateng managed a nod in Wallace’s direction. ‘He needs your help.’

Jones checked her improvised tourniquet once more then ran to Wallace. He was passed out between two large black holdalls, blood on the decking where he’d fallen. Ahead on the jetty a boat was cranking up its outboard motor. Surely the ex-con skipper hired by Wallace for his escape. She bellowed ‘Police!’ at the craft and an engine roared before it pulled out, accelerated away downriver. Jones stayed put. Maritime might catch him if she could call soon enough.

Jones stared down at Wallace, the man who had caused so much pain, carnage and misery. Not just in the last two weeks but for years. The man who’d murdered Boateng’s daughter. If she did nothing he’d bleed to death before the ambulance arrived. She hesitated. Thought about her Dad. Do the right thing. Looked back at Boateng. He watched her, gripping the makeshift bandage in his other hand. She stood over Wallace as the regular movement of his ribcage slowed.

Then she knelt and began to stem the blood flow from his chest wound.

---

Jones directed the first medics to Wallace, who needed them more. While they tended to him, with another vehicle on the way and maritime units alerted, she returned to Boateng. Kept her voice low.

‘Etta told me everything. About Wallace, about what you’ve found. You should’ve brought us in. Trusted us.’

‘I wasn’t thinking right.’ He shook his head, grimaced. ‘Didn’t know who to trust.’

Her look said that wasn’t OK.

‘I’m sorry,’ he added.

‘I know why you did this, Zac. But it nearly killed you. Then what would it have been worth?’ She checked over her shoulder before continuing. ‘That handgun over there.’ She jerked her head across to the warehouse. ‘Whose is it?’

He turned awkwardly.

‘You know what I’m talking about. The thing that did this to you.’

Boateng seemed to be weighing his answer carefully. ‘Mine,’ he said quietly.

Jones knew what this meant: five years minimum sentence, job gone. She blew out her cheeks, scanned the scene, hoping his pistol would disappear. Knew she could make it disappear. She thought a second before asking.

‘He fired on you?’

‘Yeah, I got too close, he took it off me and—’

‘OK. You leave any trace on it?’

Boateng shook his head. ‘Maybe just where we fought over it.’

‘So Wallace has prints on the gun, residue on his clothes. Ballistics will confirm the angles. Just your word against his on whose weapon it was.’

Her boss stared back at her. Might’ve been surprise on his face.

‘Look, I’m not saying I think it’s alright. It’s just…’ She didn’t know how to express it. ‘That would be…’

‘Justice.’

‘Right.’

He managed a half-smile.

‘So you’ve got about two minutes before the rest turn up and everyone from the ambulance driver to the commissioner wants to know what happened. You’d better get a story about why you were here alone.’

Boateng nodded. ‘Kat, I don’t want you to have to lie if—’

She silenced him with a hand. ‘You can trust me.’ Knew she had the right reasons. Just hoped it wasn’t the wrong choice.

A siren rose in the distance.

---

The chink of cutlery and babble of conversation wafted around the Grand Divan at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. At 7.30 a.m. the ornate room was packed with businesspeople and Savoy hotel guests. Susanna Pym finished reading an article – to which she hadn’t really been paying attention – about some or other new obstacle to Brexit. PM wouldn’t be happy about that. Mind you, she’d be even less joyful if that memory stick was out in the open, and she had to explain why one of her ministers was accused of colluding with a corrupt police officer. Pym threw her Daily Telegraph across the huge table, sipped her coffee and speared a piece of sausage. She’d chosen one of the old chess booths down the side of the room, facing the door. Keeping an eye out for her guest. Hoping he’d be the bearer of good news. Perhaps four refills of coffee hadn’t been the best way of coping with her nerves. She could already feel the heart palpitations. And she was craving a cigarette. Needless to say, no bloody smoking in here either.

Pym was considering another coffee in lieu of tobacco when the tall slim figure in his well-cut suit appeared at the doorway. He beamed at the maître d’ then marched over to her. Slipped into the booth, placed a small bag on the table. ‘Good morning, Under Secretary,’ he boomed.

‘Keep your bloody voice down.’

Tarquin Patey half raised his hands in apology. Smiled and slid the bag towards her. Pym stopped chewing mid-mouthful, dropped her knife and fork, reached for the bag. Inside was a case. Her eyes flicked up to him as she opened it, extracted the pendant, turned it and prised off the back. Closed her eyes, sank back into the booth’s cushion. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. The large emerald sparkled in chandelier light. ‘Must say I’d begun to doubt you.’

‘My chap is nothing if not tenacious.’

‘Tell him I’m grateful. Without mentioning my name, obviously.’

He bowed his head. ‘Goes without saying.’

She felt the mood lift, her whole body relaxing. Realised she’d been tensing her neck and shoulders for half an hour. Patey sensed the change. Nodded at her full English.

‘Not a great advert for a health minister, is it?’ He arched an eyebrow.

She stared at the plate, flashed a grin. ‘They used to call this Seven Deadly Sins, now they’ve renamed it the Great British Breakfast. I prefer the original title. Life’s too short to eat bloody chia seeds. Why deny yourself simple pleasures, I say.’

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ he drawled, and gave a low chuckle.

She laughed too. Imagined his charm had worked on many women over the years, especially at the rate soldiers had affairs.

‘Any, er, how would you put it – collateral damage?’

‘None of consequence. A couple of gunshot wounds, non-fatal. And your thief’s back in custody, apparently.’

‘Gunshot wounds?’ Pym hadn’t meant to say it so loud. ‘This isn’t bloody Afghanistan. The police tend to investigate that sort of thing here.’

‘Be rather disappointing, as a taxpayer, if they didn’t.’

‘I’m not joking.’

‘Trust me.’ Patey made a small chopping movement with his hand. ‘They won’t find anything. My man’s seen to that. He’s rather adept at covering his tracks. I’ll spare you the details.’

That sounded comforting, but Pym’s concern remained on her face. ‘I don’t want to have to speak quietly to the Home Secretary about it.’

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’

‘Good. Did you use that number I gave you?’

‘I believe my chap spoke to him once or twice for some relatively low-level tactical information. A couple of updates, that’s all.’

‘Your man didn’t mention the memory stick?’

Patey looked disgusted. ‘Of course not. That’s confidential client information.’

She scrutinised him, nodded. ‘And nothing else tying it to me?’

‘Absolutely not. Worst that could happen once the police get through an inventory of the stolen goods is that yours is among several items from the vault that weren’t either seized or returned. If it comes to that, you can always shrug your shoulders and claim the insurance.’

‘I already have.’ She twitched a smirk, relaxed again. Order was restored. Three years’ agitation over. Her little secret would remain just that. Unless the demands of DCI David Maddox turned to all-out threats and it became a matter of survival. She gestured to the stick. ‘Main thing now is to get this locked away somewhere.’

‘Might I recommend a vault with more trustworthy employees?’

She gave him a withering look. ‘Thank you for the sage advice, colonel.’ She took a slice of toast from the silver rack, bit in with a crunch.

‘Well.’ Patey steepled his fingers. ‘I won’t keep you from your breakfast. Do let me know if you or any of your’ – he searched for the word – ‘friends have similar issues they might require assistance in resolving.’

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘Shall I make an announcement in the Commons, see if anyone’s interested?’

Alarm flashed across Patey’s features for a second before they both forced a laugh. Enough deniability to keep both of them safe from any possible inquiry into those gunshot wounds. And enough tangible association to bind them together in secrecy. Or mutually assured destruction, to give its proper name. She seemed to be making a habit out of those relationships.

---

Empty eye sockets stared at him.

A hollow skull; pale bones that could move unaided. A gun muzzle trained on his forehead, the slow trigger-pull.

Wallace awoke at the bang, eyes immediately darting around the room, trying to orientate himself. Was he dead? No, he could feel his own body, move his limbs. Saw the large plastic tube coming from his mouth, two red socks poking out the end of the bed sheets. Clocked the heart-rate monitor to his left reading eighty-five; saline drip to his right. Recognised the whole set-up from his mum’s stroke. Hospital. Pulled the pale green robe down at the neck, registered thin black spikes projecting from under his collarbone. They were too close to focus on, looked like stitches. Surgery, for a bullet wound. Shit. He remembered the night before, the ninja and his electric shocks. The blood flowing as he staggered towards the boat, seeing Boateng move, the woman arriving. Then darkness crowding his vision until he must’ve blacked out.

The room was neat, clean and only large enough for a single bed. One of those places they put the most difficult patients: infectious, delirious, violent. People with enemies. One of his mates had been isolated in a room like this when he got stabbed back in the day; police thought someone might come in and try to finish him off. Fed on the door, an alias in the ward register. Wallace assumed the same would be true now. Craned his neck to the doorway, felt the tube pulling in his throat. Through the crack he could see sturdy boots planted, plain dark trousers. Five-O.

Damn.

Wallace sunk back into his pillow. He was screwed, again. Where had Boateng got his information from? He checked back mentally. Maybe they’d traced activity on the mobile he left in the garage. Blamed himself for that slip. But how did they know about the docks? Had to be the Internet record – Neon, via the Boateng kid. He tried to hold back the fury. It can’t have been Neon’s fault, he knew not to tell. Could’ve been Miller with his boat, a stooge for the feds. But more likely Boateng junior. Once Wallace was out of here he’d find out for sure. And do the thing he knew best. Take revenge.

He thought a second.

Kofi. Yeah, that was the kid’s name.

Wallace let the rage seep away for now. It was only a matter of time. He couldn’t say the name out loud with a tube down his throat, but replayed it over and over in his head until it became a synonym for payback.

Kofi Boateng. A new name on the list.