‘What’ve you got?’ Boateng called as he crossed the room. His team was gathered round Malik’s computer.

‘Harris was in at the deep end,’ replied Malik. ‘One or two people he put away are proper nutters by the look of their records.’

‘Anyone serious enough to murder him for it?’

Jones glanced up from her notebook. ‘Two still in prison. Another dead, cardiac arrest. The female’s in a wheelchair after a car accident. Fifth guy moved to the Costa del Sol last year and the UK Border Agency have no trace of him returning since. So unless it was a commissioned job or a relative, they’re out. Occam’s razor,’ she offered, remembering Boateng’s advice to keep things simple. Boateng grinned. ‘Sixth and seventh both possibles,’ she continued. ‘No forensics linking either to the scene yet though.’

Boateng appreciated her brevity. ‘Which two?’

‘Gary Tomlinson, out three years, now works as a boiler repairman. Seems like he’s made a new start in life. And this guy.’ She indicated the screen. ‘Darian Wallace.’

‘Wallace got out four days ago,’ added Connelly.

‘Interesting timing.’ Boateng dropped into a chair beside them. Examined the photo on one of the monitors. A light-skinned man of dual heritage stared back. The high cheekbones and lean face gave him a hungry, almost gaunt look. His dark eyes were unreadable, a single teardrop inked under the right one. ‘Great work. So what’s his story?’

Malik clicked to another document on the computer. ‘Twenty-five years old. Born and raised in Brixton. Scottish dad, Jamaican mum. Mum did most of the work, by the look of it. Dad was an ex-soldier, alcoholic, two convictions for assault – did six months in Wandsworth for ABH. Dad was in and out of the home, then left for good when Darian was fifteen. Behavioural problems at school got him referred to an educational psychologist.’

‘What did they find?’

Jones lifted up a printout. ‘Conclusion: Wallace was bored.’

‘Wasn’t everyone at school?’ Connelly laughed.

Boateng frowned. ‘Why?’

‘His IQ was estimated at 155.’

Boateng let out a low whistle.

‘I’m no psychologist, but that sounds pretty damn high,’ observed Connelly.

‘Put it this way, Pat,’ said Boateng. ‘You could run a country with that kind of brain. A hundred is average.’

‘Borderline genius,’ continued Jones, turning the page. ‘Excelled at maths. Took the GCSE at thirteen, then for two years they just gave him the A-level textbooks and let him work alone. Apparently it was the only class where he wasn’t disruptive. Psychologist’s assessment also found a full house of antisocial personality traits. She diagnosed conduct disorder: lying, rejection of authority and rules, aggression towards others, stealing and destroying property, impulsiveness, low emotional reactivity. Ed psych notes that conduct disorder is extremely rare in high IQ subjects; she’d never seen another case like him.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Wallace was kicked out of school in the end for fighting. Before leaving they let him sit maths and further maths A-levels on his own. A-star in both.’

Boateng nodded slowly.

‘That was in ’08.’ Malik prodded the screen. ‘Next mention is when he decides to rob a safe deposit box vault in 2014.’

‘Capital Securities on Holbein Place, off Sloane Square,’ Connelly read from a sheaf of paper. ‘Early hours on the twenty-sixth of May. Bank holiday Monday, no one around. Alarm didn’t go off, so they might’ve had some inside help. Never confirmed. Our Flying Squad colleagues estimated three million quid’s worth of stuff nicked; some of it belonging to pretty important clients, by all accounts. Jewellery, watches, uncut diamonds, gold bars. And that was just what people claimed for, never mind any contraband that wasn’t insured. Robbers took the hinges off each deposit box with an angle grinder. Forensics were thin but eventually they picked up two guys for it, including our man Wallace. He was the only one charged though. Five-year sentence, reduced to four for good behaviour, out in two.’

Boateng rubbed his chin. ‘So they try to sell the stuff on to Harris, he comes to our lot and the other guy rolls on Wallace in exchange for his freedom. Who was the second man?’

Connelly consulted one of the pages.

‘Trent Parker.’

‘There’s more,’ said Jones. ‘Our locksmith drilled Harris’s safe. He can’t rule it out, but looks like nothing was taken. Probably not even opened in the attack. Apart from a load of valuables, Harris was keeping personal records of everyone he’d provided intelligence on. Plus a few individuals he hadn’t yet brought to Flying Squad. Maybe blackmailing them?’

‘Talk about playing with fire. Any other forensics from the scene?’

‘Not yet, boss. They’ll call us when they’ve got something.’

‘Alright. Wallace is the priority for now then. Motive, opportunity, timing. Nas, can you get on to the security firm and find out where he is? If he’s on parole he should be tagged.’

Malik grabbed the desk phone.

‘What happened to the gear from the safe deposit job, Pat?’

Connelly located the relevant document. ‘About half of it was retrieved. Parker may have given up his share as part of a deal. The rest, no trace. Both men claimed their loot was found. So Wallace’s stash is probably still hidden, since he didn’t give it up when they lifted him.’

Malik replaced the receiver and spun round. ‘Got the address, boss. Hostel on Talfourd Place in Peckham. Halfway house for ex-cons. Security firm’s GPS says Wallace is there right now.’

Boateng stood. ‘Stab vests, covert. Pat, bring the Taser. Let’s go.’ Jones looked tense. He clapped her on the shoulder. ‘Stay with me.’

‘Boss,’ interjected Malik. ‘They said he was there yesterday morning too, when Harris was killed.’

‘Then he hasn’t got anything to worry about, has he?’

---

The street was quiet as they pulled up in unmarked cars. Boateng sent Connelly to cover the fire escape while the rest of them went to the main entrance. The hostel’s front door had a large window in it, a standard feature in these places. He rang the buzzer and moments later an older man appeared in the corridor. Boateng showed his warrant card through the glass. The man pointed at himself, visibly relieved when Boateng shook his head. He opened the door and Boateng whispered thanks, directing the guy back into his room. Once upstairs, he dialled Connelly’s mobile and, speaking in hushed tones, brought him inside. The four of them gathered silently outside Wallace’s room before Boateng thumped on the flimsy door. ‘Darian Wallace, this is the police. Open up.’

Nothing.

‘Mr Wallace, it’s the police. If you do not open the door to us we will break it down.’

Still nothing.

‘Ready, Pat?’

Connelly nodded, Taser in hand. ‘Right, go ahead, Nas.’ Boateng motioned towards the door and Malik wound up with the Enforcer. One hit smashed the lock, plywood splintering as Malik kicked it wide open and stood aside.

Connelly darted in. ‘Clear,’ he shouted a second later. ‘We’re too late.’

‘Damn,’ whispered Boateng, entering and scanning the room. The furnished space held no evidence that Wallace had been there, save a black transponder unit on the floor. Plugged in, switched on, display lit. He stared at the device. ‘How…?’

Connelly re-holstered the Taser as he rounded the single bed. ‘Jesus, would you look at that. Cheeky bastard.’

Leaning against Wallace’s bed was a moulded prosthetic leg, bandaged to the calf. Attached at its ankle was the grey plastic and black strap of an ex-con’s electronic tag.

---

‘How the hell did he pull that off?’ Jones shook her head.

She and Boateng were in his car, cutting through back roads as they returned to Lewisham. Malik and Connelly were driving separately.

‘Magic, psychology, misdirection and showmanship.’

‘Derren Brown,’ noted Jones.

‘Very good. Believe it or not, that same trick has been done twice before. Once in Manchester, then in the US. Distracted security contractor is on the clock, doesn’t want to hang around in certain locations where he doesn’t feel safe. Guy on parole is chatting away about this and that, and the employee fits the tag on a prosthesis. Under a bandage or thick socks you couldn’t tell if a moulded limb was plastic unless you touched it.’

‘I didn’t see anything in Wallace’s file about an amputated lower leg.’

‘Right. He probably strapped his lower leg up round his thigh and sat down, claiming an ankle injury or something. Must’ve given him one hell of a dead leg. But you’ve got to admire the creativity.’

Neither of them spoke for a minute as Boateng negotiated the warren of Victorian terraces, taking his usual shortcuts.

Jones broke the silence. ‘So what next?’

‘We work out where else Wallace might be, and wait for the forensics report on Harris’s shop to come through. Was there anything useful in his flat when you guys went there?’

‘Not that we could find,’ she replied. ‘He didn’t seem to have much outside work, but looks like he kept what little private life there was separate from his business.’

‘That’d be nice.’ Boateng chewed his lip.

Jones stared ahead. ‘True.’

He’d lost count of how many times work had impinged on his marriage, his children. Child, now. He needed to change the subject.

‘So how’d you get into this game then? The Job.’

‘Family.’

Boateng glanced at her, nodded. So much for the change of subject.

‘My dad was a bobby,’ she continued. ‘Sergeant in Haringey. I remember the last time I saw him. Seventh of October, 2001. I was ten. He stood there by the front door in his uniform, promised he’d watch Toy Story 2 with me when he got home, then he left. When Mum told me he’d been hit by a car, I didn’t understand. Thought he was indestructible. You know, like a superhero.’ She turned her head to the window.

‘What was he doing?’

Jones fiddled with a Velcro strap on the vest. ‘Chasing some guys who’d just done over a Post Office. Car swung out of a side road as he was running.’ She paused. ‘I made her take down his photos at home, I couldn’t deal with it.’

‘You were only ten,’ said Boateng gently.

‘When I was fourteen, I took an oath on the anniversary of his death. Put some flowers on his grave and swore to do what he did. Join the Met. I wrote the vow in a card and left it with the bouquet. I’d carry on what he was trying to do. Sort of like his spirit was still living through me. Mum didn’t want me to. She was still trying to talk me out of it at university.’

‘But you wouldn’t hear it.’

‘No. Sent off the application before I’d even left UCL. Mum got angry. Said it wouldn’t bring him back, no matter how much danger I put myself in.’ Jones sighed and wriggled in her seat. ‘Sounds stupid, but you know when you think you can change the past by doing something that relates to it now?’

‘Yeah.’ Boateng checked his own reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

‘Are we just kidding ourselves?’

‘I’m not sure.’

---

Back in the office, they pulled swivel chairs around Connelly’s desk. Boateng dispensed the coffee while the others grabbed pastries out of a paper bag spotted with grease.

‘Right.’ Boateng clapped his hands. ‘This is where we’re at. Our main suspect is Darian Wallace. He burgles a safe deposit vault. Harris shops him, Wallace goes down for two years. Comes out on Wednesday, then around 6 a.m. Saturday Harris is murdered. Wallace has absconded from his hostel and is untraceable. There are no other serious leads on Harris and no witness statements or anything else in his shop or flat to suggest who might’ve killed him.’

‘Unless he was blackmailing some of those people he was keeping tabs on?’ suggested Connelly.

‘True. We need to check them out. Well volunteered, Pat,’ Boateng grinned, and made a note on his pad. ‘Any other updates?’

‘CCTV,’ said Connelly. ‘Techies say they can’t do much with our footage of the guy walking in and out of the alleyway. Maybe a gait analysis, but otherwise nothing. I’ve requested the footage from nearby streets to see if we can pick him up elsewhere, work backwards. Don’t hold your breath. They’ve drawn a blank on the camera inside Harris’s shop. Shows him arriving and sitting at his desk for ten minutes before it cuts out.’

Boateng pursed his lips and let the moment of frustration pass.

‘Lopez is in the clear too,’ said Jones. ‘Family put her at home before she left at six forty-five to walk to the High Street. Phone record confirms it – the mobile she used to call 999.’

‘Fine. She wasn’t top of my list.’ Boateng leaned back in his chair. ‘So until forensics give us a smoking gun, the question is “Where’s Wallace?” Kat, check the stuff Harris had on Wallace in his safe for any places of interest. Nas, pull recent addresses off his file – family too, if you can find them. Pat, can you follow up the other guys Harris was spying on? The ones he hadn’t yet come to us about.’

---

Half an hour later they still hadn’t found Wallace’s mother or father, but they did have two potential locations: his last known address from Crimint records, plus the name and flat of a woman – possibly Wallace’s girlfriend – called Jasmine Fletcher. His mobile records had shown intense bursts of contact with her over nearly two years, right up until his conviction.

‘Pat, Nas, you guys head to his last known address. Kat and I will go and see if Ms Fletcher has any idea where Mr Wallace might be. Don’t forget your stab vests.’