‘Looks like a partial footprint.’ Connelly examined a mark on the windowsill and scanned the garden. ‘Must’ve jumped out the window.’

Malik bent over the bed. ‘Where did your son go, Ms Blake?’

‘Eh?’

‘Your son,’ he said, louder. ‘Darian. He was here, wasn’t he?’

‘Who?’

‘Where did he go?’

‘Oh, nowhere.’

‘What?’

Connelly gripped Malik’s shoulder. ‘Not worth it, Nas. I’ll call in some backup, check for CCTV and get a description from our man at the front.’

‘I’m heading outside,’ replied Malik. ‘See if there’s any sign of him.’

‘Leonie,’ began Connelly, slowly. He knew from his father’s last few years that people with dementia needed time to orientate themselves. ‘My name’s Patrick, and I’m a police officer. You’re not in any trouble. I’d really like you to help me, please…’

---

Malik rounded the corner, checked the garden wall on its other side. Turned a circle, assessing the options. Four streets leading off the nearby junction. Wallace could have gone in any one of those directions. Most logical option was the closest, the one he was on right now. He jogged up to the first bend, surveyed the road. About a hundred metres off, a bus pulled out to reveal a hooded figure walking away. Jeans, trainers. Matched the description. He radioed it in: name, badge, location, in pursuit. As he ran, he tried to keep his footfall quiet – didn’t want to give himself away. The guy was pacing quickly, head down. Within twenty metres, Malik picked up his speed.

‘Stop, police!’

The figure turned, began to run. Malik gave chase. Slalomed round some pedestrians.

‘Stop!’ he yelled again. The guy kept moving, in a sprint now.

Malik was breathing heavily, adrenalin surging. Houses flashed past. He was fit, but pegging it after a suspect like this always produced that hollow feeling in his legs: lactic acid. He kept going.

He heard a siren and slowed down to grab the radio off his vest, give an update on his position. No escape for the bastard now, not with a patrol car on its way. They had Wallace. The siren grew louder, then Malik saw the blue lights.

The hoody broke left into another road, patrol car screaming after him. Malik followed, giving it one final burst. The car pulled up hard in front. Two uniforms scrambled out. One went at the guy, the other produced a Taser from her holster.

‘Police officer, stop right now!’ she barked. Took aim.

The figure halted, surrounded.

‘Hands up. Keep them raised. Nick ’im, fellas,’ she called, steadying the Taser. They approached, Malik from behind, the other uniform opposite. They stepped closer towards him, within a couple of metres now. The suspect dropped one hand to his pocket.

It didn’t reach his jeans before the probe hit him. Fifty thousand volts crackled down the wire and the guy dropped with a strangled moan, rigid on the tarmac. A one-second burst was enough.

‘Arms out,’ yelled the woman. ‘Arms out now!’

‘Cuff him,’ said Malik. The male officer did, yanking his hands behind his back. Malik stepped forward, pulled down the hood. ‘Oh shit,’ he whispered, closed his eyes.

He didn’t know which South Asian ethnic background best described the guy they’d just arrested. Right now it didn’t matter. There was only one thing he was sure of: it wasn’t Darian Wallace.

---

Jasmine Fletcher stood alone in the living room. Reece was at a friend’s. She studied the card.

‘Detective Sergeant Kat Jones – Lewisham Major Investigation Team.’

Email. Landline. Mobile. One call away. Fletcher grasped her iPhone in her other hand. She’d seen the press conference highlights, Darian’s face plastered all over the news. Wanted in connection with a murder. She knew he had a past – ran with a few guys on the road, got into scrapes. She’d never asked him too many questions when they’d been together. But smashing some guy’s head in with a hammer? That was a whole different thing.

She tapped the card against her mobile.

Maybe the police had found him already, since it was after midday and he hadn’t come back. His duffel bag was still under the sofa. Some cash was in there, she knew that. He hadn’t paid her for the two nights yet. She wanted that money – needed it. Five hundred. Would it be a crime to help herself? After all, he owed her. If she turned him in now, would the cops let her go? If she didn’t, then she was part of it. With him.

She slid her thumb across the phone screen. Her heartbeat quickened.

Maybe he was innocent – the police made mistakes all the time. Darian had his flaws, the temper, but he did care about others, deep down. She believed that. Would he really have killed someone? What if there’d been a good reason for it?

Guilty or not, if she made the call to Jones, he’d know it was her – and he’d find her, one way or another. Fletcher closed her eyes at the image of Wallace wielding his electric drill. The feeling of that sharp metal tip digging into her neck. That was minor compared to some of the injuries he’d given her over their two-year relationship. He’d pushed her down the stairs for slapping him in the face during one of their arguments. Imagine what this would lead to.

The screen went black again.

It wasn’t only her. There was Reece to think about. His dad had left long ago and she had devoted herself to raising him, whatever it took. She couldn’t let anything get in the way of that. No matter what choice she made now, there’d be consequences for Reece. Her son was involved, though he didn’t understand. Both of them had been sucked in.

Part of her just wanted to get away from Darian Wallace. But once you met him, there was no escape. You loved him; you hated him.

‘Screw you Darian!’ she barked aloud, though the flat was empty.

She swiped and stabbed the passcode. Twirled Jones’s card in her fingertips. Slowly, she pressed 0 – 7 – 9 – then deleted it quickly. She took a long breath in through her nostrils. Stared at the screen, steeled herself. Typed 0 – 7 –

The door clicked open.

‘Yo, you home, Jas?’ Wallace’s voice was cheerful.

She stuffed the card down her back pocket. ‘Yeah, babe, in here.’ Locked her mobile.

He swaggered through, taking in the room. ‘What you doing?’

Heart pounded against her ribcage. ‘Nothing.’ She forced a smile.

‘Where’s lickle man?’

‘Playing at a mate’s.’

He grinned. ‘So we finally got some time alone?’ Stepped close, smelled her hair. Clasped her shoulders.

Relax, she told herself.

His hands slid down to her arse. Fingers played at the top of her back pockets, creeping inside. Began kissing her neck. ‘I’ve waited for this,’ he whispered.

Probed deeper into the pockets.

She reached behind and took his wrists. Lifted them off her shorts, looked up at him. ‘If we’re gonna do that, gimme two minutes.’ Turning, she left the room.

‘Why you making me wait, girl?’ he called after her.

Fletcher locked the bathroom door and took out the card. She examined it one last time, then tore it into pieces, flushed the toilet and dropped them into the cascade. When it settled, the bowl was empty. She knelt to check. Stared at her distorted, shifting reflection in the water.

---

Career-ender.

That’s what they called the hardest kind of tackle in football. Pulling it off could be a game-changer. But get the timing and execution wrong and you’re red carded, banned from playing. Boateng was about to launch the professional equivalent. Too late to stop now; he was already in the run-up. No margin for error.

Approaching the desk at New Scotland Yard, he saw it was the same constable as yesterday. Produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Boateng, Lewish—’

‘I remember you, sir. Source inquiry. What can I do you for today?’

‘Did you get my message?’

‘No.’

‘Called ahead,’ Boateng lied. ‘Need to see the Harris file again, couple more details.’

‘I didn’t get any message. If it’s not been authorised by the commanding officer, I can’t—’

‘It has been authorised. By DCI Krebs.’

‘Each visit requires separate—’

Boateng held up a hand. ‘Look, Constable, I’d love to chat about this but we’re in the middle of a murder investigation. We don’t have time.’ He leaned in, lowered his voice. ‘You don’t want Krebs on to your boss for impeding our work. She told me the approval carries over because it was an out-of-hours request. Maybe check the small print. Either way, she’s taken responsibility.’ The guy was wavering, unsure of his ground now. Time to gamble. Boateng produced his mobile. ‘But we can call Detective Chief Inspector Krebs now if you want to check. Just introduce yourself nice and clearly.’ He proffered the device, let it hang in the air.

The officer shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He glanced around, thought about it. Bit his lip. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually. ‘Leave your phone here.’

Boateng deposited the mobile in exchange for a small laminated card.

‘Follow me, sir.’

The tiniest of smiles crept up Boateng’s face as he took the basement stairs behind the constable. He began counting. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand…

Seventy-five seconds to get to the vault.

The uniformed officer opened it again with the electronic key code and they stepped inside as the lights flickered on. Boateng headed straight for the 2004 Flying Squad cabinet and extracted Harris’s documentation under his alias, Cobweb. Began skimming, produced a notebook. Fished in the other pocket of his suit jacket.

‘Damn,’ he exclaimed. He turned to the constable, who stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘My pen’s in the car.’

‘I’ll have one brought down.’ He reached for his radio and called it up. No response, because there was no one else at his desk. The officer puffed out his cheeks. ‘You bloody detectives. All those exams and no common sense. Wait here, I’ll be back.’

Boateng listened as the footsteps receded. Then, leaving Harris’s file out, he went straight to the Trident 2012 cabinet. He estimated he had ninety seconds, if that. He checked his watch. Pulled open the top drawer of three: hand-labelled tabs on dividers, manila folders behind each. Boateng recognised one immediately: TOTTENHAM MANDEM. They were arranged by gang name, but not alphabetically. He flicked between the folders. A different code word marked on each. The sources inside a gang, or informing on it from the outside.

The young man who’d been targeted the day Amelia died was thought to be a low-level member of SSP: South Side Playaz. Back then, leads into the gang had gone nowhere. Boateng rifled through the drawer. Nope. Closed it. Yanked open the middle one, read the gang names: GUNS AND SHANKS; ALL FOR Ps; MURKAGE SQUAD; PECKHAM BOYS. Not here either. He glanced up at the empty corridor.

Seventy seconds left.

Come on.

Bottom drawer. Original Rudebwoys – no. Tek Nines – no.

Yes. There it was: SOUTH SIDE PLAYAZ.

Boateng extracted the single manila folder behind the tab. Read the code name: NIGHT VISION. He opened it.

The mugshot of a young black guy was clipped onto an A4 piece of paper at the top of a bundle. He lifted it, scanned the biodata handwritten on a pro forma.

Full name: Clarence Jeremiah Thompson. Date of birth: 8/10/91. An address in Peckham. Recruitment date: 26/2/12. Four months before the shooting.

He checked his wrist: fifty seconds.

Producing the second phone he’d brought – a team spare – Boateng laid out the mugshot and data page on the cabinet, photographed both.

The device beeped and clicked and he cursed. He’d switched it to airplane mode but not turned off the camera sounds.

The image was blurred. Come on, dammit. He refocused, tapping the screen. Clicked again. Pressed the gallery icon to bring up the result. Waited. Why was it so slow?

Thirty seconds.

He peered into the dark corridor. Noticed his hand holding the phone was trembling slightly. But the new photo was clear.

Boateng riffled through the wad of paper inside Night Vision’s file: mostly contact notes, some handwritten, others typed. A lot of meetings. These Trident guys had been busy if nothing else. He snapped a few more of the early pages without stopping to assess either their content or his picture quality.

Twenty.

Were those footsteps coming? He wanted to keep reading. He strained his ears, clutching the papers. Couldn’t be sure. His own pulse was thumping in his temples.

Fifteen.

Papers inside the folder, biodata on top, photo clipped in. Just how he found it.

Ten.

Folder back in the drawer, closed quietly. He crossed the room.

Five.

Picked up the Harris file and his notebook. Flicked through a couple of pages.

‘Got your pen, sir.’ The constable strode in, holding the biro aloft.

Pretending to start, Boateng raised his head. Smiled. ‘Cheers.’ He took it from the officer’s outstretched hand. ‘Appreciate it.’ Looking past him, Boateng clocked the bottom drawer on the Trident cabinet, still open a centimetre. He scribbled some notes and handed the pen back. Replaced the Harris file. Please don’t let him see…

‘Thanks very much, mate,’ said Boateng. Keep your eyes raised.

The constable turned, leading the way out. ‘Find what you needed?’ he called over his shoulder.

Boateng followed a few paces behind. Coughed as he nudged the cabinet door shut with his foot. ‘Yeah. Think I got what I came for.’