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.’
Chapter Nine
Zac spooned a huge ball of peanut butter into the pot and stirred the simmering red broth, watching it thicken. Domoda: a recipe he and Etta had picked up on holiday in Gambia over a decade ago. The tinkling of a blues piano filled the kitchen. Kofi careened about in his Spider-Man pyjamas, clutching a toy digger. Zac could hear the rise and fall of Etta’s voice from the living room, on the phone to a friend. Business as usual in the Boateng household.