‘Oh.’ He rotated the injured wrist. ‘Damned dog in the park last night. Didn’t like my football skills.’ He forced a smile as the others chuckled. ‘Five hours in Lewisham A & E getting stitches.’
‘Well, if we see you foaming at the mouth we’ll know who to blame.’ Krebs’s attempt at humour fell flat. She smoothed her bob cut. ‘Right then. Back to work, everyone. Keep it up. Remember, efficiency. We all have to do more with fewer resources.’
‘Er, sorry to interrupt, ma’am.’ Malik was still holding the phone. ‘Anonymous tip’s just come through Crimestoppers. Member of the public says he knows Darian Wallace’s exact whereabouts. Location’s a lock-up garage off Old Kent Road. Could be a load of rubbish like the rest of—’
‘Shit!’ Boateng slapped the desk harder than intended and his team stared. Much as he wanted to, there was no way to go solo. Best he could hope for was some recon and the chance to come back after work. A story about extra surveillance was already forming in his mind. Golden opportunity to nick the suspect presenting itself to the lone officer on detail… quickly followed by a darker tale, arriving to find Wallace shot, his enemies having finally caught up with him. Despite what he’d told Etta, his personal quest was still on. And his anger was as visceral as ever.
Boateng stood. ‘Location tallies with Pat’s hit on facial recognition. That’s good enough for me. Arrest warrant’s been issued so we’re ready to go. Let’s keep it low-key. Two unmarked pool cars to go check the place out then we’ll radio in for borough units. Don’t want to spook him.’
‘Er, DI Boateng.’ Krebs had folded her arms. ‘Surely after the previous two attempts to nab Wallace you’ll be waiting for Armed Response or Tactical Support? You can’t risk him getting away again.’
Boateng hesitated. If only she’d come in twenty minutes later, they’d have been gone. Just had to sell his plan on her terms. ‘Staking the garage out could help us gather intelligence on anyone assisting Wallace,’ he began. ‘That’s more arrests. And even better, we might learn where his jewellery stash is hidden. Lots of happy customers if we get that stuff back. Great publicity.’
Krebs frowned. ‘Unlike you to think with a PR hat on, Zac. Don’t take that the wrong way. You’ve got a point though. Mount the surveillance with your team. But wait until armed backup is available first, then deploy.’
‘But with respect, ma’am, if they’re on another job it could be hours. We may not have that kind of time. Do we really need them? There’s no reason to suspect Wallace has a firearm.’ Boateng realised he didn’t know if that was true.
‘Well, I’m not having another innocent man Tasered or mayhem in a public place slapped on social media. You’ll do this one by the book.’
Boateng bit his lip. Bollocks. ‘Ma’am.’
* * *
Wallace turned the memory stick over in his hand, examined it under the bare light bulb. The device looked ordinary. He’d found it inside a big piece of jewellery that must’ve got bumped about in transit. The back had come loose. No markings, no clues, no means of checking what was on it. Maybe he could head to a call shop nearby, some of them still had PCs you could rent, with USB drives…
Or not.
Probably a waste of time; he’d guess it was encrypted. He’d investigate later. Main thing right now was getting out of London. Still, the question gnawed at him: who hides a memory stick inside silverware then puts it in a safe deposit box? Either someone very paranoid or a person with big secrets. Perhaps both.
A sudden bang on the metal of the garage door sent adrenalin shooting through him.
Wallace kept still, silent. Could they see in broad daylight that he had the bulb on? Another slap came on the garage door. Someone who could put force into it. The lock turned and Wallace shielded his eyes as sunshine slanted in. Squinted to focus.
The old man.
‘Alright.’ He stepped inside, shut the door behind him. He was big, solid. Seemed to fill the space. ‘Come to talk about your rent.’
Pocketing the memory stick, Wallace shifted his body to block the holdalls behind him. ‘I’ve paid it.’
‘Yeah, but I’m talking about an extra fee.’
Wallace already knew what was coming. He said nothing.
The old bloke moved towards him, one hand fidgeting in his trouser pocket. ‘I thought you and I might come to some sort of understanding. What with your position and all.’ He sniffed. ‘I want a thousand quid.’
‘Or?’
‘The coppers are gonna be round here quick sharp.’ Derek coughed. ‘So?’
First reaction: pay the man. Could give him a grand’s worth of stuff, hard-to-trace items he could sell on. But no guarantee it’d shut him up. Pay an extortionist today and he’s back tomorrow wanting more. Or calling the cops anyway. That’s how they operated, these people. Parasites. The familiar sense of injustice was already kindled. Being taken for a mug. Wallace felt the rage ballooning, making his limbs stiffen, teeth grind. So close to the end, and now this pussyhole was trying to fuck him over. Who did the old prick think he was dealing with? Wallace pictured his dad for a second. He wasn’t having this. One more name had just been added to his list. He blinked, slowed himself down. Smiled.
‘OK,’ he conceded. ‘Grand, yeah?’
Derek stepped forward. ‘Should do the trick.’
‘Or something worth a grand you can ship on?’
‘Fine, long as it’s not marked.’
Wallace turned, knelt. Unzipped both holdalls, displayed the contents of one to Derek. The older man stooped, reached towards a Rolex as Wallace put his hand in the second bag. The angle grinder whirred to life and Derek looked up in time for the blade to plough into his face, opening a cheek, biting into bone and out again. At first he made no sound, just stared at the tool. Wallace slashed the whining disc hard across his throat. A jet of blood hit him, another sprayed upwards and within five seconds the old man’s lifeless body was on the floor, leaking crimson expanding into a pool around his head and shoulders.
The lock-up was silent except for Wallace’s slightly accelerated breathing. He could hear seagulls screeching outside. Chucked the angle grinder back in his bag and stood there looking at the corpse. Blood everywhere. Couldn’t stay here now. Only question was how much time remained. He patted Derek’s pockets. Knuckleduster in one, mobile in the other. Wallace took out the antiquated handset, scrolled through its calls. Clocked the last number dialled. He’d seen it before. Grabbed his copy of the Evening Standard from Friday, flicked to the article and found it. Crimestoppers anonymous tip line. Thirty minutes ago.
Wallace scanned the garage, chucked a couple more items into the holdalls. Swapped the bloodied T-shirt for another one, pulled on his hat and sunglasses. Knew he hadn’t got everything but there was no time to waste. Cracked the garage door, peered through. Nobody there. Hefted both holdalls outside. Closed the big metal slab behind him, locked it and set off into the warm summer afternoon.
* * *
‘Armed police!’