The Enforcer smashed into the top of the door, snapping open the lock. Two officers moved in on either side, hoisted up the metal, while three more covered the garage, Heckler & Koch MP5 guns trained on the interior. Boateng could see from five metres back that the figure wasn’t Darian Wallace. From the amount of blood on the concrete he could also see that whoever it was had long since died. He pulled on the basic kit to enter: gauze mask, gloves, overshoes. Told his team to stay put.
It’d taken two hours for Armed Response to come off another job, during which time he’d nodded off twice in the car with Jones, exhaustion getting the better of him for a few seconds. Krebs had insisted on regular updates during their surveillance. When no one came in or out of the garage for a further three hours and the firearms lads were bored, complaining about being needed elsewhere, she made the decision to send them in. He’d voiced opposition by radio, still quietly hoping to be able to send his colleagues home one by one until he was alone. But given the lock-up’s contents, it was the right call to enter. Assuming this dead man was the source of the Crimestoppers intel – and it was legit – logic suggested Wallace had killed him and fled.
Boateng stood at the perimeter of pooled blood. Adult humans had about five litres inside them, though to look at this poor sod you’d think it was twice that. Open neck wound indicated a severed artery. The unidentified man’s limbs were already curling slightly with the first stage of rigor mortis, so they were about five hours too late. About the same time since they got the Crimestoppers call. Who was he? That’d become clear soon enough. If Wallace had been here the lock-up could offer a clue to his next move. He’d obviously left in a hurry. Rubbish everywhere: toilet roll, fast food boxes, a plastic Coke bottle filled with what looked like piss.
After taking a good look at the gore, the Armed Response boys had left and were conferring outside, clearly planning to move on. Boateng signalled his team to join him beside the body and they stepped carefully through. Jones suppressed a small gag but stayed put. Connelly shook his head, crossed himself. No humour this time.
‘Who do we think he is?’ Malik didn’t take his eyes off the victim.
‘The source?’ suggested Jones.
‘Maybe.’ Boateng swept a hand around the lock-up’s cramped interior. ‘Let’s check all this stuff.’
‘Should we wait for the SOCOs?’ asked Malik.
‘Normally, yes. But this is a live manhunt, could be actionable leads here. Look for anything that tells us where he might’ve gone. Nas, grab some forensic bags from the car.’
‘Boss.’
Boateng squatted in the far corner, began sorting the detritus of Wallace’s hidden existence. An old Evening Standard lay over a dark shirt reeking of body odour. Lifting the garment, his breath caught. A mobile, plugged into the single socket, charging. Boateng glanced over his shoulder. Jones and Connelly were facing away, absorbed in discussion. Malik hadn’t returned. He took up the device – airplane mode. The simple handset had no PIN. Shielding it with his body, he opened the call log and toggled it to outgoing only. Just two numbers, both mobiles.
Cognitive psychologists have found most people can remember seven digits, give or take. Boateng knew he could manage a whole phone number, but two? Impossible. Could choose one, but what if the other was a better lead? He heard the car boot thunk outside, footsteps. Had to risk it. Took out his own mobile, selected its camera. Snapped a photo of the outgoing calls screen and dropped it back in his pocket. Closed Wallace’s mobile again as Malik approached, and held it out.
‘Get this bagged up and sent to the lab, will you, Nas?’
The young man cocked his head. ‘Might take a couple of days to get anything back.’
‘I know. But if it’s going to be evidence we need to do things by the book. Like Krebs said.’
Malik took the phone. ‘Boss.’
* * *
Dickhead.
Wallace bashed the heel of his hand into his skull. Why did he lose control with the old man like that? Surely there was an easier way of dealing with the situation – didn’t need to kill him. The guy probably had a wife, kids, family, mates, whoever. A life ended in seconds over a Rolex watch or two. Then again, if he’d paid him off, the feds still might’ve come round; wasn’t clear what Derek had told Crimestoppers. So perhaps he had made the right choice, if you could call it that. Happened so fast, like his unconscious had taken over. Survival instinct or hardwired violence? Maybe he was fooling himself that moving countries and starting again would make a difference. If that rage was in him, like it was in his dad, perhaps he’d never escape it. Magma seething under rock, always there, waiting for a fissure to erupt.
Wallace sat among dense trees below the bridge at Deptford Creek, Thames water lapping against the brick wall below him. Just had to wait a few more hours. Then he could get away from all this shit.
But before that, there was one last person to see. He’d made a promise.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Zac cracked open the beer, took several big gulps then held the cold bottle against his forehead. He had to think. Checked his watch: 8.36 p.m. Another slug of beer. Mounted the stairs, reasoning that his sax might help. Etta was out at her Wednesday gym class, and Kofi was staying at Neon’s. His son was spending a lot of time there recently, but Zac was glad to have the space tonight.
He lifted the King Zephyr sax, set his fingering and began some warm-up exercises. Any chance of staking out the lock-up was blown once the firearms team had gone in. Out of desperation he’d even bought dinner from the King Rooster chicken shop on Old Kent Road, hoping vainly his target might return. Pathetic. He felt completely impotent. Wallace could be anywhere now. Maybe already gone.
Worse still, when presented with the chance to action a lead at the murder scene, he’d recorded the mobile numbers for himself. Lying by omission to his teammates. That wasn’t how it worked. You had each other’s backs, and he should be setting the example to junior officers. If what he’d done today came out in the wash, disciplinary proceedings were guaranteed. Directorate of Professional Standards would trace it all, unpick his movements, tug on every thread until his covert investigation unravelled entirely. It’d cost him his job; he might even go to prison. Is that what Amelia would’ve wanted? Zac took his lips off the sax. Reached for the bottle, drained it. Closed his eyes a minute. Eventually he opened them, moistened the mouthpiece again.
Slowly, he began to play – a lilting, melancholic tune that pretty much summed up his state of mind. That fool’s errand last night could’ve got him killed, and in the cold light of day what chance did Night Vision have of finding anything? He wasn’t an active informer any more and his old contacts had probably vaporised. But Zac didn’t know who else to ask.
His own leads were somewhat better, but hard to action. He’d googled those two numbers from the garage. Had to do it on his own laptop, couldn’t risk a trace of his search on the work system. One was listed on the website of an artist in Peckham, whose speciality seemed to be dismembering and recombining animals. Perhaps that was a dead end – no pun. Something to do with Wallace’s greyhound? More interesting was the other mobile, dialled three times in six days, most recently this morning. Linked online in classified ads to a boat skipper based in Kent. Surely the escape plan.
Zac knew what he should do with the information. What he wanted to do was another matter. A little voice was whispering, telling him how good it would feel to give in to the rage and put a bullet through Darian Wallace’s head. With the fuzz of tiredness in his brain, he couldn’t think clearly enough to counter the idea. Started to improvise on the sax, louder and faster, blues turning to pure frustration.
Behind two closed doors, downstairs in the kitchen, his mobile rang. ‘N Vision’ flashed across the screen before voicemail kicked in.
* * *
Wallace knocked on the door, pulled his hood down, took a half step back. Didn’t want to seem threatening. The latch clicked and behind a taut chain he recognised Neon’s mum peering out. ‘Hello, Shanice, how’re you doing?’