Boateng popped his car’s central locking, slid into the driver’s seat. Reached across, pulled out the pistol. Glancing up his street and checking the mirrors for passers-by, he quickly reloaded the clip with 9 mm rounds from the ammo box. Gloves made sure he left no prints on the casings. He’d wiped the whole thing down earlier too. Filled a mag, inserted it, but didn’t rack the slide: a bullet in the chamber risked accidental discharge, like in Mamba’s car the other night. If the gun did go off, it would be deliberate. His numbed brain started attempting to work through a ‘heat-of-the-moment’ defence as he stared at the pistol. Snapping out of the trance, he stowed his weapon in the door pocket and gunned the engine, tearing off towards Neon’s house. Drove like a madman, overtaking at every chance, slamming the horn to any dawdlers.
He parked down the street from the Grant residence in Honor Oak Estate. Tucked the gun into his jacket and crept towards the front door, scanning the pavement, open spaces, shadows. Wasn’t sure what he expected to find at the tiny flat in Spalding House. Realistically nothing except the Grants and his own son. Best he could hope for was something to help close the net on Wallace. Still, a small part of him hoped the murdering bastard might actually be there. With surprise on his side, Boateng would confront him and make the arrest. Reassured himself that was the plan. But if Wallace had laid a finger on Kofi…
No answer when he knocked on the door. Maybe Shanice Grant didn’t hear him. Surely not asleep already? It was only ten fifteen. Boateng knocked gently again. Eventually movement came from within and she appeared, rubbing her eyes. Opened the door fully once she saw him. ‘Zac, is everything alright? Must’ve dozed off in front of the telly, y’know? Didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow mor—’
‘Is he here?’ whispered Boateng, right hand inside his jacket.
‘Kofi? Of course, he’s in Neon’s bedroom. They should’ve put the light out by now, I told them—’
‘Not Kofi. Darian Wallace.’
She swallowed, glanced upstairs.
Boateng clapped his left hand on her shoulder, spoke quietly through gritted teeth. ‘Is he in your house?’
Shanice bit her lip.
‘Up there?’
She nodded.
He drew the pistol into a cup-and-saucer grip, moved in towards the staircase. Above him the first floor was all darkness. Put one foot on the bottom step, which groaned as his weight shifted to it. Boateng froze. He mimed quiet to Shanice, motioned her to kill the hall lights by the front door. Then he directed her back inside the lounge, where the TV murmured, a burst of laughter followed by applause from a studio audience. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, he edged up the stairs, back to the wall. Hoped Wallace hadn’t heard their exchange, that he’d assume the creaks were simply Neon’s mum heading up to bed. Heart thumping quickly as he reached the top, everything was still.
Boateng had been here enough times to know the basic layout. Three small bedrooms and a bathroom. Neon’s door off the landing was ajar, and he approached slowly. Aiming his pistol into the gap, he eased it open with his foot. Saw Neon lying in bed, duvet twisted around him. Moonlight spilled through thin curtains onto a TV and little desk. One slow breath and he kicked the door, rounding it with pistol raised.
Kofi’s sleeping bag lay empty on the roll mat.
Telling himself to keep calm, Boateng pushed the bedroom door to, shook Neon gently. ‘Where’s Kofi?’ he asked the bleary-eyed kid.
‘Uh?’
‘Neon! Where is he? Kofi.’
‘Dunno.’
‘What about Darian Wallace?’
The toilet flush outside cut through their exchange. Boateng stepped back, covered the bedroom door with his pistol sights. Lowered a flat hand to Neon, who lay still. Soft footsteps approached. The door creaked open and Boateng felt his hands start to tremble as it swung inwards. Held his breath.
‘Dad!’
Kofi stood in the doorway, his features picked out by light from the window. Boateng exhaled heavily, lowered the Glock. Beckoned his son in. ‘Both of you need to tell me right now: where’s Darian Wallace?’
The two boys broke their stares at the gun, exchanged a guilty look.
‘Come on!’ he hissed.
‘He left,’ replied Kofi. ‘But we don’t know where he went.’
* * *
Ten minutes later, Boateng was sitting in front of the TV, using a video game controller to navigate its web browsing history. Neon had told him about Wallace’s previous visit, his demand to use the machine. Boateng inferred it was his means to obtain online information with minimal exposure. Amazingly his list of pages was still there. Had Wallace been too rushed to delete it, or too confident? Perhaps he didn’t know the process. It wasn’t straightforward on a games console; Boateng had to pull up a YouTube video to help him find the archive. All this cost time in which Wallace would be putting distance between them. But he knew that haring off into the night wasn’t the way to find his quarry. He needed intel.
As Boateng read, Neon recounted Wallace’s parting advice on making the right choices in life. Then he’d said a serious goodbye. Probably meant he was planning to leave very soon. Maybe even tonight.
Scrolling down the sites visited, Boateng noted extensive research that made sense of one number he’d discovered on Wallace’s mobile. Vessel and engine types, ports in France, examination of maritime message boards. Wallace had looked for boat skippers and followed up with background searches on some of them. He’d also accessed a tide calculator for North Woolwich. The UK Hydrographic Office data had been examined for several days, but only tomorrow’s results were cross-referenced with a weather forecast. A further search of locations around Docklands appeared to focus down on Trinity Buoy Wharf. Boateng’s thoughts raced as he pieced it all together, willing his brain to work more efficiently. The boat skipper’s phone number, the tidal and weather data, the potential departure site at East India Docks, the goodbye to Neon. His best guess was that it all pointed to one thing: Wallace was planning to escape in the early hours of tomorrow morning.
He told the two boys to go back to bed, kissed Kofi goodnight and went downstairs. Didn’t know what to say to Shanice Grant about letting Wallace into her house, he’d deal with that later. Had to get to East India Docks right now. Maybe he was already too late. Briefly considered calling it in, or even sending a text to Connelly, Jones or Malik. Dismissed the idea quickly without further exploration. ‘No time’ was the reason he gave himself.
Driving away from Honor Oak Estate towards the main road, heading east, Boateng twice glimpsed another vehicle behind him. The same dark saloon on two quiet streets with no other traffic. Checked his rear-view mirror again on the main road but saw nothing except the snaking red and white lights of night traffic.
Passing the sign for Blackwall Tunnel to take him under the river, he floored the accelerator.
* * *
Things were getting a bit tasty.
Spike struggled to keep up without making it obvious he was in pursuit. The copper was driving like a lunatic. Less chance he’d spot the car behind, at least. Heading north towards the river, the O2 arena loomed up ahead like some giant spacecraft. Boateng’s dark green car was six in front.