Emerging from Blackwall Tunnel, the copper hooked a left onto the A13 before quickly circling back south again. Spike stayed with him as the road twisted around the River Lea and it became obvious Boateng was aiming for a spit of land off the docks. The solo mission, urgent driving and random location meant the geezer probably knew something important. Could be a false alarm. Could be Wallace.
Spike slowed, watched the copper as he turned into the road leading to Trinity Buoy Wharf. Bunch of giant warehouses. Killed his lights, spun the car round and parked up a hundred metres away from Boateng’s wagon. Made sure his nose was facing out for a quicker getaway after. Old habits.
The wharf was dark and quiet, a low traffic hum the only background noise. Spike retrieved his bag from the boot, slung it over one shoulder. Needed high ground. He scanned the buildings, mostly big units of corrugated iron and shabby brickwork. Saw the red glow above of Bow Creek lighthouse. That’ll do. Pulled on his motorbike face mask.
Scaling the drainpipe and scrambling up the pitched warehouse roof, Spike used the iron ladder to reach the lighthouse dome’s top deck. Clocked the camera. Bollocks. Considered taking it out before concluding no one was likely to be watching at ten past eleven on a Wednesday night. Sabotaging it would only draw attention, set off an alarm somewhere. If he kept low and still, any mug looking probably wouldn’t see him directly beneath it, all black gear at dark o’clock. Worth the risk for his 360 view.
Spike took out the Diemaco sniper rifle, screwed on a sound suppressor, extended its stock and bipod, settled into the prone position. Flicked on his night scope. The world became a grainy circle of greens, white and black. Not much wind tonight, that was good. He’d tested the rifle last week with his usual home-made hollow point rounds, zeroed the sights for around 150 metres, got a nice grouping. Boded well, although not for Wallace.
Or the copper, if necessary.
* * *
Unpaid overtime. The worst kind. Still, Jones didn’t have other plans tonight. She’d done a good gym session this morning, and after they’d discovered Wallace’s newest victim in the lock-up garage, working on their main case seemed like the most useful thing she could do right now. She had been tempted earlier by the cinema trip her flatmates suggested, it’d be a great way to switch off, but Boateng would appreciate the help here, and it seemed like he was under a lot of pressure right now. That was understandable: the buck stopped with him on Wallace. Well, technically it stopped with Krebs, but Jones suspected any failure would rapidly slide off her and hit Boateng.
Maybe that was just the way you got on in the Met, and Krebs was certainly doing well. And Jones would be lying if she said she herself hadn’t been strategic to get to DS in only five years. But letting others take the blame was something else… Would it ever come to that for her? Dad wouldn’t have done that. He always said you needed to be able to ‘look yourself in the mirror and know you did the right thing’. But how did you know what the right thing was? She’d discovered that reality was often more complex than her Dad had made out, though his moral compass never seemed to waver. Neither would hers, Jones resolved: whatever her career ambitions, she liked and respected Boateng too much to let him take sole responsibility for failure on this case. That’s what kept her in the office at 11 p.m., crunching data. Her boss was probably home with his family, putting a boundary around the Job, hopefully getting a few hours to relax. Good for him. She admired Boateng’s work-life balance. Which was why she’d agonised over interrupting his evening.
Jones had retrieved the log off Wallace’s phone before it’d gone to the lab. Figured there could be something urgent on there. Bit weird that Boateng wasn’t fussed and had asked Malik to bag it up before they’d done a quick-and-dirty on the SIM. She’d used her initiative: actioned the request immediately then followed up with a call to the mobile company’s contact. A sweet, geeky guy she used to chat to back in her Cyber Crime days. Told him what a legend he was, asked him very nicely if there was any way he could possibly run the billing data before leaving for the night. He’d obliged.
Wallace hadn’t done much with the phone: he was obviously savvy about using it, leaving traces. But one number stood out, called six times in the last few days. Jones had hit the online research from all angles in the past couple of hours and worked up the profile. Steve Miller, a forty-six-year-old boat owner from Kent who chartered his vessel out for day trips. Police National Computer said he did two years for smuggling cigarettes from France with his brother in 2009. She felt her excitement grow as Wallace’s plan crystallised, and with it the realisation she had to tell Boateng. Now.
No answer from his mobile. Jones left a message saying she needed to speak to him now. Tried again five minutes later, same result. Texted, no reply. Went to the intranet spreadsheet of Lewisham MIT staff, called his home.
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Er, is this Zac Boateng’s home?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I’m DS Kat Jones, I work with your husband. Could I speak to him please? Sorry to call so late. It’s urgent.’
A brief snort came down the line, then a moment’s silence. ‘I thought he was at work. He’s not with you?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘And it’s urgent?’
‘Yes.’
‘About his current case?’
‘That’s right.’
Boateng’s wife clicked her tongue. ‘You’re in Lewisham now?’
‘Yup.’
‘I think you’d better come over.’
* * *
Etta had been feeling great. Sweated buckets at circuit training, jumped in the shower and headed for dinner and a drink with Jennie. Nattered away to her old mate, swapped funny stories about their kids. Hoped she’d return to find Zac at home, and with Kofi at Neon’s house for the night, perhaps they could even…
But he hadn’t been there. She’d assumed he was still at work till this Jones woman called. Zac’s younger, female colleague. Who was attractive, as Etta had suspected. Whom she’d briefly worried was getting it on with her husband, until he’d fessed up to the real problem. And who was now standing in their kitchen saying the same thing as her: I thought he was with you. They faced one another across the flagstones.
‘Zac told you he was at home?’ asked Etta.
‘Yeah, said he was hoping to have an early night for once. That was about seven.’
Etta folded her arms. ‘Do you think he’s gone after Darian Wallace?’
‘Alone?’ Jones frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’
Etta hesitated. She was reluctant to breach Zac’s confidence, but after the dog attack and God knows what else he’d done, she was concerned. For his safety if she did nothing; for his career if she did something.
‘If I tell you what he told me,’ she began, searching the young woman’s face for a signal of trust. ‘Do you promise to keep it to yourself?’
Jones swallowed. ‘OK.’
Etta took a breath. ‘Darian Wallace murdered our daughter.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Jones. ‘How? I mean, sorry, how do you know?’
‘Zac said a gang member who’d driven the motorbike away from the shooting confessed to him.’ Etta fought to muster her self-control but could feel tears coming. ‘He even thought someone from the Met was involved with shutting down the inquiry at the time.’
‘Oh my God. Why?’
‘He wasn’t sure.’
‘How did he find this out?’
Etta flexed her eyebrows. ‘He’s been doing some freelancing…’
Jones nodded. ‘Explains why he hasn’t seemed himself at work. I’ve been worried about him.’
You’ve been worried about him, thought Etta. Try being married to the guy.
‘Think he wants to find Wallace on his own?’ asked Jones.
‘I know my husband. He was full of anger about Amelia’s murder for years. I was too, at the beginning, but for me it shifted over time to something else, to sadness. Zac held on to the anger much more. He’s pretty bloody stubborn. And he’s been taking some risks recently.’ Etta gave the true account of his dog bite, Jones’s eyes widening in shock as she spoke.