Half an hour later they still hadn’t found Wallace’s mother or father, but they did have two potential locations: his last known address from Crimint records, plus the name and flat of a woman – possibly Wallace’s girlfriend – called Jasmine Fletcher. His mobile records had shown intense bursts of contact with her over nearly two years, right up until his conviction.
‘Pat, Nas, you guys head to his last known address. Kat and I will go and see if Ms Fletcher has any idea where Mr Wallace might be. Don’t forget your stab vests.’
Chapter Six
‘Just pull the trigger. Go on.’
The boy’s hand wasn’t big enough to wrap around the grip of the electric drill. Extending it to him, Wallace came off the sofa and knelt on the carpet. ‘I’ll hold it for you.’
Wide-eyed with concentration, the boy reached out and pushed the plastic trigger. The bit whirred to life, a loud shrill. He giggled, reaching for the drill with both hands. Wallace held it slightly out of reach, chuckling, before presenting it again and letting the boy hit the trigger to release another burst.
‘Oi! What you doing?’
Wallace turned to see Jasmine, hands on hips, staring him down.
‘Gettin’ him started early,’ he grinned. ‘He could be a handyman like me.’
‘That’s not funny, Darian, take it away from him. Reece, you know you’re not allowed to play with things like that.’
‘Let him have some fun, Jas,’ protested Wallace. ‘It’s just a game.’
She leaned forward, raising her voice. ‘No one’s gonna be laughing when he cuts his hand open, are they?’
‘Chill out.’ Wallace sucked his teeth.
‘Chill out?’ she screamed. ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do in my house!’
‘It’s not your house, is it? It’s Lambeth Council’s.’
Her face darkened. ‘If your mum could see you now… You’re a disgrace. Maybe your old man didn’t hit you hard enough.’
Wallace shot up and in one stride closed the gap between them. He clamped his left hand over Jasmine’s mouth, driving her backwards. Her body thumped against cheap plasterboard. His right hand pressed the pointed tip of the drill bit into her neck. She froze.
‘Don’t you ever talk about my Mum and Dad. Never.’
Eyes bulging, she searched his face, looking for mercy, humour. There was nothing. She glanced at her son, watching silently from the carpet. ‘Please, Darian,’ she managed to whisper through his hand. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t. I didn’t mean to say that.’
Wallace relinquished his grip on her face, held the drill out to one side and pressed the trigger briefly, revving the motor. He cracked a smile. ‘I’m only playin’, babe.’
Jasmine was silent, shaking.
Examining a tiny drop of blood where the bit had pierced her neck, he tutted. ‘You’ve cut yourself, Jas. Here, let me.’ He leaned in and kissed her throat slowly. She remained against the wall. Wallace pulled back and his expression softened. ‘You know I’d never hurt you or Reece, right?’
‘Course not,’ she replied quietly.
‘Look, I’ll put this stuff away.’ He dropped the drill into his holdall, zipped it shut and pushed it under the sofa. ‘Reece, you don’t touch any of that, you understand?’ The boy nodded.
Wallace flopped down on the sofa and let out a sigh. ‘Jas, gimme your phone.’
She picked the iPhone up from the table and handed it to him without a word.
‘What’s the passcode?’
‘Twenty-one oh-five.’
Wallace frowned. ‘Your birthday? That’s not very secure, is it?’ His eyes flicked to Reece. ‘You’ve gotta think about safety, Jas.’
‘Sorry.’ She stared at the floor, picking a nail. ‘Um, do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Yeah, white one,’ he said without looking up. ‘Cheers.’ Wallace tapped in the passcode and opened the web browser. He googled ‘Breakdance classes London’ and began scanning the hits.
* * *
‘Sick tune, Zac.’ Jones moved her head to the beat as a harmonica solo filled the car. Denmark Hill sped past, hospitals flanking the road. Their destination was two minutes away. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Junior Wells. “Messin’ with the Kid”. Classic.’
‘Need some of that in my collection.’
‘He nearly didn’t make it. Wells, I mean. Got arrested for stealing a harmonica at fourteen. Thieves were in deep shit in forties America, all the more so if you were a “Negro”.’ He made quotation marks with his fingers. ‘Judge asked him to play in court. Apparently he was so good they dropped the case and his judge paid for the stolen harmonica himself. Set him on the right path in life.’
Jones laughed. ‘If only all criminals could be redeemed with talent. Any chance our man Wallace is using his massive brain for good now he’s out?’
Boateng turned to her. He didn’t need to say anything.
* * *
Trent Parker was his name. Snake in the grass. Wallace used to roll with him on the regular. They were tight like brothers. Met at primary school, stayed close and were mixed up in all kinds of shit by their teens. Parker was a white kid from the Akerman Road estate. Small but strong, breakdancer in a b-boy crew called Flying Daggers. He’d done some time inside too, for theft. The safe deposit box job had been his idea. Heard about it in prison. Maximum takings, minimum collateral – the places were unstaffed at night. No weapons, didn’t need any violence. Non-domestic target, so even if you were caught your sentence could never be higher than ten years. Plead guilty, reduce it to eight. Serve half, out in four or less. Worth the risk.
Parker came to Wallace for the planning. Said he knew a guy who worked there called Ash. Wallace was tempted by the money. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions. He’d be able to start a new life someplace else. He’d planned it to the finest detail, and the job went smoothly. There was just one thing he didn’t factor in: human weakness. They’d agreed to leave the takings for a year, let things blow over. But Parker had tried to flog his share to that pawnbroker snitch. Then the feds turned Parker on him. There was a code. Parker had broken it. Wallace had to make him understand that.
The ninth website he checked yielded what he wanted. No name, but a photograph of a dance instructor surrounded by half a dozen kids in the studio. Image posted one month ago. He had a new beard, and his face was angled away from the camera, but there was no doubt: it was Parker. Wallace memorised the Bermondsey address, and dumping his unfinished mug of tea on the table, he left the flat.
* * *
‘This is the place.’ Boateng checked his notebook and pocketed it. ‘I was thinking, Kat, why don’t you lead? Fletcher’s about your age, might help engage her. Give me a chance to snoop as well.’
Jones knocked on the door. ‘Jasmine Fletcher?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Sorry to trouble you, Ms Fletcher, it’s the police.’
‘I didn’t call you.’
‘Of course, we just wanted to ask for your help.’
‘Hang on.’
They heard Fletcher speaking in maternal cadences before a chain slid back and a slim, pretty woman in her mid twenties opened the door. She wore cut-off denim hot pants and a tight T-shirt. There was a small plaster on her neck.
‘Could we come in for a few minutes, please, Ms Fletcher?’
She barred the doorway with an arm. ‘What’s it about?’
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding Darian Wallace. You’re not in any trouble,’ Jones said, smiling to confirm it.
Fletcher glanced from Jones to Boateng, then stood aside to let them in.
‘Hello there,’ exclaimed Boateng as he discovered the little boy playing with cars in the living room. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Reece.’
‘And how old are you, Reece?’
‘Five.’
Fletcher sat on the sofa. ‘He starts school in September. Can’t believe it.’
‘Happens so fast,’ he replied. ‘I have a ten-year-old.’
‘Aw, sweet.’
Jones cleared her throat. ‘Ms Fletcher, we believe you know a man named Darian Wallace, is that right?’
Fletcher stiffened slightly. ‘Did.’