‘Sorry to ask a personal question, but were the two of you a couple?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Did you know that Mr Wallace was released from prison last week?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might be, do you?’ continued Jones.
‘No.’
‘Does the name Ivor Harris mean anything to you?’
She shrugged. ‘No.’
As Jones explained their interest in Wallace, Boateng scanned the room. The walls were bare except for a mirror and a forty-inch plasma screen with CBeebies on mute. There was a mug on the table. His gaze travelled over the carpet and toy cars towards Reece and alighted on a straight metal object beside the table. Boateng leaned over and picked it up. About four inches long, steel. He waited for a lull in the conversation. Held the nail out to Fletcher.
‘Did you know this was on the floor?’
She stared at it in silence for a moment before taking it from him. ‘God, the handyman must’ve dropped that.’ She glanced at Reece. ‘Lucky you spotted it. He could’ve got hold of it.’
‘Handyman?’
‘Yeah, he put up the mirror the other day.’ She gestured above the sofa.
Boateng nodded. ‘Is your neck alright, Ms Fletcher?’
She instinctively touched the small circular bandage. ‘Oh, yeah, thanks.’
‘How did you hurt yourself?’
Fletcher blinked. ‘Accident in the kitchen. Stupid really. I’m ok.’
Boateng caught Jones’s eye and turned his wristwatch.
‘Well,’ beamed Jones. ‘Thanks for your time, Ms Fletcher. If you think of anything that might help us locate Mr Wallace, here’s my card. Mobile’s on there. Call any time.’
* * *
Boateng spun the car around and parked down the street, with a line of sight to the front door of Fletcher’s block.
‘What did you think?’ he asked.
‘She was scared, when we mentioned Wallace.’
‘Yup. And she was lying.’
‘Probably. About what specifically?’
‘I think she did know Wallace was out. He may even have been there.’
Jones turned in the seat. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘You’d notice a shiny four-inch nail on your floor pretty fast. She said the handyman dropped it the other day. But the mirror had a ton of dust on top. I’d guess it’s been up weeks – months, even. She must’ve lied for a reason. Maybe because the nail belonged to Wallace. He seems fond of tools.’
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
Boateng continued to watch the street. ‘Her breath smelled of coffee.’
‘I noticed.’
‘Mug on the table had tea in it. Caught a whiff when I picked up the nail.’
‘Doesn’t prove anything, does it? Perhaps she had tea earlier,’ suggested Jones. ‘Or a friend dropped by?’
‘And maybe her five-year-old drank it.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Plus the injury. Who cuts their neck in the kitchen? She lied to us, and I think it was to protect Wallace. Not because of love. She’s scared of him. Body language changed when you mentioned his name.’
‘I know what you’re saying,’ conceded Jones, ‘but what can we do about it? There’s no proof she committed a crime. Maybe she just didn’t trust us – a lot of people don’t. Especially in these communities.’ She indicated the housing blocks around them.
‘Right. That’s why we’re staying here for a while to see what happens. She might be our key to finding Wallace.’
* * *
One hour passed. Then two. Three. No one resembling Wallace entered or exited the block. Though not a long stint in surveillance terms, it was more than Boateng could justify given the speculative lead. It was nearly 7.30 p.m. They checked in with Connelly and Malik: no sign of Wallace at his previous address either.
‘We could be here all night,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s call it a day. Not a lot more we can do without the forensics report. Enjoy what’s left of your weekend. Plans?’
‘My flatmates are heading to a comedy gig in New Cross. Might still be in time to join them.’
‘I could do with some laughs.’
She paused. ‘If you wanna come along, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind—’
‘Thanks,’ he smiled. ‘Maybe another time – recce it for a team night out. I’ll drop you off.’
* * *
Unlocking the front door, Zac remembered that Etta and Kofi would still be at church for another hour. He felt drained. It’d been two long days working on the Harris murder, without much to show for it. And after his visit to the Scotland Yard vault that morning, there were other things on his mind. Zac made himself a quick plate of scrambled eggs on toast, wolfed it down and took a cold bottle of Brockley Brewery pale ale up to his little music room.
The 1957 King Zephyr tenor saxophone gleamed on its stand. A beautiful creation. He smiled, recalling how he’d begun on a clapped-out sax, courtesy of his first Met pay cheque. His dad had bought a watch when he found a proper job in London, and Zac wanted to commemorate starting work in some way too. He’d no idea how to play the damn thing. After twenty years of jamming and the occasional lesson he was starting to get the hang of it, though the neighbours might not agree.
Lifting the sax, he looped the strap round his neck and moistened his lips, gently touching the keys. Warming up with a few scales and twelve-bar blues, the image of the Trident 2012 filing cabinet came back. He’d been cut out of the investigation into the triple murder at the newsagent. He’d offered all his help, but top brass said he was too close and it was Southwark MIT’s case anyway. Their leads had gone nowhere: stalling on witnesses, getaway motorbike stolen, escape route lost on CCTV, no ballistics trace. Some rumours circulating in gangland were picked up by sources, but the intended victim was a junior and few seemed to care. Dead ends piled up until the case was shelved. Zac lobbied tirelessly, but nothing changed. Amelia’s death – like the other two that day – were added to the Met’s list of several hundred unsolved murders.
The Trident files kindled the faintest hope of something new. Could an informant run in 2012 reignite the case? Chances were slim: the stable of sources would have been pumped for intelligence at the time. Some might be dead themselves, in prison or moved out of London. Pursuing any fresh inquiry through official channels would be impossible. There was no way the Trident team would allow Zac to delve into their work on a whim. He’d have to find another way. That’d be tough, risky.
But Amelia deserved it.
Zac switched his fingering, began to play ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’.
Chapter Seven
Monday, 19 June 2017
Every contact leaves a trace.
Boateng recalled this as he walked briskly down the corridor to DCI Krebs’s office. He’d first heard the mantra of Edmond Locard, the original forensic pathologist, during basic training at Hendon. Once more it proved true. Connelly had worked late into the night, combing through CCTV footage, risen early and carried on. Councils, businesses, security firms, even a few seconds from the camera inside a bus. With an allotmenteer’s care and patience he’d recreated the journey of the figure entering that alleyway behind Harris’s shop. From Deptford, winding back through side streets around New Cross, into Peckham, finally arriving at the street of Wallace’s hostel. Logic and instinct had told Boateng that he was the prime suspect: there was motive, opportunity, timing, then his absconding from the tag. Connelly’s result had given ballast to his theory. The forensics report hadn’t turned up Wallace’s DNA or prints at the scene, but fibres had been found that could be matched to his clothes, if they hadn’t been burned. Now Krebs wanted to go public. That worried Boateng.
Her door was open and he knocked while entering. The office was spacious, neat. Framed commendations flanked a photograph of Krebs with Commissioner Cressida Dick. She was in her early forties, like Boateng, but her career trajectory was altogether different. While homicide and major crime work had become his vocation, Krebs was just passing through on her way up to Superintendent.