‘Zac.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Take a seat.’
At six feet, Krebs was a couple of inches taller than Boateng, with angular features and a grey-streaked bob cut. She projected authority, even sitting behind a desk.
‘Good progress on the Harris murder,’ she began, putting some papers to one side.
‘Mostly DS Connelly’s efforts, ma’am.’
‘The point is there’s something publicly actionable now. We’ll call a press conference this morning, get the community involved. Mobilise a million pairs of eyes, all those smartphones. Make it impossible for this Darian Wallace to hide.’
Boateng hesitated. ‘I hoped we could keep his name out of the press for another day or two, give us the advantage. More chance of surprising him.’
She fixed him with a stare. ‘Our advantage is having everyone across London keeping watch. Ordinary people on the street. Community policing, that’s what we’re meant to do.’
‘He’s smart, ma’am. Could go to ground if we do that. Then we never find him, and it’s another open case.’ He knew she hated those statistics.
Krebs leaned back and cracked her knuckles. ‘Let me ask you this, Zac. What do you think he’s going to do next?’
‘Well, if this is about the safe deposit box job, and he murdered Harris for revenge, Wallace must have the other guy in his sights too. Trent Parker. DC Malik checked the interview transcripts. Parker sold out Wallace and got immunity.’
‘So there’s immediate risk to life?’
Boateng chewed his lip. He could see where this was going. ‘It’s not just that,’ he replied. ‘Half the stash from the vault robbery was never found – ￡1.5 million. Wallace probably knows where it is. My guess is he’ll retrieve it once he’s settled his scores, maybe before. If we find him first, we might get the stuff back. Lots of happy customers reunited with their valuables. Great headlines.’
‘So what’s your plan?’
‘DS Connelly is trying to trace the journey away from Harris’s shop. Separately we find Parker, put him under surveillance, do the same for the ex, Jasmine Fletcher, maybe even his mum or dad, and one of them will probably get a visit from Wallace. Then we nick him on suspicion of murder. Use the life sentence to lean hard on him for the jewel location, job done.’
‘Four separate surveillance operations. Do you have the resources for that?’ Krebs arched an eyebrow.
‘No, but I was hoping—’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing spare. We’re stretched as it is. Five active murder investigations in the borough, three attempteds, including your nightclub stabbing, which I’ve handed to DS Barnes. And our uniforms are managing thirty-four overspill prisoners in the cells downstairs.’
‘I know. I just think operationally the best—’
She lifted her hand to cut him off. ‘Sorry, Zac, we’re going public. Immediate risk to life. It’s that simple. We can’t be seen not to. Imagine the headlines if Wallace kills again and we’ve sat on this. The Met is—’
‘But we’re not sitting on it, we’re investigating,’ he protested. ‘DS Jones is trying to locate Trent Parker.’
‘Meet me in the briefing room in one hour, and have your notes ready. I’ll give the big picture, you do the detail. Thank you.’ He was dismissed with a curt nod as Krebs returned to her papers.
* * *
It’d been a long time. For the two years Wallace had been inside, he couldn’t see his mum. And she couldn’t visit him. Not because she didn’t want to, she just couldn’t.
Leonie wasn’t well. Vascular dementia. Started with a stroke four years ago, just after her fiftieth birthday. Supposed to be rare at that age, but her blood pressure was all over the place, the diabetes uncontrolled. Eventually something snapped: an artery in her brain. Doctors said that caused an intracranial haemorrhage, bleeding inside her skull. Since then, her memory was shot to pieces. She couldn’t ever find the right words and her moods swung. Then he got sent down. Wallace dreaded finding out how she’d declined over the past two years, but he had to see her. There might not be another opportunity. By now the police would’ve realised he’d done a Houdini on the security tag and would be on the hunt, even if they hadn’t connected him to anything else yet.
Wallace signed in on the care home register as John Blake, listing his relationship to the resident as ‘nephew’. Grunting acknowledgement of his presence, the receptionist barely looked away from the TV screen displaying BBC London News. Some story about traffic management. Wallace guessed she’d still be in the same room, so he walked through without a word to staff. The less interaction the better. He’d be on camera but that was unavoidable. And soon it wouldn’t matter anyway.
He passed a communal area simultaneously playing pop music through speakers while the same BBC news programme ran on a flat screen. Some residents were in wheelchairs, others motionless in their seats. Not one looked as if they knew what the hell was going on. A fat woman in a pink tabard was distributing tea that sat undrunk on side tables.
Jesus Christ, it was grim. Wallace used to hate visiting, and two years’ absence hadn’t changed that. It was a nightmare vision of the future. When you lost it and had no money, Croydon Council put you here. Throw food down your shirt, piss yourself, shit the bed for a few years and then die. His mum had put up with enough before the stroke; she deserved better than this. Maybe once he’d sorted his unfinished business he could make a donation to move her someplace better. Then again, if she had no idea where she was, it might not make any difference.
The door of room 109 was open. A TV droned quietly on top of the chest of drawers – the news again. Leonie lay in bed, staring out of the window, unfocused. She’d lost weight. She turned her head as he came in.
‘Mum,’ he whispered, smiling. ‘It’s me.’
She stared at him. ‘Me don’t want no bath now.’
‘It’s Darian, Mum.’
‘Yes, yes, nice to see you again. How are the children?’
Wallace approached the bed. ‘What are you talking about, Mum?’
‘Me got to get on. Cleaning, you know.’ She flapped a hand.
Hopeless. This was the strongest woman he knew. Resilient to the crime and violence around her for her whole life. Dealt with stigma and discrimination. Raised a child on her own while working two jobs. Now reduced to confusion that would only get worse. He took her hand in both of his and squatted by the bed rail penning her in. ‘Mum, remember me? Darian, your son. I’ve come back.’
Gradually, recognition spread across her face, shifting from confusion to a flicker of joy before contorting into pain as she began to cry. ‘Me thought you were dead.’
‘I’m not dead, Mum, I’m here. I wanted to see you,’ he spoke slowly, allowing her to keep up. ‘I’ve got to go away again, I’m sorry. And I might not be able to visit for a while.’
‘Where you going?’
Did someone call his name? Wallace turned but there was no one in the doorway. Then he saw the TV. His own mugshot filled the screen. His name ran in big letters above the text: Wanted on suspicion of murder. A small inlay showed a press conference with a black guy and a white woman at a table, Met Police logo in the background. Time to move.
‘Sorry, Mum.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘I love you.’
No way back past the receptionist glued to the news. Wallace peered through the curtains. A floor below, the garden was empty. Fence at the back. Low wall one side, quiet street behind it. That was the best option.
‘Where you going?’ she repeated.
He studied his Mum’s face for the last time, throat tightening. He pressed a finger to his lips, bidding her silence, then opened the window, stepped up and lowered himself into a hanging position from the sill. Pushed the window shut with one hand and dropped silently to the ground. Hood up, Wallace crossed the patio and slipped over the wall. Now he needed to be a ghost.
* * *