Connelly and Malik parked up outside the Riverbank Care Home in Thornton Heath. They’d finally traced Wallace’s Mum here after a nightmare runaround from social services.
‘Where’s this river then?’ said Connelly, pushing the buzzer by the entrance. ‘Croydon Council should be done for trades description.’
Malik chuckled and pushed the door.
Putting down a copy of Metro, the receptionist swivelled his chair to face them.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Malik brandished his warrant card. ‘Metropolitan Police. We’re looking for a relative of one of your residents, Leonie Blake. His name’s Darian—’
‘That guy,’ barked Connelly, pointing at the TV.
The receptionist opened his mouth, stared at the screen.
‘Have you seen him?’ Malik put both palms flat on the counter, leaned in.
‘He was just here.’ The man glanced down the corridor. ‘I didn’t know…’ He trailed off, gazing back at the rolling news still displaying Wallace’s mugshot.
Malik grabbed the register. Ran a finger down today’s entries. Leonie Blake, visitor John Blake. Time of visit, 10.25. He checked his watch: 10.32.
‘What room’s she in?’ he demanded.
‘109. Down that corridor on the—’
They sprinted.
Chapter Eight
‘Looks like a partial footprint.’ Connelly examined a mark on the windowsill and scanned the garden. ‘Must’ve jumped out the window.’
Malik bent over the bed. ‘Where did your son go, Ms Blake?’
‘Eh?’
‘Your son,’ he said, louder. ‘Darian. He was here, wasn’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Oh, nowhere.’
‘What?’
Connelly gripped Malik’s shoulder. ‘Not worth it, Nas. I’ll call in some backup, check for CCTV and get a description from our man at the front.’
‘I’m heading outside,’ replied Malik. ‘See if there’s any sign of him.’
‘Leonie,’ began Connelly, slowly. He knew from his father’s last few years that people with dementia needed time to orientate themselves. ‘My name’s Patrick, and I’m a police officer. You’re not in any trouble. I’d really like you to help me, please…’
* * *
Malik rounded the corner, checked the garden wall on its other side. Turned a circle, assessing the options. Four streets leading off the nearby junction. Wallace could have gone in any one of those directions. Most logical option was the closest, the one he was on right now. He jogged up to the first bend, surveyed the road. About a hundred metres off, a bus pulled out to reveal a hooded figure walking away. Jeans, trainers. Matched the description. He radioed it in: name, badge, location, in pursuit. As he ran, he tried to keep his footfall quiet – didn’t want to give himself away. The guy was pacing quickly, head down. Within twenty metres, Malik picked up his speed.
‘Stop, police!’
The figure turned, began to run. Malik gave chase. Slalomed round some pedestrians.
‘Stop!’ he yelled again. The guy kept moving, in a sprint now.
Malik was breathing heavily, adrenalin surging. Houses flashed past. He was fit, but pegging it after a suspect like this always produced that hollow feeling in his legs: lactic acid. He kept going.
He heard a siren and slowed down to grab the radio off his vest, give an update on his position. No escape for the bastard now, not with a patrol car on its way. They had Wallace. The siren grew louder, then Malik saw the blue lights.
The hoody broke left into another road, patrol car screaming after him. Malik followed, giving it one final burst. The car pulled up hard in front. Two uniforms scrambled out. One went at the guy, the other produced a Taser from her holster.
‘Police officer, stop right now!’ she barked. Took aim.
The figure halted, surrounded.
‘Hands up. Keep them raised. Nick ’im, fellas,’ she called, steadying the Taser. They approached, Malik from behind, the other uniform opposite. They stepped closer towards him, within a couple of metres now. The suspect dropped one hand to his pocket.
It didn’t reach his jeans before the probe hit him. Fifty thousand volts crackled down the wire and the guy dropped with a strangled moan, rigid on the tarmac. A one-second burst was enough.
‘Arms out,’ yelled the woman. ‘Arms out now!’
‘Cuff him,’ said Malik. The male officer did, yanking his hands behind his back. Malik stepped forward, pulled down the hood. ‘Oh shit,’ he whispered, closed his eyes.
He didn’t know which South Asian ethnic background best described the guy they’d just arrested. Right now it didn’t matter. There was only one thing he was sure of: it wasn’t Darian Wallace.
* * *
Jasmine Fletcher stood alone in the living room. Reece was at a friend’s. She studied the card.
‘Detective Sergeant Kat Jones – Lewisham Major Investigation Team.’
Email. Landline. Mobile. One call away. Fletcher grasped her iPhone in her other hand. She’d seen the press conference highlights, Darian’s face plastered all over the news. Wanted in connection with a murder. She knew he had a past – ran with a few guys on the road, got into scrapes. She’d never asked him too many questions when they’d been together. But smashing some guy’s head in with a hammer? That was a whole different thing.
She tapped the card against her mobile.
Maybe the police had found him already, since it was after midday and he hadn’t come back. His duffel bag was still under the sofa. Some cash was in there, she knew that. He hadn’t paid her for the two nights yet. She wanted that money – needed it. Five hundred. Would it be a crime to help herself? After all, he owed her. If she turned him in now, would the cops let her go? If she didn’t, then she was part of it. With him.
She slid her thumb across the phone screen. Her heartbeat quickened.
Maybe he was innocent – the police made mistakes all the time. Darian had his flaws, the temper, but he did care about others, deep down. She believed that. Would he really have killed someone? What if there’d been a good reason for it?
Guilty or not, if she made the call to Jones, he’d know it was her – and he’d find her, one way or another. Fletcher closed her eyes at the image of Wallace wielding his electric drill. The feeling of that sharp metal tip digging into her neck. That was minor compared to some of the injuries he’d given her over their two-year relationship. He’d pushed her down the stairs for slapping him in the face during one of their arguments. Imagine what this would lead to.
The screen went black again.
It wasn’t only her. There was Reece to think about. His dad had left long ago and she had devoted herself to raising him, whatever it took. She couldn’t let anything get in the way of that. No matter what choice she made now, there’d be consequences for Reece. Her son was involved, though he didn’t understand. Both of them had been sucked in.
Part of her just wanted to get away from Darian Wallace. But once you met him, there was no escape. You loved him; you hated him.
‘Screw you Darian!’ she barked aloud, though the flat was empty.
She swiped and stabbed the passcode. Twirled Jones’s card in her fingertips. Slowly, she pressed 0 – 7 – 9 – then deleted it quickly. She took a long breath in through her nostrils. Stared at the screen, steeled herself. Typed 0 – 7 –
The door clicked open.
‘Yo, you home, Jas?’ Wallace’s voice was cheerful.
She stuffed the card down her back pocket. ‘Yeah, babe, in here.’ Locked her mobile.
He swaggered through, taking in the room. ‘What you doing?’
Heart pounded against her ribcage. ‘Nothing.’ She forced a smile.
‘Where’s lickle man?’
‘Playing at a mate’s.’
He grinned. ‘So we finally got some time alone?’ Stepped close, smelled her hair. Clasped her shoulders.
Relax, she told herself.
His hands slid down to her arse. Fingers played at the top of her back pockets, creeping inside. Began kissing her neck. ‘I’ve waited for this,’ he whispered.