He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, Dizzy Gillespie’s ‘Soul & Salvation’ floating around the car on low volume. Soul. Salvation. He snorted a laugh as he realised. Maybe he’d chosen the album unconsciously. Did he think this private – what could he call it? – ‘inquiry’ into the people and circumstances around his daughter’s death would bring redemption? He felt that he’d failed twice that day – first to protect Amelia, then to resuscitate her – and there was no way to change those facts. So why this? Why now?
Another part of the motivation surely came from a simple character trait. It was present long before he joined the police, perhaps even helped him select the career: his drive to know, to understand. To use that knowledge to protect and seek justice. But did the drive go further in this case, even as far as revenge? Boateng wasn’t yet sure. He’d thought about it countless times, especially just after her death, when he was so often angry. But without the first clue as to who’d killed his daughter, any possibility of revenge was purely hypothetical. That meant he didn’t really have to deal in advance with what he’d do, if push came to shove.
He pulled the herringbone flat cap low over his head and cracked the window to avoid steaming up the inside. Tried to relax, focus on his task. He had a good line of sight to the front door of Lockwood House. Took out the team mobile and opened the image of Thompson’s mugshot, studied it once more. People came and went. Boateng knew the clock was ticking: his team would need him in Lewisham soon.
Thirty-five minutes later a skinny young black man emerged wearing a Post Office uniform. Same high cheekbones. Identical chinstrap facial hair. Boateng wasted no time. Got out and intercepted him alongside the building.
‘Clarence,’ he began, spreading his arms to show he posed no threat.
Thompson looked around. ‘Yeah…’ he replied slowly.
Boateng stepped forward and lowered his voice. ‘I’m a police officer. I need to talk to you about the South Side Playaz.’ He flashed his warrant card without it leaving his jacket.
‘I don’t do that any more, man.’ Thompson sucked his teeth.
‘OK. I just need some information. About back then.’
‘Where’s the last guy?’
Boateng had anticipated this. A source would always be wary of new contacts, especially with an unscheduled meeting. It took time to build trust. He’d clocked an alias used by the Trident handler from Night Vision’s file. ‘I work with Nathan.’ He saw the recognition in Thompson’s face. ‘We’ve got this for you.’ He produced a roll of twenty-pound notes from his pocket. Had to use his own savings for it; no way he could explain to Etta how two hundred quid vanished from their joint account.
Thompson paused, nodded. ‘Alright, I got ten minutes. Late for work already.’
Boateng gestured towards the car and Night Vision slid into the passenger seat.
‘I’m working a cold case. Murder of Draymond King in July 2012.’
‘Shit. Now you’re interested in that?’
‘What do you mean?’
Thompson’s eyes narrowed. ‘You sure you’re working with Nathan?’
‘I’m in the same unit, but he’s moved on now.’ Boateng didn’t know if that were true; he was improvising. Hoping his bluff wouldn’t get called. ‘Like I said, it’s a cold case.’
‘Only thing cold about it was the feds. Nathan told me not to ask no questions. Cos of the op.’
Boateng didn’t know what he was talking about, so kept quiet.
‘They was tracking guns and food – crack,’ resumed Thompson. ‘I told Nathan I wanted to work on the murder, you know, dig around. Draymond was my boy. Whatever mu’fucker done it, I wanted him found. But Nathan said I had to focus on his op. Said there was “too much at stake”.’ He spat the words. ‘They’d deal with the murder later.’
‘Except they didn’t.’
‘Yeah, right. They wasn’t interested.’
Boateng’s heart was beating faster now. ‘So what did you think, at the time?’
Thompson shook his head. ‘It’s a waste, man. Draymond. Damn,’ he sighed. ‘Mans thought it was GAS – Guns and Shanks – cos they was bringing in crack as well. Trying to sell to the same customers. But Dray was a younger. No reason why they’d pop him.’
Boateng could follow the logic. ‘So you think his murder wasn’t gang-related?’
‘Nah, man,’ said Thompson. ‘I don’t think. I know it wasn’t.’
* * *
No safety catch.
That’s what he liked best about the Sig Sauer P229. Meant you could get rounds off much quicker. Didn’t have to worry about flicking a lever before brassing someone up. He’d known that to be the difference between us and them. Between alive and dead.
Spike surveyed the components of the pistol laid out on his workbench. Slide, barrel, recoil spring, frame. He set about carefully wiping down, cleaning and oiling each part in turn. Poked a wire brush through the barrel, pulled it back and forth. You didn’t want the thing jamming on you with a target in range. Again, difference between alive and dead. Spike had survived the West Side Boys in Sierra Leone, Balkan snipers, the Taliban, al-Qaeda and the Mahdi Army in Iraq. He wasn’t about to let some thieving scrote-bag from south London take him down.
Still, shouldn’t underestimate this Wallace guy, he’d pulled off a half-decent burglary job and the police reckoned he killed the pawnbroker. That took balls. Had to be prepared for him carrying something. But if Wallace was armed and knew how to shoot, the skills would be rusty. He’d been in prison for two years so couldn’t have got any rounds down in that time. A lot of these gang types used converted replicas anyway. Unless you were standing right next to your enemy, they were gash: inaccurate, unreliable. Mostly for show, intimidation. If Spike’s kit was a hundred per cent, and he had to draw, he fancied his chances. Taking care of your tools – that’s what these street guys didn’t understand.
One man who had understood that was the Engineer, a bomb-maker from Baghdad. His explosive devices had already killed around a hundred people by the time they caught him. Spike was part of the Special Forces group that tracked him down. Took four months. Had a few near misses – even lost a man on one failed detention op – but they didn’t give up. Eventually they got eyes on the Engineer, holed up in a disused factory. Spike set an explosive charge on the front door and it blew a splinter through his cheek. Adrenalin was going so hard he didn’t realise till they got back in the helicopter. Great big cut in his face, bit of wood sticking out. The boys all started calling him Spike after that. More importantly, they’d found the Engineer and the bombs he’d built; probably about two hundred lives saved. Worth a hole in your face.
Shifting the anglepoise lamp over the case trimmer tool, he opened the 9 mm ammo box and took out a round. Locked it in place and lined up the drill bit. Began to punch through the tip of the bullet, ribbons of lead streaming to each side. Hollow point rounds were the better option for his work. They expanded on contact with the target. That meant less collateral damage – useful if you were out in public. And it caused more problems inside the body – worse for your enemy. The Firearms Act 1968 made them illegal in the UK – some human rights shit – so Spike had to manufacture his own. It wasn’t that hard. All you needed was a drill and steady hands.