Forty-five minutes later the hollow points were ready. He loaded them into three mags and pushed one into the Sig. Pulled back the slide and drew a round into the chamber. Packed the pistol and mags in a rucksack along with a prepaid mobile, portable charger, GPS, Maglite, camera with zoom lens, Gerber multitool, shove knife, some rope – never knew when you might need that – and a thermos flask of tea. The gaffer had said Baghdad rules, so Spike added a stun gun. Commercial model bought online from Latin America: gave a bastard of an electric shock.
He switched off the anglepoise and went downstairs to the garage. Yanked the cover off his Kawasaki Ninja H2R. A thousand CC beast of a bike. Spike had treated himself to the new edition. Forty-one grand well spent. He unscrewed his usual number plate and selected one from the batch custom-made by his mate who ran a garage. Each was single use only, culled or copied from other bikes. Enough to confuse the police automatic number plate recognition system if a job went tits up and the coppers started investigating, reviewing CCTV. Spike lived in the Kent countryside, so even with ANPR he’d drop off the grid somewhere outside town.
He donned the neoprene face mask and black helmet with tinted visor. The heat in summer was a hassle – or ‘nause’, as they’d say in the regiment – but worth it to keep your face hidden from cameras. And people, once you got close enough for them to see you.
Destination was south London. First stop, the most logical place to find Wallace. Think like your enemy.
Spike gunned the throttle and the Ninja roared to life.
Chapter Eleven
Lewisham MIT’s open-plan office was busier today. Most of the twenty-strong section were there, working the phones or hunched over their computers, tapping away. Across the room, three detectives gathered around a whiteboard, matching mugshots to CCTV stills. One DC had pushed Boateng yesterday for gory details of Harris’s death, but most kept to their own work. Such was homicide in London: even a hammer attack didn’t divert his colleagues’ attention. MIT personnel had other cases to worry about.
Boateng was grateful for the lack of scrutiny as he entered quietly, hung his suit jacket and cap on the stand. ‘Sorry I’m late guys. Stuff I had to do.’ He felt awkward deceiving those he trusted. First Etta, now his close colleagues, ratcheting up the guilt. ‘My kid,’ he added. It wasn’t entirely a lie. He held up a bag of jam doughnuts. ‘Second breakfast if anyone’s interested?’
Connelly put down his biro. ‘I’ll get the kettle on.’
As the coffees were poured and doughnuts distributed, Boateng sensed the mood among his team was low. There was little chat as Malik, Jones and Connelly rolled their chairs up to his desk. He chastised himself for his freelancing absences: they needed him.
‘We were unlucky in Croydon,’ he began, scanning their faces. ‘But Wallace can’t hide forever. And we’ve done everything right so far.’ He noticed Malik’s head bowed over his mug, stirring more than necessary to dissolve even his three sugars. ‘Nas, I would’ve done exactly what you did, alright?’ The young detective looked up. ‘If I could still run that fast.’ Boateng swigged his coffee as the chuckles subsided. ‘Most important thing is where we are right now, and where we go from here.’ Nods. He could feel the atmosphere lightening. ‘We’re gonna catch this guy, yeah? I don’t care if he’s Albert bloody Einstein.’ He jabbed the desktop with a finger, making eye contact with each of them in turn. ‘Sooner or later he’ll run out of places to go, or make a mistake. That’s when we nick him. The more preparation we do now, the more we anticipate his next move, the more likely we are to find him.’ Stating the obvious, but sometimes that was all it needed: for the troops to hear it from him. ‘OK, what’s been happening?’
Malik shrugged. ‘Filling out the damn forms from yesterday. Waiting to hear if he makes an official complaint. Sri Lankan guy’s lawyer is gonna have a field day.’
‘You did what you had to do in the interest of public safety,’ said Boateng. They all knew the line. ‘That’ll stand up, trust me. Don’t worry about it now. Pat?’
‘Followed up on the CCTV from Thornton Heath. Care home footage shows it’s Wallace, different garb to the pawnbroker’s alleyway though.’
Boateng knew what this meant: likely Wallace had ditched his clothes from the Harris murder. Probably burned them. He kept his reaction in check. Now was not the time to dwell on dead ends. ‘What happened after he left?’
‘Goes over the wall, heads east. Two streets later the coverage drops out.’ The Irishman shook his head. ‘Then we lose him. Central London, we’d be able to see what he ate for lunch. But out there, it’s patchy. And no other traces so far, no patrol reports.’
‘Good effort, Pat. Get his description out to Southwark units, ask if they can detour via Fletcher’s place regularly.’ He tilted his chin up, scratched the stubble. Hadn’t had time to shave this morning. ‘He’s got to go somewhere…’
‘I called in yesterday.’ Jones sat upright. ‘On Fletcher.’
‘Good thinking.’ Boateng bit into a doughnut, caught the dribble of jam in his other hand and hoovered it up. He was starving.
‘Asked again if she’d seen Wallace. Said no, but there was something there. Hesitation. Like she wanted to tell me more about him. She let me in. We had a cup of tea, in fact.’ Jones smiled. ‘When I went to use the bathroom, I spotted a used condom in the bin. Frustrating, but I had to leave it there.’
‘Should’ve nabbed it,’ chipped in Malik. ‘Probably full of Wallace’s spunk.’
‘Inadmissible,’ said Boateng. ‘Fletcher invited Kat in, but she wouldn’t have given her permission to take the condom. If we had Wallace’s DNA in her flat though…’ He considered this, took another bite of doughnut. ‘Maybe we’d get her to cooperate on accessory after the fact.’
‘At the very least it tells us we need more squad cars around her place,’ observed Connelly.
‘Anyway, we bonded a bit. I asked her about raising a kid on her own. Must be tough.’ She paused. ‘I mentioned working with vulnerable women. Gave her the domestic abuse speech before I left, about how it’s not just violence but includes controlling, someone stopping you doing what you want. Didn’t make it about her, just talking generally.’
Boateng leaned back in his chair, impressed. ‘Nice one, Kat.’
‘After I got back here I chased up the forensics on Harris. Dr Volz is doing the full post-mortem tomorrow, and she’ll be checking foreign DNA on Harris’s body for any trace of Wallace now she’s up to speed.’
‘Outstanding.’ Boateng helped himself to a second doughnut then passed the bag around.
Jones reached for a notebook. ‘Then I went into the files on Wallace and the safe deposit job.’
‘You’ve been busy,’ he observed.
She glanced up. ‘You were out, so we had to find something to do.’ Her expression showed she wasn’t serious, but Boateng felt that pang of responsibility again, the guilt creeping in. ‘I was working on the revenge theory,’ she continued. ‘So I followed up on the others involved. Parker was tough to track down, took a few inquiries. He’s moved house and isn’t on the electoral roll. Eventually, I found his new flat, but there’s no phone. Best I could do was his workplace, and he wasn’t there when I called up. After some sweet-talking they gave me his mobile, but no one answered.’
Connelly slurped his tea. ‘Hang on a minute. Others? There was only Parker, wasn’t there?’
Jones tapped the notebook. ‘Depends whose version of events you believe. Flying Squad detectives who ran the case thought there might’ve been inside help, since the alarm was disabled. Security guard named Harvey Ash was in the frame, but there was no supporting evidence. Neither Wallace nor Parker named him in interviews. Basically their insider theory came down to the alarm.’
‘But Wallace disabled the alarm at Harris’s shop,’ Malik said, dusting sugar off his fingers. ‘He wouldn’t have needed someone working there.’
‘Maybe he didn’t know how to do it back then,’ suggested Connelly.
Boateng liked the way his team was thinking. ‘Let’s back up a second. What do we think Wallace wants?’
‘To keep an eye on his mum?’ offered Connelly.
Boateng chewed his lip. ‘I’m sure he does. But it’s risky now, isn’t it?’
‘To get the hell out of London,’ said Malik. ‘Leave Britain.’