‘More than likely. What does he need for that?’
Malik rubbed his thumb and forefinger. ‘Cash. For transport, maybe buy a fake document or two.’
‘Right. So he’s going to retrieve the stolen jewels, wherever they are.’ Boateng reached over, topped up the coffees. ‘What else?’
‘Payback,’ said Jones.
Boateng nodded. ‘Also likely. This is a guy whose reputation is essential to him. Classic social psychology. When the status of people with low self-worth is threatened, they’re more likely to respond with violence, try to restore that status. For all his smarts, Wallace can’t leave London till he’s taken care of the guys who betrayed him.’
‘I’d say he did that pretty effectively with Harris,’ said Connelly, reaching for another doughnut.
Boateng leaned back in his chair. ‘So who’s next?’
‘Parker.’ Malik’s response was instant.
‘And?’
‘Ash.’ Statement not question: Jones was confident.
‘Maybe.’ Boateng clasped his hands. He felt better now: coffee and doughnuts had done the trick. ‘If there’s any chance Wallace will go after Ash, we need to find him too. They’re both possible murder targets. Not to mention that either might lead us to Wallace. Pat and Nas, can you trace Ash and go visit him? Kat and I will take Parker.’
Jones flipped some pages. ‘He’s working at K Studios in Bermondsey. Teaching breakdance.’
Boateng moved his arms in a ‘wave’, got laughs from the team. ‘As you can see, I need some new moves. Come on.’
Crossing the car park, Boateng checked his mobile. There was a text from Etta:
Have to work late but Kofi going to play at Neon’s. Can you collect him on your way home? Dinner at 8? I’ll cook. E x x
This was his fault. If he hadn’t been doing his own thing this morning, Etta would’ve gone in earlier and been able to meet Kofi from school as usual on a Tuesday. Boateng didn’t like him hanging out on the estate. Neon was OK, but his house was chaotic. When his Mum was there, she wasn’t always in control. Last year, Kofi had watched a horror movie at Neon’s. It was an eighteen-certificate which they’d got from his older brother, himself only fourteen. Kofi had had nightmares for weeks. There was probably worse he didn’t know about.
Boateng stuffed the phone into his trouser pocket without replying, pissed off with himself more than anyone.
* * *
Darian Wallace stood alone in the cemetery, looking towards Beecroft Garden Primary School. He was concealed between a large stone angel monument and an old sycamore, but pulled his cap down and turned his collar up nonetheless. It was only yesterday his face had been on TV. There’d been no replay of the item this morning. Even though it was just local news and people had short memories, he had to be careful.
He studied the children, a cacophony of shrieks and calls rising from the mass. Three hundred kids on a patch of concrete. Chasing each other, pushing and shoving, playing games. Some on smartphones, a few sitting quietly alone. He checked their faces one by one.
Then he saw him.
Neon Grant was trying to drop-kick a football, but, struggling to coordinate his hands and feet, kept missing. Another young black boy with him was demonstrating. The other kid booted it way up into the air and both ducked as the ball fell, shielding their heads. The whistle blew and an adult came over and had words with them. Wallace laughed, shook his head. Typical teacher. Soon as you reach up, they shut you down.
Not that Wallace had tried that hard. His old man had always told him he wouldn’t amount to shit. ‘You’re naebody,’ he used to shout, with whisky-soaked breath, grabbing a handful of Darian’s T-shirt, pulling him close. ‘D’ye hear? Naebody. Useless piece o’ shite.’ If he answered back, he’d catch a slap. He recalled one time he’d kept silent, pinned against the wall, and wet himself. The boozed-up wanker had hit him anyway. ‘Fuckin’ baby.’
Despite this, Wallace knew he was good at one thing: maths. The question was where it would take him. By age fifteen it’d become like a game theory situation from his A-level decision maths module. If he sold drugs, he’d either make a lot of money or go to prison. If he didn’t sell them, someone else would make that money, and he might end up inside anyway. He assessed the risk and concluded his optimum strategy was the business end of drugs. Success through education was less likely than being caught dealing. When he had ended up needing to use violence to protect his profits, he’d even started enjoying it. Still, he wondered if there could’ve been another way.
That’s why he’d started tutoring Neon. Teaching him maths. Making amends, maybe. Wallace’s mum knew Neon’s family through church, and one Sunday Neon’s Mum told Leonie that her boy couldn’t do numbers. So Wallace went to see him, an hour a week for nearly three years. By the end the kid was pretty good for his age. Wallace started thinking how Neon could get himself up and out of the estate. Take his family with him. If he could just keep mentoring the kid… Then he’d gone down for burglary. Anger welled in his gut. Trent Parker. And that other one, the fat bastard.
He watched Neon and his mate trying to find a way to do drop kicks without the teacher seeing them. Creative, energetic, determined, challenging the rules. They had all the potential in the world. Wallace’s decisions had been made; too late to change now. Leopards and all that. Neon still had a chance, though. He needed to speak to the kid. Partly to see how Neon was doing before he left.
But also for his own plans.
Chapter Twelve
The industrial estate was in a run-down part of Bermondsey, enveloped by high-rise housing blocks. Even the late morning sunshine couldn’t make it pretty. Still, there were signs of development spreading through anywhere central in London. Supply and demand: the logic of business. Warehouses used three years ago by struggling artists or food packers now housed architects, artisanal coffee roasters and brand management creatives.
Thumping bass became loud funk as Boateng pushed open the door to K Studios. He recognised it immediately: James Brown’s ‘Super Bad’. Exchanging a glance with Jones, they followed the sound to a room off the reception. A gaggle of boys and girls in their late teens circled a guy squatting on the laminate wood floor. He was small, a muscular upper body evident despite his loose tracksuit. The grade one all-over buzz cut left his scalp visible.
‘Your right foot comes around here, yeah?’ he explained without looking up. ‘Right to left. Then step back with the left and back again across with the right, so you’re in like a push-up position. Got it? Right, left, right.’
‘I never could manage that,’ Boateng grinned at Jones, before rapping his knuckles hard enough on the door to be heard above the music. The whole group turned towards him. Boateng flashed his warrant card. ‘Trent Parker?’
Parker froze for a second, still in a press-up, then flipped himself into a standing position in one movement. ‘Work on the six-step, yeah?’ he told the students, who were unable to hide their excitement. ‘Back in a minute.’
* * *
They took the low sofas in reception. There was no one else around and James Brown’s screams were too loud for the students to overhear the conversation.
‘The Godfather of Soul,’ said Boateng. ‘Good choice. My favourite track by him is “The Boss”, though.’
Parker smiled. ‘What’s this about?’ The accent was pure south London. He had lean features, almost good-looking if they hadn’t been so rat-like.
‘Darian Wallace.’
Parker swallowed.
‘Did you know he was out?’
‘I heard something like that.’
Boateng leaned forward. ‘Have you seen him?’
Parker made a brief choking sound. Might have been a laugh. ‘Nope.’
‘Why’s that funny?’ asked Jones.