Parker looked her up and down before responding. ‘You lot know. Must’ve read the file. Man’d kill me.’
Boateng clasped his hands. ‘Wallace is the main suspect in a murder investigation we’re running.’ He used the term ‘main’ rather than ‘only’.
‘Murder?’ Parker’s face became even paler.
‘Did you see the London news yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘Seems he didn’t waste any time after his release. Victim was a pawnbroker in Deptford called Harris.’ Boateng paused, watched Parker recognise the name and tense up, shrinking in his seat. ‘We think the motive was probably revenge.’
Parker was silent. Ran a hand over his head. Glanced from Boateng to Jones and back.
‘Do you know where he might be?’ Boateng held his gaze, searching for any sign.
Parker didn’t blink. ‘Ain’t seen him for over two years. And like I said, man might come cut me up after what happened. Did what I had to do. Back then my baby was six months. Couldn’t leave the kid and her mum alone. Now I’m just on a quiet thing.’ Turned his head side to side, took in the dance studios. ‘Do my job, pay my rent, stay out of trouble, away from man like Wallace.’
‘That’s the main reason we’re here, Trent,’ said Jones. ‘We’d like to offer you some protection.’
Parker sniggered. ‘Protection? By you lot?’ Slumped back on the sofa, bravado regained.
‘We consider Darian Wallace to be highly dangerous,’ Jones continued. ‘It’s standard procedure that in these situations we—’
‘I’m not shook, yeah?’ Parker stared at her, jaw set. ‘Not scared of no one.’
‘Nobody said you were, Trent.’ Boateng’s voice was even. ‘But there’s no shame having a bit of help sometimes.’ He’d known that line to work before on younger guys, pride and machismo stopping them from admitting fear.
‘I don’t need no help,’ Parker snapped. ‘Specially not from no Five-O. Take care of my own self.’
Boateng nodded. ‘OK. But don’t do anything you’re going to regret.’ Paused. ‘That’s just my personal advice.’
‘I’ve got a class to teach.’ Checked out Jones again. ‘Want some new moves?’
‘No, thanks.’
They stood.
‘Appreciate your time.’ Boateng held out his card. Parker let it hang in the air. Boateng placed it on the sofa arm. ‘In case you change your mind. Or you see Wallace.’
Parker turned and tried to walk casually but Boateng perceived new tension in his limbs. Seen it a thousand times. Fear.
James Brown’s scream pierced the room again.
* * *
Bit windy up here.
Spike sipped tea from the lid of his thermos. Not a bad brew. He was in a decent spot, with eyes on Jasmine Fletcher’s flat, seven floors down. Shifted position slightly, leaned his back on the chimney. Calculated it from the ground: he’d be invisible here to most of Crawford estate. It was easy enough to get up the block’s internal stairs. Fire escape brought him to the roof.
Recon. That’s what they called it in the military. Posh word for sitting and watching for hours. But it had to be done.
Colonel Patey’s contact in the Met – the one the client gave them – had pulled the file on Wallace off the Crimint system and whatsapped the photos of it to Spike’s unregistered mobile. He didn’t much care for apps – load of bollocks, mostly – but WhatsApp was alright. Hard to crack: a closed network with decent message encryption. Good enough for this kind of job.
The first page of the file had given Wallace’s address in the hostel in Peckham. Pure Delboy and Rodders territory. But when he’d gone there, Wallace’s room was kicked open and the place was empty. Police tape across the door, but no coppers. One geezer there was having Polish lager for breakfast. For twenty quid he told Spike he’d not seen Wallace since Friday night. Spike thanked him and issued a simple threat never to tell anyone they’d spoken. Didn’t even need to say ‘Or…’ – the fella got the message, clutching his can and nodding furiously. Might’ve been reliable, might not. Spike gave him the benefit of the doubt. Made sense that Wallace had vanished if he smashed the pawnbroker’s head in. Only a mug would stay in his registered address after that with an electronic tag. Might as well send up a flare. Grunted a laugh to himself.
Think like your enemy. If you’re on the run, you can’t use a hotel, can’t go anywhere central. Gotta stay with someone you trust, off the radar. Use other people’s phones and computers. File said his old man was an alcoholic ex-squaddie who’d disappeared off to Scotland. So not him. Mum was in a care home. Probably couldn’t go there either. Wallace had no siblings. Next most obvious: girlfriend or ex.
If it were him, Spike thought, he’d go to an ex. Not his ex-wife, she’d turn him in. An ex who still liked him, if that existed. He thought about it. Nope, no such thing. Spike always burned his bridges, somehow. Maybe it felt safer that way. Didn’t want to get too close to anyone or stay too long, it made you weaker. Vulnerable to… he didn’t know what. Slapped his own cheek; he was getting distracted.
File listed Jasmine Fletcher as Wallace’s bird when he did the robbery. So here Spike was in Camberwell, sitting and watching her flat. Recon.
Didn’t have all day though. She and a boy had come in about two hours ago with Co-op bags. Three hours later they were still at home. Just needed them to go out again and he could take a look inside the flat. See if Wallace had been there. If not, he might need to use Plan C: widen the network.
Spike peered through the zoom lens at Jasmine Fletcher’s window, focused it manually. Nothing going on.
Police car cruised past her building. Skoda Octavia estate. He’d seen the same one twice in twenty minutes now. Call sign in big black letters on the roof: thanks for the confirmation, lads. Too frequent to be their normal beat. Helpfully, one of them pointed through the window towards Fletcher’s block. So the coppers were keeping an eye on her too.
A curtain closed in the flat and less than one minute later Fletcher and the kid appeared at the communal doorway to their low-rise block. Started walking south. Spike considered tailing in case she was heading to an RV with Wallace. Possible, but more likely he was in the flat – if he was here at all. He removed the pistol from his bag and tucked it into the small of his back, handle resting over his belt and to the right.
* * *
Spike put his ear to the door. Nothing. Nudged it forward with his toe. Slipped the shove knife into the jamb and worked it up, through and down to the lock. Over the catch. Pulled gently towards him. Click. Piece of piss. Right hand reached back under the jacket to his Sig. Left hand teased the front door open.
Messy interior. Normal small kid signs. Listened. Scanned around quickly: living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. Checked the wardrobe and long cupboard. No one here.
Back in the living room, he clocked the sofa. Slight angle to the wall, little compressed circle of carpet where one foot usually rested. Spike lay prone and examined the gap under it. Canvas bag. Probed it with a gloved finger. Tools. Pretty sure they weren’t the chick’s. And a roll of banknotes, looked like a grand at least.
On the small table sat a half-eaten bowl of cornflakes, a newspaper underneath. He lifted the corner. A cheap magazine lay beneath, face down. He extracted it. Greyhound racing programme, Wimbledon track. Flicked some pages, saw hand-jotted notes. Bloke’s writing. Maths. He was briefly thinking how he was never much good with numbers when he heard something slam.