Spike’s left hand whipped back and lifted the jacket as his right drew. Instantly his aim covered the doorway. Slow breaths. Pistol level, arms steady. Nothing happened. He crept sideways, peered through. Front door was still shut. Must’ve been a neighbour. Damned flats so close together. Replaced the Sig.
Wallace had been here, Spike was sure. And he’d want those tools, they were his MO. So, assuming the cops didn’t have him, it was very likely he’d return. Probably after the bird and her kid got in. Which meant all Spike had to do was head back up to the roof and wait. He slid the dog-racing programme back under the newspaper.
* * *
The night light cast long shadows across Zac’s face. He sat on the top stair, cradling his chin with both hands. Kofi was tucked up in bed, but he wasn’t ready to go back downstairs, despite the teriyaki smell coming from the kitchen. He heard the sizzling pan and notes tumbling rapidly from John Coltrane’s sax in the kitchen. Play a snatch of Coltrane and you hear chaos. Listen to the whole track and there’s order. That’s what he needed now: order from chaos.
Talking to Night Vision this morning had sent Zac’s head into a tailspin. Could his Met colleagues have put a lid on the murder investigation five years ago to work their own op? Same guys he’d line up next to in the canteen, join for five-a-side football, share a beer with at someone’s leaving drinks? Boateng couldn’t fathom it.
Thompson had given him a single name, or rather, three digits: 210. It came from a thread on the chatroom page set up by King’s mates: Draymond RIP. People had been posting under aliases like Killer Clown and Gatman about how Draymond had been in too deep. Others replied to say those guys didn’t know what they were talking about. Some – mostly females – just appealed for the violence to stop. Enough is enough. Thompson had found the still-active page on his mobile and showed Zac in the car. Buried among the hundreds of comments, one user with alias IceKing99 had written, Dats wot u git wen u fuk wid da 210.
Thompson thought Two-Ten was responsible. He’d suggested that because there was no drug connection, it must have been something personal. But he couldn’t say what. Draymond didn’t tell him anything before he died, though Thompson hadn’t seen him around as much in the few months before. The name Two-Ten was alien. Didn’t even know if it was a person, group, place – or all three, like Thompson believed.
‘Ready, love!’ Etta’s voice snapped him out of it.
* * *
‘Smells good,’ he said quietly as Etta placed salmon fillets on heaped noodles. Realised he could have been more enthusiastic. He needed a beer. Automatically, he reached into the fridge for a bottle, cracked it open.
‘I already poured you some wine.’
‘Alright,’ he protested. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘You could’ve looked on the table.’
‘I’ll drink both.’ Zac scraped his chair back, sat down heavily. Grabbed a half lime and crushed it over his food.
‘Hard day?’ Etta spun some noodles around her fork.
‘Yeah.’
They ate in silence.
‘So how was your meeting?’
‘Which one?’
‘This morning. The early one. Reason I had to take Kofi to school.’
‘OK.’
‘Who did you have to meet?’
‘Can’t say, it’s about the case.’
She nodded, sipped her wine.
After a while, Etta spoke. ‘You know, you don’t have to act like this. Whatever it is, you can talk to me.’
Zac didn’t respond.
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday, 21 June 2017
‘Gimme some juice, bitch.’ Reece pointed at the carton in his mum’s hand.
Jasmine Fletcher slammed it down on the table. ‘What did you say?’
The boy laughed, waving toast in one hand. Turned to Wallace for approval.
‘Never talk to me like that.’ She bent down next to the table, got close to his face, eyes wide. ‘You don’t use that word to a woman. Least of all your mother. D’you understand?’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ he conceded, giggling. Looked at Wallace again, received a smirk in reply.
‘This has to stop,’ Fletcher said, still gripping the orange juice. She raised her voice. ‘You come into this house, disrespect me in front of my boy, put bad words in his mouth and dangerous stuff in his hands.’
Wallace winked at Reece. ‘Calm down, Jas. Time of the month?’
‘Fuck you!’ Fletcher screamed.
‘Not supposed to say that word either.’ Wallace arched an eyebrow at Reece.
Fletcher wiped both hands down her face, calmed herself. ‘Look, the only reason you’re here, Darian, is cos you’re paying. Two fifty a day and it’s supposed to be only two nights. You been here three and you haven’t given me anything yet.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Dickhead.’
He leaned back. ‘You’ll get your money.’
‘Not good enough.’ Fletcher shook her head, limbs taut with rage. ‘I want the cash now.’ She slapped the tabletop.
Wallace chuckled. ‘Or what?’ Swigged his tea.
‘I’ll call the police,’ she blurted.
Wallace banged the mug down. He was out of his seat in a flash. Pushing her backwards. Fletcher stumbled, lost her footing and fell. Howled as her coccyx hit the floor. Wallace straddled her on the ground, knelt on her arms. Grabbed her cheeks in his right hand and squeezed hard, concentration on his face. Lips splayed, she made a gargling noise. Wrenched one arm free and tried to hit him but there was no power in the blow. Wallace turned her head to the right and pressed hard with the knuckle of his left middle finger behind her jawbone. The mandibular nerve. She wailed, but the sound was diluted, soft. Reece watched in silence.
‘I stay as long as I want.’ Wallace hit the nerve again with his knuckle, deeper. Her body bucked under him. Pressed once more. ‘Got that?’ She nodded furiously, tears forming. He stood, towering above as she lay on the carpet, massaging her face. ‘And if you call the feds…’ Wallace shot a glance at Reece. ‘Then it’s game over.’ He flopped down onto a chair. ‘Ain’t that right, lickle man?’
‘Game over,’ mimicked Reece.
‘Sorry, Darian,’ she whispered, and wiped eyes with the back of her hand.
Wallace drained his mug. ‘Now make me another cup of tea. I’m gonna have a shower.’
* * *
Fletcher watched him walk out of the living room. The bathroom door clicked shut. Heard him pissing. What was it the policewoman said? Abuse was physical, but it was also about restriction of liberty, often humiliation. Jones told her that a lot of men thought they could tell women what to do. But nobody had the right to control someone else. Fletcher couldn’t take this any more. Neither she nor Reece should have to live with the fear of Darian Wallace hanging over them. Money or not, whatever he threatened. The toilet flushed.
‘Where’s that tea, Jas?’ he yelled from the bathroom.
‘Coming.’ She went over to the kettle, flicked the switch. Heard the shower go on next door. Took her mobile off the counter. Keyed in Jones’s number from memory. Deep breath.
DW in my flat now. Jas.
Her thumb hovered over the send icon. She looked over at Reece, kicking his feet in the air under the table and gazing out the window. Enough. Sent. She deleted the message history. Exited and locked the phone, slipped it into her pocket. Noticed the tremor in her hands as she made tea.
The shower was still running.
* * *
‘Anything?’ Boateng looked up hopefully.
‘Nothing,’ replied Jones, turning back a page and scanning some numbers. A soft ping sounded on her mobile.
‘Me neither.’
They sat across from one another in the office, Malik and Connelly at the two adjacent desks.
Boateng swivelled left. ‘What about you boys?’
Connelly blew out his cheeks. ‘Sweet FA, boss.’ Clicked the mouse a few times, pulled up an image of an overweight young man. ‘This is our Harvey Ash. I got the picture from a newspaper – they ran it when police questioned him after the burglary. But it’s like he just vanished off the face of the earth a year later.’