‘Same here.’ Malik tossed the document in front of him. ‘Not a single member of the public knows a damn thing about Harris or Darian Wallace or any of it. One fella does claim he saw a UFO over Deptford that morning though. What a waste of time.’
Boateng was trying to digest Volz’s pathology report on the Harris post-mortem. Jones was reading the same write-up, the idea being that two sets of eyes were better than one. Despite his experience, she probably understood more than him with the biology and genetics of her human sciences degree. Genes were conspicuously absent from the report though – meaning Volz hadn’t found Wallace’s DNA or anyone else’s on Harris. He read the same paragraph a third time, failed to absorb it.
Problem wasn’t the science, he got ninety-nine per cent of that. Wasn’t his patchy sleep either, though that didn’t help. What his brain was really working on was Thompson’s lead, same as it had been all night. And he knew multitasking was a myth. Every time he returned to Volz’s report, the words Two-Ten came back into his mind. He had to find someone who knew the group, but how? Apparently they were from Brixton. Boateng ran a hand over his face. Needed an in there. Who could he trust?
‘Do we have enough to charge him?’ Jones asked.
Boateng pressed his lips together, shook his head. ‘Motive, timing: yes. Pat’s CCTV link to his residence is solid, and we can strengthen it if the others who live there have alibis. But we’ve no forensics from the crime scene. We have to prove he was there. Right now the only charge that’d stick is skipping parole with the electronic tag scam. Arrest warrant’s out for that. We can nick him on suspicion, then either hope he confesses, or some new evidence turns up while he’s on remand.’
‘Smoking gun?’ said Connelly.
‘Smoking hammer more like.’ Malik looked across the desk. ‘Kat, how do you not read your texts instantly? I can never wait.’
She held up the report. ‘I’m working on this.’
‘What if it’s your boyfriend?’ A tiny grin twitched at the corners of his mouth.
‘I don’t…’ She cut herself off, flustered, reached for the phone.
Connelly shot Malik a conspiratorial glance.
‘Holy shit,’ whispered Jones. Rotated the phone screen to them. ‘Wallace is in Fletcher’s place now.’
Boateng squinted to read it. Stood immediately. ‘Crawford estate?’
Jones nodded.
‘Right. Nas, get onto Firearms. If there’s a spare Tactical Support Team I want them on the ground ASAP. If not, just Armed Response. Kat, give us a couple of local units nearby with eyes on.’
‘Lambeth or Southwark? It’s on the boundary.’
‘Both. And tell them to keep it low-key, let’s not spook him before we’re ready to go in. Pat, grab your Taser from the armoury. Vests, everyone. I’ll tell Krebs and sign out an unmarked pool car. Outside in three minutes.’
* * *
Wallace turned off the water and stepped out into clouds of steam. Wasn’t going to lie, he’d got a hard-on when he was on top of Jas just now. Had to finish himself off in the shower. Took a while, but there was no rush. He was heading back to Bermondsey later today. Go see his old mate Trent. Fingers rubbed a circle in the misted mirror. Smile spread across his face, imagining the moment he confronted Parker. Stared at the teardrop under his right eye. Maybe room for one more of them to mark the occasion. Or two, when he had time. He’d tell the story when it suited him, once he’d gone and started a new life. Big himself up. Nobody screws with Darian Wallace. See what happens when you do? Took in his grinning reflection as the glass fogged again. He opened a window. It was just a flash of white but he registered it.
Police car.
Cautiously, Wallace craned his neck to see better. Two feds inside, standard. It was the spot that stood out. They’d backed in along the wall by a low-rise opposite, nose forward. Like they were trying to be discreet. Wasn’t a patrol, they didn’t sit in the middle of estates. No other reason to park up there. And they hadn’t got out. So they were waiting for something, someone. Not a snitch, they’d be in an unmarked car. Wallace quickly dried himself, pulled his T-shirt, jeans and hoody back on.
Stomped into the living room, eyes darting around. Fletcher’s mobile was gone from the counter. It’d been there before. ‘Jas?’ he called. No response. Went to the bedroom, tried the door. Locked. ‘Can I use your phone?’ Silence. ‘I know you’re in there.’
Wallace went to the front door, peeped through the spy hole. Nothing. Opened it a crack to widen his view. A hundred metres across the tarmac, another police car rolled out of sight. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Carefully closed it. Strode over and smacked his fist on the bedroom door: once, hard. ‘Bitch! You’re fucking dead, you hear me? Dead.’ Stepped back, checked his anger. That wasn’t going to help him now. Had to get out. Couldn’t carry the tools. He scanned the living room. Balcony.
Wallace gently opened the door, lifted a piece of damp laundry on the line. No feds on this side. Picked one of Jas’s baseball caps off the plastic chair. Rolled it up, stuffed it in his pocket. Pulled his hood over. Climbed up and lowered himself off the metal railing, dropped one storey to the ground.
Started running.
* * *
Boateng cut the blues and twos long before they reached Camberwell, the district where Fletcher lived. There was no music this time. They’d made it from Lewisham in ten minutes at fifty miles an hour. Jones and Malik rode in the back. Connelly worked the radio, in contact with the two patrol cars already in place. Southwark and Lambeth had both offered more but Boateng declined. Too many cooks: they needed skill, not numbers. An Armed Response Unit was prepping in Brixton, ETA six minutes.
The radio crackled. ‘Papa Lima Two Five One, this is Lima Delta Three.’
Connelly grabbed the Airwave mic. ‘Receiving.’
‘Figure seen running on Lowth Road south towards Coldharbour Lane. Appears male, black hoody, jeans.’
Boateng needed confirmation of ethnicity. He asked for the identity code.
‘Nine,’ came the reply.
Unknown. Boateng chewed his lip, the Croydon Tasering fresh in his mind.
Connelly pushed the mic button again. ‘Lima Delta Three, is it our man?’
‘Papa Lima Two Five One, uncertain.’
Boateng scanned the areas between the housing blocks on the estate. ‘Tell them to stay where they are, Pat, keep eyes on Fletcher’s building. We’ll pursue.’ Connelly did so. Boateng spun the BMW X5 round and stopped sharply. ‘Kat, Nas, head over to Lowth Road on foot, we’ll box to the south side on Coldharbour.’ Car doors clunked shut and he watched them both vault the fence and begin sprinting across the tarmac. ‘Get that Taser ready, Pat.’ Boateng pulled away, gunning the engine hard in first up to the corner. His exit was blocked by cars stopped at the lights. He swore and hit the siren, but the traffic was nose to tail. Smacked the steering wheel, backed up and edged onto the pavement to find a way through.
* * *