Jones knew it was rhetorical.
‘I wanted to pick Reece up and take him out of there,’ he continued. ‘Make sure he never claps eyes on Darian Wallace again. Call it a dad’s instinct. Put him and Jasmine Fletcher somewhere safe. But you’ve got to have limits to empathy. Can’t solve everyone’s problems. If you believe you can, it just creates more for yourself. Before you know it, you can’t do the job any more. I’ve seen coppers get to that point. Then you don’t help anybody.’ He adjusted the radio again and music crystallised.
Jones broke the silence. ‘I understand why you’d want to protect a child.’
Boateng stared at the road.
‘I heard what happened, Zac. Five years ago.’ She chose her words carefully. ‘Can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you and Etta. For Kofi. How do you…’ She faltered.
‘You hope.’ His face twitched. ‘That one day the person responsible will get what they deserve.’
‘Justice?’
He hesitated a second. ‘Yeah.’
‘They never caught the guy who did it.’
‘Not yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
He kept looking ahead, but she could tell his eyes were moistening. ‘Never give up. You owe it to that person you loved. To the memory you still love, that no one can take away.’
Jones nodded slowly. Boateng didn’t need to ask her if she was thinking about her father.
* * *
Wallace stood opposite the Colombian café that was also a money transfer and clothing store. Nobody was watching. No CCTV either, far as he could tell. Wallace slung the crutches and dressing gown into the industrial bin and pulled a wooden pallet over them. Headed for the market down the road at Elephant and Castle junction. Descending filthy iron steps towards stalls by the underpass, he felt anonymous again, one molecule in a sea. Sellers hustled under tarpaulins and crude plastic sheeting that did little to block the intensifying sun. Racks of cheap clothing, hats and shoes sat alongside fruit and veg in crates piled between the hawkers. The scents of deep-fried food wafted from kiosks by the underground station. Wallace heard conversations in at least five languages inside a minute. Without a word, he paid cash for aviator shades to cover the teardrop tattoo. Then he purchased a sun hat, new T-shirt and trousers. All in lighter colours than his existing outfit, the one they’d be looking for on cameras. Next he picked up a mobile phone handset, scratched and worn but described by the South Asian man selling it simply as ‘used’. Stolen and unblocked most likely. That didn’t matter; he wouldn’t need it for long, and no one would bother tracking the IMEI now. Bought a Lebara SIM card: one of the hardest to trace. No paperwork for any of it. He had to duck inside the shopping centre itself to find a small rucksack and sleeping bag. Wallace changed in a grubby public toilet, putting his original clothes and new bedding in the pack. Checked his roll of notes: two hundred and eighty-five quid left from his winnings at the track on Saturday night. Enough.
* * *
There was nothing in the town hall lobby, nor in the public library. Same in two GP surgeries, a Post Office window, and the big Methodist church. Told himself to be patient. Finally in the community centre, scouring his seventh public notice board, he found it.
Lock-up garage to rent.
Wallace tore a strip with a printed mobile number from the advert, fired up his own phone and called. Two minutes later he was walking towards Old Kent Road.
* * *
The owner was on time. Older white guy, probably fifties, thin grey hair. Solid-looking. Introduced himself as Derek. ‘What d’you need it for then… John, wasn’t it?’ he asked, twisting the lock and heaving the metal door up.
‘Storage,’ replied Wallace.
Derek squinted. ‘For what?’
‘My car.’
They stepped inside. The guy flicked on a single, bare electric bulb. It was still so dark that Wallace was obliged to remove his sunglasses to see properly. Breeze-block walls, bare concrete floor. His prison cell had more atmosphere. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. At least there was a plug socket.
‘Twenty-five pound a week,’ said Derek.
‘I’ll take it for two weeks.’
‘Minimum’s a month.’
Wallace clenched his jaw. Recognised he had no power here. ‘Fine.’
‘Got any ID?’
‘Aw shit.’ Wallace patted his pockets. ‘Must’ve left it in the car. At my girlfriend’s place.’
Derek stared at him. Wallace held the gaze, which drifted to the corner of his right eye, the black teardrop tattoo. The older man coughed, jammed hands in his pockets. ‘If you ain’t got no ID,’ he said at length. ‘It’s fifty pound a week.’
He weighed it up. ‘OK.’
‘Plus twenty quid deposit for the key.’
Wallace peeled off the notes from his roll. Didn’t bother winding up the rest: there weren’t enough.
Derek grasped his cash, counted it and extracted one of two keys on a fob. ‘Gimme this back in a month then, ’less you wanna extend. You got my number.’ Gave a final glance at the teardrop and moved towards the door.
‘Wait,’ said Wallace. ‘I’ll give you two hundred more at the end of the month.’
Turning, Derek sized him up. Nodded, and was gone.
Wallace shut himself inside the garage, unrolled the sleeping bag and lay down. Damn, the floor was hard. Used his old hoody as a pillow. Stared up at the bare bulb, its filament glowing weakly, like it was about to give out. A wave of tiredness washed over him. It was early afternoon, but he felt like he’d been awake for days. Closed his eyes. Would the guy see him on the news, call it in? Maybe, but he’d have to be quick. Wallace wasn’t planning to hang around this shithole any longer than necessary. Then again, the old bugger might be so venal he wouldn’t go to the feds even if he knew something was up. Like the landlords who know their properties are being used by hookers, hydroponic skunk farmers or ten-to-a-room illegal migrants. Long as the rent comes in, it was hear no evil and all of that. Problem was that Derek no doubt had another key, the spare on his fob, so if he was curious he might come back and check.
Minor. Now Wallace had a place to hide, sleep and plan. Knew what he had to do. Finish his business then get off this island. It started with Trent Parker. For that, he needed new tools. Sixty-five quid in his pocket wasn’t going to cut it.
Then he remembered: it was Wednesday. Thursdays were race nights at Wimbledon greyhound track.
Chapter Fifteen
Spike had begun to doubt himself. As usual he’d arrived early, but now it was twenty minutes until closing time at the gallery and still no sign of his boss. Was he definitely in the right place? Knew there were two Tates in London, and the gaffer had said the one opposite the Spooks. That was Tate Britain in Pimlico. No mistake, be patient. He stood in front of the four-by-three metre canvas, staring. Didn’t get it. Just a load of words on a massive board. He could’ve done that. Checked the tiny information sign next to it. ‘Break Point, 1998. Fiona Banner b. 1966.’
‘Rather good, isn’t it,’ remarked Patey, gliding alongside him.
Spike glanced left, pissed off that he’d been caught unawares. They made an odd pair, the boss in his skinny-cut Savile Row suit and Spike in a light fleece, jeans and hiking shoes. Since most other visitors had already cleared off, though, no one seemed to notice.
‘What…’ began Spike. Tilted his head. ‘What is it?’