Boateng parked on an outlying street and walked back until he hit the centre of Brixton, where the railway met Coldharbour Lane. Only that morning he’d been chasing Wallace a mile up the other end of this massive road that cut its way through south London. It was a Wednesday but the place was buzzing, drinkers spilling from bars into the streets, shouting over music that pumped from every doorway. The sun refused to go down on the year’s longest day.
Approaching Dogstar he could see two men working the entrance, one the giant figure of Samuel Agyeman. The hulking Ghanaian doorman wore a black T-shirt and trousers, a high-vis armband displaying his ID. Agyeman patted down a couple of youngsters and opened the door for them, releasing a blast of sound. Spotting Boateng, his whole face lit up. ‘Akwaaba!’ he cried, slapping hands and pulling him in for a bear hug with arms like granite. The Akan greeting literally meant ‘you have left and come back’. It was accurate: last time he saw the big man was over a year ago. They’d met eighteen months before that, when Agyeman’s cousin had been the target of an attempted murder in Lewisham. Boateng had caught his attackers, dealt personally with the family. Comforted the grandmother with an explanation of events in her native Twi language that he grew up hearing his parents speak. Agyeman said he’d never met a police officer like him. Promised that whatever Boateng needed, whenever, he just had to name it. And he was a man who could supply a lot of things in this city.
‘Too long, my friend.’ He looked Boateng up and down, jabbed a finger in his belly. ‘What happened? Did you forget how to find the gym?’ he grinned.
‘Easy. Some of us have families. Can’t spend every spare hour of the day chucking weights around.’
Agyeman flexed a thick bicep. ‘This is part of my job. It’s a professional responsibility. And the ladies like it, too.’ He laughed loudly, slapped Boateng’s palm again.
Boateng removed his flat cap. ‘Somewhere we can talk?’
‘Come with me.’ Agyeman nodded to his colleague. ‘I’ll take my break now.’
Boateng followed him inside. Trap music thumped out of a sound system. The DJ worked off a laptop in the corner, headphones wedged under one ear. High-pitch autotuned voices laid over staccato snares and basslines that made his whole body vibrate. Was this what young people were listening to? Suddenly he felt older than his forty-three years.
Agyeman led the way into a back room. Took a plastic flask out of the little fridge and shook it up. ‘Protein,’ he explained. ‘Chest workout today.’ Bass reverberated through the walls, but at least they were alone.
‘Does the name Two-Ten mean anything to you, Sammy?’
The big man frowned. ‘Like the numbers two one oh?’
‘That’s it.’
Agyeman swigged the pink liquid. ‘I think they were a gang, few years ago. Small outfit from this area.’
Boateng’s pulse accelerated. He was talking to the right guy.
‘Don’t hear much about them today,’ continued Agyeman. ‘Mostly the young guns around here now, y’understand? Lot of these gangs don’t last but new ones always spring up. Why’re you interested in them?’
‘It’s about a case.’
Agyeman sucked on the drink, narrowed his eyes. ‘The finest detective in south London. You don’t need me to help with your work, Zachariah. So what’s the real story?’
Boateng said nothing. The subwoofer next door was making his hairs stand on end.
‘If I don’t know what you’re after, I’m not gonna put myself in the firing line. Some of these boys would murder each other over a bag of chips.’
Silence. Bass.
‘My daughter. I think someone in Two-Ten killed her.’
Agyeman crossed himself, shook his head. He knew about Amelia. After a few seconds he looked square at Boateng. ‘Tell me what you need.’
‘I want you to find a member of Two-Ten or someone who knew them personally. Set me up with a meeting. Don’t give them my name or real job. Say I’m a mate with a business proposal. If they play hard to get, mention that I’ve got information to trade. For extra reassurance I’ll meet on their turf. No undercover cop would do that.’
Agyeman drained his protein shake, proffered a huge hand. ‘Consider it done.’
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday, 22 June 2017
‘My office. Now.’ It wasn’t a request.
Krebs’s three terse words by phone told Boateng what was coming. He’d arrived early, hoping to find some development to mitigate the inevitable bollocking. But Krebs was already in and summoned him before he’d even switched on his computer.
‘You’ve lost Wallace,’ she stated, hands clasped.
‘Ma’am,’ he began slowly, ‘thanks to careful work by DS Jones, we received a tip-off and had to act immedia—’
‘Not good enough.’ Krebs pressed her lips into a flat line. ‘Sit down.’ Boateng did so. ‘For Christ’s sake, where was Tactical Support, Armed Response? And what were those PCs from the area playing at?’
‘There wasn’t time to stand up the specialists, ma’am. Wallace could’ve left the property at any moment. We needed eyes on quickly and the local units didn’t have full background, they—’
‘You requested patrol vehicles apprehend a murder suspect, dangerous and probably armed, without the complete intelligence picture?’
‘We briefed them, ma’am, but it was against the clock and the informant’s life could’ve been at risk.’
‘Well, it certainly is now.’ Krebs flicked aside a curtain of her bob cut. ‘The woman’s petrified by all accounts, and she’s got a child there. We may have to refer them to the Protected Persons Service. Not to mention us looking like a bunch of incompetents. And I assume you’ve seen the pictures on social media of your team rampaging through a hospital, scaring hundreds of patients.’
The photos were news, but Boateng was aware of the rest. He said nothing. Berated himself again for not slowing it down, making a different call. Would he have planned better if his mind hadn’t been elsewhere? The pang of guilt came again, making him doubt his judgement.
Krebs looked down at him, sighed. Clicked the button of her ballpoint pen rapidly. Boateng had seen Crown Court judges deliver life sentences with more humanity. Finally she spoke. ‘What should we do then, Zac? Are you up to this task? Your initial plan to locate and apprehend the murder suspect was logistically unfeasible, and when presented with an opportunity to nick him you royally screw it up.’
‘We’ll do better, ma’am. Items were retrieved from the flat which include a weapon possibly used in the Harris murder. Dr Volz is examining it today. If it matches, we’ll be able to charge Wallace. And my team will chase down every lead on him, double our efforts.’
‘See that they do. You’ve got one more week before I hand the case over to another DI who can close it. They’ll lead the investigation, your team can assist, and you can go back to the paperwork on your nightclub stabbing.’
Boateng clenched his fists out of sight. ‘Understood.’
‘And I want another press briefing this afternoon.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘I told you before, Zac, community policing. I’ll have the Evening Standard come by at four and you can brief them on where we are. They’ll get Wallace’s photo out to a million people across London. It’ll be online tonight and in print first thing tomorrow. Probably the best chance of finding him now.’
Boateng tried to hide his exasperation. Failed. ‘With respect, our last appeal produced nothing actionable, just a load of crap we had to waste time sifting. Increasing publicity could push him further underground, make him take extra precautions and—’
She held up a hand. ‘I’m not interested, the decision’s made. Now go back to finding Wallace and when the Standard gets here at four you’d better have something new to give them. That’s all.’
* * *