‘Get stuck in, guys.’ Boateng laid out the tin trays of meze, kebabs and hot bread on the meeting room table. Marinated chicken and lamb off the charcoal grill, home-made hummus, lahmacan, spiced sausage and stuffed vine leaves. His team gathered round, loading up from the spread. Boateng knew they’d been working flat out all morning. A Turkish takeaway was his reward to them. Experience showed a direct relationship between food and morale. Both were essential if they were to keep going. As he carried in the bags, a colleague had asked what they were celebrating. Boateng ignored the sarcasm.
‘Sweet. Cheers, Zac.’ Malik already had his mouth full. The others paused, examined the mountain he’d piled on a plate. ‘What?’ he shrugged. ‘I was at the gym this morning.’
‘Seven a.m. run to the river at Greenwich and back.’ Jones took a bite of kofte.
Connelly inclined his head. ‘And I dug the allotment before work.’
The three of them turned to Boateng, who stroked his slight belly. ‘Well, I walked at least two hundred metres to pick this up for you smug bastards. So don’t give me any stick.’ He flashed a grin. ‘Alright, what’s the deal? Pat.’
The Irishman hoovered garlic yoghurt off his thumb. ‘Wallace is one clever son of a bitch. Security footage shows him grabbing a bathrobe and crutches then limping off inside the hospital like Verbal Kint in The Usual Suspects. Probably could’ve walked right past us.’
‘We can’t have been more than twenty seconds behind him.’ Jones glanced at Malik. ‘How’d he come up with that plan?’
‘Processing speed,’ replied Boateng. ‘One factor of IQ. Basically he can think faster than normal people. Then what?’
‘Gets in a cab outside and off he goes. Just before the Armed Response van turns up. Cab was from the Waterloo Cars firm. Driver says Wallace claimed to be a Mr Henderson on a pre-book. Dropped him opposite East Street. Couldn’t tell us anything else we didn’t already know. I’ve pulled up the nearest Southwark council camera at the drop time and we’ve got him exiting the vehicle.’
‘Great. And?’
‘We lose him in East Street market, too many people. I’ve been working outwards from there in ten-minute windows, reviewing tape. But it’s a big job. Nothing so far.’
‘Good work, Pat, keep going. We’ll catch a break.’
‘Don’t worry about me, boss.’ Connelly’s thick eyebrows rose. ‘When you’ve spent three months tending raspberry plants every day to get a handful of fruit, you know a thing or two about patience.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Nas?’
Malik rested his still-heaped plate on the table, belched into his fist. ‘Been in with the techies this morning. Got decent forensics off Fletcher’s phone after she told us when he’d been using it. Wallace cleared the browsing data so it took a while, but we got there.’
Boateng leaned forward. ‘So what was he doing?’
‘Searching for dance studios.’
‘Let me guess, he found one in Bermondsey.’
Malik nodded. ‘The last website he visited was K – where Parker works.’
‘Doubt he’s after a breakdance lesson. Question is why he wants Parker.’
‘What do you mean, boss?’ Jones frowned. ‘We know that already.’
‘Do we? He could be out for revenge, nothing more. Parker grasses, code of the street says Wallace takes him down. But what if Parker’s the one who knows where those jewels are stashed? Maybe he bluffed Flying Squad first time round, led them to Wallace’s half.’
‘Why would Parker wait another two years to sell them?’ Malik crammed chicken into his mouth. ‘He was the one who tried to flog some to Harris straightaway.’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Boateng. ‘Perhaps he wanted to get rid of Wallace and he knew Harris was a snout. Set him up.’
Jones stopped chewing. ‘The file said they were old mates.’
‘Don’t take everything at face value.’ Boateng noticed her crestfallen expression, felt like a prat. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s OK,’ she nodded. ‘You’re right, no honour among thieves.’
‘Some fellas I’ve dealt with over the years would sell their own grandmothers. We can’t be too suspicious. Either way, let’s check on Parker again this afternoon. What’ve you got?’
‘Been working on the safe deposit box guy – Ash,’ she said. ‘Not much to show for it though. Pat’s right, it’s like he just dropped off the planet two years ago. Experian lists four Harvey Ashes in the country. None with current activity fits the demographics of our thirty-one-year-old white British man from Croydon. Last record of anything on that Harvey Ash was a National Insurance contribution paid by Capital Securities in 2014, a month after Wallace’s conviction. Tried to find out from them what happened but the company went bust a year ago. Haven’t got hold of anyone yet.’
‘So why’d he disappear?’ Boateng scanned their faces.
‘Guilty conscience?’ offered Connelly. ‘If he was the insider on the vault job.’
‘Not guilty,’ countered Malik. ‘Just scared. Intimidated maybe? Wallace gets a message out from prison, Ash scarpers.’
‘I thought maybe he’d gone overseas,’ resumed Jones. ‘But there’s no record of him leaving the country. Could’ve taken an informal route out, I suppose. Reckon a name change is more likely though.’
‘And?’
‘Bugger all. Went back through The Gazette and Royal Courts of Justice over the whole period since the burglary. They list every official name change. Nothing registered by a Harvey Ash.’
Boateng scooped hummus with his bread. ‘It’s legal to change your name without using a deed poll. We’ll check for anyone matching his profile who seems to appear out of nowhere in mid 2015.’
‘Could take a month to go through those records,’ Jones protested.
‘And that’s the easy option. Bigger problem is if he’s off the grid altogether.’
‘Where would he go?’ asked Malik.
‘Some place you can live without leaving any trace.’ Boateng twirled a plastic fork. ‘Commune, island, camp site, monastery, farm… help me out here.’
‘Allotment?’ suggested Connelly.
‘Right, you get the idea. No one can completely become a ghost. Wallace will be thinking the same as us, unless he knows something about Ash we don’t. And Wallace hasn’t left town yet, despite the cash he had at Fletcher’s and more ingenuity than MacGyver.’
‘Who?’ said Jones.
Connelly clapped a hand on Boateng’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, boss. I remember that show.’
‘Thanks, Pat. Alright, now get this lot down you and find these bastards.’
* * *
Etta wrapped her arms around him from behind, rested her head between his broad shoulder blades. Zac was in their sitting room, studying his original James Barnor print. The legendary Ghanaian photographer had depicted his compatriot, champion boxer Roy ‘The Black Flash’ Ankrah, eating breakfast with his family back in ’52. Black and white. Man and woman with their little girl. Zac had bought it when Amelia was three. He’d liked it for being a link to his family past and a vision of their future.
‘Been thinking about her, love?’ She spoke gently.
‘All the time.’
Squeezed him tighter. ‘Same here. That’s normal, it’s five years next month.’
‘I know.’
‘Zac, is it—’ Etta paused. ‘You haven’t been yourself lately, I just wondered…’ She let the half-formed question hang.
He turned to her. Cradled her head in both hands, searched the deep brown eyes. Had to tell the truth. ‘I…’
‘Yes, love?’ She grasped his shirt at the waist, pulled him closer.
‘I’ve—’ Zac broke eye contact. Felt the emotion well up, pushed it back down. ‘I’ve had a lot on with this case. Boss is giving me stress about it, we’re not making enough progress.’