Etta let go. ‘It’s OK to say if you’re struggling. With Amelia, I mean.’ Her tone had changed, harder now. ‘We can talk about it, God knows I’ve needed to. You must as well, you can’t keep it all inside. I tried that – it doesn’t work. Remember? I’m still dealing with it now, same as you. Some days I’ll just think of her and start crying – doesn’t matter where I am, what I’m doing. Like I’ve got no control over it. Round and round, asking why it happened. I don’t even know what I believe any more. The difference is that I talk about how I’m feeling, and that has to help.’ She let out a long breath, laid a hand on his chest. Lowered her voice. ‘You’re the strongest man I know, but everyone has limits. And anniversaries make it even tougher.’
Zac pinched his moistening eyes. Eventually he spoke. ‘She had so much love. With everything she did. Passionate about saving the planet by the time she was eight. Wanted to fill the garden with trees then climb them all. I think about what she would’ve been like now.’ His voice caught. ‘And the woman she’d become.’
‘Me too.’ Etta’s mouth quivered.
He stroked her shoulders and their gaze met. ‘She had the best example to follow.’
Etta’s forehead fell to his chest, her body shaking with tiny movements.
Stop fighting it.
He let the tears roll.
They stayed like that, held one another.
‘Are you hurt, Daddy?’ came a small voice from the doorway. Kofi was standing there in his Spider-Man pyjamas.
Zac sobbed once more, smiled. Wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Yes. But I’m OK. Come here, son.’
Kofi looked up at Etta as he burrowed into their embrace. ‘Is it about what happened to Ammy?’ he asked quietly.
Etta nodded, lips pressed tight, then sucked in air. ‘Your Dad and I are very sad about it, love.’
‘But it was a long time ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Sometimes you remember things more when it comes around to the date they happened.’
‘I’m sad too,’ replied Kofi, though Zac knew he was too young to understand at the time, perhaps didn’t really know now. All he could see was his parents crying together, and for a ten-year-old boy, that meant something hurt.
Which was right.
Chapter Seventeen
Wimbledon Greyhound Stadium was a welcome change. Wallace wasn’t made to be on lockdown. Didn’t matter if it was at Her Majesty’s Pleasure or in a garage off Old Kent Road. One day’s solitary confinement in that breeze-block cube and he was going nuts, staring into the darkness, punctuated by slivers of sunlight framing the metal door. Tried to think of reasons he was inside with no vehicle in case the owner came back, but Derek clearly had more important stuff going on. With the sun up it was too hot to sleep properly and there was nothing else to do except lie low until the dogs brought a chance to get more cash. He did push-ups, crunches and squats, two hundred of each. Lay on the bare floor, drifting in and out of consciousness until a skeleton put a gun muzzle to his forehead and pulled the trigger. Awoke hyperventilating, took a second to work out it wasn’t real. Sat up and mopped sweat off his face. Only time he’d ventured out in more than twenty-four hours was to buy a large bottle of water and family-size bucket of fried chicken. He’d been on the alert, vigilant to any signs that the King Rooster staff recognised him off the news, but no one made eye contact. Hat, sunglasses, head down on the Northern Line from Elephant and Castle to Tooting Broadway underground station: same result. Nobody paid attention to him. That was London; everyone in their own little world.
The dog track was sensory overload compared to the lock-up. Chatter, movement, bodies shifting around him. People and noise, cigarettes and alcohol. Money changing hands. Old boys leaning on sticks. Kids chasing each other. A few women with their arse cheeks hanging out of miniskirts. Funny little place. Might be the last time he ever came here. Even if he wasn’t planning to leave this island for good, the Mayor of London was knocking down the stadium to give Wimbledon Football Club a new home. Lot of memories here, some big wins. Racing his own dogs, Blaze and Bambam, till he had to kill them. They’d gone on to a better place, a higher purpose. RIP. Wallace surveyed the grandstand, soaked it all up. Then he blocked out everything except beasts and track. He’d studied the programme, developed his strategy. Built up slowly off a fifty-quid stake with a couple of each-way bets. Picked a winner in the 8.45. Switched between bookies, avoided the guy he took two grand off last time. Now he had seven hundred pounds and counting. All good. Kept half an eye out for the skinhead from Saturday. Without weaponry he had nothing except bare wits if anyone started on him tonight. Not ideal.
Next race was up. Muscular, long-limbed greyhounds stalked in front of him, paraded by trainers in white coats. Wallace unrolled some notes, began calculating.
* * *
Bunch of mugs. Pissing money away on dogs that didn’t have a clue what was going on, legging it blindly round some sand after a rag. Muppet with a mic jabbering away like it was the most exciting thing he’d ever seen in his life. Probably was.
Spike stood on the grandstand’s top step with arms folded, twenty-twenty vision sweeping the crowd below. Scrutinised each face, dismissed them one by one.
Gaffer had it right: this was a long shot. Even if the target was among this crowd, he didn’t have much control. Couldn’t just follow him home, wherever that was now: too much chance of disappearing again. He’d need to ambush Wallace, get him alone outside, then he could interrogate. But means to do that were limited. Goons on the turnstiles meant he was forced to leave his rucksack under the motorbike seat in the car park, and with it the pistol. Only tool was his three-inch folding knife, squeezed through security between his arse cheeks. Pat-down covered his arms, sides, legs; after that the bloke lost interest and waved him inside. Too shy or lazy to put a hand in his crack. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of establishment where patrons smuggled in blades.
Spike didn’t gamble – with money on animals at least – but reckoned the odds of a result tonight were slim. Had one crucial advantage though: he knew what Wallace looked like, but the geezer wasn’t even aware Spike was after him. Pull this off through instinct and he’d be back in the colonel’s good books. Old habits proved right. Reliable Spike: he gets the job done. That’d mean decent pay cheques on a regular basis over the foreseeable. Military pension wasn’t enough to cover a mortgage plus BASE jumping and kit like his motorbike. Money for the things to enjoy life while he could. On top of that, he hated failing. Screwing up. That’s what his ex-wife had called him: ‘screwed up’. Always gone, never around, no time for anyone except himself. ‘Cold-hearted’ – she used to like that one too. She blamed their wrecked marriage on him, his ‘failure’. Spike disagreed with her. Depends on your measure of success.
There.
Eight rows down, far side. Lone male. Spike rapidly checked off the observer’s A to H: A, B, C – age, build, colour – were all squared away, fine. D, distinguishing marks, was the problem. Bloke had shades on, couldn’t see the tat under his eye. Had to get closer. Spike manoeuvred through sweaty bodies and clouds of cigarette smoke, watching the guy constantly, even when his hiking shoes slid on discarded programmes and crunched plastic pint glasses. Got within about five metres of the target’s back at forty-five degrees. Waited.
The geezer was sitting still, just staring, like he was on drugs or something. After three minutes without moving a muscle, he quickly stood and approached a bookie. Gave him a wad of cash, exchanged a few words. Took a little square of white paper, pocketed it and turned. Removed his sunglasses. Teardrop below right eye. Wiped the shades on his T-shirt, replaced them and sat down. After the race he collected a bundle of notes from the bookie, must’ve been a grand or more. Lucky bastard. Target read the programme for a few minutes. As the next lot of dogs was brought out for the 9.45 he got up and walked inside. Spike followed through the bar and down a long corridor.