A memory surfaced. Bosnia, ’94. Dusk in winter. Three armed guys on a checkpoint stopped his car on the forest road. He was in civvies. They surrounded him and after a few words barked in Serbian, they realised he wasn’t local. Obvious conclusion: spy. Made Spike exit his vehicle at gunpoint, took him into the woods. Three against one. But they forgot to pat him down, didn’t find the gun in his belt. Only one of the four men came back.
Spike calculated the cost-benefit now. Three blokes versus what might be his last chance to find Wallace. But he wasn’t going to kill these men, just incapacitate them. That’d make them witnesses. Three witnesses. What a nause. Thought he could still hear someone breathing. Snatched another glance inside the van. Nothing. Sniffed hard, as if that would help, but all he could smell was dog shit and diesel vapours.
‘Alright,’ he conceded. Dropped the blade into his back pocket, raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ll find you,’ he called out, and began walking away with the stewards. ‘My dog,’ he added for their benefit.
None of them noticed the figure who began to crawl from under a van towards the perimeter fence, keeping to the shadows.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, 23 June 2017
Since getting Kofi out to school at quarter to nine, Boateng’s thoughts had been consumed by his personal inquiry. When he’d seen Agyeman on Wednesday night, the big man had told him it would probably take a day or two before he could generate an introduction. His call was overdue. On the short drive from school to the MIT base at Lewisham Police Station, Boateng had already checked his phone four times. He knew he needed to curb the obsession; his team would quickly spot it, want to know what was going on. And this was something he needed secrecy to pursue.
Moreover, the hunt for Wallace was demanding his attention. Boateng’s own reputation was under threat. Krebs seemed particularly concerned about Wallace. Could it really just be the media spotlight? He resisted the temptation to tap his mobile screen again and turned up the stereo instead.
* * *
Jones, Malik and Connelly were already in when Boateng dropped his flat cap on the coat stand before helping himself to the cafetière. He filled his favourite Ghana Black Stars mug from the 2010 World Cup – the year they reached the quarter-finals and were denied a place in the semis by a last-second handball – and dropped into his chair. Took a sip.
‘Christ, who made this?’ he exclaimed.
‘Guilty.’ Malik raised a hand. ‘Iraqi rocket fuel for you, boss.’
‘I’m not complaining.’ Boateng reached for the milk.
‘I am,’ chipped in Connelly. ‘About the lack of any CCTV images of Wallace coming out of East Street. Must’ve taken some back roads.’
‘Right. What’s your plan, Pat?’
‘Get footage from the main thoroughfares around it within thirty minutes of the cab drop-off, then run the lot through FRS.’
Boateng had known the Met’s bespoke Facial Recognition System to produce spectacular results, albeit only occasionally. Storing over three million images, the IBIS Face Examiner could pick out a convicted criminal from a sea of people. Minority Report stuff – assuming you gave it the right film to work with and your target was more or less facing front on. Last year the Met even trialled it as a live-feed system at Notting Hill Carnival – Europe’s biggest street party – with some success. Still needles in haystacks, but worth a go here.
‘Good shout,’ he replied. ‘Nas, I’d like you to give Pat a hand with that today. Also get Wallace’s mugshot out to homeless shelters. He’s got to be sleeping somewhere. What about our breakdancing friend?’
Jones spun her chair to Zac. ‘We dropped in on Parker yesterday. Still giving it the hard-man routine, doesn’t want our help. Also claims he’s told us everything he knows about Harvey Ash and the jewels. I wasn’t convinced – it was all too neat. But soon as we pressed him, he tried turning on the “charm” with me again. Said the only protection he needed was the Durex in his pocket, asked if I wanted any of it.’
‘Prick,’ interjected Malik.
Jones glanced his way, gave the young DC a little smile. ‘Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.’
Boateng could believe that. Still, he wondered whether Jones should report it; the Met was hot on recording sexual harassment incidents now. About time. He’d seen too much of it in twenty years. He’d have a private word later, didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the others. ‘Good job, guys. There’s only so much—’
He was interrupted by the vibrating mobile on his desk. Snatched it as a reflex before the first ring even finished, but saw it was Volz rather than Agyeman. Excused himself and stood to take the call, wandered over to the window. A minute later he returned with a broad smile. ‘Volz has matched the blade on Wallace’s angle grinder to the wounds on Harris’s fingers. And there was some blood in the mechanism too. Harris’s. Now we’ve got something to tell the Standard before they go to print at noon. Wallace isn’t just a suspect any more – we can charge him with the Harris murder.’ Across the desk from him, Connelly and Malik low-fived. Boateng swigged his coffee. ‘That should cheer Krebs up.’
* * *
Three hours later, with the Irish-Iraqi duo ensconced in the video room running footage through FRS, Boateng and Jones were alone at their desks, combing Experian for new individuals who cropped up mid-2015, just as Harvey Ash disappeared. GB Accelerator IQ was a more powerful database but their access had been cut after the Met failed to renew its subscription. It was damned slow progress. Each name had to be cross-checked with both immigration and deed poll records to be eliminated as candidates for a reinvented Ash. All 100,000-plus of them. There was bulk processing of course, but it was still serious desk work. Modern policing. Some days you were on the streets chasing a suspect, but most of the time you were at a computer, crunching data, analysing information.
‘Looks like we might be at this all day,’ observed Boateng.
‘OK by me,’ said Jones. ‘Beats chatting with a breakdancing perv.’
‘Sorry about Parker.’
‘Don’t be, it’s not your fault.’ She stopped typing. ‘Want me to work overtime on this?’
‘Yeah, if you can. Please. I’ll get Krebs’s sign-off, pay you time and a half.’
She leaned back in her chair. ‘Thanks. Didn’t have any big plans tonight anyway.’
‘On a Friday night?’ Boateng knew millennials didn’t like to be tied in too much, but even so.
‘It’s been a long week.’
‘Come on.’
Jones hesitated. ‘Alright, my date bailed on me. Told him I was fifty-fifty with work anyway, I think that made up his mind.’
‘His loss.’
She smiled. ‘Wasn’t that bothered about the guy anyway. What about you?’
‘Promised my son I’d take him to the park for a kick around before dinner.’ He paused, remembered that Kofi was going home from school with Neon this afternoon and needed picking up from there. ‘There’s gonna by one pissed-off ten-year-old if I don’t show by six thirty. And I could use the exercise.’ He patted his belly.
Jones laughed and they returned to their computer screens, continued searching.
* * *
A bell tinkled as the hardware shop door creaked open. Wallace stepped through, inhaled thick odours: machine oil, paint, lumber, fertiliser.
Glancing up from his Quran, the elderly Pakistani shopkeeper smiled. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ He gave a tiny bow from behind the counter.
Wallace clocked the holy book immediately. A sixth of the inmates with him at Pentonville followed Islam. One guy even told Wallace he ‘looked Muslim’, whatever that meant. Invited him along to their study group. In a darker mood, ruminating on forgiveness, Wallace went. Concluded he still didn’t believe in any supreme being. But a few words of Arabic he’d picked up went a long way with other Muslims, built trust. In this case, it might be enough to stop a call to the police. Another lesson from prison. Some would call that manipulative; to Wallace it was just logic. He removed the hat and sunglasses. ‘As-salaam aleikum.’
‘Wa aleikum as-salaam.’ The shopkeeper closed the Quran, stowed it above his head. ‘Muslim?’
‘Al-hamdulillah.’ Wallace nodded.