‘What can I do for you?’ he asked gently.
Wallace scanned the shelves. ‘Kitting out my business, need a few tools. Some big jobs coming up. Got an angle grinder?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. This way.’ He walked down one aisle to the end where a wooden board displayed the selection hung by nails.
Beautiful, terrifying machines. Wallace spotted his favourite, the Bosch cordless. Portable, compact, powerful. ‘I’ll take this,’ he told the shopkeeper. ‘Diamond blade?’
‘Not as standard, sir, but I have them.’
‘Gimme two.’
A diamond blade at 325 revolutions per second cut through anything – iron, concrete, never mind bone. Pretty much the planet’s hardest substance. Scientists measured that on Mohs’ scale. It was all about scratches, leaving marks. One material scores another and comes out unscathed, it’s harder. And nothing scratched diamond. Wallace used to think the same applied to people: the harder you were, the fewer things in life made a mark on you. But it turned out that wasn’t true. No matter how hard you thought you were, some stuff left its trace.
Years ago, the psychologist at school said he had a ‘pathological disregard for others’ feelings’. In most cases that was true when Wallace hurt someone. At best he was numb, a blank slate. Worst, active pleasure. After years of taking beatings off his Dad, he remembered the first time he’d stood up for himself, struck back. Not at his old man, that would’ve been a death sentence. It was at school, age thirteen. Bigger kid in his class kept calling him dirty, cos his uniform was second-hand. Wallace told him to watch his mouth, and the kid punched him in front of everyone, hard. He lay on the deck with a bloody face, humiliated. Didn’t fight back then – he waited. Knew the route the kid took home. Days later Wallace hid behind a wall and cracked the kid over the head with a rounders bat he’d stolen. Remembered the thrill, the satisfaction of seeing him drop unconscious. Kid spent a month in hospital after that. And though no one could ever prove it was Wallace, the guy never called him dirty again. Wallace preferred to use his brain, but sometimes violence was the only way to protect yourself or get what you wanted. Not surprising it didn’t take him long to go the next level. And once he’d got there, it became second nature.
But what no one told him about taking a life was that your mind replays that moment, over and over again. Regardless of why you killed them. Without warning, the slightest thing could remind you of it, take you right back there. At those times, he felt something like fear. And that was just in the day. At night he had no control over the images. They’d been coming more frequently over the last few weeks. He didn’t know why. Grim Reaper or whoever it was. Bag of dry bones armed with a pistol, putting the muzzle to his forehead. Wallace pleading with it, begging like a pussy. Other times saying nothing, pathetically resigned to the single outcome of each nightmare: a slow trigger-pull, a bang that wrenched him awake.
‘Sir?’ A soft voice brought the room back. ‘What is your line of work, if I may ask?’
He coughed. ‘Handyman. You know, odd jobs.’
‘Ah, jack of all trades. I was just considering the size of tool you might require.’
‘This one’s good.’ He stroked the small angle grinder like a pet. ‘How much is that with two diamond blades?’
‘It’s ￡134. Anything else?’ The little man folded his hands.
Approaching another group of hanging tools, Wallace’s mouth curled into a grin as he pointed to one. ‘Is that steel?’
‘Yes, sir, single piece, twenty-two ounces. Very powerful.’
‘Good. Gimme a claw hammer as well then. And a bag of plastic ties.’ Wallace peeled notes off a thick bundle. ‘Cash OK?’
* * *
What a nause.
Spike crushed the teabag to bursting point against the inside of his mug. He was still royally fucked off about the greyhound track. Angry with himself. Chucked in some milk, two sugars: NATO standard. Stirred it and sent a teaspoon clattering into his kitchen sink. Took the brew over to his Panasonic Toughbook, set up on the dining table. Chunky old thing, but it was nails. Functioned in any environment, even Iraqi deserts or Afghan caves. Drop it off a building and it’d still work. He grunted, realising that could’ve been a description of himself. Except the laptop was probably more reliable than him on current form. Spike hadn’t told Colonel Patey the outcome of his trip to the dogs. Was hoping he could rectify the gigantic balls-up before he had to check in. Find Wallace some other way.
Once his rage had subsided, early this morning, Spike had to admit the little bastard had played a blinder. Couldn’t have got out of it better himself. But with his experience, Spike should’ve foreseen the problems. Tested and checked. Recce’d the place twice as thoroughly. Found an exit that didn’t go through the bar. Or dealt with the wanker more effectively in the bogs. Done him a broken ankle. Belfast-style kneecap maybe, stop him running off. All those tactics had counterarguments, obviously. Bottom line was that Wallace had escaped. Again. Pretty soon, serious questions were going to be asked.
He sipped his brew and fired up the web browser. Private window. It’d still leave a trace, but like WhatsApp, it was good enough for now. Typed in Darian Wallace, filtered to results from the past week. Scanned the hits. One was a page he’d already seen on the Met website, a public appeal. The anonymous Crimestoppers number along with it for those without enough balls to leave their names. Same shit. Then a new article from the Evening Standard. He clicked in and read that Wallace had just been formally charged with Ivor Harris’s murder in Deptford. That meant the coppers had proper evidence. They’d be stepping up the search now too. Bollocks.
Hang on.
Spike grabbed his unregistered phone, flicked through to the scanned Crimint files on his target. If he did stiff the pawnbroker, it was probably revenge. Checked the original conviction. Wallace went down while some other little scrotebag called Trent Parker walked free for giving evidence. After two straight Houdini acts, Wallace had to be sticking around for something important. Hopefully jewels, that was the brief. But maybe he was gunning for the snitch too. If that was true, then if he found Parker, Wallace would come to him. Spike gulped his brew. Tasted better now than when he’d first made it.
Thirty minutes later he was squared away. K Studios in Bermondsey. Photo on the website matched the Crimint mugshot of Parker. Dancing. Spike shook his head; he wasn’t one for dance floors. At Play nightclub in Hereford, he preferred standing still with other lads from the regiment in ‘SAS Corner’. Just putting away the pints, checking out the talent. Couldn’t stop even once he got married. Maybe that was part of the problem. Lifting a glass was the only movement you needed to make. Sooner or later a local bird who wanted a bit of blade would come up to him. Wouldn’t mind some of that now, it’d been a while. Oi, focus. After the job.
His limited-edition SAS Breitling read 2.12 p.m. On the bike he’d be back in south London by three. Recce the studio, get eyes on. Hurry up and wait, as they say in the army, then follow Parker home from work. Jobs a good ’un.
* * *