The policy briefing on NHS waiting times was predictably dull, but there was no chance of Susanna Pym nodding off in the post-lunch ‘graveyard shift’. Her attention was well and truly captured. Just not by the mid-ranking civil servant droning away in front of her. The chap was clearly relishing his audience with a minister, had probably prepared for weeks. He would’ve been rather dismayed if he’d been able to see behind Pym’s desk. What she hoped looked to him like deep concentration, thoughtful consideration of his brief, was in fact the act of reading from a tablet on her knees.
Darian Wallace’s mugshot stared back at her from the screen. The Evening Standard’s website carried a brand-new article saying the Met had now charged him with the murder of pawnbroker Ivor Harris. Her hands felt a bit clammy; fingertips left a sweaty residue on the screen as she scrolled down. Police were well and truly on to him now. And she knew the stats: over ninety per cent of murders these days were solved. Did that make it more or less likely she’d get the pendant back? No bloody idea. The memory stick contained within it was encrypted pretty damn well, which gave her some confidence. But encryption was only as good as a hacker’s ability to penetrate it. And there were people out there who could. That was why she’d tried to restore some control to the situation by hiring those military fellows to find Wallace first.
At the Oxford and Cambridge Club on Monday, she hadn’t mentioned a memory stick, fearful it might leave her vulnerable to exploitation herself. That wasn’t the point of the stick and its contents, quite the reverse in fact. But that was always the gamble in politics – in life, perhaps: how much should you tell others in order to get what you want? Colonel Tarquin Patey was a smooth operator, but she didn’t completely trust him.
Nevertheless, now the ante was upped on the Met’s hunt for Wallace, every piece of information she had might offer a slight advantage for her side. Like it or not, she was lumped together with Patey and his private soldiers now, her fate tied to their performance. How had she ended up here? The whole business had started out as a single mistake, nearly twenty years ago. But if the consequences of that moment became public, it was all over for her. Career down the pan, disgrace, perhaps prison.
The memory stick was her insurance policy against the worst threats of blackmail from the police officer who’d let her go scot-free that day in ’99, pretended he hadn’t seen her snorting coke in the House of Commons toilets. At thirty-four, one of the youngest MPs serving, her future was too bright to compromise. So, she made a pact with the devil. Agreed to help with the officer’s request to push a promotion through for him, spoke to some Home Office friends. But the policeman hadn’t gone away after that. He’d come back too many times, demanding more ‘favours’ be done to advance his interests, and in return offering his assistance. Which she’d taken. Over the years they’d become bound together, requests ebbing and flowing, both in too deep to stop. But she’d managed to record some of their conversations. If he tried to take her down, she’d bring him with her – or threaten to, at least. That was the memory stick’s purpose. Therefore, Patey’s man did need to know about it, otherwise how could he check it was there when he found the pendant? That was the whole point of the search.
She’d bite the bullet, make a call. Soon as the tedious little man in front of her and his cheap suit had buggered off.
Chapter Nineteen
Five p.m., give or take. Quiet. Schoolkids home, but just before London’s offices and shops disgorged their worker ants. Wallace stared up at the horseshoe of brickwork peppered with satellite dishes, balconies full of crap. Metal cages for ground floor entrances, bit like prison. At least these people were free to leave. He didn’t have a lot of good memories, but those he could recall were here: Spalding House, Honor Oak Estate. Neon Grant’s flat. He tucked the Evening Standard under his arm, pressed a buzzer. The door clicked open and he mounted the stairs. Knocked and heard scuffing feet, high-pitched squeals. Neon opened the front door.
‘Didn’t your mum teach you to ask who it is before you let them in?’ Wallace tilted his head.
The boy gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Darian!’ His face lit up, enormous grin revealed several missing milk teeth.
‘Gotta be careful, you know.’ He wagged a finger, returned the smile. ‘Your mum in?’
‘No, she’s at work. She said you went away.’ He bent sideways, still gripping the door handle. Not sure if he was allowed to ask, knew he probably shouldn’t. Curiosity got the better of him. ‘Where did you go?’
‘I had to move somewhere for a while,’ replied Wallace. ‘So, you miss me?’
Neon nodded furiously.
‘When’s she back then?’
‘Six o’clock.’
‘And your brother?’
‘He’s gone out.’
‘That’s lucky, I’ve come to see you. What you doing?’
‘Playin’ PlayStation.’
‘Show me.’ Wallace glanced over his shoulder as he stepped in, closed the front door. Took the hat and shades off.
Neon wrinkled his nose. ‘You smell.’
‘Watch your mouth.’ Wallace knew he needed a shower, change of clothes. ‘Listen, don’t tell your mother I’ve come here, yeah?’
‘Why not?’ said Neon, scrambling up the stairs on all fours.
Wallace walked up after him. ‘Cos she’ll want help with her maths too.’
Neon giggled loudly as they reached the top, synthesised noises of a football match rising. Wallace entered Neon’s tiny bedroom to see his drop-kicking friend from the school playground sitting there, holding a video game controller.
Wallace sprawled into a plastic chair covered in clothes. ‘Alright.’ He nodded. The boy stared at his teardrop tattoo. ‘I’m Neon’s mate. What’s your name, cuz?’
‘Kofi.’
‘Ghanaian bredda! Hanging out with an original Jamaican rudebwoy here. You two don’t let no African versus Caribbean beef get in the way. I like that.’
Sitting next to each other, the ten-year-olds exchanged glances, laughed.
‘So how’s school, Neon?’
‘Good.’
‘Yeah? How ’bout your grades?’
‘Good.’
‘You working hard?’
‘Every day!’
‘My man.’ Wallace held out his fist and Neon spudded it with his own. ‘What ’bout the maths?’
‘Good.’
‘Shut up!’ Kofi pushed Neon. ‘Don’t lie. It isn’t good.’ Wallace’s eyes widened; Neon looked down. ‘He’s sick,’ said Kofi. ‘Best in our class at maths.’
Wallace felt the swell in his chest. He’d seen this boy come a long way under his tutelage from the timid five-year-old too shy to have a go at anything with numbers. Neon had kept growing in stature and maturity over the two years Wallace had been in prison. Now he was a confident ten-year-old getting top marks in maths. Pride, that’s what this feeling was – not something that happened too often. Wallace couldn’t resist. ‘Two hundred and fifty-six divided by eight?’
Neon shut his eyes, silently mouthed numbers. ‘Thirty-two.’
‘Yeah!’ Wallace grinned. ‘Like you said, Kofi, he’s a mathematical badman.’ The two fidgeted slightly, waiting for the grown-up to tell them what to do. ‘Come on then.’ Wallace jerked his head at the screen. ‘Let’s see you play.’
‘I want to be Portugal.’ Neon bounced on the bed as he selected his team. ‘They won Euro 2016.’
‘Well, I’m going to be Ghana,’ said Kofi proudly. ‘Kevin-Prince Boateng.’
Neon tried to grab the controller off him. ‘Only cos it’s your name!’
Wallace tensed. ‘Whose name?’
‘His.’ Neon pointed. ‘Kofi Boateng.’ The boys wrestled over the controller, giggling.
Twice he’d heard that surname in the last three hours. Both times in this little part of south London and with a connection to him. Common name in Ghana, but in Lewisham? Twenty minutes earlier he’d picked up the Standard at Brockley train station. There it was on page eight. Wanted for murder now. He’d admired the mugshot they’d found – CCTV of him exiting the cab opposite East Street. Senior Investigating Officer on the Harris murder: DI Zachariah ‘Zac’ Boateng, from Lewisham MIT. Described as ‘experienced’. Wallace stared at the boy, tried to register any similarities. Inconclusive: maybe the kid looked more like his mum.
‘Boateng… Think I might have seen your Dad on the telly once. Is he a policeman?’