So this was Detective Inspector Zac Boateng. Zachariah. What kind of a name was that? Like some old guy out of The Bible. He didn’t look much. About average height, bit overweight, early spread of a belly on him. Probably forties, grey in his short hair, clean-shaven. Square shoulders, though – might be stronger than he seemed. Not a bad touch on the ball either, must’ve played as a youth.
Impossible to know what was going on inside though, how his mind worked. Could he be approached, bribed? Some Five-O were like that. Wallace had heard stories in prison of officers who’d say they knew about your crack-cocaine store then offer to keep their mouths shut for cash. This guy looked the decent sort, so the answer was probably no. They said everyone had a price, but watching Boateng deliberately letting his son beat him at football, Wallace wasn’t sure that was true. In any case, the stakes were too high now to risk deal-making.
If corruption was out of the question, that always left threats. He knew well how much you could hurt a person through what they loved most in life. That was worse than anything physical. Some would even choose their own death over harm coming to family. Boateng was probably that kind of man. Wallace thought of his own mum, lying in the care home bed without a clue what was going on. He’d seen her for the last time, no way to change that now. She’d been good to him; the only one who had. Bit his lip, scratched at one eye behind his shades. The teardrop wasn’t tattoo ink.
Chapter Twenty
You couldn’t miss him. Six foot four, twenty stone. Standing on the street corner, checking his mobile. For a clandestine contact, it wasn’t exactly low-profile, but there was no choice. Hopes of unravelling the Two-Ten story – off the books at least – rested on Agyeman: if there was a thread to follow in Brixton, he’d find it. Boateng considered his own appearance. Did the flat cap and overcoat he’d grabbed to keep out the night’s chill have ‘undercover cop’ written all over them? Perhaps he should’ve thought more carefully about it, but his priority had been leaving the house without waking Etta.
This time there were no effusive greetings. Their simple palm slap became a brief clinch before the Ghanaian doorman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘This way.’
Walking towards the main road, Agyeman explained that he’d briefly worked at The Jamm way back. Boateng knew the club by name: one of Brixton’s late-night venues. Discreet inquiries by Agyeman had turned up a resident DJ who’d spun backing beats some years ago for a rapper ‘linked’ to Two-Ten. The DJ, stage name Optikon, was finishing his set at 2 a.m., after which they could catch him. Boateng fought back disappointment at the vagueness of this lead. Tried to focus on the positive: it was somewhere to start.
‘I didn’t say much about you.’ Agyeman’s voice was low. ‘Just that you’re a friend of a friend with some interest in the rap scene. Tell the rest yourself, whatever story you want. Just don’t make me look like an informer.’ He clipped Boateng a punch on the shoulder, hard enough to show he meant it.
Boateng thought quickly as they approached the Victorian red-brick house on the corner, a muffled hip hop beat pounding through blacked-out ground floor windows. Young people milled outside, the air heavy with weed smoke. Could he be a sax player looking for vocalists? Picking his way through empty bottles strewn across the pavement, he concluded that simple was best. ‘Freelance journalist’ gave licence to ask questions. And he’d used the cover before in police work. This time though, no one had signed it off. ‘Freelancing’ was the operative word.
Agyeman led the way around metal barriers to the door, queue parting automatically around his colossal frame. Following in his wake, Boateng noticed a group of men staring. One pointed at him, said something to a mate. Perhaps they thought he was a performer arriving with his bodyguard. Better than the unthinkable: someone recognising him from the day job. Would’ve preferred a low-key approach, maybe via a back entrance, but he was in Agyeman’s world now. The big man whispered something to one of the doormen out front, who nodded and waved them in.
Agyeman clapped hands with another bouncer inside; no search. A heavy door shut behind them, streetlamps gave way to darkness punctuated by blue and green beams of light that spun and swept the room from an overhead rig. Boateng was enveloped by sound, swallowed up, eardrums vibrating. The room was crammed with bodies, mostly males in big jackets. They navigated their way forward.
The music cut out sharply, and the crowd bayed and whistled as new figures climbed on stage. A gangly youth in a baseball cap introduced himself, told his DJ to ‘run the track’. Bass cranked up again, his man at the turntables scratching a sample that Boateng recognised. Might’ve nodded along if he wasn’t so tense.
Boateng stopped, backtracked. He shouldn’t even be here. This whole idea was madness. They hadn’t reached the front yet; he could still call it off. Go back home, slip into bed with Etta. She might not even know he was gone. Almost immediately, caution was pushed aside by another voice, louder. The desire to understand what had happened to his daughter. To Amelia. Five years without an answer. Now he had a chance to find out.
Agyeman turned, mouthed, ‘Alright?’
Boateng blinked, nodded. His companion fist-bumped a guy who’d just stepped off stage, said a few words and gestured at Boateng.
Optikon was a slightly-built South Asian man in his twenties with thick-rimmed glasses, shaved head and Parka jacket. Boateng extended a hand. ‘Roy.’
The DJ shook it. ‘Ishaq. Wa gwan?’
‘I’m a journalist.’
‘What?’
Boateng noticed the young man had earplugs in. Raised his voice. ‘Journalist.’
‘Ah, is it? Who d’you write for?’
‘Drum.’
Ishaq looked blank.
‘Pan-African lifestyle magazine. Music, news, all sorts. I want to do a piece on the relationship between rapping and gang culture.’
‘I’m not in no gang. Got my crew, but we ain’t—’
‘That’s OK.’ Boateng held up a hand. ‘I was hoping to speak to a guy Sammy said you used to spin for. Rapper who was around Two-Ten a few years ago.’
‘Froggy?’
Boateng took a chance. ‘Yeah.’
Ishaq fidgeted, rubbed the back of his hand. ‘You know that clique don’t exist no more.’
‘Right. It’s more of a retrospective angle. Don’t want anyone getting in trouble.’ He barked a laugh, aware of his own nerves. Ishaq didn’t respond. Time to push it. ‘What’s his real name? Froggy.’
The DJ glanced over Boateng’s shoulder at Agyeman, who was leaning against the wall. ‘Who d’you say you were again?’
Boateng swallowed. ‘Roy.’
‘Roy what?’
‘Ankrah. Listen, you don’t have to promise anything right now. Ask Froggy if he’ll do an interview with me. I can get some exposure for his music if he’s still in the game. Or off-record, however he wants to do it.’
‘What if we’re not in contact no more?’
Boateng produced a wad of notes, counted off a hundred quid in twenties. Rolled them up, angled it at waist height towards the DJ. Leaned in. ‘Call this an introduction fee. Same again when you set it up. Tell Froggy I’ve got funds to pay him.’
Their faces close, the young man pursed his lips, squinted like he was trying to see into Boateng’s soul. Sweat pricked Boateng’s lower back and armpits. Seemed like the bass was shaking his internal organs. Ishaq took the notes in his left hand and with the right produced a mobile. ‘Gimme your number.’
* * *
Hurrying back to his car, Boateng’s ears were still ringing from the sound system. What had he achieved? He’d left Etta and Kofi in the middle of the night without a word. Driven across south London to dispense a hundred quid for one nickname and the possibility of a meeting. Now he had to creep back into his own home. Could smell the weed clinging to his Chesterfield overcoat. Resolved to leave it in the car boot, get a dry clean tomorrow. Remembered the quote about weaving tangled webs…