Froggy.
The only solid outcome of his nocturnal mission. Sounded laughable, more goggle-eyed geek than associate of a group responsible for murder. But Boateng knew nicknames could deceive and no one should be underestimated. Often kids joined gangs in their early teens, when childhood had barely ended. In communities where they’d grown up, old monikers stuck. He’d come across guys known on the street as Young Pup, Scoot or Haribo who’d stabbed their victims in cold blood over nothing more than a tenner owed or a wrong look.
Whoever this Froggy was, Boateng hoped he’d take the bait.
* * *
Shoes off. Tiptoeing up the stair edge, Zac heard Kofi’s soft breathing through his open door. The night light cast a milky glow on the landing. Peered into the bedroom. His son was sleeping deeply, mouth open, an arm thrown behind his head. Zac straightened the duvet he’d kicked aside, covered him. Gazed down at his son. Along with Etta, this boy was the most precious thing in his world. He’d do anything to protect him – give his own life if need be. A primal feeling. He knew at some point he’d have to let go, allow Kofi to make his own way. But part of him didn’t want to, not after what happened to Amelia.
How many times had he replayed that morning, wished he’d told her to slow down and walk with him, or imagined he’d been there to shield her with his body? His right brain told him the bullet could’ve passed straight through him and still hit her. Left brain said wrap her up, take the impact and then throw yourself at the attacker despite his handgun. Also futile. Nothing could’ve made a difference, except not being in that shop. Amelia’s death was the ultimate example of wrong place, wrong time. Chance, bad luck, whatever you called it. Even so, Zac wondered if he could ever let himself off the hook, assuage his guilt. The same voice that propelled him towards Optikon an hour ago now whispered that Froggy was the next step to redemption. Reversing the injustice that had been gnawing at the edge of his ego ever since, its bite deepened by his chosen profession. A police officer whose daughter was murdered and whose own force was incapable of solving it. Or perhaps unwilling. The latter was worse, raised too many questions. His brain was already overloaded, and Zac couldn’t slow his thoughts down to allow himself some respite.
He undressed outside their closed bedroom door and, turning the handle silently, stepped in barefoot. Held a breath. Crossing to deposit his clothes on the chair, a floorboard creaked under him and Etta turned over, murmured something. He could still pull this off. Just needed to get under the covers without waking her and—
‘Where’ve you been?’ she mumbled, voice thick.
He slipped under the sheets quickly, felt her warmth. ‘Nowhere.’
‘Your hair smells of weed.’
Damn. No other way to explain it. ‘Had to go out for an emergency call. Didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Wasn’t sleeping that much anyway. Heard you go out.’ She tensed, stretched. ‘Who was smoking?’
‘Guys in a suspect’s house.’ More freelancing only piqued her interest.
‘Couldn’t the duty team have done it?’ she mumbled. ‘Why’d they call you?’
‘Connected to my case, guess they knew it was high priority.’ Zac felt his adrenalin stab, willed her not to probe further. A few more questions and her lawyer’s skill would catch him out. Had to change the subject. ‘You couldn’t sleep?’
‘Not a lot’ She sighed. ‘My brother called earlier, couldn’t wait to tell me about his latest conquests. I’ve given up trying to convince him to slow down and act his age, take some responsibility for his future.’
He knew how Etta felt about her younger brother’s playboy lifestyle. Particularly when he was her parents’ golden child and she took all the flak. Boateng pressed himself closer to her. ‘Don’t listen to him, love. Think about something good. We’re going out tomorrow night. We’ll have a dance, forget all that stuff.’ He was including his own issues in that.
She sighed again, said nothing.
‘Come on. Can I take your mind off it?’ Stroking her stomach, he could sense her relaxing.
‘Naughty boy,’ she whispered. ‘Well, now you’ve woken me up…’
Chapter Twenty-One
Saturday, 24 June 2017
‘How you getting on with those eggs, chef?’ Zac had to raise his voice over a boogie-woogie piano on the stereo.
‘I’ve done five, Dad.’ Kofi held up the last one from the box as proof.
‘Nice work. Crack him in with the others then.’ He turned thick sausages that fizzed and popped in the pan.
‘Can I have some juice, Dad?’
‘Ask nicely.’
‘Please?’
‘First you’ve got to do the scrambled eggs, that’s your job. Then you can drink all the juice you want.’
Kofi sat up straight. ‘All the juice?’
‘Alright, not all of it.’
Etta looked up from her tablet, laughed. The full English was a Saturday morning routine for the Boatengs. Something Zac’s father had adopted quickly in his new country. Claimed you could survive all day on one plate. As a boy, Zac used to help his old man cook a fry-up every Saturday before football. Though his parents had passed on, Zac kept that tradition, and not just because he was partial to the grub. He savoured the four of them – three, now – lazily eating together without school, work, cars, trains or bedtime. Sounded over the top, but to him it was sacred. This morning, however, he was struggling to focus even on grilling bacon.
Optikon had texted first thing, when Zac was in the supermarket at New Cross. Invited him to the Angell Town estate that afternoon to meet Froggy. Zac hadn’t expected any news for days. Maybe the suggestion of publicity had appealed to the rapper’s vanity; most performers had a narcissistic streak. Perhaps he just needed cash. But the jab of excitement as he read the message rapidly gave way to anxiety about how to manage the encounter: his cover, money, safety. Then came the guilt when he remembered Kofi’s request to see the film with him later. It wasn’t just what the boy, carefully stirring eggs alongside him, would say in protest. Etta already knew something was up, and this would deepen her suspicion. And there was only so long he could use the Harris case as an excuse for his absences.
Zac had seriously considered telling his wife what was going on. Explaining to her why he’d been out extra early or late three times this week on top of his murder investigation. But something prevented him. Maybe he thought it was safer if she didn’t know. Or was the reason more selfish, born from fear that Etta would try to stop him? The way things were progressing, she’d find out sooner or later. Then it’d be worse, because she’d know he’d lied. About where he was, who he’d met. He felt exhausted, hadn’t slept well. One eyelid had started flickering, a sure sign of accumulated stress. When he needed concentration most, his racing mind prevented it. More likely he’d slip up, be caught out. Consequences didn’t bear—
‘Is it ready, Dad?’
Zac started, glanced down at the eggs. ‘Bit more.’
‘When are we going to watch Transformers?’
‘How about tomorrow?’
Kofi whined; Etta put down the tablet. ‘You said you’d take him this afternoon.’
‘I can’t.’ He prodded the sausages. ‘Gotta work.’
‘Zac!’
‘Sorry. My team’s doing overtime with the files and CCTV, I want to help them out. Plus, I have to follow up on last night.’ That was true, at least.
She tutted.
‘Can we go, Mum?’
Zac could feel her eyes on him, the disapproval. Made him feel even worse. ‘Yes, love,’ she replied.
He switched off the gas hob. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t think it’ll be like this much longer.’ He began plating up the food, hoping he was right.
* * *