More sodding recon.
Spike swigged tea out of a cardboard cup. He was sitting outside a café with eyes on the studio. At noon he’d gone in, seen Trent Parker doing a headstand. Bunch of kids round him gawping like muppets. Had to ask about classes himself and take a leaflet so it didn’t look weird. Shook his head as he glanced at the flyer. Dancing. People do all kinds of pointless bollocks on civvy street. Thank God he didn’t have to go that route. On the security circuit he could still get paid for what he used to do, more or less. Stuff he knew inside out. What else was there? Lorry driving, warehouse packing, guard at the front of a supermarket? Jobs some of his ex-army mates who weren’t Special Forces had to do. Leaving school at sixteen like most of them did, there wasn’t much choice.
Failure was his greatest fear. Much more than dying. If you died doing something you were good at, that was alright. People respected you. Taliban bullet through the neck, they’d say, ‘Fair play to him, he was doing something useful.’ Ex-soldier grinding away in a minimum-wage job, developing a booze problem cos he can’t pay the bills or his post-traumatic stress disorder gets too much? People call you a loser. He couldn’t stand that, so he had to keep bringing in the cash, succeeding at this. And right now, that meant watching.
Spike sawed off a chunk of jacket potato from the polystyrene container. Shovelled it in, followed by a big spoonful of baked beans. More tea. He’d need a piss again soon.
Last night he’d followed Parker home from work. Knew where he lived now. Wallace would come to one of those two places: the studio or his flat. Stick with Parker, he’d find Wallace.
The colonel had said no bodies. But after Wallace had given him the slip at the greyhounds, Spike wasn’t taking any chances this time: pistol tucked into his belt, bullet in the chamber.
All he had to do was wait.
* * *
It didn’t look like somewhere in the country’s most deprived ten per cent. Or a district with twice the crime rate of London’s average, never mind the rest of Britain. Smart new housing rose around Boateng as he marched to the rendezvous with Froggy. Only the occasional boarded-up unit or shuttered shop front suggested Angell Town’s current fortunes weren’t what civic planners had intended. Soul music drifted from a distant balcony but otherwise it was quiet, few people about despite the sunshine.
Optikon had given a meeting place and time, no more. Ordinarily in a situation like this, Boateng would’ve had at least one colleague, comms, covert vest and other equipment. Now he had nothing – except the four hundred quid in his pocket that made him even more of a target. The money needed for this little project was starting to add up. It was coming from his private savings account, but he’d intended to use those funds for a surprise family holiday to South Africa this winter – something that was looking increasingly unlikely with each payment. But that wasn’t his main problem right now. If the journalist cover didn’t hold with these contacts, he was in deep shit.
Rounding the corner from Angell Road, Boateng saw a group of men behind a cluster of trees in shadow alongside St John the Evangelist Church. He’d thought the location was odd, but when he clapped eyes on the blue bin alongside them it made sense immediately. Knife amnesty points were purposely sited out of CCTV range by the Word 4 Weapons charity to reassure anyone making a deposit of anonymity. That also made them ideal spots for anything else that people didn’t want recorded. Boateng spotted Optikon among the five-strong crowd. He couldn’t discern many details, since each man was dressed almost entirely in black, hood up or hat pulled low. They looked to be in their twenties. A white face, another South Asian kid and two black guys, the shorter of whom had a huge silver necklace, chunky as the chain leash his staffy strained at. The powerfully built dog began barking as Boateng approached, but it was the Puffa jacket of the taller black man that made his pulse quicken. Too hot to be wearing one.
‘Roy!’ shouted silver chain as he approached. ‘Welcome to A-Town.’
‘Alright,’ replied Boateng, voice steady. ‘Ishaq.’ He nodded at the DJ from the previous night.
Ishaq stepped forward, extended a hand. ‘Where’s my money at?’
Boateng reached into his pocket, drew out a hundred quid he’d separated from the rest, held it out. ‘Here you go. Thanks.’
Ishaq took the folded notes. Tipped his head back in what might’ve been acknowledgement before turning, touching fists with the other four. ‘I’m out. Peace, yeah.’ Boateng watched him leave, suddenly feeling more alone now his connection to Agyeman was gone. He wondered if he could’ve brought the doorman as backup.
‘Roy Ankrah,’ said silver chain. ‘How much you gonna pay me for this interview?’
‘You Froggy?’
‘Some people call me that. How much?’
‘Hundred.’
Froggy snorted. ‘Three.’
‘Two.’
He exchanged glances with the rest. ‘Man drive a hard bargain. Two fifty.’
‘I’ve got two. More for a follow-up, or another intro.’
‘Give it here.’
Boateng proffered a hundred. ‘Half now, half at the end.’ He handed over the money, stepped back. Flicked his eyes to the Puffa. ‘And publicity for the music if you want it.’
Froggy pocketed the notes, frowned. ‘You know what? I googled Roy Ankrah. Ghanaian boxer, innit? The Black Flash. That’s a coincidence.’
He’d anticipated this. ‘My dad named me after him.’
‘Maybe. Ain’t no journalist called that though.’
Boateng’s mouth felt dry.
‘What’s your real name, Roy?’
The big man behind Froggy flashed open one side of the Puffa and Boateng glimpsed something at his waist. Small, black, metallic. Stay calm.
‘I write under an alias to protect my sources.’ He could see them processing this, had to be quick. ‘Sometimes people risk a lot, talking to me. Politics, crime, whatever. There are places I report from where those who speak out go to jail, or worse. I take that seriously. Cos I believe it’s worth it. Letting readers know what’s going on. Stories I want to tell, stuff the world needs to know. Do you know what Drum magazine’s circulation is in Africa?’ He didn’t pause for them to guess. ‘Two point five million. On top of that you’ve got a quarter of a million readers in the UK, half a million African Americans. And when communities have got facts, they can start to change things.’ Boateng tapped his forehead, leaned towards Froggy. ‘The fifth element of hip-hop: knowledge. Education, teaching the youngers. But some authorities want to stop those messages spreading. That’s why I go to the people who know what they’re talking about.’ He was relaxing now, getting into his stride. ‘We need someone who can tell the story of life in Brixton, the side you don’t see in the organic food shop or the estate agents’ windows. Be a voice for the community.’
Froggy cocked his head. ‘They read your shit in Ivory Coast?’
‘Yup. All through West Africa.’
‘So my family there’s gonna see it?’
‘I have to pitch the article to my editor when it’s ready, but yeah, once the story’s out there. Either way there’s cash in it. Up to you though, whether you want to be off-record or in the limelight.’
Froggy gripped the dog leash in two hands, pulled the muscular staffy to heel. ‘Limelight, fam,’ he grinned. ‘Standard.’ The others chuckled. ‘What’s the story then?’
Boateng took a half step forward, hands spread. Open stance equals lower aggression, that’s what the Hendon instructors taught him back in the day. ‘In south London there’s a relationship between music and street life. Rappers tell stories about what gangs have done and why, in a way that youth can understand. Struggles they face living here. That’s why I’ve come to you.’
The young man looked down at his staffy, sniffing at cigarette butts next to the knife bin. ‘D’you know why I’m called Froggy?’