‘Please.’ Parker felt his resolve weaken. Knew he couldn’t escape.
‘Code of the street, innit? Nuff man have died for less where we came from. Know what the judge said to me? “I sentence you to five years in prison.” Five.’ Wallace bent down, and Parker felt his breath on his ear as he spoke, the words more venomous now. ‘Well, I find you guilty, Trent Parker, of breaking the law of brotherhood. Know what the price for that is?’ He barked a single laugh. ‘The Grim Reaper. I sentence you to the death penalty.’
‘Don’t kill me, Darian.’
Wallace cocked his head to one side, relaxed. ‘You know what? I’ve got an idea. Since you were so good at negotiating a deal for yourself before, I’ll offer you one now. How about your life in exchange for the location of that fat prick Harvey Ash?’
‘What?’
‘I want to know where he is. And if you’re lying, I’ll come back for you.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’ Parker was blinking rapidly, felt tears pricking his eyeballs.
‘Hm.’ Wallace frowned. ‘See, I find that hard to believe. Your mate who helped you sell your soul for your freedom, send me down, then between you try and work out where I’ve hid the stash? You’re telling me you ain’t spoken to him, even though you knew I was gettin’ out? Come on.’
His hands flexed. ‘I swear.’
Wallace studied him for a moment. Then he walked back to his bag and pulled out a small blue-black object. ‘Remember this?’ He rotated its safety cover and flicked the switch, releasing a high-pitched whirring. Parker knew exactly what it was. The tool that’d let them cut through metal hinges on the safe deposit boxes. Didn’t need a demonstration but Wallace gave one anyway. Knelt down, put it to the floor. Its blurred disc bit into the hardwood like butter before he shut it off. ‘I’ll give you one more chance. Where’s Ash?’
Parker filled his lungs and screamed. Loud as he could. Yelled for help – somebody, help. Wallace kicked over his chair, squatted alongside him.
‘Shut up, man. Givin’ me a headache. Place is soundproofed, in case you forgot.’ He held the angle grinder to Parker’s left hand. ‘Where is he? I’m not playing.’
Parker was sobbing, his hand vainly jerking around. ‘Please.’
‘Wrong answer.’ Wallace flicked the switch, grabbed Parker’s pinky by its tip. Yanked out sideways, sliced it off. Dropped the digit. Parker stared at it for a few seconds in silence. Watched blood running from the stump. Then he began howling, wailing. Couldn’t control it.
‘Tell you what,’ said Wallace. ‘I’ll leave it here, even call an ambulance for you when I go. Doctors can reattach that shit nowadays. And if not, well, you can probably still breakdance with a finger missing. Let’s try again.’ He turned the angle grinder on.
‘OK, OK!’ Parker let out another scream. Retched, held it down. Gasped. ‘Just put that thing away.’ Gave a long, low moan.
‘Where?’
‘Crystal Palace. In the caravan park.’
Wallace nodded. Backed away, replaced the angle grinder in his bag.
Parker exhaled. ‘Please just let me go,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘Right.’ But Wallace didn’t move.
‘That was the deal.’ His words were choked, desperate. ‘What you said, just now. My life for his location, right?’
Wallace reached down, pulled the chair upright. Stood behind him.
‘Darian, please.’ Parker made eye contact in the mirror, turned his head wildly. ‘Cut me loose, man.’
‘Alright.’ He walked over to the bag.
‘Thank you,’ mumbled Parker.
Wallace pulled out a claw hammer.
Hyperventilating, Parker watched him cross back towards the chair. Dark metal with a bright yellow handle. Big. Hung at his side as he walked.
‘Know what I’ve learned?’ said Wallace. ‘Life ain’t fair.’ He raised it overhead. ‘Payback time.’
‘Darian, no!’
‘Might take a few goes. Ready?’
‘No!’
‘Fuckin’ snitch.’
The hammer came down. Once was enough.
* * *
Boateng couldn’t fault the rendition of Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’ that the singer and his eight-piece band were dropping. Across the table, Etta was clicking her fingers, eyes closed. He wished he was that relaxed. Normally Boateng loved coming to the Hideaway; he and Etta had been regulars at the Streatham nightspot since their third date. A small candlelit place where, no matter how many years went past, they could still own the dance floor. Dinner was fantastic, as usual. They’d both ordered a house special: Moroccan tagine with lamb that fell off the bone, washed down with a bottle of red wine. All perfect. Except tonight, again, his mind was elsewhere.
He took a mouthful of wine that was too big, felt it burn his throat slightly.
The afternoon’s encounter with Froggy and his crew had left Boateng in the hinterland where excitement and fear blurred. On the plus side, he’d won the young rapper’s trust enough to get time alone with him. That had resulted in Froggy – after serious ego massaging and the offer of more cash – agreeing to contact someone in Two-Ten. Despite shelling out six hundred quid of family holiday money for leads that ultimately might come to nothing, Boateng felt that tingle under his skin. He was drawing nearer to the truth about what happened to Amelia. Can’t have been more than a dozen guys in the group when it existed. A chance, then, that whoever Froggy would introduce him to might’ve been the gunman himself. Either that, or could tell him who was. A tiny stab of adrenalin coursed through his belly.
But this produced the obvious question: what would he do with the answer when he had it?
Another large slug of red.
As investigations went, he was making progress. Apart from letting his team down by not giving a hundred per cent to the Wallace investigation, the biggest problem was his freelancing. The Met didn’t know about any of it, which served his purposes right now. But it meant that no one had his back. That tall guy with the Puffa jacket in Angell Town had very likely been carrying a pistol today. Next bloke might be packing something too. At this rate, law of averages said he’d see a weapon up close before long, especially if he was asking awkward questions. No amount of fast-talking could help him then. Was it time to protect himself?
Boateng caught the waiter’s eye, signalled for another bottle.
Were these morbid thoughts only about security, or something more… proactive? He hadn’t explicitly considered what he’d do if he came face to face with Amelia’s killer. Follow his training, right? Minimise personal risk and maintain cover. Gather solid evidence and present it to the relevant murder squad, despite question marks over trust. Logical advice from his right brain. Left brain told him to get creative. He’d read psychology research on how common it was to have violent fantasies of retribution against an attacker. One of many normal processes after a trauma. How many times had he imagined beating that man to death with raw, bloodied knuckles? Slowly choking the life out of him, another favourite. Boateng allowed these dark daydreams to come, sometimes even cultivated them as a safety valve for the frustration of his powerlessness. For almost five years they’d just been abstract. Now, meeting his daughter’s murderer was steadily becoming a possibility. Of course, he knew reason would get the better of his emotions if that point of confrontation ever arrived. Wouldn’t it? The image of his hands gripping the killer’s neck returned, squeezing with all his strength—
‘Zac!’
Etta was standing before him, her red dress hugging her full figure. She nodded towards the stage. The guitarist had struck up the riff of Horace Brown’s ‘Things We Do For Love’.
‘Come on,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t break your promise.’
Enough thinking. Boateng gulped down the rest of his wine, took her hand and stepped onto the dance floor.
* * *