Time for another shufti out back.
Spike had been watching the front of the building solidly all afternoon and evening. Knew there was a rear door, but it was accessible only via a fifteen-foot wall from a locked car park on the other side. Had to pick one entrance, and front was more likely. Plus he had cover to be there. Have to be Spider-Man to get in the back way. Half an hour ago, Spike had climbed over carefully – didn’t want to do an ankle – and checked on Parker. Couldn’t hear much, but some light spilling from the studio into the corridor at the rear suggested he was inside. Probably still dancing like a muppet. Spike had returned to his recon position at the front. Earlier, he’d clocked everyone else in and out of K Studios. It was now 10.15 p.m., and by Spike’s calculations, Parker was the only one left in the building.
He returned to the rear yard, peered in the window. Same dim corridor. Same hint of sound from the studio. But there was something new this time: small dark patch on the floor by the doorway, catching light. Spike knew blood when he saw it.
He took out his shove knife, slipped it down the side. Had to work hard – the door lock was heavy. After a few attempts it clicked open. Music grew louder but no alarm tripped. He had a feeling what he might find.
Spike drew his Sig and entered. Crept towards the light, pistol raised. Corridor was clear. Blood trail ran inside the studio. Spike followed it around the doorway.
Parker was strapped to a chair, head forward, great big claw hammer sticking out of his noggin. Eyes shut. Finger on the floor. Jesus. Like something out of one of them torture-porn films. Not the worst he’d ever seen, mind.
Spike approached, aware he might already be contaminating the crime scene with his own fibres and DNA. Pulled his bike snood up over mouth and nose. Bent level with Parker, pressed a knuckle to his arm. Still warm. Touched the carotid artery, waited ten seconds: nothing.
Parker’s eyes opened.
Spike recoiled. Not expecting that. Poor fella wasn’t long for this world. Chance for some intel though. He got closer.
‘Where’s Darian Wallace?’
Parker stared ahead, gave one laboured breath.
‘Oi. Can you hear me? Where is Wallace?’ He cocked the hammer back on the pistol. ‘Tell me where he is and I’ll do this quick for you. Make the pain stop.’
Parker seemed to register the words; one eye flickered. Tried to say something. Sounded like ‘Gaaa’. Pure gibberish.
‘What?’
Blood dribbled from his mouth. ‘Cara… van.’
‘Caravan? Where?’
Parker gave one long breath, his gaze fixed. That was it. Little bastard had died before he could say any more. Spike de-cocked the pistol. Was Wallace living in a caravan? For now, he needed to get out of here before anyone else showed up. Spike spent three minutes erasing any trace of his own presence, closed the rear door behind him.
Wallace had maybe a fifteen-minute head start. Spike had a motorbike.
Someone would find Parker’s body in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sunday, 25 June 2017
Boateng had a serious feeling of déjà vu.
Early start on a weekend. Tape across the building frontage, white suits moving inside, camera flashes. Chair, restraints, blood on the floor. Hammer embedded in the victim’s skull. But it was Southwark this time, and the dead man wasn’t a pawnbroker. Like Harris though, he was on Wallace’s list.
Trent Parker.
The other difference was Jones. Although they had both attended the scene in Deptford last weekend, this time she was like a different officer. Boateng could see her confidence had grown in just eight days on the case. Her shock subsided quickly and they began analysing together, Boateng letting her lead. Malik and Connelly had come too and were outside interviewing the dance studio manager and night security guard. With Volz on her way, they got started.
‘What d’you reckon?’
Jones stared at the body, spoke through her mask. ‘Restraints and hammer, like an execution. Planned in detail. Cut a finger off as well – only one this time. Clean, probably same kind of mechanical blade used on Harris. Could’ve been a punishment, or maybe the killer wanted information. Got to be Wallace, right?’ She turned to Boateng. ‘We knew he was after Parker.’ There was guilt in her voice.
‘Did everything we could. Told him he was in danger, offered protection twice. His right to refuse it.’ That was accurate, but Boateng still felt the pang himself, the weight of personal responsibility, followed by a burst of frustration at Krebs’s refusal to sanction the surveillance he’d recommended on Parker. The hangover wasn’t helping either, further sapping his minimal energy reserves. He’d been in the Hideaway with Etta while this was happening, drinking and dancing. If he’d worked harder, could this death have been prevented? The young man had been arrogant, offensive, a thief. But he didn’t deserve to die. And no one should have to endure this end. Now there was another kid without a dad, parents without a child. ‘I know it’s worse,’ he told Jones. ‘When you’ve met the victim, seen them alive.’
‘I’m OK.’ She paused a beat, gathered herself. Scanned the room, traced an arc with her finger from the door into the studio. ‘Let’s say it’s Wallace then. He knows Parker’s in here alone, could’ve been watching him. Comes in the back way, less chance of being seen, overpowers Parker somehow. Maybe that was the bruise on his face. Same as the blunt force trauma on Harris’s head. Then he ties him up, chops off a finger, kills him with the hammer, leaves.’ Her eyes flicked around. ‘We think Wallace wanted to find Ash too, right?’ Boateng nodded. ‘What if the finger was about that? He took one digit off Parker but four from Harris. Maybe Wallace stopped torturing Parker because he gave up what he knew. That means he might have some connection to Ash still, even if the man’s off the grid in every other respect.’ Before Boateng could respond, she called over to the SOCOs: ‘Did you guys find a phone on Parker?’
‘Yup,’ replied one, pointing. ‘In the bag over there. Was plugged into the stereo.’
‘We get full analysis on that,’ said Jones to Boateng, ‘it could tell us about Ash. Call log, texts, emails. Cross-reference with known numbers and look for anomalies. A mobile that’s on and off, remote, or doesn’t move much. The odd one out. Cell site data might even take us to Ash. Which is probably where Wallace is heading next.’
Despite the grim scene and his own negative emotions, Boateng managed a smile. In two minutes she’d mastered the disgust any normal person would feel then used deduction and inference to produce a credible operational lead. He could see why she was one of the fastest-promoted officers in the Met.
‘Good work, Kat,’ he said. The corners of her mask rose as she took the compliment.
Malik appeared in the doorway. He couldn’t help glancing at the body. ‘Manager’s in a right old state. One of the lads had to go get her another cup of tea. I’ve said no one’s to let her in, don’t want her to get an eyeful of this.’
Boateng frowned. ‘The manager hasn’t seen him? As in, she didn’t call us?’
‘Nope. Says the place is closed on Sundays.’
‘OK, back up a second.’ Boateng raised his hands, looked from Jones to Malik. ‘Then how come we’re even here?’
‘Sorry, boss?’ Malik looked confused.
Jones answered. ‘Homicide Assessment Team called it in. Lambeth lot.’
‘Yeah. But how did they know Parker was dead? Studio’s got no windows. And no other staff came this morning to open up. Follow me.’ He led them out to the courtyard and across to a picnic table, where a man about Zac’s age sat smoking. His receding hairline was visible despite his shaved head. Stubble across his face and neck, above a loosened tie, made it look like he hadn’t slept in days. A ridged brow and prominent jaw fixed his expression in a scowl. That didn’t change as Boateng approached and introduced himself.
‘DCI Dave Maddox,’ he replied.