‘From?’
‘Lambeth MIT.’ He took a big drag on the cigarette, stared down his crooked nose at Zac as if the encounter was already an imposition.
‘Thanks for calling us, sir. Appreciate you checking the link to our case off a night shift.’ He received a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Your people first on the scene?’
Maddox exhaled a big cloud of smoke towards them. ‘Southwark patrol car was, they belled us.’
‘Where’d the original tip come from then?’ Boateng smiled, making an effort.
‘Anonymous call to the Crimestoppers line.’ He stubbed out the fag, stood up. He was taller than Boateng would’ve guessed from his slumped posture at the table. Six four, built like a rugby player. ‘No name or number, before you ask. Details are in the email.’ Without offering a hand he turned, walked away.
‘Thank you, sir,’ called Boateng after him. Shook his head. Maybe Krebs wasn’t so bad. His thoughts quickly returned to the mystery call. Could Wallace have alerted the police to a murder he’d committed? But what did that mean? Letting his guard down perhaps, or playing a game?
Malik clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, boss. If you acted like that we’d tell you quick sharp.’
‘Cheers, Nas.’ He saw Connelly jogging towards them. ‘And Pat has full permission to Taser me.’
‘What did you say to that fella?’ asked Connelly. ‘Face like a bag of dead rats.’
‘Never mind.’ Boateng stared after Maddox a second. ‘What did our security man have?’
‘I think you’ll like this, Zac.’ The Irishman’s eyebrows jigged. ‘He’s got a hidden camera showing someone leaving via that little car park behind the studio at 10.04 p.m.’
‘Wallace?’
‘Probably. Then a second figure going in and out ten minutes later.’
Boateng and Jones exchanged a look of disbelief.
‘Gets better,’ continued Connelly. ‘Second one’s armed – nine-millimetre handgun by the look of it.’
‘Our anonymous caller?’ suggested Jones.
Boateng nodded. ‘You’re on fire today, Kat. And I’d be really impressed if you can tell me who he is.’
* * *
Nothing. Sweet FA. That’s what his search last night had achieved. Spike felt like he’d been down every street in south-east London, hunting for Wallace into the early hours. No trace. So he’d gone home, brewed up and re-examined the background stuff from Patey’s contact. Tried to make sense of Parker’s last word. If Wallace was out for revenge, who was he after? He’d done the pawnbroker and the dancer, and the cops would be all over Fletcher’s place – if she wasn’t in protective custody already. Who was left? Harvey Ash: the muppet with no known address. Spike did the obvious with two plus two and realised it was probably Ash he was looking for in the caravan, not Wallace. Sent a WhatsApp message asking the insider to confirm it.
After a couple of hours’ kip he was back on the motorbike.
Needles in haystacks though. Wished Parker had given him better intel before croaking. By 11 a.m. he’d already been to two London caravan sites. Shown a photo, given the story about a dead relative and some inheritance. Offered money. But nobody knew anything, no one had seen Ash. Just had to check all the caravan parks one by one, that’s what the colonel would expect. But Spike had the feeling time was running out. He was grasping at threads to find Wallace. If he screwed up again it might be his last chance to earn eight hundred quid a day working for Patey. Not to mention nailing the cocky little bastard he was hunting. Money and respect.
Spike walked slowly down the close in South Bermondsey, paralleling the railway line over the fence. This place was one of four official traveller sites listed by Southwark Council. Sort of place you might find someone living in a caravan. But they didn’t look like a bunch of pikeys. More brick housing than caravans. People had even stuck up hanging baskets for decoration.
Taking out the photo, he approached a chubby young woman with bleached hair hanging laundry off a line. Forced himself to smile. ‘Hello, madam.’
‘Top o’ the morning’ to ye,’ she replied flatly.
He unfolded the paper, held it out. ‘I’m looking for this man.’
‘Bailiff?’
‘Nothing like that.’ He kept grinning. ‘I represent a solicitor’s firm, tracing relatives who’ve been left money in a will.’
‘Lucky folk.’ She studied the image a second. ‘Well, I haven’t seen the fella.’
‘Are you sure? There’s a fee in it for anyone who has.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Is there anyone else around here I could—’
‘Who’re you?’ The voice behind him was deep, aggressive.
Spike wheeled round, clocked the man. Tall geezer, heavyset. Huge scar on his jaw. Couple of knuckles missing: a fighter. And clearly pissed off. Bloke didn’t wait for an answer, stepped towards him. ‘What business’ve you talking to my wife here?’
Be nice, he told himself. ‘I was just asking—’
‘Asking what?’
‘Leave it, Jimmy.’ The woman had stopped pegging clothes. ‘The man’s no bother, he’s from a lawyers’.’
‘What’s he doing in my yard then?’ Big lad’s body was tense, ready for drama. ‘You’ve no right to be here. Tell your lawyers they can piss off.’
‘It’s not about us,’ said the woman.
‘You keep out of it.’ He jabbed a finger at her. ‘I’m speakin’ to him.’
He played it through in his mind: man takes another step forward, Spike’s left hand lifts the shirt at his back, right grabs Sig from belt, left comes around into cup and saucer grip, double tap – boom-boom – two rounds in the chest. Dropped. Less than a second start to finish. Even drawing would be enough to stop this guy acting a silly bollocks. Not so hard now, are you? Spike loved that moment when someone giving it all the chat saw a weapon and realised they weren’t the man any more. But if you draw, gotta be prepared to use it. And he wasn’t, at least not here, with a witness standing right next to him. Woman already said she hadn’t seen Ash. Sounded like the truth. Best option now was a tactical retreat. Let this bloke think he’s got the upper hand.
He backed off slowly, hands spread. ‘You’re right, my mistake. I’ll be on my way.’
There were more caravan parks to check. He’d do the other three traveller sites then head south to Crystal Palace.
* * *
Boateng had made excuses about needing to go back for a briefing with Krebs, leaving his team to continue wrapping up with the SOCOs and on-site interviews. Said he’d see them at the office for coffee, doughnuts and operational planning in two hours. Enough time before the pre-arranged meeting in Brixton to hit the bank and empty his personal savings account of another two thousand pounds. Definitely the end of his plan to take Etta and Kofi on holiday to South Africa. He felt like the bank teller could see his betrayal. At that moment, he hated himself. Tried to ignore the heavy feeling of shame and concentrate on why he’d got the cash: Agyeman.
Off shift, his doorman pal had told Boateng to come over to Block Workout in Brixton. The rugged outdoor gym was a maze of kit for body-weight training, against a backdrop of bright colours and heavy basslines. Tractor tyres, oil drums and kegs for lifting lay strewn around, more stacked at the side. At 10 a.m. on a Sunday the place was heaving and he found it harder than usual to spot the giant Ghanaian amongst the crowd of hulking athletes. Agyeman was doing dips on parallel steel bars, thick arms repeatedly pushing up with muscles visible that Boateng wasn’t sure he even possessed.