They gathered round the monitor.
Jones read off the screen. ‘“You are not permitted to access this file.” What’s that about?’
Boateng studied the text. He’d seen this once before. ‘It means Harris was into something bigger than just running a pawnshop. He was cooperating with us in some way.’
She frowned. ‘A protected witness?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Informer?’ suggested Connelly.
‘Probably.’
Informants, officially titled ‘Covert Human Intelligence Sources’, were the murkier side of the Met’s work. Forensics could only go so far. And if you were gathering DNA, fibres and toxicology reports, it was already too late. Across all command units, officers relied on agent reporting to spark investigations, raids, arrests – ideally before the crime. Many risked their lives to provide intelligence. But it came at a price, financial or otherwise. With each case, the big guns had to make a call on how far the Met would go to get their tip-offs. Boateng wondered what Harris had been doing in secret. For now, they were in the dark.
‘I’ll call DCI Krebs. She’ll need to authorise it for us. Meantime, Kat and Nas, can you make calls on the neighbours around Harris? Someone might have heard or seen something this morning, or be able to give us some more background on him. Drop into his flat while you’re there. Pat, crack on with the CCTV. I’ll try and find his next of kin.’ He scanned their faces. ‘Let’s do this.’
* * *
Trudging up the tiled path and steps to their Victorian terraced house on Tressillian Road, Zac felt exhausted. A twelve-hour day, and they hadn’t got much further. No clues from the CCTV at the front of the shop, except Lopez approaching the window at 6.57. Not a lot more from the back. There were no cameras in the alleyway, just one belonging to the council on a street leading into it. That produced a few poor-quality frames of a hooded individual in near pitch-darkness entering the alleyway at 5.23 a.m., and leaving at 6.04. Chances were this was their man. Seemed to support the lone attacker theory. Connelly had dispatched twenty-eight seconds of footage to the tech guys for enhancement, but they were still tied up trying to get anything from CCTV inside the shop.
The neighbours hadn’t said much to Jones and Malik about Harris; he kept a pretty low profile. Many didn’t even know his name. Zac had drawn a blank so far on next of kin. And by the time Krebs had returned from her hundred-kilometre bike ride and begun the chain of authorisation, it was already late in the day. The earliest he could access the restricted file on Harris was tomorrow morning, from the central repository at Scotland Yard.
Entering the hallway, he slipped off his shoes as the smell of jollof rice hit him. Result. Both his Ghanaian family and Etta’s Nigerian relatives claimed it as their country’s dish. Truth was the Senegalese probably invented it. But that was academic when it came to eating the stuff: his wife made the best outside West Africa.
‘Hello, love.’ Etta emerged from the kitchen, wiping fingers on her apron, hair tied up. ‘How’s my hero?’
‘Knackered.’ He grinned and kissed her, drawing her into his arms. She was curvier than when they’d first got together and he liked that. She’d probably say the same about him, not to mention the grey flecks in his close-cropped hair. They’d met eighteen years ago. He’d gone to give a briefing at the London Bridge law firm where Etta worked – where she still worked – and was so smitten he’d forgotten how to begin his talk. She’d stayed to ask him a question. Legal points turned to personal chat and by the time he left they had a date planned.
She smiled and jerked a thumb towards the garden. ‘There’s someone who’d love a teammate out there. Food’ll be ready in half an hour.’
‘Can’t wait.’ He grabbed his trainers and made his way past the family photos in the hall. Sunny beach holidays mostly: Gambia, Spain, East Coast of America. The formal portrait from his ’96 Hendon Police College graduation stood out – Zac alone, rigid in uniform – but Etta insisted on hanging it there. He stepped into the kitchen and through the French doors onto the decking.
‘Dad!’
‘Who’s this superstar in our garden?’ exclaimed Zac, wide-eyed. ‘It’s the future captain of England, Ko-fi Bow-a-teng!’
Kofi giggled and blasted the football to the end of the garden. They chased it together, Zac slowing to let his son get there first.
‘Tackle me, Dad,’ cried Kofi, dribbling back towards the house.
Zac nipped the ball off him and spun around, shielding it with his body as Kofi ran circles trying to retrieve it. Eventually he grabbed Zac’s leg and kicked the ball from under his foot.
‘Foul!’ demanded Zac. ‘Where’s the ref?’
Kofi booted the ball between two small trees that served as their goalposts and it clattered into the wooden fence. ‘Goal!’ he shouted, leaping and punching the air before running a victory lap around the garden.
At these moments Zac wished time could stand still. That they might stay cocooned in this home together, safe from everything bad that lurked out there in the world. That he could protect Kofi and Etta in the way he should have looked after Amelia. Joy abruptly turned to unresolved shame.
‘Come on, Ko, let’s wind it down now.’
‘Da-ad,’ he protested. ‘I want to keep playing.’
‘Hey.’ Zac knelt down, eye-level with his son. ‘If you’re a good boy and brush your teeth properly, I’ll come and read you a story in bed.’
Kofi’s face lit up. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
* * *
After turning Kofi’s light out, Zac headed back downstairs. They had a dining room but preferred to eat at the smaller kitchen table. There, golden chicken thighs were piled atop steaming rice, fried plantain and greens on the side. He put some jazz on low, poured the wine, then planted a huge kiss on Etta’s forehead as he sat down. ‘Thank you. Exactly what I needed.’
She clinked glasses with him and sipped. ‘Tough day?’
Zac nodded, mouth already full.
‘Any progress?’
‘Not a lot,’ he managed through bulging cheeks. Sometimes he told Etta about his work; her methodical brain helped him register an omission or error of logic. In other cases – usually the most violent – it was better to say nothing. She knew which it was now.
‘Better luck tomorrow then?’
‘Has to be.’
Etta laid a hand on his.
Zac’s smile faded as he caught Amelia’s photo on the side. ‘Five years coming up.’
She followed his gaze to the picture and paused, weighing her words. ‘We’ll never forget her, but we’ve got to move on, love.’
‘Don’t know if I can,’ he replied, taking a large gulp from his wine glass. ‘When the bastard who did it’s out free.’ He spat the words.
‘Revenge won’t do any good.’
‘I’m not talking about that,’ he snapped. ‘I mean justice.’
‘Then why are you angry?’
‘I’m not, I just—’ He stopped, put down his cutlery and took her hand. ‘Sorry.’
Etta leaned over and slid her arm round him as they both looked towards Amelia’s portrait.
‘How was your day?’ he said eventually, calm returning to his voice.
‘Alright. I went to the gym while Kofi was over at Neon’s house.’
‘On the estate?’
‘It’s not that bad, Zac. And Neon’s a nice boy. Kofi had fun.’
‘I know, I just want to make sure he’s safe.’
‘Me too. But he’s got to play, see his friends. Have a life.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘We can’t protect him 24/7.’
Zac considered this. ‘You’re right.’ He smiled and took up his knife and fork again. ‘I should’ve learned by now – you normally are.’
Chapter Three