‘How’s the hunt for Wallace going?’
‘Not much further on. We’re trying to find the other bloke implicated in the burglary back in 2014, Harvey Ash. Reckon he could be the next victim and we want to get to him first. Except he’s vanished. And the public appeal hasn’t turned up anything on Wallace. Our other long shot is CCTV and facial recognition around his last known whereabouts. But…’ He trailed off, sighed. Articulating it, the probability of success now seemed pretty damned remote. ‘When someone’s got no regular network and doesn’t want to be found, it’s tough.’
‘Tell me about it. Well, I’ll let you get back.’
‘The struggle continues, as my old man used to say. Appreciate the call, sir.’ He rang off, frowned at the mobile.
‘Boss!’ Malik was waving him over, jabbing the monitor. ‘We’ve got a result off the phone company.’
Boateng marched to the desk, where his team was studying a map overlaid with clusters of tiny triangles.
Jones glanced up. ‘Number’s most active in two spots. One’s industrial units in Penge, likely he works there, so the other one’s probably his home. Crystal Palace Park. Resolution’s good enough to see it’s this bit.’ She circled a grey area among the green with her biro. ‘Google Maps says it’s a caravan site. Makes sense, doesn’t it? No council tax or utility bills, stay off the electoral register.’
‘Sneaky bastard.’ Boateng shook his head. ‘Alright, which borough?’
‘That part’s Bromley,’ said Connelly, leaning over the back of Malik’s chair. ‘Although if you stand in Crystal Palace park you can chuck stones into Lewisham, Southwark, Lambeth and Croydon. Assuming you’ve got enough rocks. Though why you’d want to do that…’
‘Thanks, Pat, we don’t want to piss off the locals. Nice work, guys. When was it last pinged?’
Malik clicked and scrolled through a window full of digits. ‘7 a.m. at the industrial park. What d’you reckon boss, early shift or late?’
‘Could be either. Kat and I will head to the caravan park, you two check out the industrial estate.’ Boateng rapped knuckles on the desk. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Time’s up.
Wallace had waited nearly half an hour. Bloke had gone inside, emerged at the caravan door ten minutes later with a cup of tea. Chatted away to Ash like they were old buddies while the kid cycled around. Eventually he’d walked off, holding a different extension lead, with more waving and thanks, taking the boy with him. Jesus. They were so friendly it made Wallace feel sick. But now they were gone and Ash was alone.
He had to act quickly – the park was getting busier. Wallace manoeuvred forward out of the bushes and stood up. Shook off stiff limbs, flexed his fingers. Picked up the holdall and walked over to Ash’s caravan, checking side to side. Listening. Switched the bag to his left hand, pulled out the hammer in his right. Heartbeat quickened slightly: he was the Grim Reaper again.
Now he was right outside and could hear Ash’s movements within, the caravan creaking as his bulk shifted around. Sounded like he was cooking. ‘Course he was, fat bastard. Wallace reached for the door handle.
‘Danny Ellis’s pitch is just over here, officers.’
Instinctively Wallace dropped, rolled under the caravan. Footsteps approached and he saw three pairs of shoes outside Ash’s door. Just two metres away from him, maybe less. Large Crocs with hairy legs, a pair of plain black lace-ups under dark grey suit trousers and smaller, flat-heeled leather ankle boots below jeans. Two men and a woman. A male voice said thanks, they’d take it from here, and the Crocs departed. He recognised the voice from that time watching in the park. Boateng.
They banged on the side and politely asked for Mr Ellis. Door opened and after a brief exchange the shoes rose and disappeared. Began moving around above his head, heels tapping on the floor. The cheap unit swayed under the weight of three people and for a second Wallace thought it might collapse on him. He took a moment to think. Could he slide out and attack? Three birds with one stone. Stop Boateng and his sidekick investigating any more, remove the risk of them blocking his escape to France. And take out Ash. He’d have surprise on his side and they’d be trapped.
He gripped the angle grinder, stroked his thumb across the blade.
* * *
Boateng looked down at the portly younger man in front of him. He’d automatically sat in the chair as if expecting an interrogation. Like he knew he’d done something wrong before they’d even said why they were there. The sausages he’d been frying were getting cold.
‘Harvey Ash,’ stated Boateng.
The guy flicked his eyes to Jones and back. Trying to work out if this was a good cop, bad cop routine and if that meant the woman was on his side.
‘That’s your name,’ Boateng continued. ‘Or at least it was until a couple of years ago.’
Ash said nothing, simply nodded. His cheeks wobbled.
‘Given us quite a runaround, this name-changing business. You’re in trouble, you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Ash.
‘Not with us, of course. Do you know Darian Wallace? Don’t play games.’
‘I did.’
‘Seen him recently?’ asked Jones.
Ash swallowed. ‘No.’
‘We think he’s looking for you,’ said Boateng. ‘Not sure if you follow the news much out here, but he’s already put a hammer through two skulls in the past ten days. One of whom you know, I believe. So, Detective Sergeant Jones and I would like you to come back to Lewisham with us. We’ll look after you while we find Wallace, and in return you’ll tell us everything you know about the guy.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘It’s probably in your interests to help us find him.’ Jones leaned back on the narrow counter.
‘Am I under arrest?’
Boateng smiled. ‘No. So it’s up to you whether you accept our offer or not. Could always spend another day here, visit us tomorrow…’
‘I’ll come. But…’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re not the only ones asking about Wallace.’ Ash pivoted with difficulty, plucked the little card from under a mug on the counter next to Jones. ‘Some bloke was here yesterday, he left this.’
Boateng and Jones exchanged a look. ‘We want to hear all about him too. Come on.’
‘Can I take my sausages?’ Ash pointed to the frying pan.
Boateng suppressed a smile, blinked slowly. ‘Go on then. But no grease on the car upholstery.’ He threw open the door, stepped down. Something felt different. He stood still a moment, tried to work out what. Shook his head; probably just the fresh air after Ash’s stuffy caravan.
Walking back to the car, Boateng checked his mobile. Damn! Must’ve missed the text from Agyeman while they were driving over. He stabbed the screen. Heart leapt in his chest, the fatigue he’d felt all day temporarily lifted.
Got what you wanted. Am at home now. Pick it up soon as.
‘You alright, boss?’ Jones’s face tightened with concern. ‘Anything important?’ Ash had stopped too, watching.
Boateng realised he’d frozen, mobile held in front of him. ‘No,’ he replied, pocketing the phone. ‘Just my wife. I need to go and see her once we’ve taken Mr Ash to the station.’
* * *
One hour later, Boateng was sitting in Agyeman’s flat. The big man slid the shoebox across his kitchen table. Boateng hesitated, then pulled it towards himself with both hands. Even without lifting he could tell there was more inside than just the size nine Nike trainers stated on the label.
‘Your change is in there too.’ Agyeman gestured at the box. ‘Call the trainers a gift. You could do with some more exercise,’ he grinned.