‘But compared to the cash value or whatever. Anything stick out?’
Ash rocked the chair back, narrowed his eyes. Was silent a few seconds. ‘There was one, actually, now you mention it. Receptionist told me some MP kept ringing up the boss. I remember it cos normally they’ve got secretaries and that, haven’t they? But she personally called every day after the robbery. I thought it was weird – her stuff was only two thousand quid, nothing special. And you reckon someone like that’d have too much else going on to spend time checking up.’
That buzz passed through her, a mini shockwave. The thrill of something new that might be crucial. A logical connection. The ex-SAS guy looking for Wallace, an MP obsessing over a small item he’d stolen…
Boateng’s phone went off. Jones watched his expression change as he saw the screen.
‘I have to take this,’ he blurted, already half out the room. Heard him say ‘Roy’ as he answered the call. Then the door closed behind him.
She hoped Zac was OK. For a guy leading a double murder investigation he had a lot of other stuff going on.
* * *
Wallace lay supine on the floor.
The day’s heat had turned the lock-up into an oven. But being stuck here with the door shut was preferable to spending time outside where he could be seen. He knew he needed to let go of Ash – the Five-O had him now. Three people who broke the street code were on his list, and he’d done two of them. That didn’t count Jas grassing last week. Initially the rage had got the better of him, winding up until he’d sliced a big gash in the breeze blocks with his angle grinder. After that it ebbed away, leaving him less certain of his purpose. When he was back in prison, the objective had been clear: take out the snitches that sent him down. Protect your name with extreme force. Had to be done. Harris, Parker: fine. But with Ash he’d failed. And it didn’t seem to matter that much.
Maybe he should add Fletcher to the list. Go back and make her understand why betrayal has to be punished. Hat, sunglasses, head down, walk to Camberwell as darkness came over London. Take the angle grinder. But he found himself thinking about Reece, the ‘lickle man’, left without a mum or dad. Something crystallised when he saw Boateng playing football with his son. Revenge isn’t isolated, a single hit. It spreads its tentacles out, coils around people who don’t deserve it, haven’t done anything wrong. He could choose to leave Jas alone, then Reece would have a parent as he grew up. Like Wallace had his mum. The youngers like Reece and Neon needed to be given chances, not dragged into feuds about reputation that had nothing to do with them.
Once he had 1.5 million quid’s worth of stuff in bags and he got to Europe, he could buy a different identity, a new existence. One where maybe he wouldn’t ruin any more lives. But for that he needed the jewels.
It was time to get them back.
* * *
Derek flopped down into the armchair, cracked open the can and gulped down a few mouthfuls. Christ, it felt good, drinking cold beer at the end of his shift. Every day in his black cab was longer now. Had to grind out each tenner, competing against these Uber guys, even with tourists in the West End. And his lock-ups weren’t bringing much in either; demand for them seemed to have dropped off. Except for the bloke with the tattoo under his eye, he paid two ton upfront. Might be more where that came from. He belched, breathed out slowly. Things would pick up, he just had to cut down his spending. Mortgage, running the cab, football season ticket. It all added up. Pints were a fiver these days. Seemed like life got more expensive while he earned less and less.
He reached for the remote, put his feet up on the coffee table. Swigged his lager. Zapped from a reality show to Eggheads then a sitcom. All crap. Hit ITV London news. Might as well see what’s going on.
When the face appeared on his screen, Derek dropped the can. Spilled beer on the sofa. Didn’t curse or mop it up. He just nudged the volume higher.
It was the guy from his lock-up.
Darian Wallace, they were calling him, not John. Funny that. Charged with a murder, wanted in connection with another. Bloody hell. No wonder he was hiding in a garage. Derek had known the story about his car was bollocks. Wasn’t going to lie though, the cash had been useful. Obviously the coppers had no clue where he was or they wouldn’t be putting it out on the news. He grabbed a pen, scribbled the anonymous tip-off number. The right thing to do was call it in. But he knew John or Wallace or whoever he was had cash, he’d seen it. Notes he wouldn’t need in prison. Perhaps he’d visit the lock-up, see how much the guy had. What he’d be willing to pay for Derek to pretend he hadn’t seen the news. He smirked to himself. Then he’d call the cops anyway. Was he scared? Been in enough scraps himself over the years, some with weapons. That was part of the deal when you were old-school Millwall, practically royalty when it came to football hooliganism. He’d gone against top boys from other teams and some of those lads had definitely done people in. Alright, that was back in the nineties, but he still knew what he was doing. He’d take some protection along just in case. One young bloke cornered in a garage? Derek fancied his chances, murderer or not. Most likely the guy would just pay up.
He finished the rest of his lager. Noticed the slight tremor in his hand as he crushed the can.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Baked beans.
That was what Etta found on the hob when she returned home. Zac hadn’t even bothered getting bread out for toast. Her husband was poking a saucepan, transfixed by the steaming orange contents. More evidence of something wrong: Zac loved cooking; he was great at it. Secretly, Etta preferred the days when she took Kofi to school and worked later, because it usually meant coming back to a feast from Chef Boateng. The chilli, spice and palm oil-laden aromas of West African dishes would fill the kitchen, drawing her in. But not this evening, clearly.
She dropped her keys on the counter. ‘You alright?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Kofi in bed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you go to the supermarket?’
‘No.’
Etta pulled the clips out of her hair, shook it loose. ‘It’s not twenty questions, Zac.’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re allowed to say more than just yes or no.’
‘Sorry.’
She put on some toast; at least now it would vaguely resemble a meal.
The only sounds as they began eating were the scrape and clip of cutlery. She tried to lift the mood by talking about her plans for them to visit Greenwich Park at the weekend, take a picnic. Maybe call some friends, see if they were free. Offered to play football with her boys. But Zac’s responses remained terse, monosyllabic. His mind was somewhere else entirely, not ‘present’, as her mindfulness teacher would say. She’d known him to withdraw during the most intense cases; occasionally it was his way of dealing with pressure. Normally he could compartmentalise, separate home and family off from the dark places of work. Not this time, evidently: the division was between them.
She placed a hand on his forearm. ‘I meant what I said before. Whatever it is, you can talk to me. We’ll work it out together.’
Zac raised his head and met her gaze for a few seconds. His eyes wide, searching, enveloped by tiredness. Lips made tiny movements with no words. Then he looked down again, prodded the beans.
‘I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.’ Her tone was tougher.
‘There’s nothing going on,’ he replied slowly.
‘Obviously there is, since you’re out all hours now and even when you’re here it’s like the room’s empty.’
‘It’s the case.’
She slapped the table. ‘Bullshit.’ Surprised herself with the aggression.
He pushed away the plate. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Hey! You can’t just run away, whatever this is. Where are you going?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Why not?’
He strode to the door without looking back.