The old BMW with blacked-out windows pulled into Benedict Road, parked up under an overhanging balcony and killed its headlights. Boateng watched from the back fence of Stockwell Skatepark. He’d got there early, spotted the vantage point and taken up position. At 1 a.m. the skatepark was quiet, a few youths sprawled on the undulating concrete passing a joint and cognac bottle between them. This was the location Froggy had given him on the phone. Said a guy called Mamba who drove a ‘bimma’ would be there at midnight. No one else with a BMW had come or gone since 11 p.m., so this was probably him. Froggy had only supplied two other details to Boateng: first, the interview would cost five hundred pounds; second, Mamba had been in Two-Ten.
Since the call he’d been unable to think about anything else, practically ignoring Jones, Ash, the Wallace case, even Kofi and Etta. Especially her: she was most likely to try stopping him. Walking out on her earlier had been inexcusable. But shame wasn’t the only feeling. Boateng had the premonitory sense that this could be one of those points in life where a decision is made by reaction rather than reason. Despite the week’s worth of tiredness that clung to him, his pulse was racing. He had to calm down. He checked his outside jacket pocket for the money. Then reached inside the left breast, felt the Glock’s hard frame. Handle facing up and out towards his right hand. Just in case. Self-protection, he reassured himself. Pulled the zip up to cover it and began walking.
Approaching the vehicle, Boateng caught the hum of bass reverberating from within. Took a deep breath, knocked on the driver-side window. It dropped smoothly, releasing wisps of tobacco smoke into the night air. A black face turned in the gloom, features highlighted by white and green lights from the stereo. A cigarette butt flicked past him.
‘I’m Roy.’
Dark eyes studied him before the head jerked towards the passenger door. Boateng climbed in. ‘You Mamba?’
A grin spread slowly across the face. ‘My man said five hundred.’ The voice was baritone. Boateng caught a whiff of booze.
‘Two fifty now, the rest when we finish.’ He produced a roll of notes, handed it over. ‘That’s how I work, I’m sure Froggy told you that.’
‘Whatever man.’ Mamba tucked the cash into his shirt pocket.
‘Can you tell me about Two-Ten?’
‘Everything stays here, get me? No recording.’
‘Nothing.’ Boateng spread his hands. ‘Look, I don’t even know your name. Where did “Mamba” come from anyway?’
‘Black Mamba,’ the guy smirked. ‘Ask the ladies about that one, yeah?’
Boateng played along, chuckled. ‘So how did the group start?’
‘We was raised together in Brikky, all lived in the same ends. You get to know certain man, trust them more than others.’ Mamba lit another cigarette, tip glowing as he sucked and blew two jets from his nostrils. ‘Started to run on the road together, usual stuff. Shifting weed, few stick-ups, moved on to crack. Sy had linked up with some Jamaican mans that imported the raw stuff. We was making two grand a day. Bought anything we wanted.’ He gestured to his shirt and jeans. ‘Gucci, Louis V, Rolex, Dom Pérignon. Life was good them days.’
‘Was? What happened to you guys?’
‘Sy happened, man. Tore us apart.’ Boateng let the silence hang, pulse thumping at his neck. ‘He starts seeing this girl out of Peckham. I said it was a bad move, you know how Peckham-Brixton beef goes. But he did it anyway, cos Sy was Sy. Didn’t nobody tell him what to do. Then one day she broke up with him. They always did in the end, he used to slap ’em around and that. Sy couldn’t deal with it, started losing his shit. First he was making mistakes with the gear, missed an appointment with the Jamaicans. Took me weeks to smooth it over. Then he found out some guy was banging his girl and that was it, man.’
Boateng’s body was rigid. ‘Who was the guy?’
‘Man called Dray.’
Boateng’s mouth felt dry, he swallowed, moistened his lips. ‘Draymond King?’
The eyes narrowed. ‘You know him?’
‘No,’ replied Boateng quickly. ‘Read about it at the time though.’
‘Sy planned the hit. Got himself tooled up with a new piece, a nine mil. Killed Dray at the newsagent but took down two other people with him. Shop owner and a little girl, man. Both innocent.’ Mamba shook his head, dragged deeply on the cigarette. ‘That was wrong. Just…’ He tailed off.
‘Go on.’
‘Me and the others couldn’t really trust him after that, the man was a loose cannon, get me? That’s when it started to fall apart. That day in Peckham. A year later it was every man for himself, some of us had joined new crews. I did my own thing.’
‘What about Sy?’
‘Guess he did too. Mans drifted apart, innit.’
So close. Boateng took a chance. ‘Who was Sy?’
He sensed the body alongside him stiffen. ‘Why d’you need to know that? I’ve told you, he was just Sy.’ Another drag, jets through the nose.
‘What was his real name?’
Mamba sucked his teeth. ‘Man, fuck you, get outta my car. This shit is over. Matter of fact, gimme my other two fifty first.’ He pushed the central locking button, a thunk resounding from the doors.
Boateng steadied his breathing. ‘OK, sure. No problem,’ he said quietly, reached to his pocket. ‘Sorry, it’s just—’
The flat of his right hand hammered into Mamba’s neck before he lunged with the left, grabbing his wrist in a lock, pressing the burning cigarette tip into Mamba’s skin before the guy squealed, dropped it. Boateng pushed back to his seat, reached inside the jacket. Mamba made to move forward, froze when he saw the pistol trained on him.
The younger man raised hands, spoke carefully. ‘Just chill, yeah?’
‘Unlock the doors. Now hands on the steering wheel,’ barked Boateng. ‘What’s his name?’
‘C’mon, man, please,’ he whispered, voice catching.
‘His name?’ growled Boateng.
‘Don’t do nothing crazy—’
He racked the slide.
‘Wallace.’
Must have misheard. ‘What?’
‘Darian Wallace. He’s inside now for robbin’ some safes.’
Boateng felt like the floor was dropping away, sensation in his limbs draining. The car interior blurred, his head falling along with the gun. Became aware of hands on his own, pulling, wrenching. The Glock jammed into the armrest between them as his focus returned, Boateng’s finger squeezing the trigger under Mamba’s grip until the bang smacked him round the ears, the air a single high-pitched tone of confusion. Boateng twisted his body left, bending Mamba’s arm and forcing him to let go before crashing a right elbow into his face. Whipping back round he trained the muzzle on Mamba, whose nose was streaming blood.
‘No more games,’ shouted Boateng, almost unable to hear himself over the tinnitus. ‘Describe him.’
‘He – he’s light skinned,’ Mamba spoke quickly. ‘Half Scottish, half Jamaican. So we used to call him Scotland Yard, S-Y, Sy, yeah? Got a tear inked under his eye after the hit on Draymond, cos of the girl. Said he didn’t mean to kill her, it was just a stray, but that don’t matter now.’
Just a stray. Boateng ground his teeth, lips trembling. Hold it together. He needed one more piece of information. ‘How do you know for sure Wallace did the newsagent murders?’
Mamba sniffed at the blood trickle. ‘I was there, man, I rode the motorbike.’
Accessory to murder. Amelia’s murder. Boateng’s finger curled on the trigger, taking slack off its mini safety catch.
‘I didn’t know anyone else died till I saw it on the news.’
Tone from the gunshot still buzzing in Boateng’s ears; things seemed to slow down, his own heartbeat a bass drum. His control was slipping.
‘I swear.’ Mamba’s face contorted. ‘Please.’