With an injury like that there was no point trying to be a hard man. The dog bite had looked gross. Absolutely gopping, claret all over the place. The copper needed to screw the nut: sort himself out and get a medic. Instead, he’d driven home like a maniac, stumbled inside. Not come out since. Maybe the missus was patching him up. And perhaps he didn’t want to explain to anyone what he was doing alone on the estate in Kennington when he got attacked.
Spike watched the Boateng residence from across the road. Checked his watch: 12.23 a.m. He’d parked up, killed the ignition and cracked a window. What was this Boateng bloke playing at? He’d let three muppets get a step on him, drawn a sidearm, not fired it, then almost got mauled to death by a mutt. If Spike hadn’t been there, either the dog or those street kids would’ve done him in. Lucky he only had to shoot the animal. Human injuries were a lot harder to explain away, especially to the colonel.
During surveillance earlier today he’d briefed the boss on his plan to let the coppers lead him to Wallace. Patey wasn’t pleased, but recognised they didn’t have a lot of options left. Fat lad in a caravan was being looked after by the Met and their insider had produced sod all else by way of leads. What did they mean by Boateng being ‘closer to it’ than anyone else? Some sort of connection between him and the safe deposit heist. Boateng hadn’t investigated it at the time, so maybe it was a personal link to Wallace. Spike had googled his new assignment and found a ton of articles. Detective Inspector Zachariah Boateng had enjoyed a decent career spanning murder investigations, missing persons, kidnaps and drug work. Could be that his path had crossed Wallace’s sometime then, but there was no record of that on the Met system. One news story stood above the others though: his dead daughter. No one ever caught for it. Was that what Patey’s person in the Met was referring to? Perhaps Wallace brassed up Boateng’s girl in the newsagents five years ago. But if the case was never solved, how could the insider know that? All the nause was making Spike’s head hurt. Whatever way you looked at it, one thing was obvious: people were out to get Boateng. And he didn’t seem that great at handling himself. So better keep him safe until he located Wallace.
A taxi pulled up outside the house and Boateng emerged a minute later, clutching his left forearm. Wife hugged him for ages on the doorstep and they kissed. Soppy bollocks. Then Boateng got in the back of the car. Spike followed them until it turned into Lewisham hospital. Finally he was getting a medic to sort him out. Nothing else likely to happen tonight then. Time for Spike to drive home and get his head down for a few hours before the hurry-up-and-wait routine started again tomorrow morning. He’d be ready.
Chapter Thirty-One
Wednesday, 28 June 2017
‘Dad, what happened?’
Kofi froze, spoon mid-air, eyes wide. Etta watched her zombified husband lurch towards the kettle, flick it on. He eased himself painfully against the kitchen counter and inspected the bandage on his left wrist. In A & E he’d been given two stitches for the puncture wound plus a rabies shot. Doctors said there appeared to be no tendon or joint damage: a lucky escape. They didn’t know the half of it. Despite that good fortune, her husband still looked as if he’d been ten rounds in a boxing match or ten minutes in a bar brawl.
‘Were you fighting the bad guys?’ their son persisted.
Zac snapped out of his trance. ‘This?’ he held up the bandaged arm, grinned. ‘You should’ve seen the other guy.’
‘Wow!’ exclaimed Kofi, glancing at Etta to gauge the reaction.
Both her boys knew she didn’t like them joking about violence. ‘Zac…’ The single word was usually enough to remind him.
‘Not really, Kof, sorry.’ He chucked a teabag into his ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug, a title she wasn’t convinced he still merited. Zac looked away as he added the boiling water. ‘It was just a little accident at work, I’m fine though.’
The kid gave a whine of disappointment.
‘Your father’s got to be more careful,’ explained Etta. ‘Like I’ve said to you, Kof, never run off without telling someone where you’re going.’ She caught her husband’s eye. ‘Sometimes the same goes for grown-ups.’
* * *
Derek left it till midday before he began walking to the lock-up. He’d get this errand done then jump in the cab for a late shift. Had to psych himself up a bit, going alone. Back in the days when he ran with the football firm at Millwall, being around the other lads after a few pints was enough. Mob mentality, they called it. That was years ago. But he could still turn on ‘Old Derek’ if necessary, when a customer was taking the piss.
Before leaving the house, he’d reached to the back of the odds ’n’ sods drawer and pulled out his old brass knuckleduster. Just in case. Didn’t expect any trouble though. Wallace might be wanted for double murder but he wasn’t a moron. A few choice words from the older man and he’d see sense. It was like collecting tax, that’s all. And he definitely needed it; just that morning two new bills had dropped onto the doorstep.
Derek took out his mobile and called the number. No harm in having some backup. If everything went according to plan, he’d be at home with a cuppa and a pocketful of cash before the Old Bill arrived at his garage. He could just claim ignorance when they asked about Wallace. Or identify himself as the source and maybe even blag a reward off them too.
His call was answered on the third ring. ‘Hello, Crimestoppers. How can I help?’
‘Yeah, I wanna report the location of a murder suspect…’
* * *
No good keeping his head down. DCI Krebs had already spotted Boateng and was striding towards his desk. Wasn’t long before her six-foot frame was looming over him.
‘DI Boateng,’ she said, using his formal title in front of his team. ‘What’s your progress on the Wallace murders?’
‘Ma’am. Other than the SAS lead…’ He let the words hang.
Krebs shook her head quickly. ‘No joy there yet.’
‘We’ve had one other development. DS Connelly?’
‘That’s me. Facial Recognition had a hit on Wallace from yesterday evening, halfway down Old Kent Road. Target was walking south-east, holding a bag.’ The Irishman jerked his thumb at his laptop. ‘I’ve been collating CCTV footage to track his movements before and after. Got him going into King Rooster for his dinner but we lose him either side of it when the coverage drops out. Our working theory is he’s holed up somewhere nearby, eatin’ his chicken.’
Krebs planted her hands on the desk, leaned in. ‘So what’s your operational plan?’
The brief silence was interrupted as Malik’s desk phone rang and he reached across and answered it.
Boateng cleared his throat. ‘We continue searching CCTV for other signs of him and deploy surveillance on Old Kent Road. If he’s been to King Rooster once, chances are he’ll go back. He’s obviously not worried about being recognised there.’
‘Time to up the media coverage,’ stated Krebs. ‘We need to show London we’re doing all we can to catch this man. He’s clearly psychotic.’
‘Psychopathic.’ Boateng couldn’t resist correcting her. ‘I don’t think he’s lost contact with reality at all, but I reckon he is capable of killing someone without losing much sleep. Believe me, that’s scarier.’ He reached for a cup of water, bringing his left hand above the desk. If Krebs was going to take issue with his psychological profiling, she was distracted by the bandage.
‘What happened to you?’