‘Any idea where he might’ve gone?’ asked Jones.
Etta reached for the tablet, tapped and swiped across. Opened Glympse, held it up for Jones. ‘If we find him with this, can you go look for him?’ She was trying to sound calm, knew she wasn’t pulling it off. ‘Just make sure he’s OK?’
‘Of course.’
‘Without involving your other colleagues? Please.’
Jones held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.
Chapter Thirty-Four
About a hundred metres off, the hooded figure walked to the jetty, carrying two large holdalls, which he placed at his feet. He faced away, watching the river, but Boateng knew instinctively who it was.
Darian Wallace.
It had been only a few hours since they found his latest victim in the garage. Three days tracking him for Parker’s murder, eleven for Harris’s. And 1,803 for his daughter’s. Not to mention the shopkeeper and his intended victim that day, Draymond King. Five years. Boateng just hadn’t known who he was looking for until a week ago. Now all his searching came down to this moment.
He stayed in shadow alongside a warehouse, crept closer. Drew the pistol from his jacket with trembling hands. Needed to breathe and be calm, even if he was past the point of no return. Pictured Amelia’s bright eyes. Her grin, the little gap in her teeth. Felt the rage swell. How close would he have to get – twenty metres, fifteen maybe – before he could start firing straight into Wallace’s back? Same as he’d done in the newsagent that day. Justice. An untraceable gun, no witnesses; he could just melt into the night and never be caught…
He was about fifty metres away now, treading silently, heel to toe in trainers, watching his footing for anything he might step on that could make a sound. The figure remained motionless. Boateng clenched his teeth, continued. Thoughts chased around his brain: about his team, backup, Etta and Kofi. Was Wallace armed? Could he bring him in alone? Then a darker scheme: what if, during arrest, Wallace struggled and happened to produce a Glock which—
No, he told himself.
You’re not a killer. You’re not like him. You’re better than that.
Still, he placed a finger on the trigger.
Forty metres.
Wallace had taken Amelia’s life, denied her a future. Robbed their family of a daughter. Surely only his death could atone? Boateng wouldn’t have agreed with such a principle until the day she died. He’d have argued that the law was there to deal with anything, its measures proportionate to the crime. Until she was murdered in cold blood. Only then did an eye for an eye begin to seem reasonable.
Thirty metres.
He had to make a conscious effort to move slow, quiet. Nice and easy. Soon he’d be in the open, with no cover from buildings. Much as the cauldron of fury stoked since Amelia’s death demanded he empty an entire clip into Wallace with no further debate, he had to know. Had to confront him, hear it from his mouth. Only then could he decide what punishment was required. In the shelter of a final doorway, Boateng activated the voice recorder on his mobile, tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. Took one slow breath. Then moved out quickly.
‘Freeze!’
The figure turned, saw the pistol, recognised Boateng. Cracked a smile. ‘Wondered when you’d find me.’
‘Take your hood down slowly. Hands where I can see them.’
Wallace did so as Boateng approached. He was close enough now to look into those eyes, the teardrop inked below one. Close enough to smell his body odour. Close enough to fire and hit the target.
‘Six murders,’ he growled. ‘At least. People who had families, friends. Lives destroyed by you. They all mattered. One more than the rest to me. Amelia Boateng.’
‘I know,’ Wallace said quietly. His jaw set.
Boateng’s heart pounded against ribs. ‘Did you do it?’
No reply.
Raised his voice. ‘Did you do it?’ One more step. ‘Did you kill her?’
They were five metres apart now.
Wallace closed his eyes. ‘Yes.’ Neither gloating nor dismissive, just fact. He even sounded relieved.
Boateng squinted through his pistol sights, the rear-side luminous green dots lined up over Wallace’s chest. ‘Why?’
‘That prick King had it coming. But I didn’t mean to hurt your daughter.’
Boateng took up slack on the trigger’s safety. The anger was growing, spreading through him. Three metres.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Wallace. Seemed like he meant it.
Tears pricked at Boateng’s eyes, his top lip quivered. Keep it together. ‘Why wasn’t it investigated properly?’
‘Have to ask your mates about that.’
‘Bullshit.’ Boateng took another step forward. ‘There must’ve been forensics, shell casings, something. A ballistics match. Why was nothing done?’
Wallace held eye contact, sighed. ‘If I tell you, d’you promise to let me go? I’ve got a new life here.’ He gestured to the holdalls. ‘Boat coming any minute. Yeah, I was the one who pulled the trigger that day, but your daughter’s death was an accident, you get me?’
‘One you caused.’
‘OK.’ Wallace spread his hands. ‘I accept that. And I’m sorry, for real. Never meant for that to happen.’ Gestured vaguely to his face. ‘It’s why I got this teardrop. I suffer for what I did, believe me. Madness, nightmares and shit.’
‘You suffer?’
‘Alright, alright. Look, all I’m saying’s the man you want is the one who sold me the nine. One of your lot. Same guy that made sure I never got caught. Not for that, anyway.’
Boateng blinked rapidly. ‘You’re saying a copper sold you the gun that killed my daughter, then protected you afterwards?’
‘To protect himself.’
‘What was his name?’
Silence.
‘Name.’
Wallace tilted his head, let his arms drop. ‘Promise?’
Boateng bit his lip, hesitated. ‘OK. Tell me his name.’
‘Called himself Kaiser.’
‘Kaiser?’
‘You know, like an emperor or some shit. I don’t know his real name. Swear down.’
The pistol grip slackened slightly as Boateng tried to process the information, any significance of the nickname.
Didn’t see the angle grinder until it screamed at him like a giant hornet. Boateng snatched at the trigger but only got a dry click. Nothing in the chamber. The whining blade came at him again and he blocked it with the pistol. Glock and angle grinder both clattered to the concrete and Wallace was first to dive on the gun.
Boateng piled on top of him, limbs flailing, connected with two punches. Wallace held firm, Glock in one hand so he couldn’t rack it to load a bullet. Boateng tried to get him in an armbar but Wallace writhed underneath. Managed to hook one elbow round Wallace’s neck, squeezed hard, but it wasn’t enough. Had to keep his other hand on Wallace’s left wrist and the Glock. The younger man’s right elbow was pounding his ribs. As Boateng shifted to get more body weight on the pistol, Wallace swung a hammer fist straight into his balls. Boateng’s body crumpled, he felt sick. Then came the blow to his temple and he rolled over, stunned, his vision a blur of light. Heard the slide rack above him.
Wallace had the gun.
* * *
Spike watched the whole thing. Bloody shambles. How the copper got closer and closer, talking too much, till Wallace whipped out some bit of kit, smacked the pistol from his hands. Cake and arse party they’d call that in the regiment. He couldn’t risk firing while the pair of them were rolling around on the floor, too much chance of hitting the wrong guy. So he let it run, thought Boateng would come out on top, cuff Wallace. Then Spike goes in, bosh, nabs the holdalls, thank you very much. But after a scrap on the deck the young bloke was stood over him, aiming with one hand. Round up the spout. No messing around now. Spike reckoned he had a single shot to change the outcome of this situation.
Crosshairs alighted over Wallace’s chest. Aim for the torso at this range, bigger target. Steady breaths. Hit the exhaling point they call natural respiratory pause, where movement is minimised.