‘Oi, you hear me?’ The guy moved forward a half step, arms hanging ape-like. ‘I said buy me another pint.’
Wallace’s fingers slid around the handle of his portable angle grinder, index finger flicking the safety catch off. In less than a second he could open up this guy’s belly. Or maybe his face.
The bell rang; whining told him the hare had started. Noise and movement grew behind him but Wallace held firm, considering his next move. One more step forward by this guy and he’d have to do something. He glanced left and right at the others.
‘Two is out strong from One and Three into the first bend,’ shouted the announcer. Mad Bomber was Four.
‘D’you speak English?’ The guy jutted his chin.
Wallace checked the exit. It was behind the men.
‘Now Four and Five running well at the second bend, and Two is there…’
‘Fuckin’ ’ave ’im,’ said one of the others.
Kept eye contact. No backing down.
‘It’s Five from Two and Four into the third…’
Fingers curled onto the trigger. The disc could accelerate to 19,500 revolutions per minute. Three hundred and twenty-five a second.
‘Five holding on from One and now Three is neck and neck with Four at the final bend…’
Go on, Four.
The guy chucked his plastic pint glass down, swayed slightly. Bunched his fists. ‘D’you want some?’ he yelled.
Wallace pictured him as a big piece of meat, ready to be sliced up. The other two would shit themselves the second they heard the sound of it, saw the blood. In the chaos of this mob he’d be out before anyone realised what had happened.
‘And Five takes it from Four and One.’
A smile spread across Wallace’s face as the noise died away.
‘Nah, man, I’m cool,’ he said quietly, stepping back and taking his fingers off the tool in his pocket. He spread his hands out to each side. Saw a security guard move towards the skinhead. Gradually absorbed into the crowd, Wallace turned to collect his winnings.
Chapter Four
Sunday, 18 June 2017
‘Making enough for two?’ Etta wandered into the kitchen, tying the belt on her dressing gown. Zac stood at the hob, stirring porridge. He was already showered, dressed in a pink shirt and navy slacks.
‘Always.’ He grinned, and kissed her. ‘That way if you don’t show I get seconds.’
She punched his shoulder and slipped an arm around his waist, pulling herself into him. ‘When did you get up?’
‘About an hour ago. Kofi and I were playing video games. He’s still in there.’
‘Big day ahead?’
‘Reckon so,’ he replied, dishing up the porridge and scattering blueberries on top. ‘Probably back tonight, sorry.’
‘Kofi and I will be at church this evening.’
He didn’t respond.
‘Come on, love, you know it’s important for Mum and Dad that I’m there. It’s good for Kofi to see his grandparents. And they have nice gospel music.’
Although he liked the traditions of church, Zac had been a religious sceptic since his late teens. Etta, however, had started questioning beliefs held for a lifetime only when Amelia had died. She’d often asked how a loving father could have let that happen. Zac knew she was talking about God, but applied the words equally to himself. He ate a spoonful of porridge too quickly, scalded his mouth.
‘So where are you going this morning?’ she asked, pouring coffee.
He looked up from his bowl and swallowed. ‘To dig up the past.’
* * *
Heading north on Old Kent Road towards Elephant and Castle, Boateng tapped the steering wheel in time to some blues. The sky overhead was cloudless; it would be one of the year’s longest days.
Krebs had confirmed yesterday that Harris was a Met informer. Now they needed details. Boateng’s destination was Curtis Green Building, the art deco home of New Scotland Yard since late last year. The move to Victoria Embankment had prompted a lot of piss-taking about Met bigwigs just wanting a penthouse bar closer to the Thames. Boateng imagined the roof was a decent spot for cocktails, but this morning he was interested in what lay below ground.
Locked in the basement were hard copies of informant files dating back to 2000, when the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act had begun. The system was only fully automated in 2015, meaning any sources recruited in those fifteen years had a dossier of paper notes. These were kept in case of future inquiry, like the one right now. Harris had been on the payroll, but who had he shopped in exchange for that money?
Having confirmed ID and deposited his phone at reception, Boateng followed the duty constable along a drab corridor, down the stairs. The uniform barely said two words to him as they navigated the building’s underbelly. Probably pissed off about being here on a Sunday. Stopping in front of a large door, the constable tapped a code into the electronic keypad. Curious, Boateng peered over his shoulder; the display was one that shuffled the numbers each time. A click granted them access.
Lights flickered overhead and illuminated a space the size of his entire office, filled with identical filing cabinets, back to back in rows. Each was labelled with acronyms and code words. Boateng recognised many: MAXIM and GENESIUS – the Met’s projects to counter human trafficking and document forgery; SVU – Stolen Vehicle Unit; SIS – Special Intelligence Section. Tough-guy names for operations: VIPER, FALCON, HAWK. This repository housed the sum of civilian lives risked to prevent or detect crime. Most sources were mixed up in dodgy business themselves, hence their access to information. At some point, they’d decided the best chance of surviving was betrayal. Each dossier was trust broken, ends justifying means.
‘Flying Squad’s over there.’ The constable jerked a thumb to the far corner. ‘You want 2004. Your man was known as Cobweb. They’re alphabetical. Nothing can leave here, so make notes and destroy them before you exit the building. Sir.’
Boateng nodded. He found the file, a thick manila folder with string ties. There was Harris, alias Cobweb. Thirteen years on the books. Recruited by Flying Squad officers – the Met’s robbery specialists – in ’04 after being caught flogging stolen goods. Harris flipped on his supplier and the arrangement with Flying Squad became regular. Since then he’d helped convict six men and one woman. None of them was known to Boateng; no reason why they would be. Flicking through, he noted each name and key points of the crime. Armed robbery, smash-and-grab jewellery raid, art theft, muggings for luxury watches, a safe deposit box vault job. Much of Harris’s work was opportunistic, based on spotting when something came his way that wasn’t legit and notifying his handlers. Pausing, Boateng made a list of them too, just in case. He was aware the constable was watching him from the doorway.
‘I’m done,’ he called over. ‘I need a secure terminal upstairs.’
‘Follow me, sir.’
The names he’d scribbled down comprised the best guess they had so far at a suspect list. Next step was to email it to his team and let them get searching on the Met’s Crimint and Police National Computer databases. With any luck there’d be something for him by the time he arrived back at the station.
Replacing the Cobweb file, Boateng turned and headed back to the doorway. That was when he saw it.
TRIDENT.
A row of filing cabinets, one for each year of the Met’s programme to counter gang crime in London, beginning in 1998. Trident developed from an advisory group into an Operational Command Unit, focusing on shootings in black communities. By 2008 it had grown to encompass all firearms incidents in the capital, expanding again in 2012 to cover gang activity more broadly. Gang violence accounted for half of all shootings. And two thirds of gun victims in London were males under twenty-four years old. Like the young man he had found face down in the shop the day Amelia died. Boateng hovered by the drawers marked 2012.
‘If you’re done, sir.’ The constable let the words hang.
‘Yeah,’ replied Boateng, walking past him and out into the dim passageway. ‘I’ve finished.’
But something told him he’d only just started.
* * *