The low-rise block on Denmark Road in Camberwell was unremarkable. Exactly what Wallace needed. A couple of days here would work before he’d have to move again. He glanced up at the balcony. Damp laundry hung from a slack wire. Good. She was in, or nearby. Jasmine Fletcher was his ex. In two years he’d screwed her around, cheated four times and lied more often than not. It ended when he went to jail. No visits, no heart to hearts. She’d just texted him on the day he had to give up his mobile: We’re done. She’d made a choice. Had a three-year-old to look after, not his. But Wallace knew she still liked him, drawn to the glamour of a real roadman. Someone who could keep her safe. Now he needed her protection.
Wallace tapped gently on the door. ‘Jas?’
‘Who is it?’ came the voice inside.
‘Your special man.’
Pause. ‘Darian?’
‘Yeah, girl.’
He heard footsteps. Door opened a crack, still on the chain. Half a face appeared, one eye scrutinising him. More make-up than last time he’d seen her, glossy hair in a high ponytail. Looked even better than she had before he’d gone to Pentonville prison.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice was quiet.
Wallace chuckled. ‘Come on, baby, I’m out. Had to see you.’
‘We’re kind of busy.’ She shut the door but Wallace blocked it with his foot.
‘Thought you might need some help.’ He displayed a wad of notes.
She stared at them.
‘If you’ve got company I’ll go someplace else,’ he added.
The chain slid back and she opened the door. Wallace stepped inside, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Kissed her cheek, felt her go rigid.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he smiled, teeth showing. ‘Been thinking about you.’ He wandered into the cluttered living room, where a small boy was smashing toy cars together on the carpet. ‘Hello, lickle man,’ beamed Wallace, ruffling the kid’s hair. ‘Remember me?’
‘Course he doesn’t.’ She folded her arms. ‘Why’d you come here?’
He slumped down onto the sofa, peeled off two hundred pounds in twenties and put them on the coffee table. ‘Can I stay a couple nights?’
Silence.
‘Come on, Jas.’ He held open palms up to her. ‘Hook me up. I just need a place to crash for a bit, till I sort something out.’
‘You tagged?’ she said at length. ‘I don’t want no one coming round at night looking for you. Breaking the door down.’
Wallace pulled up both trouser legs. ‘Nope. I’m clean. Gonna get myself a job ’n’ that.’
‘What kind of job?’
He unzipped the duffel bag. Inside was an angle grinder, mallet, chisels and an electric drill. ‘Handyman,’ he replied, drawing out a four-inch nail and pressing its tip into his thumb. ‘Got trained inside.’
Arms still crossed, she said nothing.
‘Two hundred pounds a night?’ he suggested.
‘Two fifty. Two nights max. And you sleep on the sofa.’
Wallace grinned. ‘That’s my girl.’
Chapter Five
‘What’ve you got?’ Boateng called as he crossed the room. His team was gathered round Malik’s computer.
‘Harris was in at the deep end,’ replied Malik. ‘One or two people he put away are proper nutters by the look of their records.’
‘Anyone serious enough to murder him for it?’
Jones glanced up from her notebook. ‘Two still in prison. Another dead, cardiac arrest. The female’s in a wheelchair after a car accident. Fifth guy moved to the Costa del Sol last year and the UK Border Agency have no trace of him returning since. So unless it was a commissioned job or a relative, they’re out. Occam’s razor,’ she offered, remembering Boateng’s advice to keep things simple. Boateng grinned. ‘Sixth and seventh both possibles,’ she continued. ‘No forensics linking either to the scene yet though.’
Boateng appreciated her brevity. ‘Which two?’
‘Gary Tomlinson, out three years, now works as a boiler repairman. Seems like he’s made a new start in life. And this guy.’ She indicated the screen. ‘Darian Wallace.’
‘Wallace got out four days ago,’ added Connelly.
‘Interesting timing.’ Boateng dropped into a chair beside them. Examined the photo on one of the monitors. A light-skinned man of dual heritage stared back. The high cheekbones and lean face gave him a hungry, almost gaunt look. His dark eyes were unreadable, a single teardrop inked under the right one. ‘Great work. So what’s his story?’
Malik clicked to another document on the computer. ‘Twenty-five years old. Born and raised in Brixton. Scottish dad, Jamaican mum. Mum did most of the work, by the look of it. Dad was an ex-soldier, alcoholic, two convictions for assault – did six months in Wandsworth for ABH. Dad was in and out of the home, then left for good when Darian was fifteen. Behavioural problems at school got him referred to an educational psychologist.’
‘What did they find?’
Jones lifted up a printout. ‘Conclusion: Wallace was bored.’
‘Wasn’t everyone at school?’ Connelly laughed.
Boateng frowned. ‘Why?’
‘His IQ was estimated at 155.’
Boateng let out a low whistle.
‘I’m no psychologist, but that sounds pretty damn high,’ observed Connelly.
‘Put it this way, Pat,’ said Boateng. ‘You could run a country with that kind of brain. A hundred is average.’
‘Borderline genius,’ continued Jones, turning the page. ‘Excelled at maths. Took the GCSE at thirteen, then for two years they just gave him the A-level textbooks and let him work alone. Apparently it was the only class where he wasn’t disruptive. Psychologist’s assessment also found a full house of antisocial personality traits. She diagnosed conduct disorder: lying, rejection of authority and rules, aggression towards others, stealing and destroying property, impulsiveness, low emotional reactivity. Ed psych notes that conduct disorder is extremely rare in high IQ subjects; she’d never seen another case like him.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Wallace was kicked out of school in the end for fighting. Before leaving they let him sit maths and further maths A-levels on his own. A-star in both.’
Boateng nodded slowly.
‘That was in ’08.’ Malik prodded the screen. ‘Next mention is when he decides to rob a safe deposit box vault in 2014.’
‘Capital Securities on Holbein Place, off Sloane Square,’ Connelly read from a sheaf of paper. ‘Early hours on the twenty-sixth of May. Bank holiday Monday, no one around. Alarm didn’t go off, so they might’ve had some inside help. Never confirmed. Our Flying Squad colleagues estimated three million quid’s worth of stuff nicked; some of it belonging to pretty important clients, by all accounts. Jewellery, watches, uncut diamonds, gold bars. And that was just what people claimed for, never mind any contraband that wasn’t insured. Robbers took the hinges off each deposit box with an angle grinder. Forensics were thin but eventually they picked up two guys for it, including our man Wallace. He was the only one charged though. Five-year sentence, reduced to four for good behaviour, out in two.’
Boateng rubbed his chin. ‘So they try to sell the stuff on to Harris, he comes to our lot and the other guy rolls on Wallace in exchange for his freedom. Who was the second man?’
Connelly consulted one of the pages.
‘Trent Parker.’
‘There’s more,’ said Jones. ‘Our locksmith drilled Harris’s safe. He can’t rule it out, but looks like nothing was taken. Probably not even opened in the attack. Apart from a load of valuables, Harris was keeping personal records of everyone he’d provided intelligence on. Plus a few individuals he hadn’t yet brought to Flying Squad. Maybe blackmailing them?’
‘Talk about playing with fire. Any other forensics from the scene?’
‘Not yet, boss. They’ll call us when they’ve got something.’
‘Alright. Wallace is the priority for now then. Motive, opportunity, timing. Nas, can you get on to the security firm and find out where he is? If he’s on parole he should be tagged.’
Malik grabbed the desk phone.