When it rains, it pours, his old man used to say. The guy grew up in Ghana, so he knew a thing or two about thunderstorms. His dad would’ve agreed that the deluge right now was more common in a West African wet season than South Croydon. It had burst out of a night sky just minutes ago and Detective Inspector Zachariah Boateng was already drenched. He’d had to walk from where the bus dropped him, after taking two trains. Technically, this was still London, but the place felt like countryside. Cold rainwater ran off his flat cap and down the back of his collar. Zac muttered something under his breath about bringing an umbrella next time. Maybe taking a cab, despite the cost. Or even driving – but that’d limit the booze, of course. And his host, Sergeant Troy McEwen, would never permit such half measures: his invitation had been for a Christmas drink. Troy was slightly early for the festive season, but his offer had been uncharacteristically late, the text message only arriving after work today. Zac might’ve made an excuse, but the words ‘need to talk about back then’ had caught his attention.
So, he’d reluctantly abandoned his plans to relax at home and accepted. It was the right thing to do. They’d had the occasional phone call and exchanged texts, but it’d been two years since he’d last visited his old friend, and Zac knew he shouldn’t have left it so long. The effort he’d expended getting to this isolated tip of south London, not to mention the large bottle of Troy’s favourite whisky tucked inside his overcoat, would go some way towards assuaging that guilt. Zac had a family, but Troy had no one. The least Zac could do was join his mate for a few drams. And see what exactly he wanted to say about ‘back then’.
Zac reached Troy’s small, detached house and jogged up the path to his front door. Sheltering under the porch, rain hammering on its roof, he rang the doorbell. Nothing. Rang it again. Cupped hands around his eyes and leaned against the frosted glass, but all he could make out was a low light inside. To his left and right – Troy’s living room and dining room – curtains were drawn. Zac banged his palm on the door, then squatted and cracked the letterbox.
‘Troy!’ he bellowed through the gap. ‘Open up, mate, I’m freezing my bollocks off out here.’
Zac listened: no response. Peered through but couldn’t see any movement in the narrow hallway. What was Troy playing at? Probably several drinks down, headphones on, in the toilet, take your pick. Zac rang his mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. He pocketed the phone and, plunging back into the rain, tried the wooden side gate: locked.
‘Troy, come on, man!’ he yelled over the two-metre-high fence. ‘It’s pissing down, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ No reply. But Zac didn’t give up. He hadn’t come all this way just to admire the front garden. Perhaps he should take a quick look to make sure Troy was OK. After all, the guy lived on his own.
Cursing silently, he hauled himself up and over the side gate, barely keeping his balance. Such manoeuvres weren’t as easy as they had been twenty years ago when he and Troy had joined the Met together. At least the neighbour’s hedge was thick enough that no one could see him; he didn’t want the embarrassment of explaining to his Croydon colleagues that their suspected burglar was in fact a police officer.
The back door was locked too, and after another failed attempt to rouse Troy, Zac scouted around the patio until he found a loose brick among the neglected flowerpots. True to form, his mate had a spare key lodged underneath it. Zac let himself into the utility room at the back of the house and stood on the doormat, dripping, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Took out the whisky.
‘Hey, wake up, fella!’ He reached for the door handle and yanked it open. ‘I’ve got the Glenmorangie, it’s your favour—’
Something was wrong.
Zac knew immediately: the stillness, the air, the faint odour. He marched through the kitchen, wet shoes sliding on tile, following his nose, quicker now, into the hallway, where he threw the living-room door open.
First thing he saw was the blood. Spattered thick across the white wall, chunks congealed in it, streaks running down. Even some on the ceiling. Zac’s breaths became jagged, his stomach turning at the smell of raw meat and iron, the trace of gunpowder. He fought back the bile and stepped inside. Rounding the door, he froze. The bottle slipped from his hand, thudding on the carpet.
Only the familiar forearm tattoos confirmed that the disfigured man slumped in the armchair was Troy McEwen. A shotgun rested between his legs, its long steel barrel pointing up towards the head, or what was left of it. Tipped forward, the back half was gone, exposing a warped mass of pink, red and black in the open skull.
‘Troy!’ he blurted, stumbling across the room, half tripping over a table. ‘Jesus, no.’ Stepping closer, Zac reached out slowly, touched his friend’s arm. It was still warm. ‘No,’ he repeated, quieter this time, his voice thickening, facial muscles tightening. ‘What’ve you done?’
Zac knelt next to the body, sinking until his forehead rested on the arm of the chair, inches from Troy’s limp hand. He stayed kneeling for a long time, eyes screwed shut, as if that was enough to block it out.
‘You didn’t do this, mate,’ he whispered eventually, a rolling tear catching the corner of his mouth. ‘I know it.’
Zac had worked with death long enough to understand that denial was a common immediate reaction in those close to the deceased. Despite that, he stood, wiped his face and began to examine the room. Troy’s body, the weapon, the angles, the blood pattern, the lack of rigor mortis. His text, not even three hours ago: Need to talk about back then. Something wasn’t right. Already, Zac’s analytical mind was taking over, mastering the emotions, telling him he shouldn’t disturb anything more.
Not if this was a murder scene.
‘I’m so sorry, love.’ Zac’s wife, Etta, pulled her kitchen chair alongside his and wrapped an arm round his shoulder. He took a gulp of the Glenmorangie; not his first since discovering Troy’s body.
‘The two of you went way back,’ she said.
Zac nodded. He and Troy had enrolled on the same basic training course at Hendon in ’96, had their first jobs together on the beat. Back in the day, they were inseparable – partly through choice, partly because each knew the other was the only person he could really count on.
‘I liked him a lot.’ Etta’s voice was soft. The shock of seeing a uniformed officer bring her husband home at 11 p.m., damp and shivering, seemed to have subsided now. Zac knew she wasn’t just empathising; she’d be feeling the loss personally too. Before they’d had kids, Troy had crashed at their old place in Stockwell so often that Etta called the tiny spare room ‘Troy’s suite’. She squeezed his shoulder. ‘I remember the last time he was here – what, three, four years ago?’
‘Three and a half.’
‘He came for dinner.’ Etta reached across, helped herself to a sip of Zac’s whisky.
He snorted a small laugh. ‘Ate three platefuls of your jollof rice.’
She smiled. ‘Then asked if he could take the rest home.’ They sat in silence a moment before she spoke again. ‘Did you have any idea he was—’
‘Depressed? Yes. No.’ Zac spun the glass in his fingers. ‘I mean, Troy was always kind of up and down, I knew that from the start. After he shot that guy in ’08 he had some post-traumatic stress disorder, but he did the assessment, the treatment, he got over it. Right as rain. Enough for the doctor to sign off on his shotgun licence in 2011, he told me. But I hadn’t seen the man in two years, so I don’t know…’ His tone hardened. ‘I should’ve been there for him.’
Etta stroked the back of his head. ‘You’re not responsible for his suicide, Zac.’
‘I know.’
‘OK, good.’
‘I don’t think it was suicide.’
She didn’t respond; just stared at him.
Zac broke eye contact, tried to push away the image of Troy’s body in the armchair, that raw-meat smell coming right back to him. He took a big pull of whisky, swallowed. ‘I know it looks that way. The guy’s alone at home, with his own shotgun, barrel pointing at—’ He stopped himself, didn’t want to traumatise his wife any further. ‘Wounds consistent with suicide. Add a history of mental health problems and that’s case closed for any coroner.’
‘But?’
‘About a third of people who take their own lives leave a note, thinking about who’ll find them, who’ll miss them, things they’re sorry for. Or just raging against those who’ve wronged them. But there was no note, no warning.’
‘So he’s in the two-thirds that don’t give an explanation.’
‘No sign he’d been drinking, either. And he’d texted me less than three hours earlier, saying he needed to talk. Needed, not wanted. He hadn’t invited me round to reminisce. He had something to tell me. Why would he do that if he was going to kill himself half an hour later?’
‘No idea.’ She frowned. ‘What do you think he needed to talk about?’
‘Don’t know,’ he mumbled.
‘Is it possible he wanted you to find his body?’ suggested Etta. ‘You were probably the closest thing he had to family.’
Zac fought back a fresh pang of guilt and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense. I just don’t believe it was suicide.’
She took the glass, poured some more whisky. ‘Sorry. You haven’t convinced me, love.’
‘Says the lawyer.’
Etta sighed. ‘You and I work with hard evidence. This sounds more like a feeling to me. Maybe you’re still in shock? We both knew him so well, it’s hard to accept that he could’ve—’
‘No.’ He cut her off.
‘An accident then? He’s cleaning the shotgun and—’
‘No way. The guy had been firearms trained in the Met. He knew what he was doing.’
‘Look, if you’re saying he didn’t kill himself, you realise what that means?’
‘Yes.’ Zac reached for the glass. ‘He was murdered.’
Three drinks later and with Etta already upstairs, Zac trudged up to bed, trying to make the pieces slot together. Trying to think of anything that might give a clue about what the hell had happened to Troy. If the text message had some bearing on his death, what did that mean for Zac and the others involved ‘back then’? If Troy had been murdered, was anyone else in danger? But the alcohol was slowing him down. When he tried to think, all he could see was the image of that living room. A stair creaked under his weight, and a rustling came from behind the half-open door on the landing, followed by a small voice.
‘Dad?’
Zac paused. Knew he’d drunk too much; wondered if he should let his ten-year-old see him like this. But that thought was quickly overtaken by a powerful urge to be close to his family. Troy’s death had brought back memories of his daughter, Amelia, also killed by a gunshot, five years ago. It made Zac want to be near his son, to hold him. He stepped across and eased the door open. Kofi’s bedroom was all long shadows in the glow of a night light. The boy was sitting up, clutching the duvet around his waist, his rangy legs and little feet outlined beneath it. He wore Spider-Man pyjamas and his big brown eyes were half closed.
‘Alright, son?’ Zac perched on the bed. ‘What’re you doing awake at this time?’
‘I saw the police car outside. Were you fighting the bad guys? Did you have to arrest anybody?’
‘No, I—’ Zac realised he had no idea what to say. Kofi had known Troy too, albeit more distantly in recent years. This wasn’t the time to break it to him. ‘I had to go out to see someone.’
‘Who?’
‘A friend.’
‘Why did you go in a police car if it was a friend?’
The kid was on the ball. Zac hesitated. ‘He’s a friend in the police.’
‘Oh, OK.’ That seemed to satisfy Kofi’s curiosity. He knew that when his dad worked at night, it often meant something exciting, and he’d always probe for stories of action. Fortunately, the questions stopped there for now.
Zac leaned in for a hug. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. Your breath smells.’
‘I had some whisky.’
Kofi wrinkled his nose. ‘Gross.’
‘Come on, let’s get you back to sleep, mate.’ He tucked the boy in as he wriggled down, kissed the top of his head, the tight curls of hair soft on his lips. ‘Got school tomorrow, need to get some rest so your brain’s sharp.’
‘Like yours and Mum’s.’
‘Mainly your mum’s. I’m not too sharp right now. Good night, Ko.’
Zac stood and watched Kofi shift and curl up under the duvet. How precious his life was; how quickly it could be erased. He’d do almost anything to protect it. After a minute or two, Kofi’s breathing began to slow into a sleep rhythm. He envied his son. Zac didn’t expect to get much rest tonight. He knew exactly what he’d be seeing in his dreams. Maybe staying awake was preferable to being back in that living room.
The uniformed police officers sent to Troy’s house after Zac had called it in were confident it was suicide. At the very least an accident, they said, once they’d recovered their composure, maybe death by misadventure. When Zac had suggested another possible cause of death, they’d looked at him like he was crazy. Told him he was probably just feeling a bit emotional – anyone would be, under the circumstances. One PC had been more interested in how Zac got into Troy’s house. He hadn’t pushed it. Etta was right, he had no firm evidence. Not yet.
Zac didn’t know if he was just deluding himself, based on the timing of a text message and a refusal to believe a friend would kill himself. But he trusted his instincts. If Troy had been murdered, then his killer was out there somewhere. Zac would have to find him, because no one else was going to be looking. And if ‘back then’ referred to what he thought it did, Zac had to be prepared for this killer finding him first.
No grapevine operates faster than the police. As Boateng picked his way through the open-plan office of Lewisham Major Investigation Team, just after 9 a.m., his colleagues stopped what they were doing. They would’ve heard from mates in Croydon about his discovery last night, and they’d known that he and Sergeant Troy McEwen were old pals. One or two young officers would be interested in the gossip and gore; they’d learn better, eventually. Others would use the story to highlight how stressful police work was these days, how the Met still wasn’t doing enough on staff welfare, pushing everyone too hard, for too long. How suicide was the second most common cause of death in serving police officers after road accidents, the unnoticed ‘epidemic’. Some would maintain an uncomfortable distance and avoid mentioning the word ‘suicide’, just letting Boateng deal with it in his own way. The decent ones would want to know how he was coping and what they could do to help. He exchanged nods with a couple of detectives standing by a whiteboard across the room, then hung his overcoat and flat cap on the stand by his desk.
‘Morning, guys.’ His greeting had none of the usual enthusiasm.
‘Zac.’ Detective Sergeant Kat Jones was the first to speak. ‘We heard this morning about Sergeant McEwen. Just want to say we’re all so sorry. If there’s anything you need from us, then please – you know.’
‘Thanks, Kat.’
‘Aye, that Troy was a good lad,’ offered DS Patrick Connelly. The Irishman kept his humour in check for once. He leaned back in his chair and ran both hands through his curly grey hair. ‘Worked with him a few years back when we had that joint case with Bromley borough. Fine police officer, so he was. I’ll raise a Guinness to him after work, if anyone wants to join me.’
‘He’d appreciate that.’
‘Boss.’ Detective Constable Nasim Malik looked unsure how to follow the others. Like Jones, he hadn’t known Troy. At twenty-five, he’d not encountered death too often either, though Boateng knew his refugee parents had told him enough stories of loss from their home country of Iraq. Malik scratched his neat beard awkwardly, and in the end, simply said, ‘You alright?’
Boateng bit his lip, nodded. ‘I’m OK. Cheers, Nas.’ They were all looking at him. ‘Listen, I know you probably think it’s pretty soon for me to be back in, after what happened last night. But this is the best place to be, believe me. I can make sure you lot aren’t skiving and take my mind off Troy for a bit. Reckon that’s what he would’ve wanted. No let-up, right?’ This seemed to ease the atmosphere. ‘So, tell me what’s going on.’
Jones gestured to the ops board that tabled MIT’s active cases. Each one was handwritten in its own row, with specific actions filling the columns. ‘We’re still working on the murder of Mehmet Bardak, the Turkish restaurant owner, from a week ago. No leads except the five-pound note found near his body, which is at the lab for DNA testing. Last night there was a similar attack on Vikram Kumar, who runs a convenience store in Lewisham. He survived but we’re treating it as attempted murder. Both victims were from minority ethnic backgrounds, and large blunt objects – probably baseball bats – were used in both incidents, so we’re checking out any other links. The two cases have been brought under one investigation: Operation Spearhead. Possible hate crimes.’
‘Or financial,’ suggested Connelly. ‘Each had cash stolen from commercial premises. I think it was about the money. The owners just happened to have been born overseas.’
‘I’m with Kat,’ said Malik.
‘You wish you were,’ replied Connelly with a wink.
‘Piss off.’
Boateng held up a hand. ‘We need to keep an open mind. Different motives give us different lines of inquiry. Close one down too early, we might miss something. Maybe it’s both. Everyone’s got actions for today, then?’ They all nodded. ‘Alright, get to it. I’m off to speak to the boss.’
Down the corridor, Boateng heard Detective Chief Inspector Siân Krebs issuing orders well before he reached her open door. He knocked and, glancing up, she discreetly ended the call and stood, walking round her desk to greet him. Though she was about six foot two in her heels, a few inches above Boateng, the imposing presence was offset by her gentle tone. ‘My deepest sympathies, Zac.’ Krebs was usually politician first, police officer second, but the words seemed genuine. She offered a firm handshake, placing her other hand on Boateng’s arm. ‘I didn’t know Sergeant McEwen personally, but I gather the two of you were very close.’
‘We were.’ He didn’t elaborate on the lapsed contact, or his guilt about it.
‘Suicide is such a tragic end to a person’s life. You can’t help but think there must have been some hope, possibly a way out, if they’d been able to speak to someone at the right time. In our line of work, it’s too common, unfortunately.’ Krebs’s gaze became unfocused and she seemed lost in some memory for a moment. ‘Will you be taking compassionate leave?’
‘No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, I wanted to offer my help to Croydon with investigating his death. I hoped you could square it with—’
‘Investigating?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you mean? The coroner will examine the body and present his or her findings at the inquest, obviously. Given the circumstances, I wouldn’t expect any ruling other than suicide or accident. Possibly an open verdict. I know you cared about him, Zac, but you won’t be involved in that process.’
‘Ma’am, I don’t believe that Sergeant McEwen killed himself. I think he was murdered.’
She folded her arms. ‘That’s quite a claim. I’ve heard nothing to that effect from Croydon. What gives you that idea?’
‘He’d invited me over for a drink last night, probably only about half an hour before he died. Said he needed to talk. And there was no note.’ Boateng realised he was on shaky ground. ‘I just don’t reckon he’d end his own life. I knew the bloke twenty-one years; he wouldn’t do that.’
Krebs pursed her lips. She did that when she was choosing her words carefully. ‘Zac, I know some of what you must be going through at the moment, and I understand your disbelief. But there’s nothing in what you’ve said that remotely indicates murder, or even unlawful killing. A confused state of mind, perhaps. No outside involvement, though.’
His jaw set. Before he could counter, she spoke again.
‘Losing somebody who’s dear to you is very tough.’
‘I know,’ he growled.
‘Goodness, I’m sorry, Zac. Of course you do.’ Her expression softened. ‘All I’m saying is that denial is very normal in these situations, and rather than setting hares running on no greater basis than a hunch – apologies for putting it so bluntly – wouldn’t it be better to talk to someone about those feelings?’
Boateng said nothing.
‘You know we have access to a counsellor who’s working across several boroughs now? Tom Summers. Apparently he’s very good. We can set you up with a session, if you like?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Up to you. At least think about it. Take the rest of the day off, Zac. Get some rest and come back in on Monday morning. We’ve got you covered here.’ She returned to her desk.
‘Thank you, ma’am. I’d prefer to stay.’
Frustrated as he was with Krebs, Boateng felt that the day’s work had been useful. They’d made some progress on Op Spearhead, submitting a request for a comparison of clothing fibres taken at both scenes. Now they were trying to identify any common suspects for the two attacks, which was proving a lot harder. Jones and Malik had gone to interview the store owner’s family, while Connelly combed CCTV footage and Boateng looked at criminals with form for similar violence. The flow of their investigation had distracted him a bit. At 6 p.m., the four of them, plus a couple of other detectives, were ready to head into nearby Blackheath in search of a pub. Boateng felt drained but said he’d join them for one drink. Then he wanted to go home and just be with Etta and Kofi.
As they began walking away from the bustle of the High Street, Boateng heard quick footsteps behind him.
‘DI Boateng?’
He spun round and saw a woman approaching. She was early thirties, tall and trim, with a lean, angular face and long hair, dyed bright red. ‘Can I help you?’ he replied cautiously.
‘I’d like an interview.’ She gave a wide, attractive smile.
‘You’re a journalist?’
‘Yeah.’
He wasn’t in the mood for this. ‘Whatever it is, speak to the press office, OK?’ He turned back and resumed walking with the others.
‘It’s about Troy McEwen’s suicide.’
Boateng stopped. How could she have known about his connection to Troy? The death hadn’t even been made public yet – Croydon police were still locating next of kin. He thought for a second before glancing at his colleagues. ‘Go ahead, I’ll catch you guys up in a minute.’ As they set off, he stepped closer.
‘What do you know about Troy?’ he demanded of the redhead.
‘You found his body, didn’t you?’ she replied. ‘Last night. Can you describe the scene to me? Or maybe you took a photo?’ Her lips bent into a smirk. ‘I’d pay for that.’
Boateng snorted. ‘You’re not paying for anything, because I’m not telling you anything. And you should learn some respect for the dead.’
‘So, he is dead. Thanks for confirming it.’
Boateng felt pissed off: she’d caught him out. ‘Who are you?’
‘Faye Rix.’
‘Who d’you work for?’
‘Myself. I’m freelance.’
‘Listen to me, Faye Rix.’ His tone was hard. ‘You need to tell me right now where you got this information, do you understand?’
She grinned and Boateng became aware of a figure approaching from the shadows behind her. A tall guy, muscular build, in a leather jacket. He was square-jawed and shaven-headed, with hands like shovels. He held a German Shepherd tightly on its leash. Rix looked over her shoulder. ‘It’s OK,’ she told the man. He said nothing, but his stare was fixed on Boateng, who began to wish he hadn’t sent the others away.
‘You used to work with Troy McEwen, didn’t you?’ said Rix.
Boateng felt his frustration growing. The emotion was still raw. ‘I’m not having th. . .
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