a teenager by the name of Wayne Beach?'
The name brought a glimmer to Stormy's eye. 'Remind me, will you?'
'A loner. Armed robbery. Taxi drivers.'
'Ah - that little prick. We ambushed him one night in Edith Road.'
This was better than Diamond had hoped.
'I was. It was all very sudden. You were in charge, weren't you? You needed licensed shots and I was roped in, along with anyone else who happened to be there. I was behind a hedge in the garden opposite.'
'You didn't fire the shot?'
'No. That was another guy across the street. A sergeant. The name's gone now. But after Beach threw down his weapon I was one of the first to pin him. And I escorted him to the nick.'
'So he knows you?'
'I wouldn't think he remembers now.'
Privately, Diamond thought the opposite. Stormy's geranium-coloured skin had instantly triggered his own memory when he called at the house.
'He'd remember you better,' Stormy added.
'Maybe. I did the interviews and gave evidence. The thing about Wayne Beach is that he's a gun freak. He's done several stretches.'
'He'd be in his thirties now.'
'Thirty-four. Released from the Scrubs last December.'
'December? Shordy before . . . ?'
'Right.'
'So we have an address?'
'Thanks to the Probation Service, yes. Some high-rise in Clapham. Are you game?'
Stormy raised both thumbs.
'He'll be armed,' Diamond cautioned. 'Do you have a shooter?'
'Sorry. Do you?'
'Not any more.' Diamond leaned back and rested his hands on his paunch as if that concealed a secret weapon. 'Just have to outsmart him.'
'We can do that,' Stormy said with confidence, raising his glass. 'Here's to us. Whatever it takes.'
'Whatever.' Diamond clinked his glass and drank deeply. He had an ally now.
The outsmarting of Wayne Beach needed neutral ground and the surprise element, they decided. It would court disaster to visit his flat. They sat in a CID Vauxhall opposite the graffiti-scarred building in Latchmere Road, Clapham, watching the residents come and go. Their man would emerge at some point to buy cigarettes or food, or place a bet, or pick up his social security. It went without saying that he hadn't gone into honest employment.
After a couple of hours with no result they were thinking about food themselves. They'd seen a number of dodgy-looking people enter or leave the building, but that was not remarkable. It was a run-down, fifties-built tower block, a place of last resort that probably housed more lowlife than Wayne Beach.
Towards four, when the butcher up the street started clearing his window, Diamond left Stormy in the car and went over to see if there was a pork pie left. He was lucky.
'You know, I'm thinking of Plan B,' he told Stormy while they ate.
'What's that?'
'Ask the neighbours.'
'Risky. He could hear.'
'He could be somewhere else.'
It was decided Diamond would go alone. After ten flights of stairs breathing heavily and not enjoying what he breathed, he emerged on Beach's landing. He'd passed no one.
According to their information, Wayne Beach occupied the sixth flat along, number fifty-six. There was a reggae beat coming from fifty-five.
'Hain't seen him, man,' the tenant said when Diamond asked after his neighbour.
'It's okay, I'm a friend.'
'Still hain't seen him in ages. Nobody in there. If you asking me, him Scapa Flow.'
Diamond risked a look through the window of fifty-six. The place certainly looked unlived-in. A free paper had been crammed in the letter box. He pulled it out, held the flap open and peered through. A heap of junk mail was inside.
'Man, he won't be back,' was the opinion of Diamond's informant, and in the circumstances he was probably right.
'Was he ever here?'
'Place is empty since Christmas. One time I hear someone unlocking, walk in, walk out. Picking up his letters, I
