by Tony Kent
Ryan waited for the name to sink in. She did not wait long.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Is that a name change? Deed poll?’
‘No, ma’am. It’s his given name.’
‘Seriously? No wonder he turned out nasty.’
‘He certainly did, ma’am.’
‘OK. Tell me about him. What’s the case?’
‘As you’d expect from table one, it was another murder. A commercial deal that went bad. Seems Mr Penfold saw himself as a bit of an entrepreneur. Buying and selling cars, land, industrial goods vehicles. Anything, really. Provided it was expensive.
‘He must have been good at it as he made a lot of money. But it seems that on one deal he was duped. He sold a property – a piece of land – to a buyer, not realising that the buyer had secured building planning consent on the property without Penfold’s knowledge. With that consent the property was actually worth seven times what Penfold was paid. When Penfold found out, he arranged to meet the buyer in a local pub under false pretences. When the guy showed up, Penfold confronted him, they had a brief discussion and it ended with Penfold smashing a beer bottle and sticking the jagged end into the guy’s neck. In full view of everyone in the place.’
‘Did he fight the case?’
‘The murder allegation, yeah. He ran a defence of provocation, claimed the victim had laughed at him during the discussion and that was sufficient provocation that he should only be guilty of manslaughter.’
‘Sorry? He fought a trial on the basis that being laughed at in an argument was a defence to murder?’ Levy did not hide her disbelief. ‘Well if that’s the kind of legal advice Blunt was giving out I’m surprised someone didn’t kill him sooner.’
‘You’re not the first to say that,’ Ryan replied, glancing across the room in Steven Hale’s direction. ‘And in fact Longman blew the defence out of the water anyway when he addressed the jury before verdicts, virtually guaranteeing Penfold’s conviction for murder.’
At first Levy did not speak as she carefully assessed the facts.
It sounded promising.
‘It certainly sounds like Penfold has the capacity for pre-planned extreme violence. And a willingness to kill if he thinks he’s been wronged. But what about the manner of the killing? In his local pub? There was no way he wasn’t getting named for that, while our new hero has been exceptional at covering his tracks so far. That doesn’t fit, does it?’
‘It is the one discrepancy, ma’am, yes,’ Ryan replied. ‘Although it isn’t fatal. For once thing, Penfold may have been a victim of overconfidence last time. From what the file indicates, he was feared by everyone in his local area. Basically the local gangster. There’s a good chance that he thought no one would dare to identify him. And if that’s wrong, remember he was in prison for fifteen years. That’s a long time to plan and prepare if he’s after revenge, and to find out better ways to avoid detection.’
Levy listened carefully. She agreed. Career offenders learn from their mistakes; they will rarely make the same one twice. Penfold had been easily caught the first time. If he was clever – and if he was their guy then he was certainly that – he would have learned to be better in the intervening years.
‘So just to be clear on this, Longman was the trial judge and Blunt was Penfold’s lawyer, right?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ryan replied. ‘Penfold was convicted of murder and Longman sentenced him to life with a minimum of fourteen years. He ultimately served fourteen and a half. Released six months ago.’
‘How old is he now?’
‘He was thirty-two when he was convicted, so he’s now forty-seven.’
‘Which makes him young enough. What about his history? Apart from the offence itself? Is there anything to suggest he’s capable of any of this?’
‘There is, ma’am. Convictions for violence going back to his mid-teens. A reputation as a fighter. Bare knuckle stuff, for money. And he was a suspect in two murders where nothing seemed to stick. Witnesses refusing to cooperate. That sort of thing. Based on what he has done and on what he’s suspected to have done, Penfold is one violent bastard.’
‘What about Blunt?’ Levy asked. ‘Did he badly represent the guy?’
‘Apart from the whole provocation bullshit? No, not at all other than that. But it seems they fell out anyway. Penfold wanted the sentence appealed, argued that the minimum term should have been lower. Blunt refused. Rightly, too; Penfold’s minimum tariff was pretty bloody reasonable. Still, it pissed Penfold off and there were a lot of threats made to Blunt, although over time they stopped. But Penfold definitely held it against him, and I think we can safely assume that Longman got some of the blame for the conviction as well, since he was the one who actually passed the sentence. For my money, the belief that he’d been denied a defence to murder and that he had lost more years of his freedom than he should have – however ridiculous those beliefs might be – would definitely be sufficient motive for a man like Penfold.’
Levy sat back into her chair and considered everything she had just been told. Wisdom Penfold ticked the boxes. He was violent, capable and ruthless. And he clearly had a taste for revenge.
‘And what about prison,’ she finally asked. The last factor that pointed elsewhere. ‘If he was released after fourteen and a half years of a minimum fourteen then he must have behaved himself. That suggests his violent streak might have disappeared.’
‘I did think of that, ma’am,’ Ryan replied, not surprising Levy for a moment. ‘So I made some enquiries. There’s a lot to suggest that he didn’t behave himself at all, actually. When I looked at the prison files I saw an increase in ‘faultless’ injuries to other prisoners at every prison Penfold was sent to. Looks to me like he stayed violent. He was just clever enough – scary enough – that no one spoke. Like I said, fourteen years is plenty of time to get better at covering his tracks.’
‘But isn’t that something the Parole Board would look at?’
‘Only if it’s brought to their attention, ma’am. But if no one’s reporting the violence then what is there to tell them?’
Levy nodded, impressed. Ryan had thought of everything. She had done her job with the diligence Levy knew she would. And she had finally given them a suspect.
Wisdom Penfold.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Steven Hale glanced across the room. Towards Joelle Levy and Sally Ryan. They were working through a number of files. Far fewer than had confronted them yesterday.
Progress, Hale thought. Pity we can’t say the same over here.
The murder of Phillip Longman and the massacre of Leon Ferris and his men had posed a problem. Just like every Major Investigation Team, MIT One often took on two or more cases at a time. It was the nature of the beast. But they were not usually cases like these.
Longman’s murder carried its own political pressures. The murder of a Lord Chief Justice – retired or not – needed fast resolution. Add in the manner of his death and it became a once-in-a-career investigation.
The Ferris case might not have had the same profile, but it did have similar difficulties. Community pressures, in a part of London where the police were far from popular. It also required cooperation with another specialist unit: the anti-gang team known as Operation Trident. Like Longman’s, the case was unusual enough that in any other circumstances it would be the team’s ‘case of the year’.
And so both had earned Levy’s focused attention. Until the death of Adam Blunt changed everything.
Blunt and Longman had the same murderer. That much was undeniable. A killer who, at his present rate, would secure infamy. A murderer is classified as a serial killer after three individual deaths. Longman’s killer had dispatched his first two within thirty-six hours. It suggested that he would earn the title before the week was out.
This meant that Levy’s full attention was now needed on the Longman/Blunt case. Most of MIT One’s resources and manpower – insufficient as they already we
re – were similarly directed. But this did not mean that the Ferris case could be ignored. Far from it. Levy had appointed Hale to lead the investigation. To choose his own small team of seasoned investigators and discover just what had happened in Electric Avenue.
Hale turned his attention away from Levy and Ryan. Back to his own debriefing, which was about to begin. The only positive to the new MIT communal space was that it was large enough for several meetings at once, far enough apart that none would interfere with the others. And Hale’s debrief needed that space, as his own six officers had been joined by another ten from Trident. With them was their own Detective Inspector, John Wild, Hale’s co-lead on the Ferris investigation.
Hale leaned his backside against the empty table that faced the mixed teams. Wild had taken a seat behind it, indicating that Hale was holding the floor on this one.
‘As you all know, the autopsies on each of the bodies are complete. As is the scene of crime investigation by my forensic team. The results of both support the working theory of a single killer, starting with Ferris at the door, through to Leach, then Ellis and finally Tennant.’
Hale had already detailed that theory to both his own team and to the officers from Trident. At first there had been protests and disbelief. Familiar with the formidable reputation Ferris had built, the Trident team in particular had shared Levy’s initial scepticism. But with all the evidence from the scene laid out, eventually they had accepted it as the most likely theory.
‘This was no ordinary gang warfare,’ Hale continued. ‘It was too precise, too efficient. Whoever did this was clearly a professional. So, who hired him?’
A murmur went through the group as some of the team shuffled in their seats.
‘Ferris had a lot of competitors.’ Finally an answer. It came from a member of Trident. A young black officer who clearly came from the same streets his team policed. ‘There’s a lot of gangs in and around that part of South London.’
‘You are?’
‘Anton Campbell, sir. Detective Constable.’
‘OK, Anton,’ Hale replied. ‘But can any of them really be called competitors? Ferris’s organisation may have started out as a gang and it may still have gang members working for it or associated with it. But it really became a full-on criminal organisation, didn’t it?’
The Trident team looked between themselves, searching for some consensus. Finally Campbell replied.
‘That’s a fair assessment, I guess.’
‘And if we use that as a filter? Who’s left who could really be called a competitor? An organisation, rather than a gang? Who would actually benefit from the vacuum Ferris would leave?’
‘There are a few, sir,’ Campbell explained. ‘But I think everyone would agree that the obvious candidate is Ed Burrell.’
‘Tell me about Burrell.’
‘Burrell’s an up-and-comer.’ This answer came from an older Trident officer, who Hale recognised as George Dixon. ‘He started like everyone else. Like Ferris. Small-time gang violence. Petty crime. A few years ago he stepped up. We have him fingered for armed robberies, drug supply, gun trafficking, extortion. Moving up fast.’
‘Compared to Ferris’s set-up?’
‘Nothing like it, sir. A fifth of the size.’
‘So a full-on war doesn’t go well for Burrell?’
‘No. If he takes on Ferris man-for-man, he loses. Badly.’
‘But if he has Ferris and his top men killed? Cuts the head off the snake. What about then?’
‘Then he becomes the biggest name in the area by a margin. Burrell doesn’t come close to Ferris, but everyone else is just as far behind him.’
Hale nodded his head. The assessment of Ed Burrell made the man a candidate. A good one. But Hale was well trained. He had learned from Levy.
Burrell could not be the only option.
‘What about what’s left? Are there any others who’ve made the jump from gang to proper gangster? We can’t assume that one of the smaller fry hasn’t let his ambition get away from him.’
‘I can think of three.’ Campbell again. Building on his earlier answer. ‘None in Burrell’s league, but still a step above the usual. Maybe ambitious enough to think they could gain out of this.’
‘OK.’ Hale pushed his backside away from the table and drew himself to his full height. ‘Then I need you on the smaller fry, Campbell. The three you’ve identified and any others that get suggested as possibles. Choose two of your team and two from MIT One to assist.’
Hale surveyed the room and picked out another Trident officer, Dean King. King was probably more familiar with Ferris and his organisation than anyone else. It had made him the most reluctant to accept the one-man theory. But it also made him the perfect man to investigate Ferris’s main rival.
‘And I want you taking the lead on Burrell. Get your ear to the ground. Chase down contacts. Grasses. Ferris’s men moving across. Anyone and anything that could indicate Burrell being behind this. Choose four from Trident to help you.’
Hale then turned to Detective Sergeant Pat Tucker. One of his own.
‘Pat, you’re heading up the Burrell enquiries alongside King. Select two from MIT One. For now Burrell’s our most likely suspect. Go and find me a reason to kick down his door.’
Hale next turned to the final MIT One officer. Natasha Pickett, who was, by common consensus, the unit’s best data analyst.
‘Natasha, I want you on records. I want you to look at every suspected professional hit in the last ten years. Solved and unsolved. There must be some similarities with what we’ve seen here. This guy can’t be a first-timer. DI Wild will assign two of his team to assist.’
Finally, Hale faced the group as a whole.
‘We’re not going to let this slide. We’ve got plenty to go on. We know who stands to gain from this. We know Ferris’s competition. And we know that whoever did this was a serious professional, and that leaves footprints of its own. We’ll find whoever did this. And if that means taking out another pit of murdering bastards when we do, well, I won’t lose any sleep. Now, let’s get going.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘And that, members of the jury, is almost all I have to say to you in opening this case. All that’s left are two very important things to remember. One applies to everything you have heard from me today. The other is without question the most important principle in this process; the principle upon which the entire criminal justice system is built. So it is vital that you listen to and understand these final two points, and that you keep them in mind for as long as you sit as a jury in this trial.’
Peter Epstein QC had been speaking for two hours. It was his opening submission, which was how every trial began: with a speech from the prosecuting barrister. Epstein’s had been fair. It had also been captivating.
Michael had expected no less from Senior Treasury Counsel, the Old Bailey’s number-one prosecutor and the closest thing the UK had to a US District Attorney.
Epstein continued to address the jury, covering the general principles they were bound to follow regarding the evidence they would hear, and the fundamentally important principle that the burden of proof rested on the prosecution, with the defence needing to prove nothing. But by now Michael had stopped listening. He had heard every possible version of the recital more times than he could count. His focus was firmly on what was still to come.
The sound of movement as Epstein finished speaking and took his seat brought Michael’s eyes up from his papers and his mind back to the moment.
He looked down the long wooden bench on which all six of the seven barristers sat. At the far end, closest to the judge, was Epstein. Next to him was his junior, Claire Wells. Behind them was the prosecution’s second junior, Martin Maguire. Maguire’s was a lower rank, unique to prosecutors, that was usually reserved for promising but very newly qualified barristers.
‘Did I miss anything?’ Epstein asked Claire Wells in a whisper.
‘Not a thing,’ Wells replied. ‘B
rilliant opening.’
‘Thank you.’
Their voices were low, but Michael’s hearing was acute and he could not close out the sound of the exchange. It made him smile; it was reassuring that even barristers as successful as Epstein still second-guess themselves.
‘Well, members of the jury, that’s that as far as guidance goes. Mr Epstein has set out the Crown’s case very clearly and very well, so if I . . .’
The voice of His Honour Judge John Levitt QC filled the courtroom as he now addressed the jury, to remind them of their duties and obligations as trial jurors.
Michael tuned him out, too. Another speech he had heard a thousand times. They never changed. And if the unthinkable happened and they did, Draper was busy taking full notes of every word.
Michael had other things on his mind. Or, more accurately, one thing: the safety of Simon Kash.
The bruise on Kash’s head had concerned Michael. But it was Kash’s demeanour that worried him most. The boy was absolutely terrified. Of O’Driscoll. Of others. Of going back to Wandsworth Prison that night. So scared that he would not risk sitting in the same room as his lawyers in case it was perceived as in some way ‘grassing’, Michael had realised.
Kash was helpless, and it was Michael’s natural instinct to protect anyone in that position. But how? What could he do when intervening was against his client’s instructions? How could he help Kash to help himself without violating the strict rules of his profession?
Distracted though Michael was, his ear remained attuned enough to know that His Honour Judge Levitt QC was bringing his brief address to an end.
‘And on that happy note, members of the jury, I am going to let you go. Please be in the building and ready to start by 10.30 a.m. tomorrow morning, when the Crown will call its first witness.’
Levitt sat back against his high-back wooden chair. An antique from the earliest days of the court. Maybe a century old. From here Levitt could see into the dock, which was raised to the same level as his seat. Considerably higher than the jury box that sat against the north wall and the barristers’ benches that sat against the south.
