Marked for Death

by Tony Kent

  ‘Lucky break.’ Hale’s tone suggested that he could use some of the same luck himself. ‘So you really think Penfold’s your man?’

  ‘He ticks the boxes.’ Levy’s answer was as close to commitment as Hale would get. ‘He’s capable of that level of violence. Plus he had motive – revenge – against both Longman and Blunt. And now it looks like he’s gone off-radar just in time for the murders. Long enough to do his homework and get started, not so long that anyone would have looked for him before the fact. He meets the criteria perfectly.’

  ‘Hard to argue against it,’ Hale observed. ‘So what’s the next step? A warrant to search his home?’

  ‘Done. We executed it four hours ago.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing. The home address he’d given to probation obviously wasn’t. It was just a bare one-bedroom flat. Unfurnished and dusty. There’s no way he ever lived there.’

  ‘Shit.’ Hale’s tone had changed. Perhaps he had re-evaluated his assessment of Levy’s luck. ‘So what else is there to do, then? Go public?’

  ‘Shit no.’ Levy’s answer was emphatic. ‘We can’t say for sure that Penfold’s good for this. I mean, it looks like he is but what if he isn’t? What happens if I start a nationwide manhunt and we then find out that he’s just buggered off on holiday without telling probation?’

  ‘I see that but come on, Joelle.’ Hale used Levy’s first name, meaning they were off the clock. ‘The timing? And the apartment that was never lived in? Take that into account and it’s not likely he’s doing anything innocent with his life, is it?’

  ‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean he’s massacring lawyers for pissing him off decades ago.’ Levy sighed deeply. She was exhausted. ‘It’s a mess, Steve. I realise it looks like Penfold. Shit, I’m praying that it is Penfold. But at the moment it’s just not enough. Not for a step as big as going public. If it goes wrong we’ll be annihilated by the press. Especially on this case.’

  Hale nodded. He took a sip of his drink, then looked his DCI in the eyes.

  ‘How do you do it, Joelle?’ The question seemed to come from nowhere. ‘How do you deal with all of this shit? The press. The politicians. The pressure. I’ve had it for a day and I’m whacked. You get this twenty-four seven.’

  Levy met his gaze and realised then that they had been concentrating on her problems. It reminded her that she was not just speaking to a friend, but also to a subordinate. A subordinate who needed her guidance.

  ‘You get used to it, Steve. And anyway, we are where we are.’ Levy shrugged off her previous despair. ‘It’ll all look different in the morning. It always does. So where are we with Ferris?’

  It was Hale’s turn to sigh. He did so forcefully. Then he answered.

  ‘We’re moving forward.’ He paused. ‘No, that’s a lie. We’re pursuing every lead but at the moment we’re moving bloody nowhere.’

  ‘How are the teams getting on?’

  ‘I’ve mixed them up, like you suggested. Got them to play to their strengths. We’ve got one team chasing down Ferris’s main rival. Another following up on the other less likely competitors. Then a final team researching all professional hits in recent years. To see if we can spot any similarities.’

  ‘You’ve got Pickett leading that last one, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Hale grinned. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Exactly. It feels like I’ve lost my right arm not having you or Pickett on the Longman case. So you’d better make the fact you’ve stolen her from me worthwhile.’

  ‘I will,’ Hale replied with a smile.

  ‘Good. Although even with Pickett on the job that research will take a while. There’s nothing about the MO on this that rings a bell for me.’

  ‘Nor me. I’ve never heard of a hit like this before.’

  ‘Are we still confident that’s what this was?’

  ‘More than ever. The Trident boys couldn’t have been clearer. No simple street gang could have done this to Leon Ferris and his men. Christ, if you heard the reaction of some of that team, we must be looking for Batman. That’s over the top, obviously, but I can’t see how this was anything but a professional job.’

  Levy listened carefully. As Hale spoke she reached out and took his now-empty glass and refilled it with a bigger slug than before. Then she did the same to her own.

  They both enjoyed a sip before continuing.

  ‘What’s your gut saying?’

  It was the only question Levy could ask. There was no evidence. Not yet. But that did not mean that Hale had nothing. Something only another investigator would understand.

  ‘It says we need to be looking at Ed Burrell.’ Hale’s answer was instant. ‘No one else gains out of this. Not like Burrell does.’

  ‘Burrell’s the main rival, I take it?’

  ‘That’s right. Nowhere near Ferris’s league. But a very clear second. Burrell’s the only other player in that part of London.’

  ‘Then it makes sense that it’s him.’ Levy followed Hale’s reasoning. ‘But you said there were others? Less likely but still competitors?’

  ‘Yeah, but not really. It’s more just a case of being thorough. There are other gangs in the area with ambition, but I don’t buy them for this. They’d stand to gain from offing Burrell, not Ferris. Ferris leaves a gap that they can’t hope to fill.’

  ‘But maybe you’re crediting them with too much intelligence, Steve. Maybe they don’t know they couldn’t fill it?’

  ‘I did think that, and maybe it’s right. But then I looked at the murder again. And I’m convinced that whoever did that – whoever stepped into that room and offed all four of them – that guy isn’t even on our radar. Or Trident’s. So much so that I had Pickett contact the NCA for help this afternoon, in case they recognise the MO. Whatever the outcome of that, I just don’t see one of the street gangs engaging a professional of that level to take out Ferris. Or knowing where to find such a person. No. The only player that gains from Ferris’s death and has a chance of finding that kind of a hitman is Burrell. I just know it.’

  ‘Then you know where you’re going, Steve. That’s half the battle won already.’ Levy tipped her glass at Hale as she spoke. An unspoken congratulation. Then she a took a mouthful before continuing. ‘So how long before Burrell gets a knock at his door?’

  ‘As soon as I can find a bloody excuse.’ Hale laughed. Levy was happy to see it. It was what made their job bearable. ‘And what about you? Do you think sitting in this office into the night is going to catch Wisdom Penfold any quicker? Go home, Joelle. Go home and spend some time with your son.’

  Levy smiled and got to her feet.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, taking Hale’s once-again empty glass from his hand. ‘We should both be getting home. This day’s been too long already.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Michael sat at his desk with one hand on his unopened Simon Kash working file. His eyes, though, were on something else entirely.

  Michael’s office sat at the very top of the house in what would no doubt have been the maid’s quarters years before. Converted long before Sarah’s father had bought the property, the space had been an obvious choice for a working room. Big enough for two large bookcases, three half-height floor cupboards and a comfortable L-shaped desk, it was exactly what Michael needed.

  But tonight Michael had achieved little. The encounter with Patrick O’Driscoll was still playing on his mind. But that paled into insignificance next to Michael’s real concern: the danger that faced Simon Kash.

  Michael’s eyes had been drawn to the photograph from the moment he had taken his seat. At first he had not understood why. It had sat there since the office had been furnished. And he had seen it countless times before that. But gradually he realised its significance, and with it he began to understand why saving Kash from himself had become so important to him.

  Two faces stared back at Michael from the photo. Two young men, one with blonde hair, one with brown, but unarguably brot
hers. Both younger when the photo was taken than Simon Kash now, but, Michael knew, much more streetwise. Not that it changed what was about to happen to the elder boy who, unknown to him, was just weeks away from facing allegations almost as serious as those that now hung over Kash.

  Michael’s gaze bored into the face of his dead brother, Liam. The face in the picture was the Liam that Michael preferred to remember; the young, carefree force of nature that his brother had been, rather than the violent, angry man he became in prison. A prison term that should have been Michael’s.

  You were taking bullets for me even then. A threatened tear was now staining Michael’s cheek.

  He stood up and placed the photo back onto the windowsill ahead of his desk. Hard as the memories were to take, he was grateful for the clarity it had given him. Seeing Liam so young and remembering what he had gone through for a crime he did not commit – for Michael’s crime – Michael understood his own urge to ‘save’ Simon Kash.

  Protecting Simon is the closest I’ll ever come to protecting my brother. The closest I’ll ever come to repaying him.

  The sound of chinking glass drifted through the open window, interrupting Michael’s thoughts.

  It had come from the garden patio, three floors below the office. Michael knew what it meant. Sarah and Anne were in the garden. And the wine was now flowing. He was surprised it had taken this long; Sarah might be determined to cut back Anne’s drinking, but Anne rarely took ‘no’ for an answer.

  Michael tapped the photo unconsciously, closed the office door and headed downstairs.

  In just minutes he was taking a seat in the garden, an open bottle of beer in his hand.

  ‘So, Sarah’s told me what happened after court.’ Anne did not skirt around a subject. ‘Well done for holding that temper of yours.’

  ‘I had a little help with that one.’ Michael reached out, took Sarah’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Besides, there are better ways of dealing with that sort of thing.’

  ‘You think he’ll try it again? Once you’ve really gone after his brother?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Michael was not concerned. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Whichever it is, it won’t stop me defending Simon Kash properly.’

  Sarah squeezed back, telling Michael that she agreed with the sentiment.

  ‘Do you really think your boy’s innocent, Mikey?’ Again, Anne’s question was blunt.

  ‘I absolutely believe he is, yeah. And every moment I spend with him convinces me more. He’s a child and he’s scared. He’s no murderer.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because he only has to do one thing to help get himself out of this. He only has to point the finger at his co-defendant and let me off the leash. But he won’t. Guilty clients tell me lie after lie, Anne. Whereas Simon hasn’t done that at all. He’s telling me nothing. They’ve terrified him into staying silent. Into protecting Darren O’Driscoll, at the cost of his own future. And I’m not going to let that happen.’

  Anne smiled. Michael knew why. He had heard the passion in his own voice. It sounded like he was taking the Kash case personally. Which, of course, he was. From the smile on her face, he knew that Anne had heard the same thing.

  She said nothing at first, as she took two cigarettes from her packet, passed one to Sarah and lit them both before refilling her own wine glass.

  ‘This passion of yours, Mikey. It wouldn’t have anything to do with who this kid reminds you of, would it?’

  Michael smiled wryly, always surprised by how well his friend could read him.

  ‘I guess that could be true, yeah.’ Michael placed his now-empty beer bottle on the table ahead of him. ‘It’s not everything, but yeah, when I look at him, when I see him making decisions that will hurt him, like Liam did for me, I want to protect him from himself. But it’s not just that. It’s also the evidence. It just doesn’t stack up.

  ‘I really believe that Simon’s been dragged into this and now he’s lost. Too terrified to fight for himself. Like I said, I’m not going to watch that convict him. If he can’t fight for himself then I’ll do it for him.’

  With a sad smile, Anne looked into Michael’s eyes as he spoke, before raising her glass in a toast.

  ‘Then here’s to Simon Kash. The luckiest kid in the world to have found you.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Wisdom Penfold clicked the Wi-Fi icon at the top right-hand corner of his laptop’s screen, selected the sole available network and entered in the password he had been given at the hotel’s reception. Then he waited for a connection.

  It took a little longer than he expected. He was still getting used to how the world had moved on during his years in prison. Wi-Fi was one of those changes.

  A few moments more and the connection was made. Penfold brought up the Stena Line booking page and selected the Harwich to Hook ferry, 7 a.m. on 20 June. The first of the day that still had space.

  He looked at his watch. 3 a.m. Just four more hours and he would be gone. Out of England. The first time in twenty-two years.

  And I won’t be back, he thought. I’m done here.

  The booking page asked for details. Passenger name and a bank card for payment.

  The latter was no problem. Penfold had been careful since his release. He had purchased a dormant bank account registered to someone else. Credit and debit card use was unavoidable these days. Before his imprisonment cash had been king, but it had been dethroned during his sentence. This had forced Penfold to use both types of card many times in the past few months.

  If those cards had been in his own name then a trail would have been created, and by now the police might be looking for him. With what he was doing, Penfold could not risk his real name being flagged up on any police system.

  The other requirement – travel and identity documents – was similarly dealt with. Penfold had done his homework in the past six months. Passports were getting harder and harder to fake, but without one he could not board the ferry. He could not even book the ticket.

  As difficult as fake documents might be to come by, no one was better placed to ‘know the right people’ than someone who had just spent the best part of two decades living with every type of criminal. It had not been cheap, but as Wisdom Penfold looked at the pristine burgundy passport in his hand – naming him as the same non-existent person who owned his bank account and credit cards – he knew that the investment had been worth it.

  Penfold entered the information and waited for payment to be confirmed. It took less than a minute. He then accessed his email inbox and opened his e-ticket. The ferry was confirmed.

  It was his only connection to the transaction under his own name. He had not anticipated the need for email and so he had not set up a new address under the fake name.

  He closed the laptop and packed it away. Next he undressed, carefully folding the clothes he had been wearing. To wear again tomorrow.

  Everything was in place. Tomorrow, Wisdom Penfold would leave England behind.

  Either that, or I spend the rest of my life in prison.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Steven Hale glanced at his watch as he strode into the MIT working area. 7.30 a.m.

  The place was already busy. But then Scotland Yard never sleeps. Hale scanned the floor. Looking for the members of his team, both MIT One and Trident.

  The Trident officers were the easiest to spot. They were unfamiliar with the space and had crowded in the far corner of the room. Some of the MIT One operatives were with them.

  All seemed part of the same discussion. A discussion Hale needed to hear. He made his way towards them.

  ‘What have we got?’ Hale asked as he got closer. Near enough to see that DS King had the floor. ‘Dean? What’s the news?’

  ‘News on Burrell, sir,’ King replied. ‘Might be something we can use.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He’s been muscling in.’

  ‘On who?’

  ‘On everyone, pretty much. He hasn’
t wasted any time. Almost like he knew the opportunity was coming.’

  Hale smiled. He had hoped that Burrell would show his hand. But to do so this quickly? That was unexpected.

  ‘What’s the source, Dean? Anything we can use in court? Or is it just street talk?’

  ‘Mainly street. But I think we have a few business owners who’ll come forward. People Burrell’s men have visited, looking to take over Ferris’s protection rackets. They wouldn’t have said a word against Ferris but Burrell’s not as frightening as he’d like to think.’

  Hale took a moment to think through King’s information.

  It’s something. But is it enough?

  ‘It’s too tenuous.’ Hale was a realist. ‘Word’s out about Ferris. To everyone, not just his killers. Burrell must have known which businesses Ferris was extorting. He might be stepping in fast, but it’s not enough. It doesn’t justify pulling him in.’

  ‘What about for extortion, guv?’ The question came from DS Dixon. ‘The evidence seems pretty clear on that.’

  ‘Maybe, but that’s not what we want him for. Trident can bring him in on those charges when we’re done. But if we do it now and then we ask him anything about the murder when we’ve nothing to support it? We’ll end up with a bloody mistrial.’

  Dixon seemed to understand Hale’s logic; he did not debate it further.

  King had other ideas.

  ‘What about one of Ferris’s men?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what if one of Ferris’s men told me that Burrell had approached him? Before the killing. Like, two days before.’

  ‘And said what?’