by Tony Kent
Hale felt a flutter in his stomach.
Say the right thing. This might be just what we need.
‘He was told that a change was coming,’ King said. ‘A big change. And that he would be safest if he was on the right side before it happened.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Is that not enough?’
‘It might be. But more is always better.’
‘It’s all we have, guv.’
Hale paused. His mind was racing. The attempt to poach Ferris’s man was not enough. But the talk of a big change was close and the veiled reference to the safety of Ferris’s men took it further.
I think it’s just far enough, he decided.
‘OK. I think we can work with that. But it’s got to be bang on, Dean. Are you absolutely clear on what your man was told? Because anything less than what you just said – even an inch less – and we’re sunk.’
‘It’s exactly what I just said.’
King sounded as certain as Hale needed.
‘And you’re sure he’ll stand by it?’
‘With the shit I’ve got on him, guv?’ King smiled as he spoke. ‘Yeah, he’ll stand up and be counted. I guarantee it.’
‘Then bring him in. Right away. I need a section-nine witness statement before midday.’
‘Consider it done.’
Hale turned to the rest of his team and spotted DC Campbell.
‘Anton.’
‘Guv?’
‘I want you to draw up an application for a warrant. Liaise with Dean. Get the statement from his source, then have us ready for court by 2 p.m.’
‘A warrant for where, guv?’
‘For Burrell’s place. I want this all done properly.’
Hale turned to address the full team.
‘I want every angle covered,’ he announced. ‘This has to be watertight, people. Because we’re taking this bastard tonight.’
THIRTY-FOUR
It was 8.45 a.m. as Michael left Eight Essex Court. It was unusual for him to visit chambers in the morning. At least once a trial had begun. His case papers were already at the Old Bailey, as was his court outfit, so there was nothing chambers had that he would need.
Nothing but its proximity to Temple Church.
Michael walked straight ahead as chambers’ main door closed behind him. Towards the archway and alley that led to Pump Court, then onwards to Cloisters at its end. A scattering of Tudor-era pillars sat beside Cloisters. They marked the boundary between Middle Temple and Inner Temple.
It had taken him just a minute to walk from the door of Eight Essex Court to Temple Church. Usually he would have strolled. He liked to take his time and admire the living history that had fascinated him since his first visit. But not today. Michael was here for a reason.
For a friend.
He spotted Derek Reid the moment he passed the final Cloisters pillar and entered Temple Church’s courtyard. Reid was standing alone, thirty yards – maybe more – from the door to the church.
A door at which he was staring intently.
‘Derek.’
Reid had not noticed him, nor did he react to Michael’s use of his name.
‘Derek.’
This time Michael voice was louder. It worked.
Reid turned and saw his friend.
‘Michael. What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to make sure you were OK,’ Michael explained. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘It’s not my best day, mate.’
Michael did not need to be told. He could see it in Reid’s face. In the way Reid stood. He was just about holding it together. Michael knew why.
The strength was for Longman’s sons, Michael realised. The last good turn Reid could do for his friend. He was achieving that through sheer determination, and Michael could see the toll it was taking.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, Mike. Really, nothing.’
Michael did not reply. What was there to say? He put a hand on Reid’s shoulder and turned to face the same direction as his friend. Towards the church door.
The two men stood in silence for minutes, just watching as mourners arrived. Lawyers mainly. All come to pay their respects to a giant of their profession. They were entering the church in twos and threes.
‘You need to go inside, Derek.’ Michael’s voice was soft when he finally spoke. ‘It won’t be long now.’
Reid turned and looked into Michael’s eyes. Tears were forming in his own.
‘You can’t come in?’
‘I can’t. We start at ten today. I’ve got to be there from the beginning.’
‘I know. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘Always ask, Derek. Always.’
Reid nodded his head. A tear began to trace a path down his cheek. Michael moved his arm to the back of Reid’s neck and pulled him close, hugging his friend’s head to his shoulder.
‘Just get through this,’ Michael whispered into Reid’s ear. ‘Because you’ll regret it if you don’t. Get through it.’
Michael could feel Reid nod against his shoulder. He released his grip and Reid stepped back, wiping the tears from his eyes. A smile faltered on his lips.
‘Thanks, Mike.’ Reid’s voice broke a little as he spoke. He indicated to the church door with his head. ‘I best be going, eh?’
‘I think so.’
Michael’s hand was still on Reid’s shoulder as the two men faced each other.
‘Look, when I’m done in court I can come to your place. Maybe take you out for a bite?’
‘No. No thanks. When this is all over I just want to go home. I’m going to open a bottle, get pissed and then get my head down. I’ll be no use to anyone after this.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure. Give me a few days, Mike. You just concentrate on Simon. I’ll get in touch when my head’s back together. I just need to be alone for a little while, that’s all.’
Michael could understand. Grief was nothing new to him, and he knew it was something that everyone dealt with differently. Michael’s way had been similar to Reid’s. Do what needs to be done, then go into isolation. To mourn alone.
Reid knew his own mind.
‘OK. Then take care, Derek. And call me when you’re ready for some company.’
‘I will.’ Reid reached out and hugged Michael again. He whispered in his ear before letting go. ‘Thank you, Mike.’
Michael stepped back as Reid turned and watched his friend walk away, into Temple Church. He waited until Reid was inside before turning himself, towards a second archway and alley. This one led out of the courtyard and towards Fleet Street. And it was occupied.
It had been two years since Michael had last seen Joelle Levy in the flesh. Not usually long enough for a person to change too much. In Levy’s case, she had not changed at all.
Michael did not doubt that Levy recognised him, too. One thing he remembered about her was her absolute recall. An unusual skill in anyone. It made her a difficult witness to challenge.
‘Nice to see you, Chief Inspector.’ Michael spoke as he walked towards the archway. Levy stayed still. ‘No need to ask what you’re here for.’
‘It’s always sensible to have eyes on the funeral, Mr Devlin. Freaks often turn up to see a victim buried.’
‘But you don’t think this one will, do you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You’re standing too far away for a good view. And no one’s covering the Middle Temple side of the courtyard; I just walked through. So you’ve no chance of catching him, even if you did somehow manage to spot him.’
‘Maybe you’re underestimating me, Mr Devlin. I can move fast enough when I have to.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Michael smiled broadly. He meant every word. It was obvious that Levy kept herself fit. The unflattering suit she chose to wear could not hide her athleticism. Michael changed the subject. ‘I think I should be saying “thank you”
for last night, shouldn’t I?’
‘You have your wife to thank,’ Levy replied. ‘I owed her a solid.’
‘Still, thank you. It should save me some trouble moving forward.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it. We can’t keep him longer than tonight. And he seems the stubborn sort.’
‘Also good to know. I guess I’ll have to stay alert.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem for a man like you, Mr Devlin. You’ve dealt with worse, I’m sure.’
Something in Levy’s tone said that she was sure. That she knew more about Michael Devlin than he would like.
Michael chose to ignore it. He changed the subject again.
‘So what are you really doing here, Ms Levy?’
‘Joelle,’ Levy replied. ‘I’m on first-name terms with Sarah. No reason you and I should stay formal.’
‘In that case it’s Michael, not “Mr Devlin”.’ The only polite response. A momentary tangent. ‘And since we’re now friends, Joelle, what are you really doing here?’
Levy smiled.
‘To be honest, Michael, I was hoping to speak with Derek Reid.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he defended a man called Wisdom Penfold about sixteen years ago. Between us, Michael – and I really do mean between us – we think Penfold is good for the murders. We hoped Mr Reid might be able to fill in a few blanks for us.’
Michael recognised the name, and so he closed his eyes and thought back. He did not possess the total recall enjoyed by Levy, but he was a good second.
He had what he was looking for in moments.
‘Yeah, I remember that case.’
‘Were you involved?’
‘No. But it wasn’t long after I was Derek’s pupil. So I still had an unhealthy interest in his career. All ex-pupils do. They use it as sort of a guide to where they want to go themselves. Plus Wisdom Penfold’s an unusual name. Hard to forget.’
‘Is there anything you can tell me about the case?’
‘Not a whole lot. Derek didn’t go into specifics. But I remember that Penfold was a nasty piece of work. So yes, maybe he’s a good call on the murders. He certainly seemed capable of that level of violence.’
‘Do you think Mr Reid could tell me more?’
‘Definitely. Derek’s got a mind like a safe. A bit like your own, Joelle.’
Levy smiled. It made Michael smile in return.
‘You should do that more often,’ he said. ‘It makes you look a lot less intimidating.’
‘Maybe I want to be intimidating,’ Levy laughed.
‘Just take the friendly advice!’ Michael was still laughing as he reached into his suit pocket and took out a white business card. He handed it to Levy. ‘My number’s on there, Joelle. If I can help with anything that comes up, then just call. For now, though, I have to go. I’ve a trial starting at ten and I’m almost late.’
‘Understood.’ Levy took the card. She swapped it for one of her own and handed hers to Michael. ‘Sarah already has my number, but in case you need it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No, Michael. Thank you. It’s been helpful.’
Michael smiled a final time. Levy did the same. She then stepped aside, giving Michael room to pass. He took it and Levy watched him go. She was still watching when Michael stopped at the end of the alley and turned to face her.
‘Something just occurred to me,’ Michael said. ‘If Wisdom Penfold is your man, and he’s come after both the judge and the defence solicitor, doesn’t that make Derek a target? As his defence barrister?’
‘Potentially,’ Levy replied. ‘But don’t worry, he has protection. I’ve already authorised a team outside his house from tonight.’
‘You might need to send them a little earlier,’ Michael suggested. ‘Because once this is over and Phillip Longman is buried, Derek’s heading home to drink himself into a stupor.’
‘Understood. Then they’ll be there from this afternoon.’
Michael nodded. Satisfied.
‘Thanks, then, Joelle. Again.’
Michael turned as soon as he finished speaking. In a heartbeat he was on his way. Left from the archway. Towards Fleet Street and the Old Bailey.
Levy reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. If Michael was right – if Reid was going to be home earlier than the evening – then she needed to rearrange his protection detail.
She tapped ‘work’. The call was answered before the phone had reached her ear.
‘Dylan, it’s Levy. I need you to revisit the arrangements for a protect—’
‘Ma’am, we were just about to call you. We’ve found him. We know where Penfold is.’
‘Where?’
‘In the middle of the North Sea, ma’am. He’s booked on the 7 a.m. Harwich to Hook ferry.’
‘Hook?’
‘A port in the Netherlands, ma’am.’
‘How did we find him?’ Levy felt a mixture of satisfaction and concern. ‘Is he travelling under his own name?’
‘No, ma’am. He’s travelling under the name Clive Fountain. That’s why his passport wasn’t flagged up on boarding. But the e-ticket was sent to his personal email address. We found his email address on a separate data sweep, which led us to the ticket.’
Levy hesitated. It seemed a sloppy mistake for so meticulous a killer. But then Penfold had missed the explosion of email use that had occurred while he was in prison. Perhaps the mistake was explicable.
‘What’s the journey time for that ferry?’
‘Approximately six and a half hours.’
‘And London to Harwich by chopper. How long will that take?’
Levy could hear Dylan typing before he answered. He was no doubt Googling the answer.
‘About forty-five minutes, ma’am,’ Dylan answered.
‘Perfect. Get a chopper scrambled. I’ll be at the helipad in twenty minutes.’
‘Ma’am, to get a helicopter at this notice I’ll need—’
‘I don’t care what you need to do, Dylan. Just make sure the bloody chopper’s there when I arrive. Then contact the ferry. Tell them to keep going for another thirty minutes. Then turn around and head back to Harwich Port.’
‘You don’t want them to turn back now? Why?’
‘I haven’t got time to explain myself, Dylan. Just do exactly what I say. Now.’
Levy pressed the red disconnect icon. Her heart was racing. Her adrenaline spiking.
There was no time to be irritated by her assistant’s questions, because only one thought now occupied Levy’s mind.
We’ve got him.
THIRTY-FIVE
It was the wet sea air that surprised Wisdom Penfold the most. That the sensation was so welcome.
Penfold had missed many things during his years in prison. And like most long-term inmates, what he was denied had become an obsession. The touch of a woman. The taste of a cold beer. The feel of a good suit. These had been what Penfold had pined for. But now, with the sea air whipping into his face as he left England behind, he could think of nothing he had missed more.
Penfold looked around the upper deck. At the other passengers. At the crew. All were making the most of the weather. Basking in the heat that had settled during their two and a half hours at sea. The morning had been cold, just like every other in the past month. But then the sun rose higher in the sky, replacing the cold with its burning rays.
The risk of being caught while travelling on a passport that read Clive Fountain had always been a small one, but it was still a relief to be clear of the port. He had felt a small thrill as he passed every British checkpoint without inquiry. The fear of being stopped was natural for a man who had committed such crimes, but he was going to have to learn to stop looking over his shoulder. Even now, he could feel the paranoia setting in.
It had started when they were still in the port. A man and a woman, apparently a couple. Something about them had bothered him, though he could not say what. But when the woman
had met his eye twice while queuing for the ferry and the man had visibly avoided doing the same, Penfold’s hackles had risen. He had forced them back down after watching them furtively for a few minutes. The couple had done nothing suspicious.
Penfold stared out to sea. He was not admiring the view. Instead he was thinking. Of the past. Of the future. Of how to make the transition from one to the other.
The past weeks had taken years of planning. Countless hours in his cell, plotting and perfecting every aspect of the crime to come. Now it was over. He had done what he needed to do. All debts were paid and he could look forward to a life free from his past. Free from the things that had weighed him down. And now free from England. The country that had imprisoned him. The country he hated.
He turned, leaned his back against the rail of the ship and raised his face to the sun. Within minutes he could feel his skin burning. Penfold did not care. He had been pale for far too long.
It can sometimes be difficult to gauge time. To have any sense of whether minutes or hours have passed. Different factors can influence it. Including the sun, which can be almost hypnotic.
This happened to Wisdom Penfold on the upper deck of the Harwich to Hook ferry. He lost all track of time as he enjoyed the feel of the sun on his skin.
Right up until the moment the ship began to turn.
Penfold had grown used to the movement of the ferry. The rhythm with which it rode the waves. Nothing about it bothered him. At least not until now.
The feeling as the boat now moved to its left was different. Not at first. At first it could be ignored. But a full minute later and it was still turning. At this speed, that meant a full ninety degrees. Enough to change the shadows on the deck and to cast them onto Penfold himself.
Confirmation of his worst fear.
We’re turning around.
Penfold’s heart began to race. His grip on his rucksack doubled as he moved along the deck. As fast as he could risk without drawing attention to himself.
A short distance away was a crewman. Not a steward, instead someone who looked like he might actually know something. Penfold headed straight for him.
‘Excuse me.’ Penfold tried to seem unconcerned. ‘We seem to be turning around. Are we?’
