by Tony Kent
Penfold glared at Levy with unadulterated malice, but still he did not speak. He did not know why, or even if it was still the best course. But until he knew more he would not risk giving an answer that could mean more trouble than even he deserved.
‘For the benefit of the tape then, Mr Penfold, you are unwilling to tell us your whereabouts when former Lord Chief Justice Phillip Longman and Mr Adam Blunt were murdered in their own homes, on the 16th and the 18th of June respectively.’
Startled, Penfold’s jaw literally dropped. He had been chased down by Scotland Yard, forced back to British soil, nearly drowned, and they had not even come after him for the right crime.
Of all the dumb fucking luck.
His shocked reaction was not lost on the woman, he could see that. When she spoke again her words tumbled out fast, concern evident in her voice.
‘Mr Penfold, again for the benefit of the tape, you seem to be expressing considerable surprise at the few questions I’ve asked so far. Am I misinterpreting your body language, Mr Penfold? Or is there something you wish to tell us?’
Penfold looked from Levy to Chadwick. Then to Hughes. He was searching for something. Reassurance? An explanation? He didn’t know himself, but nothing was coming.
Enough was enough.
‘What the fuck are you goin’ on about?’
Penfold’s voice was deep. That was unsurprising; he was a big man, as tall as Chadwick and wider than Steven Hale. Levy had already noticed his arms, which seemed to have no wrists. Just thick forearms that connected directly to huge hammer fists.
‘What I’m going on about, Mr Penfold, are the murders of Phillip Longman and Adam Blunt. The murders for which you were arrested.’
‘The what?’ Penfold’s shock was convincing. ‘Are you fuckin’ serious?’
‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ The answer came from Chadwick.
‘Yeah, I’m ’ere. But not for that, surely?’
Levy’s unease was worsening. His reaction seemed much too real to be an act. She pressed on, desperately hoping that she was wrong.
‘What else, Mr Penfold? What else did you think you were arrested for?’
‘Not the fuckin’ murder of a judge. And definitely not Adam fuckin’ Blunt. I ’ad nothin’ to do with any of that. I couldn’t ’ave. I didn’t even know Blunt was alive, let alone that someone killed ’im.’
Levy glanced towards Chadwick. He shook his head. Almost imperceptibly. It seemed that he had read Penfold’s reaction in the same way. It seemed genuine.
But they could not just accept their instincts. Penfold had to be tested.
Levy turned back to the suspect.
‘Mr Penfold, the judge who sentenced you to life imprisonment was murdered four days ago. Your lawyer, who refused to appeal that sentence, was murdered two days ago. Both in an identical and highly unusual way. In the weeks leading up to these crimes you abandoned your reporting responsibilities as a paroled offender on a life licence, which allowed you to go off the radar. And then today you attempted to flee the country. In the course of your capture you assaulted two individuals. Both of whom are currently critical in hospital, one of whom is unlikely to survive the night. Do you expect us to believe that this is all coincidence?’
‘I don’t give a shit what you believe.’ Penfold seemed outraged. ‘I’ve done what I’ve done, but I ain’t bein’ put on offer for two murders I knew nothin’ about. Am I upset the old bastards are dead? No. No I ain’t. Not one bit. But I didn’t kill either of ’em.’
‘Then what were you running from today?’ Chadwick asked the obvious question. ‘Because you were running, weren’t you?’
‘Wad’ you fink? Did I look like I fancied a fuckin’ swim?’
‘Then what was it, Mr Penfold?’ Levy asked. She could not believe the direction this had taken, but she was determined to follow it to the end. ‘You were so desperate to get off of that boat that you nearly killed two people. One of them probably will die. And you jumped from the top deck. Nearly one hundred feet. What was all that for? What were you running from?’
‘Oh, tha’s clever.’ Penfold’s voice had dropped. It was deeper. Almost conspiratorial. ‘Is that what this is? You accuse me of somefin’ massive so I’ll start talkin’? So I use somefin’ else as an alibi? What kind of a mug d’you take me for, eh? Eh?’
Levy glanced at Chadwick, who again shook his head. Penfold’s last question had clinched it. The man was telling the truth and it felt like a punch to the gut.
‘I’ve no interest in anything else you might or might not have done, Mr Penfold. We’re here to find whoever killed Longman and Blunt. If we’re to count you out as a suspect then we need to know. What were you running for if it wasn’t Phillip Longman and Adam Blunt?’
‘YOU KNOW FULL WELL WHAT IT WAS ABOUT!’
Penfold bellowed the words, slamming his cuffed hands on the table as he shouted. It must have sent an agonising jolt through his injured shoulder, Levy observed.
‘THEY WERE YOUR PEOPLE THAT TRIED TO STOP ME. YOU KNOW WHY THOSE COPPERS WERE THERE. SO DON’T TAKE ME FOR A FOOL!’
Levy looked towards Chadwick. It was her turn to be confused, and Chadwick had no explanation to offer; he seemed even more bewildered.
She turned back to Penfold. Her heart had started to race with the implications of his last words.
‘What “coppers”, Wisdom? The two people you hurt on the boat? Or someone else?’
Levy could not hide her concern or her confusion. She heard it in her voice, and from the ugly smile that now tugged at Penfold’s lips she knew that he could read it on her face.
And she could tell that he was suddenly enjoying every moment.
‘Are you saying that the man and woman were police officers? Or have you hurt someone else?’ The desperation was still there, impossible to hide. And Levy did not even try. The entire agenda had shifted. Longman and Blunt were no longer Levy’s first concern. The safety of other police officers had taken their place.
‘Have you hurt someone else?’
Penfold’s smile only widened in response to Levy’s raised voice. He shook his head in amusement and fixed his eyes on Levy’s. But he made no attempt to answer.
And nor will he, Levy thought. Not when he thinks he has the upper hand.
‘This interview is suspended.’
Levy reached across Chadwick and pressed ‘stop’ on the tape machine. She stood up and opened the door to the interview room where two Essex Police officers stood guard. They were big men. Neither as large as Penfold, but enough for an injured, handcuffed man.
‘Take him to his cell.’
The two officers did as instructed, taking Penfold by his arms and pulling him towards the door. Levy turned away as he passed, determined not to see his gloating face for a moment more.
She waited until he was gone before turning to Chadwick.
‘Get to the hospital. Find out what you can about the couple from the boat.’
‘What about Longman and Blunt?’
‘Forget about them for now. This is our priority for the moment.’
‘Do you really think the couple he attacked were on the job?’
‘I have no idea. All I know is Penfold’s not our man, but he was running from something. Maybe another squad was on to him for something, which means that we might have two coppers in hospital fighting for their lives. Right now, that’s what matters.’
FORTY
‘So is that it, Mr Devlin? Does that mean I can go home?’
Simon Kash sat in his regular seat in Interview Room Six. For the first time it did not seem to swallow him. Kash was still small, but he finally seemed energised.
‘We’re not even close to that, Simon.’ Michael was sorry to disappoint him. To see the hope in Kash’s eyes begin to fade. ‘It’s just one witness. There’s a lot still to come.’
‘But he agreed my phone wasn’t there at the murder. That it wasn’t with Darren’s phone?’
‘That’s right, Simon
, but what does that actually prove? It proves your phone wasn’t there. It doesn’t prove that you weren’t there. It isn’t like you and your phone can never be apart, is it?’
‘But we weren’t apart, Mr Devlin. I had my phone with me the whole time. I always do.’
Michael was pleased to see some passion. It was about time.
The separation from O’Driscoll is starting to work.
‘I know that, Simon. But we’ve no evidence of that beyond your word. And the Crown still has evidence that they say puts you at the scene.’
‘You mean Terry Colliver? But he’s a liar, Mr Devlin. I was never there.’
‘I know that too. And I’ll try to prove that, Simon. But that’s for later. That’s still to come.’
Kash seemed to deflate. It made him look more childlike. As if Michael had taken away a new toy. Michael could not help but feel for him. He did not want him to lose hope.
‘Look, Simon. I’m not saying that we didn’t make great progress today. We did. It just wasn’t quite as much as you’d like to think. It was very important that we undermined the phone evidence, because it was important evidence. And now it’s gone.’
‘It’s better than gone,’ Jenny Draper interrupted. The first time she had spoken since Kash had been brought into the room. ‘Now it’s evidence for us, Simon. To support that you were somewhere else.’
‘But only to an extent.’ Michael did not appreciate Draper’s contribution. He did not believe in false hope. A sharp glance was enough to tell her exactly that. ‘Like I said, it proves that your phone wasn’t there.’
‘But I don’t understand.’ Kash was as engaged as Michael had ever seen him. ‘Why is it evidence for the prosecution but not evidence for us?’
‘It is evidence for us, Simon.’ Michael was surprised by the question. Kash was much more incisive – and much more confident – than he had ever been. ‘But in the same way that your phone being there isn’t absolute proof that you’re there, the phone not being there doesn’t automatically mean that you’re not.’
Kash did not reply immediately and Michael did not rush him. He’d been startled but pleased by the uncustomary flash of spirit, and he wished that he had not been forced to dampen it with his answer. But still, even that single moment was progress.
It’s got to be the separation from O’Driscoll. It’s doing exactly what I’d hoped.
‘What about the final call?’ It was Draper who broke the silence. ‘Simon’s phone is still located close to the scene on the last call. Close to Darren’s.’
Kash looked at Michael for an answer.
‘That depends on what Simon tells us.’ Their case still depended on Kash’s instructions; neither Michael nor Draper – nor any barrister – could just invent the facts of a defence. They needed Kash to understand that. ‘Because there are possibilities, aren’t there? It could be that the signal was picked up by the nearest available mast while Simon was half a mile away, and that the same mast just happened to be the one nearest to O’Driscoll’s phone while he was finishing up with the Galloways. That’s possible. But it’s also very weak, especially after everything we achieved with the phone expert this afternoon.’
Michael paused and waited for Kash to look up. He needed Kash to understand this – to engage – because if he did not then they had lost, phones or no phones. He did not speak again until Kash had met his eye.
‘Another possibility, of course, is that Simon was there after the murder,’ he continued, satisfied that Kash was giving him his full attention. ‘It’s possible that Simon was ordered by Darren O’Driscoll – via a third party – to come and collect him, because Darren needed to get away from the scene of the crime. If Simon did as he was told by Darren then that would explain why his phone was present just before O’Driscoll left the scene.
‘Those are the two possibilities I can see from the evidence, Simon. Either catastrophic bad luck with a phone mast, or you were doing what you always do, and by that I mean you were doing what Darren ordered you to do. I don’t know which is true – I have a strong suspicion but I don’t know – but you do. And I need you to tell me so I can win this fight for you. Because if I’m right and the answer is scenario two and you gave me permission to prove it, well, then you just might have a chance of going home.’
Michael stopped speaking. He had taken it far enough.
Kash had looked down again at the suggestion of O’Driscoll summoning him to the scene. In the same moment his visible discomfort returned. Michael read the body language for what it was. Confirmation that the ‘second possibility’ was not a possibility at all. It was the truth.
Michael tapped Draper’s hand and indicated towards Kash with a movement of his head. A signal for her to step in.
‘Is that what happened, Simon?’ Draper’s voice was light as she performed the delicate balancing act between charm and authority. She did so expertly. ‘Were you forced to collect O’Driscoll? To drive him away? Is that what happened?’
Kash looked up, deep into Draper’s eyes. Michael could see that he wanted to answer, to give Draper the thing she sought
Between us we’re breaking through.
‘You can tell us, Simon,’ Draper continued. ‘You’re safe now. O’Driscoll can’t touch you. Just tell us and we’ll make sure it stays that way.’
Michael watched as Draper worked. The effect on Kash could not be clearer. Or more understandable. Draper’s charms had worked on far more confident men, Michael knew. Directed against a bullied, inexperienced boy when the rest of world was against him? Kash did not stand a chance.
Thank God she’s on his side, Michael thought.
‘I . . . I can’t.’ Finally Kash spoke. ‘I want to. I swear I do. But I can’t. If I tell you the truth about what happened then I’ll end up dead. I know I will.’
‘How, Simon?’ Michael stepped in. ‘If you tell us the truth then Darren O’Driscoll will be in prison for the rest of his life. He can’t hurt you from where he’ll be.’
‘He’s not the only O’Driscoll, Mr Devlin.’
Kash’s answer was simple. Darren’s brother, Patrick. A man willing to threaten Michael in the street.
Michael had not found Patrick intimidating. But Kash would. Michael now regretted that he had not given in to his instinct and hospitalised Patrick O’Driscoll when he had the chance. Not for himself, or even for Sarah, but for the scared boy sitting across from him now.
‘I don’t want you to worry about Patrick O’Driscoll.’ Kash raised his head. He seemed surprised that Michael knew the name. ‘He’s not worth your time, Simon. And he’s definitely not worth a life sentence.’
Kash shook his head. His eyes began to fill with tears.
‘I can’t talk about any of this,’ he said. ‘I really can’t. I just want to go back to my cell.’
‘Simon, I . . .’
‘I want to go back to my cell, Mr Devlin. Please.’
Michael studied Kash, wondering if now was the time to push the issue. He quickly concluded that it was not.
‘OK, Simon. You go. We’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Thank you, Mr Devlin.’
Kash rose to his feet and reached out his right hand. It was the first time he had instigated a shake. Michael returned the gesture and felt Kash’s small hand disappear into his own.
‘And Mr Devlin,’ Kash spoke in a voice now close to a whisper, ‘thank you for today.’
FORTY-ONE
Derek Reid glanced to his right, towards the red wine glass that sat on the small table next to his leather chair. The glass was empty. Just a drop of Burgundy and a little sediment to show for the three bottles it had held so far today.
Reid had been home for three hours, give or take.
Phillip Longman’s funeral service in Temple Church had taken an hour. It had been sombre and respectful, a fine tribute to a man who deserved it. Most mourners had left at its end, their respects paid. Those that remained had followed the hearse fro
m Temple to Mortlake Cemetery in South West London – Surrey, practically – where Longman was finally buried.
The wake that followed was a final obligation. Reid did not want to be there; he wanted to grieve alone, in his own way. But he could not leave Russell Longman to deal with the wake alone, and Russell’s brothers were sure to be no help. One of them – Matthew – was an unassuming man lost in his own grief. The other – Peter – was an abrasive, combative sod at the best of times; a problem, not a solution. So Reid had put off his own need to mourn and had accompanied Russell Longman to his home, where the wake was held.
An entire afternoon of manners and small talk. The last thing Reid wanted as he held back his own tears.
It was gone 3 p.m. by the time Reid reached his front door, exhausted and emotional. An entire morning and half an afternoon before Reid had the opportunity to properly grieve, in the only way he knew how.
Reid had always been a man with passions. In his younger days it had been women that drove him; the reason for his three failed marriages and why his personal worth had plummeted with each divorce. He had finally learned his lesson and had since grown to concentrate on his other passions: food and wine.
The first kept him overweight. The second kept him short of cash.
Within forty minutes Reid had made himself a gourmet meal. Fillet steak topped with creamy wild mushroom, onions and truffle shavings. Accompanied by fat, triple-cooked chips, first prepared the evening before. Next he selected a 2005 Maison Joseph Drouhin Chambertin. An expensive Burgundy red. £100 per bottle at retail. Far too expensive for Reid to drink alone. At least on any other day.
Neither the food nor the first bottle had lasted long. Reid worked through both in the reclining leather chair in his living room. His fifty-inch wall-mounted television had kept him company, playing a stream of recorded comedy from his TiVo.
Good food. Fine wine. The distraction of humour. Exactly what he needed.
Two more bottles had followed. Four more recorded shows. The comedies were increasingly just background noise, breaking the silence of the house. With each glass Reid thought more about Longman. About his loss. Until finally he could properly mourn his oldest friend.
