Jaws of Death

by Paul Adam

  ‘For you, and for me. Let me tell you what happened when I started asking questions about Penhall. I was called in to see the commissioner – he’s the overall head of the Met – who told me to drop my enquiries. Well, he didn’t tell me, he ordered me. He said that if I carried on asking questions, my career would be in jeopardy. Basically, he threatened to sack me. Now, in thirty-five years as a police officer, that’s never happened to me before. Rupert Penhall, whoever he is, is clearly a man with friends in very high places. Which is why I was so mysterious on the phone. Partly for my own safety, and partly for yours, Max. I think it’s better that no one knows we’re having this meeting.’

  Richardson broke off for a moment to look at the door. Two new customers were just coming in – two women, both elderly, both carrying bags of shopping. The detective relaxed – nothing to worry about there – and turned back to Max.

  ‘It’s your turn now. What exactly are you up to, Max?’

  Max paused to collect his thoughts. Where did he begin? How much should he tell the chief superintendent? How much should he leave out? It was a tricky one to call, and in the end he decided to be open and tell him everything.

  ‘Last time we met,’ Max began, ‘I said I’d been to Santo Domingo to look for evidence to prove that my mum didn’t kill my dad. I said her trial was rigged, the judge was corrupt, but I didn’t tell you the most important bit. I found evidence that my dad’s alive.’

  Richardson gave a start of surprise. ‘Alive?’

  Max nodded. ‘I found a letter he’d left hidden for me. A letter written only a few weeks ago. He said he’d been ill for the past two years, had lost his memory. He was a lot better now, he said, but he couldn’t come out of hiding because he was frightened he’d be killed.’

  ‘Killed? Killed by whom?’ Richardson asked.

  ‘He didn’t say. But I think he meant a rich businessman named Julius Clark.’ Max paused again. ‘This is going to sound incredible, but please believe me, it’s all true.’

  He told the detective about Shadow Island, about finding his father’s medical file, about his confrontation with Julius Clark, about Chris Moncrieffe, about their eventual escape from the island – the whole story. As he finished, it felt as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders. Richardson was a police officer, a senior officer with a lot of authority. Having him on his side was an immense relief.

  The chief superintendent was silent for a while. Max ate the rest of his brownie while he waited for a response. Then Richardson exhaled deeply.

  ‘You’re right, it does sound incredible.’

  ‘But it all happened,’ Max said quickly. ‘I swear.’

  ‘I believe you, Max, don’t worry. But I’ve never heard of Julius Clark. Who is he?’

  ‘Some kind of international tycoon, a billionaire. He’s very secretive. I couldn’t find out much about him. But he’s got lots of connections with politicians.’

  The detective fell silent again. He stroked his bristly moustache pensively, staring down at his half-finished cup of tea. ‘I don’t like the sound of any of this,’ he said slowly. ‘We’re poking around in some very murky waters, and we don’t know what we’re going to find at the bottom.’

  ‘There’s something else you should know,’ Max said.

  He told the chief superintendent about their visit to Redmond Ashworth-Ames and their crash on the way home.

  Richardson sat bolt upright in alarm. ‘My God, Max! Someone tried to kill you?’

  ‘That’s how it seemed.’

  ‘Did you get the number of the other vehicle?’

  ‘No. It was dark, I was scared – everything happened so fast. I wasn’t thinking about things like number plates.’

  ‘You should have reported it to the police. They might have been able to trace the car. Why didn’t you?’

  Max hesitated. ‘There were reasons,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Chris was driving. The police would have wanted his name, they’d have asked questions. And Penhall is after Chris. He asked about him when he searched our house. I think part of the reason for the search was to find Chris.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe because he’s an ex-soldier and Penhall thinks he’s more of a threat than Consuela and me.’

  ‘Does Penhall know about Shadow Island?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think he must. I think Julius Clark must have high-up connections in the British government. Nothing else makes sense.’

  ‘You mean Penhall is protecting Clark, working indirectly for him?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Richardson swore softly, almost inaudibly. He was tense. The café door clicked open again and he glanced round hurriedly. But it was only a young, smartly dressed woman coming in. The detective gave her a cursory inspection, then turned his attention back to Max.

  ‘What do you know about Chris Moncrieffe?’

  ‘Only what I’ve told you. He was working for an environmental charity in the Amazon just before he was taken to Shadow Island, but he used to be a soldier, and also worked in the security business, whatever that is.’

  ‘Security?’ Richardson said. ‘That can mean almost anything. Bodyguarding, surveillance work, muscle for hire – you know what I mean? Working privately in trouble spots like Iraq and Africa. It’s a dodgy business to be in.’

  ‘Chris is a good guy.’

  ‘You sure? Maybe the terrorism thing is true. You thought about that? Maybe Chris Moncrieffe is involved in something illegal, something that’s got the attention of Penhall.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Max said firmly. ‘I’d trust him with my life. In fact, I probably owe him my life. Without Chris, I’d never have got away from Shadow Island. As I told you last time, all that stuff about terrorism is rubbish. Something else is going on here.’

  He pushed his glass of Coke and plate to one side and rested his arms on the table, leaning earnestly towards the chief superintendent. ‘Did you manage to find out anything about the documents Penhall took from me? Where they are … how I get them back?’

  Richardson shook his head. ‘I was told to drop my enquiries before I got that far.’

  ‘So what do I do now? I need those papers – they’re important.’

  ‘Do you have a lawyer in London? Have you consulted anyone about your mum’s case?’

  ‘There’s a guy named Malcolm Fielding,’ Max said. ‘He’s been handling the case. Well, supposedly handling it. We haven’t seen any results from him yet.’

  ‘Talk to him. He can find out what’s happened to your papers and make a formal application to get them back. And I’ll keep digging around for more information about Julius Clark and Rupert Penhall.’

  ‘Even though your boss told you to lay off?’

  ‘Even more so since he told me to lay off. I don’t like that. I’m a straight copper. I don’t like being told what questions I can or can’t ask. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Max, take my word for it.’

  The chief superintendent looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get back to the office. You OK for getting home?’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  Richardson held out his hand. Max shook it.

  ‘We’ll keep in touch, Max.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for your help.’

  NINE

  They left the café one after the other, Chief Superintendent Richardson going first, Max waiting a couple of minutes before he went out into the street. He walked to St James’s Park station and got on the tube. He was on his guard again, watching the other passengers carefully, but he saw no sign that anyone was following him.

  Consuela and Chris were waiting for him in the kitchen when he got home, and they didn’t look happy.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Consuela asked sharply. ‘I was starting to get worried.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Max said. ‘I got delayed. I should have called you.’

  He took a couple of biscuits from the cupboard and poured himself a glass of juice,
sticking to his normal routine, then nodded at them – signalling – and went down into the basement. Consuela and Chris followed.

  ‘Where were you?’ Consuela said, her voice concerned. ‘I thought something must have happened to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Max apologized again. ‘I should have phoned.’

  ‘What do you mean, you got “delayed”?’

  ‘I went to meet Chief Superintendent Richardson.’

  ‘The policeman who took part in the show last week? Why?’

  ‘I asked him for help,’ Max said. ‘To find out about Penhall; to get my papers back.’

  He told them about the meeting, what Richardson had said, how worried the detective had been. There was a moment’s silence when Max had finished. Then Chris let out an expletive.

  ‘This doesn’t sound good,’ he said. ‘Not good at all.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Consuela frowned. ‘This man, Penhall, what is he? A civil servant? A government bureaucrat?’

  ‘Richardson didn’t know,’ Max told her. ‘But whoever he is, he’s dangerous. We need to get a move on, start following up our other leads.’

  He took a few paces around the room. He was tense, bursting with pent-up energy. ‘Those five names – the other prisoners who were kept on Shadow Island: James Abbott, Narang Anwar, Sergei Alekseev, Redmond Ashworth-Ames and Erik Blomkvist. The first three we know nothing about, so we need to focus on the remaining two. Their jobs are important. They both worked for environmental charities. So did you, Chris. You were in the Amazon, Redmond Ashworth-Ames worked in Borneo – both tropical rainforest areas that are under threat from development. Ashworth-Ames is too ill to help us. That means we have to concentrate on the Swede, Erik Blomkvist.’

  ‘But Blomkvist is missing, presumed dead,’ Consuela said.

  ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t find out more about him. His background, his life, how he disappeared. If we can piece together that information, it might just give us a breakthrough, move our investigation on.’

  Max paused, looking at Consuela, then Chris. ‘We need to go to Sweden.’

  ‘Max—’ Consuela began.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ he broke in quickly. ‘Blomkvist is our only lead. We have to go, Consuela, and I’ll need you with me.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Chris said. ‘There’s no way I’m letting you go alone.’

  ‘The police are looking for you,’ Max said. ‘They’ll have your name at all the airports – they’ll be watching out for you.’

  ‘Not if I travel under a different name, on a new passport.’

  ‘You can get a false passport?’

  Chris grinned. ‘With friends like mine, I can get anything.’

  Max turned to Consuela. ‘We have to do it, you know that. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied hesitantly.

  ‘Look, someone tried to kill us on Friday night. Do you want to wait around doing nothing until they try again?’

  Consuela was silent for a time. Chris prompted her gently. ‘Max is right, you know.’

  Consuela sighed, then gave a nod. ‘OK, we’ll go to Sweden.’

  Rupert Penhall had been inside the house several times before, but its opulence still took his breath away. The big, high-ceilinged rooms with their ornate plaster mouldings, the cut-glass chandeliers, the thick Persian rugs, the antique furniture – everything reeked of money. A lot of money.

  A maid in a black-and-white uniform showed him into the front room and left him there. Penhall looked around at the expensive furnishings. There was a mahogany sideboard in one corner, two richly upholstered sofas and three armchairs arranged around a low circular table whose surface was inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl. A large, gilt-framed mirror occupied the space over the fireplace and there were paintings on the walls – a Monet, a Degas, a Matisse, all originals. The paintings alone must have cost fifty million pounds, but fifty million was small change to a man like Julius Clark.

  Penhall went to the wide bay window and gazed out across the road at Regent’s Park, the trees and lawns hazy in the evening light. He was on edge, which was unusual for him. His family background and his education had given him a confidence, an arrogance, that made him feel superior to almost everyone. But not to Julius Clark. Clark made him nervous.

  ‘Ah, Rupert, it’s good of you to come.’

  Penhall turned to see Julius Clark coming through the door. The atmosphere, the temperature, seemed to change abruptly. The room felt distinctly colder, as if Clark had brought with him his own arctic microclimate.

  He looked at Penhall, his pale blue eyes glittering like winter frost behind his rimless spectacles. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Penhall said.

  Clark sat down in one of the armchairs. He was wearing a dinner jacket and black bow tie, diamond cufflinks sparkling on the sleeves of his white dress shirt. He crossed his legs carefully, adjusting the knees of his trousers to preserve their knife-edge creases, then gestured at the sofa. ‘Please.’

  Penhall didn’t feel like sitting down, but he did as he was asked. There was something about Clark – his presence, his air of authority – that meant you didn’t dare to disobey him.

  Clark glanced at his watch, a silver Rolex with diamonds and rubies around the dial. ‘You have ten minutes,’ he said curtly. ‘I have to attend a dinner in the City. Bankers, financiers … the Chancellor of the Exchequer will be there; the Governor of the Bank of England too.’

  The message was clear – I mix with powerful people, and don’t you forget it.

  Penhall got straight to the point of his visit. ‘Max Cassidy has been meeting a very senior policeman named John Richardson. My men followed them to a café near Scotland Yard last week and again today. Richardson has been making enquiries about me. I have no doubt that he’s doing it for Max.’

  Clark raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s a resourceful boy. A troublesome boy. But then we knew that already from his actions in Santo Domingo. Shadow Island is a useless, burned-out ruin, thanks to him.’

  ‘But you’re going to rebuild it, aren’t you?’

  ‘I could, but I don’t intend to.’

  Penhall’s face registered surprise. ‘You don’t? But the programme, surely—’

  ‘The programme will continue,’ Clark interrupted tersely. ‘That goes without saying. It will simply be moved.’

  ‘Moved where?’

  ‘To Kamchatka.’

  ‘In Russia?’

  ‘It will make an excellent location. Even better than Shadow Island. It’s remote, inaccessible, and the Russians will turn a blind eye to our activities. Arrangements are already being made to move the scientists there. The lab should be up and running before the end of the month. But we digress. You were telling me about Max Cassidy.’

  ‘He worries me. He’s not giving up. He knows about Redmond Ashworth-Ames.’

  ‘Ashworth-Ames is an invalid in a wheelchair, a gibbering wreck,’ Clark said dismissively. ‘What harm can he do us?’

  ‘None now, but what if he recovers? What if his memory returns – his power of speech?’

  ‘We will deal with that if and when we have to. You are still monitoring Cassidy’s phones, I assume?’

  Penhall nodded. ‘Yes. But what else does Max Cassidy know? That’s what concerns me. If he knows about Ashworth-Ames, perhaps he knows about the others.’

  ‘He’s heard nothing more from his father?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  Clark removed his spectacles and polished them carefully with a silk handkerchief he’d taken from his jacket pocket. ‘Alexander Cassidy is the real danger to us,’ he said. ‘I was hoping we could use Max as bait to lure his father out of hiding. But it doesn’t seem to be working so far, and the boy is becoming an increasing nuisance.’

  ‘My little warning – having his car forced off the road – doesn’t seem to have deterred him,’ Penhall said.

  Clark rep
laced his glasses, then folded his handkerchief neatly into quarters and slipped it away into his pocket. ‘Then perhaps stronger measures are required,’ he said. ‘A more effective warning.’

  ‘He’s not alone. He has allies. We have to think about them.’

  ‘Allies? Who do you mean? The woman, Consuela Navarra – she is no threat.’

  ‘But Moncrieffe may be. He was a soldier. He won’t be easy to deal with.’

  ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘Not yet. We suspect he may have been driving the car near Henley. But it was dark – impossible to be sure.’

  ‘I’m not impressed, Rupert.’

  Clark’s piercing eyes bored into Penhall, who suppressed a shiver. He felt as if he were being impaled on an icicle.

  ‘We’re doing our best,’ he said, aware that it was a feeble reply.

  ‘Really? You disappoint me, Rupert. I expect results.’

  ‘He’s lying low somewhere. Don’t worry, we’ll find him and take care of him.’

  ‘See that you do.’

  ‘Then there’s Chief Superintendent Richardson. He’s been asking awkward questions. He’s a senior police officer: he carries a lot more clout than a fourteen-year-old boy. What do you want me to do about him?’

  Clark looked at his watch again and stood up. He adjusted his black bow tie in the mirror above the mantelpiece and smoothed back his hair. ‘Take care of him too,’ he said.

  Detective Chief Superintendent John Richardson finished the crime report he was reading and put his signature at the bottom of the final page. He threw the report into the out-tray on the corner of his desk and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms and yawning. There was a pile of paperwork a foot high in his in-tray, but he was too tired to tackle any of it now. It was gone ten o’clock at night. He’d been in his office since seven that morning and taken only one short break – to see Max Cassidy. The brownie he’d eaten in the café was the only food he’d had all day. He was starving.

  He picked up the phone and rang his wife to let her know that he was on his way. She said she’d turn the oven back on to heat up his dinner. She was used to the long hours her husband worked. In the early years of their marriage he had made an effort to come home in the evenings – to see the children before they went to bed. But now the boys had both left home, he stayed late at the office almost every night. She didn’t like it, but what could she do? His work came before everything else in his life.