by Tony Kent
‘I’m afraid so, sir. The captain has ordered us back to port.’
Stay calm. Stay composed.
‘Why?’
‘Problem with the boat, sir. We have to get her looked at.’
‘What sort of problem?’
‘A technical one. Nothing to worry about but it needs to be dealt with. That can’t happen at sea, I’m afraid.’
Don’t panic. Don’t draw attention.
‘Can’t it wait until we get to Holland? I have friends waiting for me there.’
‘Captain’s orders, sir. If we don’t get the problem dealt with we could cause permanent damage to the boat. Harwich is only two hours away. Hook is four.’
Might be bullshit. Might not. Roll with it.
‘Sounds like a no-brainer, then.’ Penfold forced a smile. ‘I assume there’ll be compensation for the delay?’
‘I’m sure there will be, sir. Cheaper than ruining the ship.’
‘Thanks.’ Penfold maintained the smile.
Stay natural.
‘Well, good luck with whatever it is.’
‘Thank you.’
The crewman walked away.
Penfold stood still for a moment. Looking into the distance. Focusing, in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of Holland.
Nothing, he thought as he let his eyes wander.
By now other passengers had noticed the turn. Had noticed the moving shadows. Soon everyone would know they were headed back. It would inconvenience many, he thought, but he was sure that none was taking as big a risk as he was by returning to British soil.
THIRTY-SIX
The return journey took two hours.
Including an hour of hell, Wisdom Penfold thought.
The first hour had been OK. A concern, but a manageable one. Penfold had heard the explanation perhaps twenty times during that first sixty minutes. From crew members and from other passengers. It had not changed. A technical difficulty with the ferry. A need to return to the closest port.
Inconvenient but believable.
The second hour had been much worse, from the moment England came back into view. Penfold had experienced an incredible feeling of relief when it had disappeared earlier in the day. His paranoia was just as great now that the coastline was back.
For sixty minutes Penfold’s fears had grown. Not helped by the couple from the port. He had seen them again on deck and had noticed the man glancing in his direction. Not once but twice. If Penfold had been calm he would have dismissed it. Of course they’d be on the upper deck, he would have thought. Almost everyone was. And the glances in his direction? That was not surprising, either.
But after a whole hour of his heart racing. Of jumping at every shadow? Penfold’s behaviour was now erratic. And it was drawing attention.
Who wasn’t looking at him?
It could not be helped. The fate that might await him in the UK was too much for Penfold to bear. A return to the walls that had held him for so long, a sentence well-earned by his recent crime.
Penfold could not stay calm. Not with that hanging over him.
He made his way to the lower deck. The dock was fast approaching. He had maybe ten minutes before the moment of truth. Before he would know the real reason for the ferry’s return.
Please God this isn’t a set-up.
Penfold found a quiet corner. Most passengers remained on the upper deck, still enjoying the sun. It offered him space and Penfold took it. He settled into a cushioned bench next to a wall and began to breathe deeply. For a moment he managed to clear his head. To calm his nerves. To overcome his fear.
Stop thinking about it. It might be nothing. It’s probably nothing. And if it’s not, well, then you’ll deal with it.
You’ve done it before.
Penfold listened to his own advice. It was working; he could feel his racing heart begin to slow, the pain in his temple begin to lessen.
It’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be moving again in no time.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. And a frustrating one. If they had stayed on the upper deck then Penfold might have waited. He might have stayed calm.
If they had just stayed with the other passengers. If they had just stayed in the sun.
Penfold’s decision was made the moment he saw them. The couple from the port. From the upper deck. The same man and woman Penfold had noticed before. They had seemed a little too interested, which had set off his survival instinct. Penfold had tried to ignore it; he had put it down to paranoia.
But what are they doing here? he questioned himself. When everyone else is upstairs? Too much of a coincidence.
Penfold got to his feet and for the first time he did not grip his rucksack. Instead he left it where it was, giving him two free hands.
Penfold directed his eyes at the floor as he began to walk towards the couple, keeping a single bench between himself and them so as not to be heading straight at them. Relying on his peripheral vision, Penfold could tell that the couple had remained standing: looking out of the window towards the approaching port and resolutely not looking at him.
It was this that finally convinced him. There were almost no passengers or crew members below deck. Of the few that were there, one was now walking towards them. They must have noticed him. Yet they kept their eyes averted. It wasn’t natural.
And told Penfold all he needed to know.
Three metres. Far enough for the couple to have time to defend themselves.
Two metres. Closer. Making defence more difficult. But not impossible.
One metre. Too close. It would take a miracle.
Penfold cleared the bench with a fast, powerful stride. His hands were outstretched as he moved. Aimed at the man’s head. A head that was now turning, but turning too slow.
The man stood no chance. Before he could react Penfold had both hands on his skull. The momentum that had taken Penfold over the bench was still with him. He used it well. With a combination of his own weight, his strength and the speed of his movement, Penfold brought the man’s head crashing into the thick metal rail that circled the whole lower deck.
The sound said everything. A deep, dull boom.
No bone could make that noise and stay intact. But Penfold already knew that. He had felt the give in the man’s skull and did not need the confirmation of sound before he turned on the woman.
It had taken Penfold a second to deal with the man. Long enough for the woman to turn; to know what was coming. She could have run. Perhaps she would have made it. She chose to do the opposite: to attack. Brave and foolish, all at once.
The weather had made a coat or a jacket impracticable, and so she had nowhere to carry a concealed weapon. Without one she could only attack with her hands. A lost cause, maybe, but she would go down fighting.
Penfold did not see the blow coming. He had underestimated the woman. Concentrated too much on the man. Her thumb dug deep into his left eye, cutting the eyeball. And it stayed there. The woman had been trained well. Not to go fist to fist with a man like Penfold. Instead she was trying to incapacitate him. To blind him. Her other arm swung up, targeting his last good eye.
Penfold, though, was a hard man to fight. He had an unusual tolerance for pain and a gift for giving it back. He caught her arm before her thumb reached his good eye. Gripped her wrist tight and pushed it backwards and down, against the joint. An instant later he felt it snap beneath the skin.
The woman screamed. The pressure in Penfold’s eye disappeared. Her right hand had pulled back, towards her left. Human nature had taken over.
Penfold stepped back and watched her fall to the floor, cradling her arm. A red stain was growing fast across her white T-shirt. The broken wrist bone had pierced her skin.
He looked around. The few passengers and crewmen on the lower deck had heard the scream. Most were stunned. But two had reacted. They were hurtling in his direction. Penfold was not stupid. He did not know either man. There was a good chance he could win, but just as good a c
hance he could not.
He did not intend to find out.
Penfold turned back towards the fallen woman. Helpless on the floor, all her attention was focused on her devastated wrist. Penfold accelerated towards her, timing his steps with the precision of a footballer. His right leg cocked back as the woman came within range. An instant later and it was swinging forward, powered by muscle and momentum. Penfold’s foot struck the woman’s jaw, cleanly and with full force. The impact sent her head reeling backwards and she was unconscious before her head hit the metal floor with a sickening thud.
Penfold did not stop to inspect the damage. Instead he hurdled her and headed back the way he had come. Towards the stairs to the upper deck. He grabbed his rucksack as he passed, hardly breaking stride.
Two short flights of stairs and Penfold was back in the sun. The metallic sound from below told him that his pursuers were close behind. Already on the staircase. Penfold took no chances. He ran to the bow of the ferry. Estimated the distance to the port.
Five hundred metres. Maybe a little more.
‘GRAB THAT MAN!’
The shout came from behind. Further than Penfold had expected. His pursuers had stopped at the top of the stairs and it had taken them a few seconds to spot him.
It gave him time.
Penfold turned away from the shout, while every other passenger on deck turned towards it. They all saw the same thing: a crewman, his arm thrust out, a finger pointing directly at Penfold.
The odds were against him. Massively. If only ten per cent of the passengers played hero, it was still one hundred per cent more than Penfold could handle.
He had to move before they could consider it.
Penfold sprinted away from the crowd closest to him before he could be stopped. A few reacted quickly, giving chase. Others stayed rooted to the spot.
A few of the chasers were slower than Penfold. Others were not. The quicker ones were gaining on him fast. Penfold could feel them closing.
He looked ahead and saw a wall of bodies forming. A wall he could not pass.
His decision was made in an instant. No time for second thoughts. No time for hesitation. Penfold had perhaps two seconds left. He would need them both.
Penfold swung his rucksack behind him as he ran. As far back as he could stretch. Once he reached his limit he launched the bag forwards. Over the main deck rail. Down to the deep tidal river that led to the port.
He reached the rail just as the bag went over. Grabbing the thick metal, he used it to launch himself over.
The man closest to him reached out. Almost managed to grip Penfold’s trouser hem. Almost. But close is not close enough. The chaser’s arms were still outstretched as he watched Penfold fall. Ninety feet. From the top deck to the deep water below.
Joelle Levy stood on the dock. On the spot where the ferry’s passengers would disembark.
Four men from MIT One stood behind her. Behind them were ten more police officers. Members of the Essex Police Firearms Unit.
No chances were being taken.
Levy had been at the port for thirty minutes. As long as the ferry had been in sight. She had timed the trip from London perfectly.
Since her arrival the boat had come ever closer. Its size more obvious and so the scale of any search more apparent. If a search was needed.
‘How long before they dock?’
Levy was speaking to the man beside her. Stephen John. The Stena Line’s operating manager for Harwich International Port.
‘I’d say seven minutes or so,’ John replied.
‘OK.’ Levy turned to her team. ‘Keep your wits about you, people. Penfold is on that ship but he is not getting past this port under any circumstances. Understood?’
‘Ma’am.’
The team spoke as one. Regimented. Every officer knew his or her duty; knew exactly why they were here.
Levy turned back towards the ferry. It was close enough now that she could make out the crowds on the upper deck.
She reached inside her jacket for her shoulder holster and removed her pistol. A Glock 19. Smaller than the standard issue Glock 17, it was still plenty big enough for the job.
Levy checked the weapon. Fully loaded. Fifteen 9×19mm Parabellum rounds. Levy took good care of her weapons. She had undergone extensive firearms training with the Metropolitan Police, training which had not come close to the expertise already instilled in her by the Israel Defense Forces or Shin Bet.
Levy rarely expected to use the pistol she carried.
She felt differently today.
She returned the Glock to its holster and her eyes moved back to the ferry. It was closer. Clearer. The movement on the top deck was now plain to see. Movement that seemed unusual.
Levy squinted her eyes and tried to block out the sun with her hand as she focused on the bow of the ferry. She could see what looked like a surge of the passengers. Similar to a tide or a Mexican wave.
The crowd on the deck seemed to be moving as one. First forward. Then left.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Levy’s question was as much to herself as to anyone else.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Stephen John’s answer was not helpful. Nor was it needed.
Levy’s eyes followed the movement, trying to get ahead of it. To discover what was causing the deck’s strange motion.
Whatever they’re moving towards is what matters, she observed. Not the crowd itself.
The answer came almost immediately. Preceded by an object thrown over the upper deck’s safety rail. A bag, it looked like. From this distance Levy could not be sure.
An instant later and she did not care. The object was followed by something much more compelling. The unmistakable sight of a man, leaping from the ferry to the river below.
‘It’s Penfold!’ Levy shouted the name as the realisation hit her. She was already running as she shouted again
‘GET TO THE RIB!’
The four MIT One officers followed, in the direction of the rigid-inflatable boat that was moored close by. The RIB was there for exactly this situation: an attempted escape at sea.
The firearms officers did not move. This was no accident. Levy had briefed her team on every scenario. Every officer knew what she expected.
The RIB was moving within moments. Piloted by a specialist. Levy pointed him in the right direction, to where Penfold had hit the water.
A seven-minute ferry journey, Stephen John had estimated. It took less than two in the high-performance speedboat.
The RIB reached Penfold quickly. He was still where he had fallen. Levy raised her pistol and aimed it at Penfold’s head.
She quickly realised that the weapon was unnecessary.
Penfold was in no condition to resist arrest. He was barely able to tread water; his head repeatedly went under as he struggled to stay afloat.
The impact with the water had taken a toll. Penfold’s right arm was useless. Broken, it seemed. Or dislocated. Levy could not tell which. Nor did she care. All that mattered was that she had him.
Levy holstered her pistol and turned to the nearest two MIT One officers.
‘Fish him out of there and read the bastard his rights.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Michael had watched the jury carefully as Keith White presented his evidence. White was the UK’s leading expert in cell-site and mobile-phone data, a field of evidence that had, since the late 1990s, hugely increased in importance.
Mobile phones were everywhere. It was difficult to find a person – old or young – who did not own one. They were the ultimate modern convenience.
They also happened to be the most effective individual tracking system ever devised.
It was the people-tracking aspect that had brought White to Court Number Two of the Old Bailey. The prosecution expert, he was there to demonstrate to the jury what that data proved.
The morning had been taken up with White’s presentation of his findings. Peter Epstein QC had questioned him in a way designed to guide him i
n his explanations to the jury. Cell-site data can be complicated and so it was essential that it was explained clearly. But Michael could see that Epstein’s guiding hand was unnecessary; White could do this in his sleep.
He had begun by explaining how the mobile-network operated, and how its data could be used to locate the position of a mobile phone at the time of that phone’s use. To do this he handed out a detailed map of a random location in West London with a single mobile-phone mast in the centre. The jury then watched as White used a marker pen to draw a line upwards from the cell mast to the edge of the map, another diagonally down to the left, and a third diagonally to the right, dividing the map into three sections, with the mast at the centre.
These sections, White explained, were the mast’s cell zones: A, B and C.
Michael listened intently, making sure all the information was presented clearly. White went on to explain that any mobile phone used at a location inside the map’s right-hand section – cell zone A – would usually register in that same zone, because the telephone was designed to seek out the nearest available transmitter. But sometimes cell zone A would already be busy with as many users as it could take at one time, and so the telephone would seek out the next nearest transmitter. This might be in the lower or the left-hand triangles – cell zones B or C – of the same mast, or it could be a different mast altogether.
‘But the vast majority of the time,’ White had explained, ‘the cell zone that registers the call will be the cell zone in which the phone is physically located. So we can say that during the call, the phone itself was – most likely – within the geographic area covered by cell zone A.’
Michael had watched the jury throughout the explanation. All of them seemed to have followed so far. But Michael knew that things were about to get a bit more complicated.
With the general explanation done, White produced another map – less detailed this time and covering a much larger area of five miles – and once copies had been handed to the jury he began to mark up all of the cell masts within that five-mile area. Not for the first time, Michael was amused by the jury’s surprise as mast after mast was identified; few realise quite how many of the things are hiding in plain sight.