by Paul Adam
‘Yes.’ She was staring at the two uniforms behind him, the beginnings of a puzzled frown on her forehead.
Richardson showed his ID. ‘Is your husband in?’
‘Yes, he is. What’s this … Is everything all right?’
‘Perhaps we could speak to him?’
Mrs Penhall stood back to let them enter. There was thick carpet on the floor, a curving staircase going up to the first floor. A boy about nine or ten years old, wearing a grey blazer and red school tie, came out into the hall and gazed at them curiously.
‘Rupert!’ Mrs Penhall called, then turned to the boy. ‘Have you finished your breakfast, Sebastian? Quickly, hurry, or you’ll be late.’
Rupert Penhall emerged from the kitchen, his plump face pink and freshly shaved. He had a mug of coffee in one hand, a half-eaten piece of toast in the other.
‘For you,’ his wife said.
Penhall looked at the officers. ‘What is it?’ he asked curtly.
‘We’d like to speak to you, sir,’ Richardson said. ‘Is there somewhere more private we could go?’
‘Private? Is this to do with work? Couldn’t you have waited until I was in my office?’ Penhall’s voice was sharp and irritated.
‘We need to speak to you now, sir,’ the detective said.
‘Oh, very well. This way.’ Penhall led them across the hall to a study at the back of the house. There was a leather-topped desk and chair at one side of the room, shelves of books on the walls. The large picture window gave a view of a velvet lawn and beds of flowers and shrubs. He sat down behind the desk, still clutching his coffee and toast. ‘What the devil is this all about?’ he demanded. ‘I’m in the middle of breakfast.’
Richardson took a photograph out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘Do you know this man?’
Penhall glanced at the photo and turned pale. He looked up quickly. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he snapped.
‘If you’d answer the question, please?’ Richardson said softly.
‘No, I’ve never seen him before in my life. OK? Is that all you came here for?’
‘That’s funny,’ Richardson said. ‘Because he knows you.’
‘You’re wasting my time.’ Penhall pushed back his chair and started to get up.
‘Sit down!’ the detective barked.
‘What!’ Penhall glared at him indignantly. ‘Look, do you know who I am? One phone call from me and you’ll be out of the Met on your ear.’
‘Sit down.’
Penhall hesitated, his gaze still fixed on Richardson, then he shrugged and slumped back down. ‘You’re making a very big mistake,’ he said angrily, but his eyes were worried, his manner less assured now.
‘His name is Ronnie Cook,’ the detective said. ‘He’s done time for burglary and grievous bodily harm. We have CCTV footage of him entering a house in north London and planting an explosive device in the gas cooker. You know the house I’m talking about, I think.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Ronnie Cook says you paid him to plant the bomb.’
‘And you believe him? A convicted criminal? Really, this is ridiculous.’
‘He also says that you paid him to kill a man by pushing him in front of a lorry.’
‘Oh, come on, this gets worse. You can’t be serious?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Penhall, I’m very serious indeed,’ Richardson replied. There was no trace of emotion in his manner, just a clinical professionalism. ‘The man was my father, Detective Chief Superintendent John Richardson.’
Penhall gave a start. He licked his lips, then took a sip of his coffee to give himself time to think. When he spoke again, his manner was defiant. ‘I don’t have to listen to this nonsense. Who’s your superior officer? I think I’d better speak to him.’
‘You will,’ Richardson said. ‘As soon as we get you to Scotland Yard.’
‘You’re arresting me?’ Penhall’s mouth fell open in shock.
‘On suspicion of conspiracy to murder and to cause an explosion, and taking bribes from Julius Clark.’
Penhall recovered himself, giving a dismissive shake of his head. ‘Julius Clark? You mean the business tycoon? I’ve never even met the man.’
‘We have his files,’ Richardson said, almost smiling. ‘Every penny he’s ever paid you is itemized.’
Penhall stared at him, too stunned to speak for a time. Then he said, ‘You can’t do this. You can’t arrest me. I have friends, important friends.’
‘I know,’ Richardson said. ‘And most of them will also be under arrest by now.’ He gave Penhall a formal caution and asked him to stand up.
Penhall’s cheeks were flushed bright red with fury. ‘This is outrageous,’ he protested. ‘I’m not coming.’
‘Your wife and son are in the house,’ Richardson said calmly. ‘You can walk out of here with us of your own free will, or we can handcuff you and drag you out. Which is it to be?’
Max had dreamed of this day for two long years. Dreamed of the moment when he and his parents would be reunited. Now it had arrived, he felt unaccountably sick. There were butterflies in his stomach and his limbs were trembling. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so nervous – even his shows didn’t affect him quite like this.
They were in the reception area of Levington prison – Max, his dad and Consuela, who’d driven them all up from London. Alexander’s doctors had allowed him out of hospital for a few hours only – he was still too frail to cope with more than that. He was sitting on a chair against the wall. He was thin and pale, but there was a glow of joy in his eyes. The prospect of seeing his wife again had given him a new energy.
Max glanced around impatiently. He hated this place, hated everything about it – the walls, the fences, the locked doors, the prison officers with their keys jangling at their belts. But at least it was the last time he’d ever come here. There’d be no more humiliating searches, no more waiting at the table in the visiting area, no more having to watch his mother’s suffering. She was coming out. After two unbearable years of captivity – eighteen months in Santo Domingo and six in Levington – she was now a free woman.
There were footsteps in the corridor behind the barred steel gate at the back of the reception area. Max saw a large female prison officer approaching, a big, hefty woman whose bulk seemed to fill the entire width of the corridor, obscuring the smaller, slighter figure who was walking along in her wake.
Max went to his father and helped him up from his chair. The steel gate was unlocked and then Helen Cassidy was stepping out, hesitating a little as if she couldn’t believe this was happening. She smiled at Max and Alexander, her eyes filling, then she ran to them, her arms outstretched, enfolding them both in a tight embrace, hugging them close as the tears of happiness poured down her cheeks. Max could feel her arms around him, feel her sobbing.
‘Oh, Alex, Max, Alex, Max,’ she kept repeating, not even attempting to find any other words.
Then she pulled away and gazed at them tenderly, still smiling, still crying. She was wearing make-up for the first time in two years, a new summer dress and high heels that Consuela had brought up to Levington two days earlier – Helen’s ‘coming out’ clothes, she called them.
‘Oh, Alex.’ Helen hugged her husband again and they whispered a few quiet words to each other. Then she turned to Max, pulling him into her arms.
‘Oh, Max, I love you so much. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.’
Max hugged her back, choking with emotion, trying to hold in the tears, then giving up and letting them flow.
When Helen finally released him, she embraced Consuela, both of them weeping, then she lifted a hand to her face, feeling her damp skin, her smudged mascara. ‘Oh, God, I must look awful,’ she said. ‘I can’t go out like this.’
Max laughed. ‘Well, it’s good to get back to normal so quickly,’ he said.
Fortunately, Consuela had come prepared. She handed Helen some tissue
s and a compact with a mirror so she could touch up her make-up.
‘How do I look now?’ Helen asked.
‘You look great, Mum,’ Max replied. ‘Doesn’t she, Dad?’
Alexander smiled at his wife. ‘Yes, indeed. She looks very beautiful.’
‘Are you ready?’ Max said. ‘I have to warn you, there are a lot of photographers and reporters out at the front.’
‘Are there?’ Helen looked horrified. ‘Do we really have to go out that way?’
Max nodded. ‘It won’t take long. Just a few pictures, that’s all.’
They went out in a line, Max in between his mum and dad, Consuela on the other side of Alexander, helping him walk. But as they emerged through the big wooden doors onto the prison forecourt, she slipped away discreetly, leaving Max and his parents centre stage.
There was a huge crowd of photographers and television cameras waiting for them. In the short time since Max’s return from Kamchatka, his story had gone all around the world. The release of his mother from prison was a massive event and practically every newspaper, every television station on earth, wanted a piece of it.
The Cassidys posed patiently, holding hands and smiling as the flashbulbs exploded around them, answering a few of the questions that the reporters shouted out before Max, realizing his father was beginning to flag, brought the impromptu press conference to a close. A squad of police officers escorted them to their car, the photographers scrambling to get more pictures. Max sat in the front next to Consuela. His parents were in the back, still holding hands, bewildered by all the attention.
A police car led them down the prison drive to the road, then waved them past, turning sideways across the carriageway to stop the reporters and photographers following.
They didn’t talk much on the journey back to London. It was as if they were waiting for the right moment to catch up with one another, to begin their lives together again.
Chris had stayed behind at Rusty’s flat in the Docklands. Max and his parents were going to live there temporarily, until they found a place of their own to rent: the family home was still uninhabitable, but it was going to be rebuilt once the insurance payout had been settled. Chris had been busy preparing a small, low-key welcome-home party. He’d bought roast chicken, salads, cheese and freshly baked bread from a nearby deli and put a bottle of champagne on ice. Consuela looked around approvingly as they came into the flat, noting the places set at the table, the food neatly laid out, the glasses waiting to be filled. On the kitchen worktop, carefully placed so Max wouldn’t miss it, was that morning’s edition of the London News Chronicle. The front-page lead, by Dan Kingston, contained more revelations about Julius Clark’s criminal activities, and in a side column was a related story about Rupert Penhall appearing before magistrates and being remanded in custody.
Consuela introduced Chris to Helen, then they broke open the champagne and drank a few toasts – to Helen, to Alexander, to Max, to being a family again.
Helen studied the table and turned to Consuela.
‘There are only three places set,’ she said in a puzzled voice.
‘Chris and I aren’t staying,’ Consuela replied.
‘What? But you must.’
‘No,’ Consuela said firmly. ‘You need some time to yourselves.’
‘But—’
‘It’s all decided. We’ll see you later.’
As Consuela and Chris left, Helen and Alexander gazed uncertainly at each other and Max could see that he was going to have to take charge. He pulled out chairs and made his parents sit down. Then he joined them at the table and they linked hands. Max smiled at them. He’d never seen them so radiantly happy.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘So where do we begin?’
Max regarded all his shows as important, but this one meant more to him than all the others put together. He was back in the London Cabaret Club, his usual venue, with a few new tricks and stunts prepared to stun the packed house. There was nothing exceptional about any of that. It was who was present in the audience that made this evening so significant.
Max could see them all in the front row below him: Isabella Gonzales, the young girl who’d done so much to help him in Santo Domingo; Ari, the Dayak boy who’d been his invaluable companion in Borneo; and Dmitri Alekseev, clean-shaven and smart, looking very different from the wild, vodka-swilling youth Max remembered from Kamchatka. All three of them had been flown to England by the London News Chronicle, which, nearly three months after Max’s return, was still running stories about his incredible exploits.
Kevin Richardson and his wife were there too, and Max’s best friend Andy and some of his schoolmates. So were Chris Moncrieffe, Rusty and Zip, Dan Kingston and Lucas Fisher. And sitting in the middle of the row was Helen Cassidy, watching her son perform at the London Cabaret Club for the very first time, her face alight with pride and joy.
‘To end tonight’s show,’ Max said into the microphone, ‘I’m going to call on the help, not only of Consuela, but of someone very special and close to me – the person who’s taught me pretty much everything I know about escapology. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome my father, Alexander Cassidy.’
There was an eruption of ear-splitting applause as a tall, grey-haired figure came out of the wings and walked slowly across the stage. Alexander Cassidy was looking a lot better. He’d put on weight, got some colour back into his skin. Although he hadn’t yet regained his full strength, he was well on the way to making a complete recovery from his illness.
‘Well, this is quite an evening, isn’t it?’ he said to the audience. ‘I don’t know about my teaching Max everything he knows about escapology. From what I’ve seen tonight, I think he could teach me a few things. If I ever get back into performing – and after watching my son, I may be having second thoughts about that – I can see I’m going to have some serious competition on my hands.’
The audience laughed and Alexander beamed at Max. Then he turned back to the microphone.
‘Let me tell you about this final stunt. It’s so difficult that I have my doubts whether it’s humanly possible for anyone to pull it off – even the Half-Pint Houdini. Consuela, would you bring out the equipment now, please?’
Consuela emerged from the wings pushing a metal trolley bearing an assortment of chains and manacles. She was wearing one of her usual dazzling show outfits – sequins on her red top, jewels gleaming in her hair, silver rings dangling from her ears – but with the additional sparkle of a diamond engagement ring on her left hand.
She left the trolley in the centre of the stage and stepped back. Alexander picked up a pair of handcuffs and showed them to the audience.
‘Very shortly, I’m going to put these handcuffs on Max’s wrists. Not one pair, but two. Then I’m going to fasten his ankles together with two pairs of leg irons. Chains will be wrapped around his body and secured with three padlocks, then he will be put inside a steel safe. Consuela, if you please …’
Consuela pulled aside a curtain to reveal a massive safe, two metres square, its door swung open to show its formidable construction.
‘This safe is used by jewellers and gold bullion dealers,’ Alexander went on. ‘Its sides are fifteen centimetres of solid titanium steel, the lock so complex that, to my knowledge, no locksmith on earth has ever managed to crack it. Once Max is inside, the safe will be winched into the air and suspended three metres above the stage. Then …’ he paused. ‘Then, well, after that it’s all up to you, Max.’
Max came forward into the spotlight looking convincingly worried. ‘How on earth am I going to escape from all that?’ he asked.
His father smiled at him. ‘You’ll think of something, Max. You always do.’
Read the whole Max Cassidy sequence:
Escape from Shadow Island
Jaws of Death
Attack at Dead Man’s Bay
Praise for the Max Cassidy Adventures:
‘Written in clear, punchy prose … somewhere Charlie Higson fans mig
ht go next’
Sunday Times
‘Pacy and exciting … Fans of high-octane adventure are going to enjoy reading about Max Cassidy’
www.bookbag.co.uk
‘Hits all the right notes for a rip-roaring adventure’
Sunday Business Post
www.maxcassidy.co.uk
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