‘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.