Public Enemy Number Two

asked.

“Banks?”

“I’m sure that’s what Powers said. He was going to the bank.”

“But the banks are closed.”

“So? He could still rob one.”

Banks. Banks . . .

Suddenly it hit me. I felt so stupid I could have hit myself. We were sitting only half a minute away from the biggest bank in London and I hadn’t even thought of it. I got to my feet and threw my backpack across my shoulders, forgetting for a moment what was inside. It would have been just my luck to blow myself to pieces just as I was getting somewhere.

“Where are we going?” Tim asked.

“To the bank,” I said.

I retraced the steps we’d taken the morning we’d arrived, back between two warehouses and out onto the jetty. I stopped at the end and looked around. As I remembered, it gave me a good view of the edge of Wapping. Tim caught up with me and stopped, scratching his head. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“The bank, Tim,” I said. I pointed. “The riverbank. That’s what Powers was talking about. He’s got to be somewhere here. Right now we’re probably looking at him.”

But what were we looking at? First there were the warehouses—King Henry’s Wharf on the one side, St. John’s on the other. Cranes perched on the vertical walls like gigantic grasshoppers, feeding on the brickwork. Farther away were the new apartments and more jetties with the silver-gray water lapping at their legs. And there was the abandoned houseboat, moored to the dock. There was still something strange about it. I’d noticed it the first time I’d seen it, but now I couldn’t remember what it was. I looked more closely. There was something wrong, but suddenly it didn’t matter anymore.

The sun was low and it was hard to see, but I could still make out the single word painted on the side of the boat. I might have seen it before if I’d been looking for it. Like all houseboats it had a name. And the name was Penelope.

“That’s it!” I said. “Penelope!”

Tim had seen it, too. “So when Powers said he was going to Penelope . . .” he began.

“He was talking about the houseboat. That must have been where his meeting with the Fence was.”

“But you said he went into the station.”

“He did.” I thought back. “He must have realized he was being followed. So he used the station to lose me.”

“So what do we do now?” Tim asked.

“Now? We have a closer look at that boat.”

But that was easier said than done. We followed the road around again only to find that the dock was blocked off by a tall gate with barbed wire at the top. There was no way we could climb over it and no way around the side. That only left one alternative. Fortunately the day had been warm.

“You’ve got to be joking!” Tim exclaimed when I told him.

“You don’t have to come,” I muttered, unbuttoning my shirt.

“There’s got to be another way . . .”

“Can you think of one?”

Tim thought. Then he unbuckled his belt.

“You’re coming with me?” I asked.

“Somebody’s got to look after you,” he said.

We left our clothes and the backpack at the end of the jetty and, wearing only underpants, slipped into the river. It had been a warm day, only the Thames hadn’t noticed. The water was freezing. By the time I’d gotten in as far as my knees, I couldn’t feel my toes.

The current was strong and it was moving against us. Tim followed me, doing a dog paddle that would have disgraced a dog. As well as being around zero degrees, the water was also filthy. A lot of nasty things floated past on a level with my nose. I tried to swim faster, but every three strokes I took I was pulled back two. Fortunately it wasn’t too far to the boat. But it was still a good five minutes before I hauled myself out.

And that wasn’t easy either. The deck of the Penelope was a long way above the water, and although I pulled on the side of the boat, it refused to tilt. In the end, Tim had to help me up, pushing from underneath and disappearing under the surface himself at the same time. Then I was lying on the deck, reaching out for him while he coughed and spluttered with a dead fish caught behind his ear. Somehow I pulled him out.

I don’t quite know what I was expecting to find on board. I certainly wasn’t going to catch Johnny Powers there. In fact, the only thing I was likely to catch was pneumonia. And once we’d gotten inside, it looked as if the whole thing had just been a big waste of time.

The boat was empty. There was one big cabin contained in a sort of wooden box with narrow windows and a wide doorway leading onto the deck. The wheel and the engine controls would have been mounted outside, but they were long gone. The Penelope was a rusting hulk, nothing more. A single room about the size of a bus, floating on the Thames with nowhere to go.

Tim was standing in the corner, shivering. The fish, hanging beside his face, stared at him.

“Why do I ever listen to you?” he began, stammering on every word as his teeth beat out a flamenco rhythm.

“Wait a minute . . .” I cut in.

It wasn’t much to go on. It certainly wasn’t worth the swim. But now I reached down and picked it up. It was a piece of black-and-white paper, crumpled into a ball.

“What is it?” Tim asked.

“It’s a piece of black-and-white paper, crumpled into a ball,” I said. I opened it up and read a single word— Licorice. As chewed by Johnny Powers. “He was here,” I said.

“Well, he isn’t here now.”

“No. But maybe he’ll come back.”

“Nick . . .”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s move.”

Together we made our way back onto the deck. I was still vaguely aware that there was something wrong. The Penelope wasn’t behaving like a boat should. I didn’t know what it was, but there was something fishy about it. And I wasn’t just talking about the one behind Tim’s ear.

Midnight in Wapping. Tim and I were hiding in the half shell of a house directly opposite the gate that led to the dock where Penelope was moored. We’d been there roughly six hours. And six hours had never been rougher. We hadn’t been able to dry before we got dressed and our clothes were damp and itchy. We were frozen and exhausted. Nobody had so much as driven past for an hour and then it had only been a taxi on its way home. It was a pitch-black, moonless night. Even the stars hadn’t bothered to show up. The only light came from a streetlamp a few yards away, a dull glow that reflected in the windows of the empty boat.

So what were we doing there, watching a deserted dock on a deserted river in a deserted part of town? I couldn’t really answer that question myself. It was just that somewhere inside me I was sure that the dock was the key. I was determined to stick with it. Powers had been there once. He might come back. And the Fence might come with him.

“Nick . . . ?” Tim asked drowsily. I thought he had fallen asleep.

I was about to reply when it happened. It was so totally unexpected that for a moment I thought I must be imagining things. But Tim had seen it, too. His hand gripped my arm. A light had gone on. Inside the empty houseboat.

A moment later, a figure appeared, climbing over the deck. He had opened the cabin door from inside and was walking down toward us, toward the gate.

“Where did he come from?” I whispered.

“He must have swum,” Tim said.