by Peter James
And then Kayleigh had died.
‘Stace,’ he said. ‘He’ll be OK, we’ll get him back.’
‘And if we don’t?’
‘We will.’
‘Oh, sure we will, just like that, eh? Just like your winning horses, right? Just like your killer poker hands, yes? Just like you have all those can’t-fail roulette systems. Mungo will be back. Just like your numbers will turn up, right? Just like they always don’t. You’re such a loser. I can’t believe you let him go.’
41
Saturday 12 August
20.30–21.30
At this time of year, on a balmy Saturday evening, many people in the city of Brighton and Hove were on their big night out. Filling the restaurants and bars, some getting ready to start clubbing. Tonight many would be commiserating over their home team’s 2–0 defeat by Manchester City, but at the same time they would be celebrating their team’s first ever Premier League game. The police would be out in force, too. Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, all year round, Operation Marble did its best to prevent downtown Brighton from becoming a booze- and drug-fuelled war zone. There would be fights, spitting, swearing and arrests. Scantily clad chavs, Hens in daft outfits and vomiting Stags in stupid hats.
Far removed from all this were the patients in the wards inside the large building that was currently masked by hoardings, cranes and bulldozers. The Royal Sussex County Hospital, some distance away from the action, was going through a much-needed renovation, with temporary entrances everywhere and makeshift signs.
The helmeted medical student on the Kawasaki motorcycle, whose name was Gentian Llupa, cruised slowly past, along Eastern Road, and then up the side of the vast, sprawling site, taking mental notes of opportunities, checking for CCTV cameras. He didn’t need to take that risk. It was almost fully dark, but why rush? And hey, the guy he had come to see wasn’t going anywhere tonight.
If his plan worked out, the man wasn’t going anywhere ever again.
Other than to the mortuary.
42
Saturday 12 August
20.30–21.30
Major Crime was housed at the Sussex Police Headquarters, in one of a group of featureless brick buildings that were originally dormitories for police recruits. The Intel suite was housed on the first floor, a modern, airy conference room with a long white table, black and chrome chairs and a charcoal carpet. There were large wall-mounted monitors and it was wired with all comms systems, prepared 24/7 for any Major Enquiry or Incident team to move in within minutes and be instantly operational.
Seated around the long rectangular table were Roy Grace and his rapidly assembled team of detectives, analysts and researchers.
On the wall behind Grace were mounted three whiteboards. One contained a family and association chart of all Mungo Brown’s known family and friends. On another was a series of photographs, taken from the Amex’s CCTV cameras, showing Mungo Brown and his father arriving at the stadium, Mungo talking to another boy, then both of them disappearing into the throng of people heading to the entrances. On the third whiteboard was a sequence of photographs of a man in a red baseball cap. The first showed him leaving his seat shortly after the start of the game. Subsequent pictures tracked him through the stadium until he disappeared, shortly after a sign reading SOUTH STAND WASTE MANAGEMENT – NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS, where a camera was not working.
‘The time is 8.45 p.m.’ Grace turned to DS Exton. ‘Before we get started, welcome, Jon, we’re delighted to have you back – you’re looking well, your break has obviously done you good.’ Then, glancing down at his notes, he addressed the rest of the team. ‘Right, this is the first of what will be regular briefings around the clock for Operation Replay. I’d like to remind everyone this is a crime in action, currently being run as a covert operation owing to threats made to the father of the kidnap victim about not contacting the police.’
‘Operation Replay?’ Norman Potting commented. ‘Would have been a match replay and all if it hadn’t been for our hero Roy Grace here saving the day.’ The old Detective Sergeant pointed a finger at him. ‘Instead he helped our team to a two–nil defeat!’
Kevin Hall, a burly, genial detective constable in his mid-forties, chuckled and turned to Grace. ‘You are bonkers, guv. I’m just glad we’re sitting around this table and not on our hands and knees at the Amex doing a fingertip search for your – er—’
‘Fingertips?’ Potting suggested.
‘And the rest of you,’ Hall added.
‘I’m quite glad about that,’ chipped in Crime Scene Manager Alex Call. ‘It’s really not a nice job.’
‘Yep, well I’m pretty glad about that too,’ Grace said. He was less glad about the flak he knew, almost certainly, he would be getting from his boss, ACC Cassian Pewe, over his actions. He had already had a near-apoplectic voicemail from him – to which he had not yet responded. That was a joy to come.
‘What’s the latest from the EOD on the device, sir?’ asked DC Velvet Wilde, another recent recruit to his team.
‘I’ve had an update from Oscar-1,’ Grace said. ‘In the absence of anyone claiming the camera, the EOD carried out a controlled explosion. The fragments have been retrieved by the EOD team and taken away for analysis. We won’t know for some time what sort of device it actually was. But we’re not concerned with that – our task is to one hundred per cent focus on returning Mungo Brown safely to his parents.’
‘But, boss,’ DS Exton said, ‘don’t you think there’s a likely link between the bomb threat and the kidnap?’
‘There may well be, and there’s another SIO working on that with the Amex team and Nick Fitzherbert. I’ll be liaising closely with him. He’ll keep our team constantly updated with their intelligence, and that’s why there’s a picture of the suspect bomber on display in this room.’ He turned to the Principal Analyst, Annalise Vineer. ‘That will be one of your actions, to coordinate the intelligence around the Amex operation and any links.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Grace glanced down at the notes prepared by his assistant and went on. ‘OK, this investigation is into the suspected kidnap of a fourteen-year-old boy, Mungo Brown, son of the well-known Brighton businessman Kipp Brown.’
‘That arrogant tosser!’ Jon Exton exclaimed.
‘Thank you, Jon,’ Grace retorted sharply.
‘Trust Kipp?’ Norman Potting interjected.
‘Correct, Norman, that’s him,’ Grace replied. ‘Mungo went missing sometime before the start of the Albion game today at the Amex.’ He read out the text Kipp Brown had received. Then he went on to summarize the information he had to date.
‘The last email communication from Mungo Brown, which the High Tech Crime Unit sent to me, was at 2.40 p.m. this afternoon. It was addressed to an Aleksander Dervishi and said: “See u at the game. It’s gonna be lit!” Now the significance of this is that shortly after arriving at the ground, Mungo’s father, Kipp, saw him talking to this boy. I’ve also heard back from the Amex that Mungo Brown’s season ticket was not logged at any entrance, which makes it unlikely he ever entered the stadium at any point, unless he used – or was coerced into using – someone else’s. The fact that so far he has not been identified on any exterior CCTV footage indicates to me that he may at some point have entered the stadium and may still be there – or was secreted away, disguised, somehow. The kidnappers must have had a plan.’
He took a sip of coffee. ‘A full search of the grounds is in progress – there are a lot of places someone could be concealed. All CCTV footage is being scanned. With the network of cameras they have at the Amex, he will have been picked up on several. I’ve also requested all police body-worn camera footage. We know the boy’s mobile phone was seen being thrown from an older model BMW 5-Series car leaving the Amex car park at high speed. We have the index number, and an ANPR plot of the car’s possible movements is being carried out by Oscar-1. Digital Forensics have Mungo’s phone and computer. They are doing a backwards plot
on his movements for the past week to see if there are any unusual patterns, and to see who he’s been communicating with.’
He looked at his notes. ‘One person of interest to us is this man in the red baseball cap.’ He pointed at a photograph on the whiteboard. ‘We have secreted two officers, DI Branson and Acting DS Jack Alexander, into Kipp Brown’s house to monitor all calls he receives, to guide him and his wife and provide reassurance, and assist with any negotiations. At this time, the only lead we have is that when last seen, well before kick-off, Mungo was talking to the boy whom we believe to be Aleksander Dervishi.’
Annalise Vineer raised her hand. ‘Sir, we have some information on this boy.’
‘Go ahead,’ Grace said.
‘If he is Aleksander Dervishi, he’s a pupil at Brighton College, same year as Mungo Brown, and according to his headmaster who was spoken to a short while ago, they are close friends. Now this might be of significance. His father, Jorgji Dervishi, is a person of interest to us. He was a former kind of consigliere to the boss of a London-based Albanian crime family who went rogue some years ago. We believe he came down here in a similar role for a branch of his family in Brighton, and that he has links to several Eastern European criminal networks. A few interesting facts about Mr Dervishi. He has a glass eye and people say it’s easy to spot – it’s the friendlier of the two.’
There was a titter of laughter.
‘He also has an artificial right hand. He tells people he lost it – and his eye – fighting in the Kosovo conflict. But we understand he actually lost his hand working on a piece of farm machinery as a child, and he lost his eye in a fight in a bar. He is not considered good news by anyone.’
Grace stared at her, feeling a deep chill. During the 1998–9 Kosovo conflict, when ethnic Albanians opposed ethnic Serbs and the then-government of Yugoslavia, Albanians were given asylum in a number of European countries from the ethnic cleansing that followed. One of the places declared an official relocation centre was the city of Brighton and Hove, which took an influx of two thousand of them.
The majority of Albanians who had come here were decent, hardworking and law-abiding. But along with those came a brutal organized criminal element. Some of these, structured around ethnic groups and family or friendship ties, using Kanun laws, modelled themselves loosely on the Sicilian Mafia with similar lines of command and ranks, but without their rigid discipline. And like many modern crime organizations, they dealt in drugs, arms, human trafficking, modern slavery, human organs and counterfeit goods, their reach stretching from Israel to South America. This criminal element liked to show off its brutality both to insiders and to the public at large, and frequently committed acts of violence in public as a lesson to others. Yet at the same time, internally, this fraternity maintained strict codes of honour, one of them being scrupulous punctuality.
‘There’s another factor that may be significant, sir,’ Vineer said.
‘Tell me?’
‘The Albanians have a social code of honour known as blood feuds. Their word is hakmarrja – I got this from PC Denero who is working closely with the Brighton Albanian community. It’s all about the salvaging of honour, avenging a murder or humiliation. She has intel from the Met that the crime family that Jorgji Dervishi screwed over is planning revenge.’
‘Could this kidnapping be connected in some way – is that what you’re thinking, Annalise?’
‘I think it’s worth throwing into the mix, sir.’
‘OK, we need to find out fast if Kipp Brown’s ever had financial dealings with any of the Albanian community.’
Mindful of the texted threat to Kipp Brown he had seen, and which he had already told his team about, he made a note to contact the Force Gold, Superintendent Tingley, with this update straight after the briefing.
‘Good work, Annalise,’ he said.
His mobile phone rang. Excusing himself, he answered it.
‘Roy Grace,’ he said.
It was Glenn Branson.
‘Boss, we’ve got a second text from the kidnappers.’
43
Saturday 12 August
20.30–21.30
Kipp Brown stood in his son’s bedroom, his heart heaving. The room smelled of a mix of fresh paint, the sour odour of rodents and pond weed. The walls had recently been redecorated from the bright yellow that had been there for years to the very specific mushroom colour Mungo had requested, reflecting his growing adult tastes. Kipp thought about this with a tinge of sadness. About how his son spent ages on his hair in the mirror every day.
The teenager was already taking an interest in girls. Soon, he would be dating, and in just a few years he would be gone to university or out into the big wide world, to whatever the future held, and independent of his family.
Kipp worked his way along the rodent cages, firstly feeding the mice, putting in a small chunk of cucumber, which Stacey told him Mungo always gave them, and replenished their water. Next, he topped up the hamsters’ food bowl, followed by the gerbils’, and finally tapped what he hoped was the right amount of feed into the tropical fish tank.
The tidy room was like a shrine to his son’s passions, Kipp thought, looking around carefully – something he never had the chance to do when Mungo was here. Against the headboard was a cushion printed with a bison’s head and a row of cuddly soft toys. On the bed’s black, grey and white check counterpane lay an open Reservoir Dogs boxed souvenir set, comprising a video of the film, a silver comb made to look like a cut-throat razor, a handcuff lapel pin and key fob, a Zippo lighter and a jar of hair gel, labelled DRESS GROOVIER.
A row of Star Wars helmets sat on a black shelf, high up. On another stack of shelves were lined up a film clapperboard, a video camera, a baseball glove, a fake snake, a Detective Deadpool DVD sleeve, two large speakers, a boxed set of the Stanley Kubrick Archives and a neat row of every kind of Coca-Cola can – red, black, silver, green, orange and pink – as well as, randomly, a Rubik’s cube.
Ranked along one wall was a row of kayaking medals. Mungo had been passionate about the sport until a year or so ago when he seemed to have lost interest – perhaps coinciding with the occasional smell of cigarettes or alcohol or hash on him, one more sign, along with his deepening voice and facial hair, that he was moving on from childhood.
When he finished with the pets, Kipp sat on the bed. God, how much he loved this wilful and bright kid. Sure, they fought at times, and Mungo could really piss him off when he was in the mood to do so. But he loved him with all his heart.
Where are you? What has happened? Who has taken you?
Please be all right.
He looked at the small desk, above which on the wall was mounted Mungo’s large monitor. The laptop had been taken by the police and hopefully they might find clues on that.
In need of some air, he went downstairs, through the kitchen, opened the patio doors and walked out into the garden in the falling dusk, past the swimming pool with its cover on and down the terrace of lawns, each with a neat bed of flowers either side, towards the tennis court at the far end. The ground was damp with dew, the moisture seeping into his loafers, but he barely noticed.
He looked up at the basketball net fixed to the side of an oak tree. Mungo used to spend hours throwing a ball, aiming for that net. He was fighting back tears as he stared at it, then heard a voice behind him.
‘Sir? Mr Brown?’
He turned and saw the big detective. ‘Mr Brown, you’ve got another text.’ He handed him the phone.
Kipp stared at the message on the display.
Drive to the Devil’s Dyke, alone. Three hundred yards south of the Devil’s Dyke Hotel is a derelick Second World War pillbox. Instructions await you there. Go alone if you want to see your son again. We will be watching.
He noticed the misspelling of ‘derelict’. It was like a knife twisting inside his guts, reminding him of Mungo’s spelling. He was slightly dyslexic, which was why there were few books in his room. He looked at Bran
son. ‘I know that place well, Mungo used to love flying a kite up there.’
He and Mungo used to love doing all kinds of stuff together. Flying model aircraft. Fishing. Not any more.
It was a popular spot, with commanding views across the Downs and across Brighton towards the English Channel. And a dead end. A narrow country road led up to it. A road which could be observed, easily, from any number of concealed points.
‘What do you suggest?’ he asked the detective.
‘That you go there, sir, and take your encrypted phone as well as this one. We’ve installed a tracking device on it. Seems like your son’s kidnappers have planned carefully and chosen smartly. Go there and call us when you can. Let’s see what they have in mind.’
Kipp hurried indoors and told Stacey.
‘I’m coming with you,’ she replied.
‘No,’ he said, adamantly. ‘It says to go alone.’
‘What if it’s a trap?’
‘It’s not going to be a trap. Whoever has taken Mungo wants money. Let me find out how much they want.’
Very reluctantly, she agreed.
44
Saturday 12 August
20.30–21.30
Saturday night at Tosca Ristorante in Shoreham was in full swing, with every table taken by locals or residents of Brighton and Hove, just a few miles to the east, who had made the short journey here.
The entrance to the place, which served some of the best Italian food in the county, was on the buzzing Shoreham High Street and the long, narrow room stretched back to an open terrace overlooking the River Adur. Its proprietor, Enver Godanci, an energetic, bespectacled man of forty-five, sporting designer stubble and wearing a blue-and-white polka-dot shirt loose over black chinos, ran between his kitchen and his customers, anxiously supervising everything, ensuring, as he did every night, that his growing legion of regulars was happy.