by Peter James
Mirlinda Dervishi turned and spoke briefly and sharply to both bodyguards, again in the harsh language. The shaven-headed one answered her back and she raised her voice in reply, clearly angry at him. Gesturing the detectives to follow her, she strode down the hallway and stopped in front of a door. She knocked, then opened without waiting for a reply and ushered Potting and Wilde through into a large, masculine study, which smelled strongly of cigar smoke.
High up, all around, above the wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with antique, leather-bound tomes, were mounted stuffed animal heads on wooden plaques. A stag with massive antlers, a wildebeest, a giraffe and a zebra, plus the so-called ‘Big Five’ – a lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard and rhinoceros. Velvet Wilde looked at them in both revulsion and anger; she didn’t like anyone who could be proud of killing such beautiful creatures. There was a studded black leather sofa and two matching armchairs arranged around a glass-topped coffee table and at the far end of the room a vast, vulgar walnut desk with ornate gold inlays.
It was occupied by a man who immediately got to his feet. He was short and wiry, with a cocksure, arrogant demeanour that was barely masked by his welcoming smile. His hair was razored to a hard-looking dark stubble and much of his face was covered similarly. He was dressed in a thin, black polo-neck jumper and jeans with a flashy belt buckle. The fingers of his left hand were adorned with jewelled rings and on his right hand was a black leather glove holding a torpedo cigar.
Potting recognized him from his photograph and stared at him, trying to figure out which was his glass eye.
Dervishi pointed at the two chairs in front of the coffee table, and joined them. Speaking in a genial voice with a much stronger accent than his wife’s, he said, ‘Detective Sergeant Potting and Detective Constable Wilde?’ His gaze lingered approvingly on the female detective.
Potting held up his warrant card, but Jorgji Dervishi dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘It is good of you to come, my wife is getting very anxious about our son – you see, this is just not like him, not typical at all. Aleksander, he normally always tells us his plans.’
‘Mr Dervishi,’ Potting cut him short. ‘We would like to talk to your son urgently, but we also need to speak to you.’
‘Of course!’ he said. ‘Please sit down. May I offer you a drink? I have good whisky – you like thirty-year-old Craigellachie?’ He raised a cut-glass tumbler to display its amber content. ‘Or Napoleon brandy, a glass of wine, coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ Potting said.
Wilde shook her head.
‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of two detectives visiting me at this late hour?’ His eyes lingered on Wilde as he drew on his cigar and blew out a perfect smoke ring, as if trying to tease approval from her.
‘Does the name Fatjon Sava mean anything to you?’ Potting asked, watching the man’s eyes carefully – still trying to decide which was the glass one. But all he saw was a flicker of uncertainty as Dervishi stared fixedly back at him.
‘A man by this name worked for me once, yes. But he was an idiot. I dismissed him a long time ago. So, how else may I help you?’
Potting still could not spot the prosthetic. ‘A fourteen-year-old boy was kidnapped today at the Amex Stadium,’ he said. ‘His name is Mungo Brown and we understand he and your son are good friends at school.’
‘Yes, this boy has been here a few times – I think they play computer games. He has been kidnapped? When?’
‘He was last seen talking to your son an hour and a half before the start of the match this afternoon – around 4.00 p.m. Later, a ransom demand was made by text from a mobile phone that we have linked to a former employee of yours, Mr Fatjon Sava. What can you tell us about him?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Dervishi said, ‘I told you, Sava was an idiot. A psycho. The moment I realized this, I fired him. I’m trying to be a good citizen, you know?’ He smiled, unconvincingly.
‘Very laudable,’ Potting said, a tad more cynically than he had intended to sound.
‘Are you still in contact with Mr Sava?’ Velvet Wilde asked.
‘No.’
‘Are you able to give us an address for him?’ she persisted. ‘Or anyone who could?’
Suddenly, without any warning, Dervishi’s gloved right hand began to rotate.
Both detectives stared at it.
It went through 180 degrees. Then another 90 degrees. Then a complete 360 degrees. ‘The war in Bosnia,’ Dervishi said. ‘A grenade with a faulty timer. I was lucky, it could have been worse. As a result, I have a hand that is better than the one God made.’ He smiled at them. And now, clearly, Potting could see the glass eye, the right eye. Glinting. The one that, he had been told, looked warmer.
That was true, he realized.
Dervishi drew on his cigar again. ‘I would of course connect you to Mr Sava, if I could. I have the greatest respect for your police force in Brighton. But I have had no contact with this gentleman for over a year. I don’t know even if he is in this country or back in Albania or Kosovo. Is there anything else I can help you with? I am here, at your service.’
‘We need to speak to your son, urgently,’ Potting said.
‘I would very much like to speak to him, also. He went to the football today and has not come home yet.’ He shrugged. ‘But you know how kids are today.’
Potting stared hard back at him. ‘Actually, no, I don’t.’
The glass eye glinted. ‘They are very independent, Detective Sergeant Pothole.’
‘Potting,’ he corrected.
‘Forgive me. Sometimes my English is a little – how you say – erratic.’
‘Like your memory?’
Dervishi smiled. ‘Indeed. Now, if you have no more questions, I would like to wish you both goodnight.’ He stared at Velvet. ‘Such a shame not to get to know you better, Detective Constable Wilde. Perhaps another occasion?’
She stared back at him, facing him off. ‘Maybe in court, one day?’
Dervishi laughed. The confident laugh of an untouchable.
She asked, ‘We’d like the address of where your son is at his sleepover, please.’
‘He will be home tomorrow, perhaps it is better to talk to him then?’
‘This is a kidnap situation,’ Potting said. ‘Every minute that passes is important. We need to talk to him tonight, as soon as possible. He may have seen something of vital importance to our enquiry. We’ll need to pick him up and bring him here for interview.’
Dervishi pressed an intercom button on his desk and spoke in a foreign language. A gruff voice replied on the speaker. Dervishi picked up an ornate fountain pen and scrawled on a notepad. Then he tore the sheet off and handed it to Wilde. ‘This is the address where Aleksander is staying. I don’t think they will be pleased to see you so late.’
‘I don’t think Mungo Brown’s parents would be pleased to know we let a vital witness get his beauty sleep while their son is being held bound and gagged, Mr Dervishi,’ Wilde retorted coldly. ‘How would you feel if it was your son?’
‘If it was my son, I can tell you I would not be putting my faith in the police to get him back.’ He picked up his cigar, drew on it and blew out another perfect smoke ring. It coiled slowly upwards, expanding and dispersing towards the ceiling as the two officers left.
Dervishi waited, seething in silent fury, until he heard the sound of their car starting. Then he stabbed his intercom again and barked out an instruction. His two bodyguards hurried in. The consiglieri did not look a happy man.
54
Saturday 12 August
23.30–24.00
As Norman Potting waited for the gates at the bottom of Dervishi’s drive to open, Velvet Wilde was entering the address the man had given them into the car’s satnav.
‘What a sweetie,’ she said, sourly.
‘It’s what we’re up against with some of the Albanian community,’ Potting said, tapping the steering wheel. ‘There’s your problem with Johnny Foreigner.�
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‘I don’t think that’s very politically correct,’ she chided, as he drove out onto the road.
Potting grunted. ‘The Albanians don’t trust us, they see us as the enemy.’
‘Let me guess which way you voted in the Brexit referendum,’ she said. ‘Out, right?’
‘Too right. And you, bleeding heart liberal, voted Remain?’
‘Yes, I voted for the future and you voted for the past. You know why? Because you’re a grumpy old dinosaur.’
He gave a sardonic smile. ‘I voted for Brexit to keep the likes of Jorgji Dervishi from polluting our country.’
As they drove west in the darkness, street lights strobing across their faces, she turned to him. ‘It seems to me, since joining the force, Sarge, there are two kinds of coppers. Those who went into the job because they wanted to make a difference and those who joined up because they liked the idea of putting on a uniform and being in authority. Which category do you fall into?’
‘It may surprise you that it’s the first. I wanted to try to make a difference. Once, long ago, I believed in human decency.’
‘Not now?’
‘If you dig deep enough you can still find some. My lovely Bella was the most decent person you could ever find.’
‘She sounds it. I am truly sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you think maybe you’ve not dug deep enough into the Albanian community in this city? That you’re making judgements based on prejudice, not on the reality of their situation?’
‘You heard Dervishi. He said that if his son was kidnapped, he wouldn’t be turning to the police. That’s the problem we’re up against with them, they settle their scores violently and sometimes publicly. They don’t trust us.’
‘I don’t think it’s Sussex Police that they don’t trust. It’s the whole notion of authority. They’ve had a very different upbringing in their country from us here. Years of living in a brutal police state, of communist suppression under a monster dictator – Enver Hoxha. I seem to remember he once proudly declared Albania to be the world’s first atheist state. For generations, they’ve lived in fear of authority, terrorized by corrupt officials. I don’t think that culturally they can accept the idea that police officers could be decent people, because never, in all their history, have they been able to trust their own police. That’s the hard task in front of us, to change that.’
‘Admirable sentiments, young lady.’
‘Norman,’ she said, good-humoured, but forcibly, ‘do not attempt to patronize me, ever. Understood?’
He raised his hands in surrender. They drove in silence for some minutes. A marked police car, lights flashing and siren wailing, shot past them. An ambulance, also on blues and twos, wailed past in the opposite direction. They passed trolleyed girls and equally drunk males, some staggering from bars and clubs, others standing in long lines to get in. Street fights. Police being chatted up or spat at, or in the thick of brawls. Saturday night in Brighton. Normal.
Entering the maze of streets in the quieter backwater of Hove, Potting kept an eye on the arrow on the satellite navigation screen, following it as they drove alongside Hove Park. He stifled his third yawn.
‘Past your bedtime?’ Velvet Wilde said with a grin, as he turned right and up a steep gradient. ‘Need an old-people’s nap?’
‘Let me tell you, madam –’ he began, then stopped as she read out a house number to their left.
‘Thirty-seven.’
Then another, as he slowed the car right down. ‘Thirty-five.’ Then, ‘Thirty-three,’ she said. As he stopped the car, she unhooked a torch from its bracket in the footwell, switched it on and shone the powerful beam at the smart but considerably more modest house than Dervishi’s. It was detached, 1930s, in the mock-Tudor style popular throughout the city. A dark-coloured Kia was parked outside. It was now shortly before midnight and the house seemed to be in total darkness.
They got out and walked up the short driveway towards the front door, Wilde holding the torch. As they approached, two security lights clicked on, almost dazzling them. A tiny creature, too fast and too small to identify, shot off in front of them and into the undergrowth.
The door had two bullseye windows and a spyhole. Norman Potting looked for the bell. He found it and pressed it, but they heard nothing. He pressed it again for longer. There was still no reaction. The officers glanced at each other and then he gave a true policeman’s knock. Ratta-tat-tat-tat-ratta-tat. He followed up with another.
A light came on behind a curtained window above them. Another light came on behind the door. There was the click of a lock, followed by a short rattle as the door opened a few inches, restrained by a safety chain. A cautious male voice. ‘Hello?’
‘Detective Sergeant Potting and Detective Constable Wilde, from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ Potting announced. ‘We’re very sorry to disturb you at this hour but we need to speak urgently with Aleksander Dervishi, whom we understand is on a sleepover tonight at your house.’
‘Aleksander who?’
‘Dervishi, sir.’
The door closed, they heard the rattle of the safety chain, then it opened again, wider. A man in his sixties, with silvery hair, some sticking up, stood blinking at them, sleepily. He was dressed in striped pyjamas and slippers. ‘Delvichy did you say?’ he asked, frowning.
‘Aleksander Dervishi. We were told he was staying over at your house tonight, sir. Could I ask your name and who lives here?’
‘My name’s Andrew Griffin and I live here with my wife, Gill. I’m sorry, I think you must have the wrong address. I don’t know anyone of that name. We don’t have sleepovers here – my daughter, Rebecca, who’s in her twenties, is away for the weekend.’
The man was clearly telling the truth. Potting apologized, saying they must indeed have the address wrong. As they walked back down the drive he turned to Wilde. ‘Either Dervishi gave us the wrong address or his son gave him the wrong one. The question is, accidentally or deliberately?’
In the car, Potting held the scrap of paper with the address up to the interior light. There was no mistaking, it was correct.
He dialled Dervishi’s number. It went to voicemail. He left a message that the address was wrong, and asked Dervishi to call him back, urgently. Ending the call, he turned to his colleague. ‘Plan B?’
‘Yep, well so far Plan A hasn’t worked out too well. Any thoughts on what Plan B might be, Sarge?’
‘I do, and I know a man who might agree.’
He dialled Roy Grace’s number.
55
Sunday 13 August
00.00–01.00
‘Plan B!’ Aleksander Dervishi said. He giggled.
The two boys were in the cellar of the isolated, derelict Victorian farmhouse, one of many properties Aleksander’s father owned awaiting planning permission for redevelopment.
Mungo reached over, removed the joint from his hand and took a deep toke. ‘Plan B – what do you mean? Plan A is still good, right?’
‘You don’t know my father.’
‘You don’t know mine,’ Mungo said. ‘The mean bastard.’
The two boys sat on the stone floor of the musty cellar, in the dim light of two thick, flickering candles. Discarded McDonald’s cartons from their dinner lay beside them, the cardboard of one cannibalized to make the joints Aleksander had rolled. Mungo took another toke and passed it back to Aleksander. Above them, faintly, in the darkness of the night sky, they heard the wokka-wokka-wokka of a helicopter that was doing a steady sweep search, using a powerful searchlight shining down from its underside.
‘I’m serious,’ Aleksander said. ‘Plan A is dead. There’s been a fuck-up of some kind.’
Mungo took back the joint and toked again. ‘So, un-fuck it up.’
‘I will – but it means going home.’
‘Shit, you’re not leaving me here, alone?’
‘Hey, stay cool, dude! You’ve got plenty of rats and spiders
down here to keep you company!’
‘That’s not funny. And it’s not our plan. And I’m cold and I’m still hungry. I’ve got the munchies. Do you have any chocolate?’
‘You ate it. I’ll bring some tomorrow.’
‘Alek, you are not serious, you are not leaving me alone here. No way. No which way. You’re not losing your fucking nerve, are you? Come on, we’re in this together.’ There was panic in Mungo’s voice. He picked up the roll of duct tape they’d used earlier for the photograph, stared at it, then put it back on the floor. ‘Look, we – we send them another text. Give my father one hour to send the money or I die.’
‘Dude, you are not thinking straight. First your dad has to set up a Bitcoin account. Then you have to have an account that can’t be traced for the Bitcoins to be deposited in.’
Mungo stared at him. ‘Your guys – your dad’s bodyguards, right? – Valbone and Dritan – I thought they had it sorted – like, we’re giving them a generous cut. I thought they had an account that couldn’t be traced, right?’
‘Don’t worry, they’re good dudes, I’ve known them since I was just a little kid. They hate my dad, they think he’s a brutal asshole. They’re with us, one thousand per cent. It’s happening – might just take a bit longer than we planned.’
‘How much longer?’
‘I’ll find out.’
‘I need something more to eat. I can’t believe you didn’t bring anything else.’
‘One spliff and you turn into, like, a Dyson, dude!’ Aleksander said. ‘You’ve eaten six chocolate bars. On top of a Big Mac and fries and two doughnuts.’ His watch suddenly lit up with a message and he looked at it. ‘I gotta go, Valbone’s here.’
‘You are so not going, Alek.’
‘Trust me, I’ll be back in the morning. And I’ve got to charge my phone, I’m almost out of juice.’
‘What about my phone? Why did the morons take it from me?’
‘So you couldn’t be tracked, dumbo!’
‘Don’t leave me, Alek, I’m scared. I can’t stay here alone.’
‘Just remember why you’re doing this, OK? You wanted to piss your dad off, get back at him, get some money from him. Right?’