by Peter James
Then she realized. There was a padlock and chain, both of them shiny new. The old rusty one she was certain had been there yesterday had been replaced. But there was only one person who could possibly have replaced it; that was Gary Baines. And at this moment Gary was away on holiday in Cornwall where he had been for over a week, though he was due back later today.
She pulled her phone out of her anorak pocket and dialled 999. When it was answered she requested the police.
It was almost a minute later that a female voice said, ‘Police, emergency, how may I help you?’
‘Do you realize how long you’ve taken to answer?’ Sharon Sampson said, indignantly.
‘I’m sorry, madam, we are very busy. What is your emergency, please?’
‘I would like to report new vandalism at Shoreham Fort, please, and something suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘A new padlock, and I don’t know why it’s there. It might be pikeys, stealing metal from the cannon – they steal it from everywhere, don’t they?’
‘The location is Shoreham Fort? May I have your name and phone number?’ Although she made the request, Grace Holkham in the Force Control Room already knew who the caller was. Sharon Sampson was one of their regulars. All the same, she still dutifully noted it in the CAD log to go up on the system as a reported crime.
The woman went on to describe the graffiti, to mention again the suspicious new padlock and to explain that the man in charge of the restoration was away. When she had finished, the call handler said, ‘Madam, with respect, you have called the emergency number, 999, and this is not an emergency situation. Really you should be reporting this on the police force’s non-emergency number, 101.’
‘Look,’ Sharon said, indignantly. ‘You may not consider the destruction of our heritage an emergency, but I do, and I expect you to do something about it. Kindly get a police officer here right away.’
‘I’ll see what I can do about getting someone along to investigate, madam,’ Grace Holkham assured her.
‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Sharon Sampson replied.
‘We are very busy at the moment, I’m afraid, madam. A lot of it because of calls like yours,’ she added, unable to resist the dig.
The sound of barking distracted Sharon. She looked, in alarm, as Becks, barking furiously, raced towards a tiny Yorkshire terrier.
‘Becks! Becks!’ she yelled and broke into a run. ‘Becks!’
The spaniel grabbed the tiny dog by the scruff of its neck and began shaking it.
‘BECKS! BECKS! BECKS!’
In the Force Control Room, Grace Holkham terminated the call, fuming at the woman’s insensitivity. She stared at the screen, at the serial she had created for this call. Vandalism at Shoreham Port. Suspicious new padlock. S. Sampson. The truth was that twenty years ago when she had first started in this job, she would have sent a response or local officer to take a look, albeit on a non-urgent basis. But now with police resources stretched so thin, she was constantly having to make judgement calls that might seem, to the general public, callous. Tapping the keyboard again, she added the words No further action.
70
Sunday 13 August
10.00–11.00
‘You little shit!’
His father’s steel claw clamped his left shoulder and his good hand the right one, jerking him out of bed and sending him crashing to the carpeted floor of his bedroom.
Aleksander looked up in terror. He had never seen his father so angry.
He was shaken, then shaken again so hard, he felt dizzy. Then shaken again.
‘You little piece of scum.’
‘Dad – I—’
He stared into his father’s cold glass eye. Then into his good eye that was equally cold.
His father shook him again. ‘You little shit!’
‘Dad—’
He smelled rancid cigar smoke on his father’s breath. And his dense cologne.
‘You fucking little shit.’
The boy trembled.
‘Just what are you trying to do to our family? You’ve brought the police on us. Are you happy about that?’
‘Dad, please.’
‘Please? Please? Please what?’
Aleksander began crying.
‘You want to sob? You don’t have balls? I have son who has no balls? Shall I cut them off so you’ll know what it really feels like to have no balls?’
‘Dad!’
Dervishi pushed his hand down between his son’s legs, found his testicles and crushed them hard in his hand.
Aleksander screamed, his stomach constricting in pain. He vomited, then lay on the ground, hands over his balls and sobbing.
Dervishi stood up, brushing vomit from his tracksuit in disdain. ‘I was proud of you once. Not any more. You useless piece of shit. Who helped you?’
His son stared up at his father in terror. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘No?’
‘Dad, they’ll kill me.’
He gave his son a bemused smile. ‘Really? They will kill you?’
Aleksander nodded, frantically.
‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t, OK? Believe me, you don’t want me to kill you, you really don’t.’
‘Dad, please.’
‘Jorgji!’ Mirlinda called from downstairs.
‘Don’t move,’ he said to his son. ‘Not one inch.’ He stepped away, opened the bedroom door and shouted back, ‘Yes, what?’
‘There are police officers outside who want to speak to Aleksander.’
‘Tell them they have to wait. He’s not speaking to them without a lawyer.’
Mirlinda shouted back, anxiously, ‘Jorgji, if I don’t open the door they will break it down.’
‘Let them in,’ he shouted back. Then, looking at his son in fury, ‘I don’t care what you’ve done, you say nothing, OK, nothing until we have a lawyer here. OK?’
Cowering, the boy nodded.
His father kicked him, hard, in his backside.
71
Sunday 13 August
11.00–12.00
Miri Nela kicked the ball hard. The goalie made a desperate dive as it shot between him and the folded sweater which served as the left goalpost and bounced off the grassy mound behind him.
Watching from a bench at the side of the disused bowling green in Hove’s St Ann’s Well Gardens was PC Nikki Denero, wearing jeans, trainers and a yellow T-shirt printed with the slogan ALBANIANS ROCK! Her partner, Ellie Yarrow, was similarly attired and their lurcher, Horris, sat between them. Spread around them on other benches and on the grass, drinking, eating sandwiches, chatting and laughing while the seven-a-side game progressed, were about thirty Albanians, sitting in small groups, two with babies in buggies.
Nikki felt a deep sense of pride. This picnic had been her initiative, a further step forward in building bridges between Brighton’s Albanian community and Sussex Police. Immediately to her left, Lana, rocking her baby, cheered. She was married to Miri, who was developing his business here, Balcony Tea, specializing in a range of Mediterranean-inspired teas. Good, decent people, totally integrated into the city and much liked by both the Albanian and local community. As was everyone else who had come along, enjoying a rare sunny day in what had, otherwise, been a bit of a rubbish summer.
On a bench to Nikki’s left sat Valmira Bislimi, watching her husband playing whilst trying to keep their two-year-old daughter occupied on the grass in front of her. The whistle blew for half-time and Valmira’s husband, Rinor, tall and perspiring heavily, came over, kissed his wife, then knelt beside his daughter.
‘Well played, Rinor!’ Nikki Denero said. ‘Two goals! Amazing!’
He turned towards her, panting, his face alight with joy. ‘Thank you!’
To her surprise and delight, Nikki suddenly spotted the suited figure of Detective Superintendent Roy Grace striding towards her, clutching two bottles of rosé wine in his hand. She had invited him, but never expected him to actually join
them.
‘Donation for the picnic!’ he said.
She thanked him, and introduced him to Rinor.
The two men shook hands. ‘Very well played,’ Grace said. ‘A great setup for that goal!’
‘Thank you.’
Rinor Bislimi was the reason he had come. Intelligence on the man had associated him with some of the Albanian criminal fraternity, although Grace knew that in recent years he had left that behind and concentrated on building a string of dry-cleaners. ‘Would it be possible to have a quick word?’ Grace asked him.
The Albanian shrugged, then said, ‘Sure, how can I help you?’
‘Does the name Fatjon Sava mean anything?’ Grace asked.
All the energy seemed to drain from the Albanian, suddenly. ‘Fatjon Sava? Why are you asking me this?’
‘You know the name?’
He was silent, reflecting. ‘Fatjon Sava?’ he said again. ‘Yes – but—’
‘But what, Rinor?’ Denero interjected.
Grace watched the exchange, curious about where this was going.
‘I can’t talk about this man, please,’ he said to Grace. ‘Please do not ask me.’
‘Why not?’ Denero persisted.
Rinor looked frightened. His eyes darted to his wife, to Roy Grace and finally back to PC Denero. ‘Because I have young family. OK. I go now?’
‘Yes, you can go!’ Roy Grace said.
As he watched the young man run across the pitch towards his team-mates, he turned to his colleague. ‘What’s that all about, Nikki?’
The PC stood up, indicating for Grace to follow. They walked some distance away from the group, stopping in front of the bowling green café. ‘Fear,’ she said and shrugged. ‘The problem we always have. Fear of the police and fear of retribution.’
‘What do you know about this man, Fatjon Sava, Nikki?’
‘Sava used to be one of Jorgji Dervishi’s lieutenants. I understand they had a big falling-out around two years ago and Sava set up a gang of his own. They’ve been involved in a turf war subsequently. He’s linked with another Albanian on my radar, Kushtim Kona. Both are known to have a particularly nasty MO – they have gang members back in Albania who torture and kill the families of anyone here in Brighton who crosses them. That’s probably why Rinor doesn’t want to talk to you, sir.’
‘A good enough reason.’
‘What’s your interest in Sava, sir?’
‘He’s linked to a mobile phone used in the kidnap. We need to find him very urgently. Can you help locate him or this Kushtim Kona?’
‘Leave it with me, sir.’
‘Time is critical.’
‘I understand, sir, I’ll do everything I can.’
72
Sunday 13 August
11.00–12.00
‘Long night, officers?’ Jorgji Dervishi asked, politely, from behind his desk, seated as he was when Norman Potting and Velvet Wilde had first been here yesterday, the stub of a cigar in the ashtray. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke.
‘You could say that,’ Wilde replied.
Peering at Potting, Dervishi said, ‘No time to shave, eh?’ He grinned. ‘I could be a detective, right – your Sherlock Holmes might have noticed a detail like this!’
‘Mr Dervishi,’ Potting said, without responding to the remark, ‘we wish to talk to your son, Aleksander, again.’
‘You may,’ he said, ‘as soon as my lawyer is here.’
Potting shook his head, holding up a clutch of documents. ‘As I told you last night, we can either do this the easy way for you or the hard way.’
Dervishi playfully rotated his artificial hand again. ‘Is that right? Would you be threatening me?’
Potting leaned forward into Dervishi’s face and placed the document he was holding on his desk. ‘I have here a search warrant for this house. I can also call up the Local Support Team, who you saw last night, and we can take your house apart, and arrest you and your son. Your choice.’
‘And exactly what grounds do you have for arresting Aleksander and me?’
‘For your son, conspiracy to kidnap. For you, Mr Dervishi, a young woman, travelling on a false passport, with her intestines packed with cocaine with a street value of over £300,000, who died at Gatwick Airport yesterday evening. In her possession was a mobile phone with just one number programmed into the SIM card. It is of an ex-directory landline at a kebab house in Brighton that you own. Now, giving you the benefit of the doubt as a fine, upstanding local businessman, I’d like to think you would know nothing about this.’
‘You would be correct.’
‘Good, I am very pleased to hear that – although my governor might beg to differ. But let’s park that, shall we – and just have a chat with your son?’
After a moment’s reluctant hesitation, Dervishi pressed his intercom button, picked up his phone and said, ‘Mirlinda, bring Aleksander in here.’
A few minutes later, Dervishi’s wife, dressed in a purple tracksuit and slippers, her face pasty white without make-up, brought in a tearful Aleksander. He was wearing a Star Wars top and tracksuit bottoms. The pair sat on a studded leather sofa to the right of the two detectives. The woman looked scared.
As the two detectives had prearranged, Velvet Wilde spoke gently to the young lad.
‘Aleksander, your friend Mungo is in big trouble. The little joke that you and he plotted to play on Mungo’s dad has backfired and now we believe his life is in very serious danger. Are you willing to help us find him?’
The boy nodded, desolate.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘We know you had help getting him away from the Amex Stadium and driving you to that derelict farmhouse at Beddingham – Valbone and two men you say you didn’t know. Can you tell us where they are now? But first, I need to caution you, and as we’re carrying out an urgent interview to save life, I intend to continue here, rather than taking you to the police station.’
Aleksander sat twisting his hands together and staring down at them as if his life depended on doing this.
She prodded, still gentle. ‘Aleksander?’
He continued twisting his hands.
‘You’re not in trouble, Aleksander. We know you just did something silly and you probably thought it was a laugh, but now we believe Mungo’s life is in real danger, we need you to help us save him.’
His voice came out as a whisper. ‘Yes.’
She smiled at him. ‘Was there anyone else who was involved with you?’
He looked at her, then his father, then his mother. ‘I – I can’t – can’t get them into trouble.’
‘Tell her,’ his father commanded.
His face reddened, and he began crying.
‘Tell her!’ his father said again, more harshly.
‘Jorgji!’ Mirlinda tried to calm him. ‘He’s very upset.’
‘Yes? I’m upset, too. Tell her!’ he said again to Aleksander. ‘Tell the police officer otherwise you are going to be arrested and go to prison.’
‘No!’ his wife cried out.
‘It was just Valbone,’ the tearful boy whispered. ‘As I told you already, just Valbone and the two men I didn’t know.’
Valbone and Dritan had always been good to Aleksander, whereas his father’s other security guards treated him contemptuously. He hadn’t been able to help telling them about Valbone, but he was still determined to protect Dritan’s identity – and he genuinely did not know who the other man was.
Fuming, Dervishi stabbed the intercom then shouted into it, ‘Dritan! Come in here right away!’ Then he picked up his phone and hit a speed-dial button. He left an angry message. ‘Valbone, I’ve left five messages for you, where are you? Call me right away.’
The smaller of the two men who had let Potting and Wilde in last night came into the office. He was dressed all in black, as he had been before, with the coiled earpiece.
‘This is Dritan Nano,’ Dervishi said, by way of introduction, and turned to the man. ‘Dritan, these are two detecti
ves from Sussex Police. Can you please tell them where Valbone is?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, boss. Valbone bring Aleksander home about half one this morning, then later he say to me he need cigarettes and is going out to buy some from a garage. When I wake this morning he no here.’
‘What vehicle would he have been driving?’ Norman Potting asked him.
‘One of the Range Rovers.’
‘You have the registration number?’
As soon as he was given it, Potting texted it through to the Intel suite, asking for an urgent ANPR trace on it.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me, Aleksander?’ Wilde asked the very scared-looking boy.
Before replying, he looked at his father, then his mother. ‘No,’ he whispered.
73
Sunday 13 August
11.00–12.00
Mungo didn’t know what time it was. He kept drifting towards sleep, only to be instantly jerked out of it by the noose digging into his neck or by cramp. Listening to the lapping of water made his thirst worse.
He struggled repeatedly with his arms behind his back. So far as he could work out, his wrists were tied with cord of some kind and attached to a length of chain. He kept trying to rub the cord against the chain, over and over.
Were they coming back, ever? Or just going to leave him to drown as the tide rose further?
Suddenly he heard voices.
Outside.
Through the slit in the wall.
Kids playing, messing around.
‘Hey, Mick!’
The tinkle of breaking glass. A burst of laughter.
‘Get in there!’
It sounded like two boys. Right the other side of the wall. He tried to call out to them, tried for all he was worth. But all he could make was a feeble yammer: ‘Mnnnnmmmm. Mwhrrrrrrrr.’
The voices faded. Silence again.
He wanted to be home, in his room, on his computer. It was his birthday in a fortnight and he’d asked for a new Xbox like the one Aleksander had. He’d been excited for the past month about it. Was he going to die without ever getting it?
A faint metallic clang.
Had he imagined it?