Dead if You Don't

by Peter James

  Again, Dritan said nothing.

  ‘This money would go a long way in Albania – much further than here, I think. It would buy you a very nice coffee house in Tirana, perhaps?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Dervishi smiled. ‘I think the timing could all be very perfect! Perhaps we come to an arrangement, a deal in which I forgive you, in return for a little favour. How would you like it if I fly you home tonight on my private plane, out of Brighton City Airport, with the £60,000 or whatever it is your friend Valbone has screwed you out of – would this be of interest to you?’

  ‘What would this favour be?’

  ‘Your colleague – friend – Valbone, did he ever say he was unhappy with me?’ he asked.

  ‘Never, Mr Dervishi.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  Dervishi drew pensively on his cigar. ‘You are very well acquainted with Thatcher, are you not?’

  Dritan nodded. Thinking about Lindita’s text. He knew Thatcher was one of the things she had been referring to.

  I don’t like some of the things you do, u know what I’m talking about.

  ‘You have seen, my trusted Dritan, how Thatcher likes human body parts, especially arms and legs?’

  Dritan nodded, feeling a little sick with fear, wondering what was coming.

  ‘You would not like me to inflict one thousand cuts on you and then feed your right arm to Thatcher, would you? And watch him eat it? As punishment for what you and Valbone had planned?’

  ‘No, Mr Dervishi.’ He was trembling.

  ‘Of course you would not.’ Dervishi looked at his computer screen, momentarily distracted by something on it. Then he tapped deftly on the keyboard, before returning his attention to his employee. ‘How is your mother, Dritan?’ he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

  ‘My mother?’ Dritan frowned. In ten years his boss had never asked him any questions about his family, so why now? ‘My mother is good, thank you. She is well.’

  ‘She and your father in that village, they still work their little farm, don’t they?’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  Dervishi nodded. ‘Your gjyshe, too, she lives there and helps them. You are fond of her, are you not?’

  ‘I love my grandmother very much,’ he replied, curious that Mr Dervishi suddenly seemed so interested in his family. ‘Very much. She was always so good to me – and she looks after my kid brother.’

  ‘Your kid brother – he’s just eighteen now?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Nineteen.’ Dervishi nodded. ‘Nineteen, in a wheelchair, with the mind of a two-year-old.’

  ‘My mother had a difficult birth with him, he did not breathe for too long – he got brain damage.’

  ‘That’s too bad. So, for your grandmother he will always be her little baby grandson?’

  The bodyguard pursed his lips and nodded.

  ‘So, Dritan, all I ask you to do is to find Valbone. Find his associates also, the ones who arranged, behind your back, to take Mungo Brown. Find them and explain to them all I am not happy – am I clear?’

  ‘Explain to them?’

  ‘Explain. You understand what will happen if you do not, Dritan?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You understand or you think you understand? You look a little confused to me.’

  ‘I understand, Mr Dervishi.’

  Dritan’s phone beeped with an incoming text.

  ‘Please,’ Dervishi said. ‘Check your phone. I believe you have a new text.’

  Dritan did as he was told. He saw a photograph of a small rustic dwelling taken with a telephoto lens. A pig was visible in the foreground and a farm dog in the distance.

  ‘You recognize this house, Dritan?’

  ‘Of course. My family’s home.’

  ‘Where you grew up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take a look at the details on the photograph. Check the time and date,’ Dervishi said, calmly.

  Along the top of the image, Dritan saw the date, yesterday; and the time, 4 p.m. ‘Who took this?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone who is there to protect them.’

  Dritan gave his boss a quizzical stare, part frightened, part angry. ‘To protect them? Really?’ He clenched a fist. ‘If anyone hurts them—’

  Dervishi placed his cigar in the ashtray and raised his hands. ‘No one will hurt them. Not if you do what I tell you when you find Valbone. If you can find him.’

  ‘I will find him.’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  Dritan said nothing.

  ‘Use your motorbike, their number plates are harder for cameras to recognize. Attach a fresh plate.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good. When you have finished, go straight to the Lewes warehouse. I will meet you there to make the payment and arrange your safe transport to the airport, if you are able to confirm to me the job is done. Yes?’

  Dritan nodded, dubiously.

  Jorgji Dervishi reached down to the floor, lifted up a Waitrose carrier bag and handed it to him.

  Dritan took it. Whatever was inside was heavy.

  ‘Please explain to Valbone this is a little gift from me to him. To show no hard feelings. To thank him for his years of working, loyally, for me.’

  Dritan looked at his boss uncomfortably, then peered inside the bag. Immediately, his mouth went dry and his heart felt heavy.

  ‘You have any questions, Dritan?’

  ‘I can trust you? I do this and you fly me in your private plane, yes? I can trust you?’

  Dervishi shook his hand. ‘I give you my besa.’

  Besa was a word of honour. No Albanian who gave besa would ever break it. Dritan left on his mission, reassured.

  77

  Sunday 13 August

  12.00–13.00

  They drove their two vehicles carefully, making sure they would attract no attention. They had staked out the long-term car park at Gatwick Airport two nights ago and selected an Audi A4 and a Volkswagen Golf half an hour after their owners had parked them and taken a bus, with their luggage, to start their holidays – wherever they were destined. So long as the cars were properly taxed, insured and MOT-tested, there should be no problem with the police, and the owners would not know their cars were missing until they returned from their travels. Long before then the vehicles would have been torched, somewhere remote.

  Now, at midday, headed away from Shoreham Fort, Fatjon Sava drove the Audi, followed by Kushtim Kona in the Golf, through the entrance to the Hove apartment complex. Along with their partner in this plan, Valbone Kadare, they had rented a fourth-floor apartment as their temporary safe house.

  As they climbed out in the underground car park, Kushtim, a bundle of nerves since leaving their victim in the gun emplacement, said, ‘Are we sure we trust this guy, Fatjon?’

  ‘With my life. Valbone is my brother!’

  They rode the lift up, walked a short distance along the corridor and stopped outside flat number 112. There was a spy hole in the door.

  Kona rang the bell.

  It was opened a short distance, accompanied by the rattle of a safety chain. A shaven-headed face peered out, nervously, then smiled.

  ‘One moment!’

  The door closed. There was another rattle of the chain, then it opened again. The two men entered, each in turn kissing Kadare. Within minutes they were seated round the kitchen table toasting each other with shot glasses of rakia. They were careful not to drink too much of the clear liquid and, after two glasses each, they switched to strong Skenderbeu coffee.

  The room grew thick with the fug of cigarette smoke. The three of them exchanged stories, laughing. Periodically Valbone stepped away to check his phone and his computer, and all the time keeping an eye on the time – and tide. They did not want Mungo Brown to drown – not until they had all the money. At some point they would have to go and move him, but all was fine for now, there were still a good three hours to go before
the danger point was reached.

  And on his phone, a pulsing blue dot, the signal from the tracker they’d placed under Kipp Brown’s Porsche up at the Dyke last night, showed he was on the move. He had left his house and was heading in the direction of his office. Sensible man.

  Valbone’s phone rang.

  He answered it, good-humoured. ‘Yes? Hey, Dritan! My friend! Come and join us – we have good mulberry rakia here!’

  He gave him the address. Then he turned back to his colleagues. ‘It is all going to plan! Hey! By tonight we will be wealthy men. In twenty-four hours, we will all be very rich men. One more glass, heh?’ He charged all the glasses, then picked his up. ‘A toast?’

  They all clinked together and downed the contents.

  Then his mobile phone rang again.

  78

  Sunday 13 August

  12.00–13.00

  In the suite, Roy Grace stood over Giles Powell’s shoulder as the analyst pointed excitedly at figures on the monitor.

  ‘Sir, this pairing is interesting.’

  Grace saw two car registration numbers on the screen. RW15 AVU and TR57 GPN. ‘Yes?’

  ‘These both pinged an ANPR camera at the Beddingham roundabout at 3.21 this morning. At 3.41 they pinged another just outside Newhaven Port. At 3.57 one at Peacehaven. At 4.07 one at Saltdean. At 4.16 they were both picked up on another ANPR camera on Marine Parade, Kemp Town. At 4.22 a.m. they were picked up by another on Kingsway, in Hove, both cars heading towards Shoreham. They were next picked up by an ANPR in Shoreham. Then nothing for some while.’

  ‘Are you sure, Giles?’

  ‘From their last recorded position, they could have headed north, through Southwick, in which case they would have been picked up by an ANPR on the A27, or continued west, and been located on the one towards Steyning. Or they could have driven into the harbour.’

  ‘Any other options?’ Grace asked.

  ‘They could have headed into Shoreham Beach, sir.’

  Shoreham Beach was a vast warren of upmarket houses and apartment blocks, located between the harbour mouth and the beachfront to the west.

  ‘Have you done a check on these vehicles?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Powell said. ‘RW15 AVU is an Audi A4, registered to a Mr Richard Sanderson of Harewoods Lane, Haywards Heath, and TR57 GPN is a Volkswagen Golf registered to a Mr Iain Maclean of Adelaide Crescent, Hove.’

  ‘What do we know about either of them?’

  ‘No criminal records. I’ve given the details to DS Exton’s Outside Enquiry Team, sir, to see if they can locate these people or relatives urgently. But one possibility is they’re away on overseas trips, which is why their cars were selected.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Grace agreed.

  ‘Now this is where it gets interesting, sir: an hour after disappearing, bingo! We see the pair again apparently retracing their steps, pinging the same ANPR in Shoreham and on Kingsway in Hove heading east. Then disappearing.’

  ‘Heading somewhere into Hove – or Brighton?’ Grace asked.

  ‘In my opinion, yes.’

  Grace thought for some moments. ‘Having deposited Mungo Brown somewhere in the Shoreham or Shoreham Beach area?’

  ‘Yes,’ Powell said. ‘Or Southwick – or somewhere to the west.’

  ‘I think it’s significant they went to Newhaven at the same time that Valbone Kadare went there in Dervishi’s Range Rover, which has subsequently disappeared. Could they have gone to pick him up after he dumped the car somewhere? Perhaps in a container?’

  ‘That would fit, sir.’

  Grace called Oscar-1. An inspector who had taken over from Keith Ellis was on duty. He asked her to put out alerts for sightings of either the Audi or Golf, but with a strict instruction that the cars were not to be followed or stopped. Next, he asked her to put in place an immediate search of Newhaven Port for the Range Rover, index KK04 YXB. When he had done that he turned to the map on the wall. Shoreham Beach was an area that he and Cleo had once considered moving to, but the property prices had been prohibitive. The video and the tide chart made sense. Somewhere close to the water, for there to have been a crab present. A cave or a cavern? The whole Sussex coast was riddled with caves and had once been a smugglers’ paradise. It was fishing and smuggling that had, back in the seventeenth century, been the start of Brighton’s rise to prosperity.

  Grace turned back to the map, studying the Shoreham area, trying to put himself into the mindset of a kidnapper. Where would I hide someone in this complex?

  The waterfront of Shoreham Harbour was a good seven miles long. It would take days to search it properly. They now had, according to the demand sent to Mungo’s father, little over five hours.

  79

  Sunday 13 August

  12.00–13.00

  Valbone looked at the display on his phone. It showed the caller’s number was withheld. After hesitating, he answered. ‘Yes?’

  A hushed, frightened voice, barely above a whisper, said, ‘Valbone?’

  ‘Yes, Aleksander?’ he said, recognizing the voice instantly.

  ‘My father knows about you – your involvement – and he’s very angry. You are now in danger, I just wanted to warn you.’

  ‘What does he know?’

  ‘About our plan. He made me tell him.’

  ‘We’re cool, Aleksander. But good of you to call.’

  ‘You know my dad’s a very dangerous man. I think you should abort, Valbone.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Aleksander,’ he replied. ‘I can be very dangerous, too.’

  80

  Sunday 13 August

  12.00–13.00

  Kipp Brown used to joke to clients that his company had police protection. His new offices were almost next door to the former headquarters of Sussex CID on the Hollingbury industrial estate at the northern extremity of the city. But he wasn’t in a joking mood now as he parked his Porsche in front of the modern three-storey building. He felt a bit like a naughty schoolboy, having given the two officers in his house the slip by telling them he was going out for a walk for some air. Climbing out, he looked all around, feeling nervous as hell.

  Fretting about the word ‘package’.

  To his relief, he couldn’t see anything.

  Punching in the passcode on the keypad, he pushed open the main entrance door and looked on the floor for any delivery company’s card – ordinary mail was not delivered here at weekends – but there was nothing. He entered the silent premises, checking that the door clicked shut behind him. The reception area had been carefully designed to impress, to make clients feel they were somewhere special, but to be welcoming and not intimidating. It was modern, with glass furniture and tan leather sofas, large plants and smiling photographic portraits on the walls of himself and his colleagues.

  The office had that silent, Sunday feeling. The receptionist’s empty desk. The smell of floor polish. The water dispenser in the far corner made a brief gurgling sound, then stopped.

  He was going against the original advice of the Detective Inspector. Branson and his colleague had cautioned him and Stacey about paying any ransom. In the old days, the DI said, when banknotes would be handed over in a bag, there was a good chance of recovering some or all of the money. But in the modern, murky world of cryptocurrencies, where transactions could be untraceable, there were no safeguards.

  Nor, Branson informed Kipp and Stacey, was there any guarantee the kidnappers wouldn’t simply take the money and vanish. It was vital, he urged them, that before making any payment, they had evidence Mungo was alive and unharmed, and that a plan was agreed for his safe return.

  It was easy for Branson, Kipp thought, it wasn’t his son. Their lives had been a nightmare for the past four years since Kayleigh had died. Now they were in another nightmare. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, except getting Mungo back. If he had to go to prison for taking clients’ money and lose everything he had to get their son back, so be it.

  Ignoring the lift, he sprint
ed up the open-tread glass stairs, walked past the rows of empty desks in the huge open-plan area, lights coming on automatically as the sensors picked him up, and entered his own private office at the far end.

  It was functional rather than swanky. There was a six-seater table, with a conference phone, and several pictures of clients’ businesses – past and present – on the walls, along with ones of a charter helicopter, a high-rise development and a warehousing complex. On his large, tidy desk, and on the wall, were framed photographs of Kayleigh, Mungo and Stacey.

  He sat down and after checking there were no emails from the kidnappers, he heard another text ping in. It was detailed and specific, and in the space at the bottom was a black-and-white square QR code.

  Go to https://www.coinbase.com/dashboard. Open an account. Buy Bitcoins to the value of £250,000 and place them in your wallet. When you have done that, download the QR reader app on your phone and scan the QR code below. It will take you to our wallet. If you then enter the 33-digit code, the money will transfer instantly. Be warned of the consequences of any delay.

  Mindful of DI Branson’s instructions, he composed a text back.

  I will do this on receipt of proof that Mungo is safe and unharmed. I need to know your plan for releasing him to my wife and me.

  It would not send. He was blocked from replying.

  Shit.

  He opened his browser and entered https://www.coinbase.com/dashboard.

  A sign-in request appeared for his name, email and a password. He entered them and instantly received a message that an email had been sent to him for verification. He checked his inbox, saw the one at the top and clicked on it. He was then asked to tick a box confirming he was not a robot.

  A new page appeared, headed in blue letters: Welcome KB – Let’s get started.

  There was a row of headings beneath: email; phone; upload to; payment; buy.

  Under that was the message: Welcome to Coinbase! This guide will help you buy your first digital currency! Please start by choosing your account type.

  There were two boxes, one marked INDIVIDUAL, the other BUSINESS, which was followed by: Submit an application to sign up as an institution.