by Peter James
‘You are making a bomb from a camera?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like some tea – we have Albanian Balcony Tea or coffee?’ Prek asked the visitor.
‘Tea, please.’ He looked around, curious and wary. ‘What kind of a bomb, exactly?’
‘One that explodes!’ Lebedev grinned. ‘That’s what bombs do, don’t they?’ Again, he grinned, put the cigarette back in his mouth and held the flame of a plastic lighter to the end.
While Prek filled the kettle, Dritan addressed Lebedev. ‘You are happy for your handiwork to kill and maim innocent people?’
‘It’s not my skill that does this – that is the choice of the people who pay me.’
‘I know what your tattoos mean,’ Dritan replied.
‘So?’
‘They are Russian. You are Russian?’
Lebedev shrugged.
‘Do they make you feel brave?’ Dritan asked, coldly.
The bomb-maker stared at him. A long, silent, penetrating stare, full of loathing. ‘Why don’t you fuck off and mind your own business?’
‘Each spike of barbed wire is a year spent in prison. The skull means you have killed someone. As does the dagger. You have four daggers on your arms.’
‘Would you like me to make it five? It wouldn’t be a problem, it would be a pleasure.’ He tugged at each of his sleeves, provocatively, pulling them up as if readying for a fight.
The kettle began to whistle. At the same moment, there was a sharp ratta-tap-tap-tap from the direction of the office.
All three of them looked round.
The knocking repeated.
Ylli Prek hurried through, crouching low out of sight of the window.
Lebedev and Dritan stood still as he disappeared into the office. Dritan heard Jorgji Dervishi’s voice, and moments later his boss strutted into the room, wearing a fancy checked jacket and holding a smouldering cigar in his hand. He looked straight at Dritan.
‘So?’
‘I did what you instructed, Mr Dervishi. You have the money?’
Dervishi nodded, drew on his cigar and strode over to Lebedev. As he reached him, he pulled a mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket. ‘I want you to fill this with explosive, now, Luka.’
The bomb-maker frowned. ‘Explosive? How much?’
‘Enough to take a big house down – and everyone inside it. Enough to make sure no one survives. How quickly can you do this?’
‘There’s not enough room in the phone to make a bomb that effective.’
‘Make the room.’
‘Sure, I can make the room for the explosive, but not if you want the phone to work.’
‘Think of something.’ Dervishi puffed again and blew out a perfect smoke ring. ‘That’s why I pay you.’
‘OK, come back tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not having a pissing contest with you, Luka. I don’t want it tomorrow, I want it in thirty minutes.’
100
Sunday 13 August
17.00–18.00
Mungo’s ears were filled with the echoing roar of the sea as it surged in, then sucked back out, pulling his legs harder and harder each time.
When it surged, the water level slopped up to his shoulders.
Oh God, help me please.
He looked up at the walls. At the vaulted brick roof covered in slime and weed, at another tiny crab that had suddenly appeared and was running up the wall a short distance from him, as if taunting him, as if saying, I can do this, so can you!
A takeaway carton floated past him. One way, then the other.
Mummy!
Daddy!
A massive surge of water came in, rising right up to his chin.
No. No. No.
101
Sunday 13 August
17.00–18.00
Norman Potting shot down the oncoming traffic lane, lights flashing and siren wailing, as they approached the roundabout by the large modern structure of the Ropetackle Arts Centre. ‘Which way, chief?’
Left would take them into Shoreham Village, along the north side of the harbour front. Straight over would take them across the bridge, with Brighton City Airport to the right and the residential maze of Shoreham Beach to the left.
Grace did not know. Now they were actually here, the sheer enormity of the area was dawning on him even more. ‘Go round,’ he instructed the DS.
Potting drove, siren screaming, a full 360 degrees.
‘Over the bridge and pull in,’ Grace instructed him again, his brain racing.
His phone rang.
‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘Sir?’
He recognized the voice of Inspector Keith Ellis, who was back on duty as the Oscar-1.
‘Keith?’
‘I don’t know if it’s significant, but a forward-facing ANPR camera on Dyke Road Avenue picked up the index of a motorbike heading away from Boden Court at high speed on the wrong side of the road, overtaking a vehicle. It coincides with the time shortly before you were on the scene of the triple homicide. It’s on false, stolen or copied plates. Then an unmarked RPU car spotted it on the A27 near Lewes – they were alerted because it went twice round the roundabout, and they followed at a safe distance, mindful of your original instructions. They observed it retrace its steps, then head back down Ranscombe Hill and turn into a new development at Ranscombe Farm, where there is an industrial estate.’
‘This could be significant, Keith. Where are they now?’
‘Standing by, at the entrance.’
‘Nice work! Send them in, discreetly, to do a cruise around. If they spot the motorbike, tell them to stand off at a distance and observe – and let me know immediately.’
‘Roger that, sir.’
The moment the call ended, Grace’s phone rang again. It was Detective Inspector Dull.
‘Yes, Donald?’
‘I may have something, sir, from the serials from Shoreham Beach.’
‘Tell me.’
As they crossed the River Adur, Grace looked at the houseboats, then glanced down. The river was approaching high tide. How long did they have? Thirty minutes, maybe?
‘It may be nothing, boss,’ Dull said. ‘Apparently the lady who rang this in, a Mrs Sampson, is a regular caller and a bit of a nuisance, but I thought it might be worth running by you.’
‘What do you have?’
‘Shall I read you the transcript?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘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?’
Grace felt a tiny spark of hope. He said to Norman, ‘Shoreham Beach – take that turn-off!’ Then he replied to Dull. ‘What else?’
‘I’ve got the lady’s phone number.’
‘Give it to me,’ Grace said as Potting started the car, switched the blues and twos back on and drove the short distance towards the turn-off.
He memorized the number, thanked Dull, then immediately dialled it.
After three rings, it was answered by a very hoity-toity-sounding woman. ‘Helllloooo?’
‘Mrs Sampson?’
‘Yes, may I help you?’
‘Where to?’ Potting interrupted.
Grace pointed at a lay-by.
‘This is Detective Superintendent Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ he said, as Potting pulled over.
‘Well,’ she said indignantly. ‘No wonder you people are short of resources if you have to have a Detective Superintendent deal with simple graffiti vandalism.’
‘It’s actually more serious than that, madam,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in your report about a new padlock.’
‘
Ah,’ she said. ‘You’re after the pikeys, eh? Stealing the metal from the cannon?’
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I’m looking for someone whose life is in immediate danger.’
There was a long silence.
‘Madam, are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where exactly did you see this padlock?’
‘On the door to one of the gun emplacements – at Shoreham Fort.’
Grace’s excitement rose. ‘How far from Shoreham Fort do you live, Mrs Sampson?’
‘Ten minutes’ walk. I take our dogs there every day.’
‘If you give me your address I’ll pick you up and drive you there.’
‘No need to do that, it’s a pedestrian area, no cars. I’ll meet you there.’
‘Shoreham Fort?’ he double-checked. As he spoke, he was opening Google Maps on his private phone.
‘Yes.’
He thanked her and began keying it into the app.
‘It’s all right, chief,’ said Potting, ‘I know it – somewhere around here – the young lad of one of my exes was a volunteer there, helping on the restoration.’
An instant later it popped up. The map told Grace it was eight minutes by car from his current position.
‘Go!’ he shouted at Potting, holding up his phone in front of him, the arrow pointing a short distance ahead and then sharp left. ‘Straight ahead then first left – go, go, go! Spank it, drive like you’ve stolen it!’
Norman Potting obeyed him.
102
Sunday 13 August
17.00–18.00
For PCs Richard Trundle and Pip Edwards, in the unmarked BMW, Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One, it had been a Q Sunday up until now. Q stood for Quiet, the word no police officer dared to say because it was a jinx. They all knew the moment you mentioned it was a quiet day, everything would kick off.
Traffic officers had various games they played on such days, or nights, to relieve the monotony. One, on dual carriageways or motorways, in a marked car, was to gradually decrease their speed below the legal limit and watch vehicles behind them slowing down, not daring to pass. There was a method in this, because anyone driving a legal vehicle would have no hesitation passing them. But someone in an untaxed or uninsured vehicle would always hang back, nervous of being pinged by the in-car ANPR system, which would instantly alert the officers.
Two colleagues of Trundle and Edwards currently held the record for the Polegate Roads Policing Unit, of 35 mph in a 70 mph limit. When they’d finally pulled over the car behind them, it turned out to be a major bust. Untaxed, uninsured and twenty thousand pounds’ worth of cocaine, at street value, in the boot.
Other games that traffic officers played regularly, often in the small hours of a Q night, were either to invent a fatal collision that turned out to be, on investigation, an almost perfect murder, or to create the perfect bank heist.
Until they had spotted the red Ducati motorbike going twice round the Beddingham roundabout, it had been a boring shift for Trundle and Edwards. They were glad to have something to do other than driving around aimlessly, looking for cars passing too close to cyclists, speeding motorists and waiting for the all-too-inevitable Sunday shout to attend a fatal RTC. More often than not, the latter involved a ‘born-again’ biker – the moniker the RPU gave to middle-aged guys who had owned a motorcycle in their late teens, and had now, from their bonuses, bought a much more powerful machine than had been around in their youth, on which too many, tragically, would run out of road – or talent – at a vital point.
‘Been to that new industrial estate before?’ Trundle asked his colleague.
Edwards shook his head. ‘No, it’s only been finished very recently – you?’
Trundle shook his head. ‘Me neither.’
On Oscar-1’s instructions they drove past a small development of holiday-let chalets and in through the entrance of the Ranscombe Farm Industrial Estate, which was heralded by a small sign. Cruising slowly, they looked at the company names displayed and the empty parking bays: Yelland Flooring; Caburn Office Furnishings; Tuckwell Auto Spares.
At the end of the road they turned left, then left again, and drove along the second row of almost identical units. And saw, parked on a forecourt, ahead to their right, a blue van bearing the name of a plumbing firm, a small Hyundai dwarfed by a large, black Mercedes, and a motorbike, a red Ducati.
Index K5 DGG.
Bingo!
They cruised on, as instructed, noting the name on the premises, Caburn Heating & Plumbing Services.
‘Spin her round at the end and we’ll park up,’ Edwards suggested.
A couple of minutes later they pulled up beside a blue Jaguar estate car on the forecourt of a company called Cornelia James Ltd, which displayed a Royal Warrant crest beside its name. From this vantage point they were concealed behind the Jaguar but had a clear view through its windows of the vehicles outside the plumbing firm.
Pip Edwards radioed Oscar-1. ‘This is Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One, we have visual on the target bike.’
Keith Ellis replied, ‘Acknowledged, Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One. Stay out of sight but maintain obs on the bike. If the rider leaves, inform me, follow at a discreet distance but do not enter into pursuit. Stand by for further instructions.’
‘Yes, yes.’
They settled down to watch.
‘How’s Beckie?’ Pip Edwards asked. ‘Still working at Tesco?’
‘Seventeen years she’s just clocked up, and still loves every day there. So how’s the caravan?’
Edwards had just splashed out £20,000 on a caravan.
‘Love it, the kids love it! Going to the New Forest next weekend.’
Trundle shook his head. ‘Caravans, yech. My idea of luxury is a nice hotel, a spa, a pool.’
‘And an RTC that’s a murder?’ Pip Edwards asked him.
‘Yep. One that involves some poor sod of a motorist stuck behind a bastard in a caravan, on a hill,’ Trundle retorted.
103
Sunday 13 August
17.00–18.00
‘Very clever,’ Dervishi said.
It had taken the bomb-maker less than twenty minutes, so far.
‘See, I knew you could!’
Luka Lebedev, watched by Dritan Nano, Ylli Prek and Jorgji Dervishi, carefully squeezed superglue along the back of the Samsung phone, then pressed the fake battery pack, which he had fashioned from black plastic, against it. He laid it on the work surface. ‘Needs two minutes to bond.’
‘You’re sure there’s enough explosive to do the job?’ Dervishi quizzed, lighting a fresh cigar.
Lebedev began to roll a new cigarette with one hand.
‘No smoking, please.’
He frowned. ‘But, Mr Dervishi, you are smoking!’ Lebedev carried on rolling.
Dervishi stepped forward, grabbed the partially finished cigarette from his palm and trod it into the floor. ‘I don’t want that cheap shit polluting my Havana, understand?’
There was a moment of awkward silence. Lebedev glared at his employer and, for a moment, Dritan thought the Russian was going to deck him.
Dervishi tapped his own chest, self-importantly. ‘So long as I pay you, you do what I tell you, understand?’
Lebedev continued glaring at him.
‘Are you going to answer my question, Luka? You are sure there’s enough explosive in that battery pack? To blow up a house?’
‘Let’s try it.’ Lebedev’s lips parted in his malevolent grin.
‘Maybe I’ll stick it up your ass and try it.’
Dritan looked at the others, attempting not to show his utter contempt for them. Contempt for Ylli Prek, for even daring to think he might deliver a bomb to the football stadium. For Luka Lebedev for making these evil things. And way, way above these two, Mr Dervishi, the arrogant, murderous monster.
Dervishi caught his eye and smiled. ‘My trusted Dritan, who has today killed three people who crossed me.’
‘You told me, M
r Dervishi, that if I did this, you would give me the money you promised and arrange your private aeroplane to fly me home.’
‘I did indeed, Dritan. Just one more task for you and then I will fly you home.’
‘That wasn’t our deal. You gave me besa.’
‘I said I would fly you home in my private plane. I’m doing that.’
‘You did not say there was one more thing.’
‘You want to argue with me? You don’t like it? Go – just leave, I won’t stop you.’
Dritan hesitated. He was tempted to do just that. But, he realized, he was in Mr Dervishi’s hands. His name and details might be all over the border controls imminently, if they weren’t already. The only safe escape was by Mr Dervishi’s plane from the local airport where there would be no questions asked.
Mr Dervishi had given him besa. He could trust that. ‘I do it,’ he said, reluctantly.
‘Of course you will!’ Dervishi smiled and pointed at the primed phone. ‘I want you to go and see my uncle, Edi Konstandin. Take this phone to him and tell him it is a secure phone on which I will call him with a peace offering.’ He handed him a slip of paper on which he had written Konstandin’s address.
Dritan frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You leave it with him and tell him I will be calling him on it. When you ride away, you then send him a text.’ He smiled and blew out another perfect smoke ring.
‘And what about if someone sends me a text, by accident, on my way?’ Dritan asked.
Despite simmering visibly with anger, Lebedev said, ‘It is secure. To prevent against random or accidental texts to a wrong number being sent, you have to send the same text three times within a sixty-second window. Miss the window and you have to start over. Simples!’ Again, his metal teeth flashed. ‘Enter the number on your own phone.’
Copying it from the sheet of paper, Dritan tapped it in. When he had done that, he asked, ‘What should I do if your uncle is out, Mr Dervishi?’
‘My uncle rarely goes out, except to the football. He is confined to his wheelchair and he is too afraid of enemies. I wonder why!’
They stood in silence, whilst Dervishi blew more smoke rings. Finally, Lebedev said, ‘OK,’ picked up the phone and handed it to Dritan, who took it very nervously and placed it in the top pocket of his leathers.