Dead if You Don't

by Peter James

  ‘One word of warning, Dritan,’ Lebedev said. ‘Don’t drop your bike – or the phone. Or there might be no more Dritan and a very big hole in the road.’

  Dervishi and the bomb-maker grinned.

  ‘Text me when you have completed your mission,’ Dervishi said. ‘My plane will be waiting. I will give you instructions where to find the pilot.’

  Dritan, watching him closely, saw Dervishi shoot a glance at Lebedev. And he clocked the smile Lebedev flashed back.

  It made him feel very uncomfortable.

  Dritan put on his helmet, went outside and stood in the afternoon sunshine beside the van, Hyundai and large black Mercedes, looking around, carefully, warily. And thinking.

  Could he possibly trust Mr Dervishi? He had moved the goalposts. Would he move them again?

  He did not like that glance he had seen between Mr Dervishi and the Russian.

  Mr Dervishi would kill anyone who crossed him or who got in the way of any profit he might make.

  He entered the address he had been given into the maps app on his phone, started the engine and rode off, slowly. A few hundred yards from the unit he stopped his bike, the engine running at tick over, and stood still, his feet on the ground, thinking.

  He had a primed bomb in his pocket. If he carried out this mission, what incentive did his boss have to fly him out of the country?

  None.

  Looking around, he clocked the blue Jaguar estate that had been here when he arrived. But there was something parked beyond it, a dark-grey vehicle that had not been there before. It made him nervous. Maybe it was innocent. Maybe not.

  Should he cruise round the block and see if it moved?

  But if it was the cops, how could they be on to him so soon?

  Shit.

  He started the bike and rode off, back the way he had come.

  The BMW that had been parked on the other side of the Jaguar estate was still there.

  104

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  The incoming tide had risen up to his chin. Mungo desperately trod water to avoid the wire cutting into his neck. His ears were filled with the roar of the sea. A sudden surge sent water breaking over his head and he took some in, accidentally, through his nostrils, sending a searing pain through his head.

  He whimpered. Help. Help. Help me.

  It had been a long while since his feet had touched the ledge. He was kicking with his legs, desperately trying to keep his head above the water. He was tiring. Close to exhaustion. Kicking, kicking, kicking.

  The water was rising.

  Rising towards the vaulted, slime-covered ceiling.

  Before it reached it, he would be totally submerged.

  ‘Owwwwwwwwww!’ His cry, as the wire suddenly bit into his neck, was muffled by the duct tape over his mouth.

  I’m going to die.

  105

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  Inside Unit 26, Jorgji Dervishi listened, smiling, to the sound of the motorbike roaring away into the distance. He puffed hard on his cigar and blew out two perfect smoke rings in succession. Then he turned to Ylli Prek and handed him the number of the phone Dritan Nano had in his breast pocket.

  ‘Wait until he is well away. Ten – better fifteen minutes. I tell you when to send the three texts.’

  ‘He is not coming back here?’ Prek asked. ‘Not texting you when he has done what you told him?’

  ‘That’s right, you got it in one,’ Dervishi said. He blew another perfect smoke ring.

  106

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  ‘Target’s on the move,’ Pip Edwards informed Oscar-1. ‘He’s leaving the industrial estate via the exit road – he has no alternative route.’

  Keith Ellis well knew from his earlier days as a traffic officer the difficulties involved in following a target without being observed – especially motorbikes – and the dangers if it later turned into a pursuit. A couple of years ago an RPU officer had entered into pursuit with a motorcyclist who was weaving recklessly through traffic on a motorway. A short while later it had ended in tragedy when the biker turned off at an exit, lost control a few minutes later and hit a petrol tanker head-on.

  Since then, and after a number of other motorcycle fatalities during pursuits, policy dictated that motorcycle pursuits should only be authorized in exceptional circumstances. As part of a kidnap in progress, this qualified.

  ‘Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One, do you have visual contact?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘Not at this moment – we will shortly.’

  ‘Follow at a discreet distance when you do.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  107

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  Norman Potting clipped a kerb, taking the racing line as he slid the car at speed through a left turn, onto a road that ran parallel to the pebble beach and the sea beyond. Roy Grace clung to the grab handle, glancing repeatedly at his watch. Less than ten minutes to rescue Mungo, if his calculations were correct.

  They drove into a fenced parking area, with just a couple of vehicles in it, and both detectives jumped out almost before the car had stopped moving. A distinguished-looking blonde woman in her early fifties hurried towards them through the blustery wind. She was followed by a man in his forties, with a crew cut, wearing a grey top, jeans and trainers.

  Grace flashed his warrant card. ‘Mrs Sampson?’

  ‘Yes – and this is Gary Baines – he’s in charge of the restoration of the fort.’

  Grace shook his hand and shot a fleeting glance around him, getting his bearings. They were on the west side of the harbour, in a huge, flat area of wild, unkempt grass, in a complex of old brick structures. Straight ahead to the east, visible beyond the low roof of a green corrugated-iron Nissen hut, was the superstructure of a white building bearing the large words, in black, NATIONAL COAST-WATCH, SHOREHAM. Past that, across the rippling water of the harbour mouth, were two arms; on the end of one he could see several anglers. Across the River Adur were the houses of Shoreham Village. To his right was a steep grass embankment topped by crumbling, buttressed flint and brick walls, with a pebble beach to the south and the sea beyond. Sunk into the embankment, every twenty feet or so, were brick steps down to solid-looking steel doors.

  ‘That one there, officers!’ Sharon Sampson said, excitedly, pointing at one pair of doors secured by a shiny brass padlock.

  ‘What’s down there?’ Grace asked.

  ‘The old gun emplacements,’ Gary Baines said. ‘These contained the cannon facing out to sea and across the harbour entrance, to repel any invasion by the French – which never happened, luckily. Some of the cannon were taken and smelted down, unfortunately, but we still have some here.’

  ‘Are these emplacements above or below sea-level?’ Potting asked.

  ‘Well, these were constructed in the early 1850s, before anyone knew about global warming, sir. They’re all submerged now at high tide – we’re trying to salvage the remaining cannon and restore them.’

  Sharon Sampson hurried over, down the brick steps, and pointed at the large padlock. ‘This, see? You didn’t put it on, did you, Gary?’

  Baines shook his head. ‘No, that’s not mine.’

  108

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  As he left the estate, and accelerated down the hill, Dritan Nano was still thinking about that glance between Mr Dervishi and the hostile Russian. If he had learned one thing about Mr Dervishi in the years he had worked for him, it was that his boss never did anything that was not to his advantage.

  What, he wondered, was to Mr Dervishi’s advantage in paying him over £60,000 and flying him home to Albania? Sure, it would distance his boss from any possible connection to the UK police investigation into the triple homicide. But there were, surely, other much cheaper options for Mr Dervishi. Dritan wondered what guarantee he would have that, if
he carried out these instructions and murdered yet another person, Mr Dervishi would honour his word.

  Despite his besa.

  Lindita was right about Dervishi’s morality. Somewhere in the past decade, Dritan realized, he’d been intimidated by his boss into losing all concept of what was right and decent. At first, he’d been grateful just to be in the UK, and to have a well-paid job here. That was why he’d carried out terrible things for Mr Dervishi, the last of which was what he had done just a short while ago. Valbone had deserved it, but not the other two, who were strangers to him. Now he was being sent to kill another man, again about whom he knew little, except that he was very powerful.

  He turned as soon as he could and raced back to the industrial estate. As he rode in, he saw the BMW was no longer there. He pulled over a few hundred yards away from the bomb factory, and sat, both feet on the ground, the engine again idling. Then he made a snap decision.

  He switched off the engine, kicked down the stand and dismounted. After ensuring the bike was safely propped up, he sprinted towards the unit he had just left. All three vehicles were still outside.

  As he drew close he slowed to a walk, treading as quietly as he could in his rubber-soled motorcycling boots. Tugging the phone from his breast pocket, he laid it on the ground behind a wheelie bin between the office door and the workshop entrance, and sprinted back to his bike.

  Mounting the machine, he looked over his shoulder, anxiously, but to his relief there was no sign of any movement. His heart in his mouth, he started the engine, again checking the unit in his mirrors before heading towards the entrance of the estate, using the throttle as lightly as he could. He picked up speed a little past the holiday units, then halted at the junction with the dual carriageway, where he would have to turn left.

  And froze.

  During his time working for Mr Dervishi, he had learned to spot unmarked police cars. The police mainly used German models, in dark colours, with four doors and blacked-out rear windows.

  The BMW, in a lay-by a short distance down the dual carriageway, ticked those boxes. It was identical to the one he had seen earlier on the industrial estate. Was it the same car?

  He would have to pass it. Then see if it followed.

  Oh shit.

  He removed one glove, pulled his own mobile phone from his inside pocket, unlocked it with a trembling finger and looked at the number he had entered. He tapped send. Waited, then tapped send again. His hand was shaking so much he had to take a breath before tapping send a third time.

  And listened.

  He heard nothing. No explosion.

  He looked down at the display, puzzled. Had he entered the number incorrectly? Surely not, he had checked it carefully. Maybe he had let too much time elapse between the three. More than sixty seconds?

  He tried again. Sent the same text three times in rapid succession.

  No. No. He looked behind him, feeling very scared. What was wrong?

  He put the phone back in his pocket and tugged his glove back on. He revved the engine, pulled straight out into the path of an oncoming lorry and accelerated, full tilt, past the BMW.

  109

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  ‘Go, go, go!’ Pip Edwards said, resisting the temptation to put the blue lights on, as Trundle waited for the lorry to pass, then floored the accelerator, pulling into the outside lane.

  Edwards radioed Oscar-1. ‘Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One, subject vehicle has just gone past at high speed, heading towards the Beddingham roundabout. We are following. For Oscar-1’s info, driver is a green permit holder in a suitable vehicle.’

  ‘Try to keep him in sight but don’t let him see you are following. Do not attempt a stop.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  As they approached the roundabout at over 100 mph, they saw the bike circle it skilfully, then head back up the hill, passing them on the far side of the dual carriageway. Braking sharply, Trundle entered ahead of a car which just slowed in time, held the BMW in a power slide, then accelerated back up the hill. The motorbike was already out of sight. The BMW’s speedometer read 110 mph. 120 mph. As they approached the next roundabout, where there was a build-up of traffic, they could not see which way the Ducati had gone.

  Braking hard, Trundle said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Straight on. We’d have seen him if he’d gone round and right.’

  Trundle raced in front of a van and carried on, accelerating again hard.

  Edwards kept a commentary to Oscar-1. ‘We are now heading westbound on the A27. Our speed is 105 mph. We no longer have visual on subject.’

  He heard Oscar-1 put out a call for any units near the A27 to look out for the bike and report back.

  A short while later, as they approached yet another roundabout, an instruction came in from Oscar-1.

  ‘Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One, we have a report of a large explosion on the Ranscombe Industrial Estate. Abort area search and proceed back to the estate.’

  A tad disappointed, Pip Edwards replied, ‘Proceed back to Ranscombe Industrial Estate, yes, yes.’

  110

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  Riding his machine flat out, Dritan passed the Amex Stadium and the Sussex University campus, leaning over for the uphill right-hander. He crested the hill, continued at 150 mph down the far side into the valley, then up again. There was no cop car in his mirrors. As he neared the top, he slowed, took the slip left, braked hard and turned right at the roundabout, past the top of Dyke Road Avenue. He raced along the spine of the Downs, then the fast, twisting road down into the valley, finally braking hard again and turning sharp left into the narrow lane leading down into the village of Poynings.

  A few minutes later, holding his feet out to prevent the machine from slipping from under him on the gravel drive, Dritan pulled up beside a bronze Bentley Bentayga and two black Cadillac Escalades, outside a grand, white mansion. He kicked down the stand and dismounted, removed his helmet and placed it on the saddle.

  Perspiring heavily, he walked up the steps to the entrance porch. The door was opened before he reached it by an unsmiling, shaven-headed minder in dark glasses. ‘ID?’

  Dritan produced his driving licence. A second minder appeared and frisked him. Then he was escorted along a black-and-white-tiled hallway, into a large, opulent drawing room. An elderly man in a wheelchair, talking on a mobile phone, sat on one side of a marble fireplace with unlit logs in the grate. Sunday newspapers were stacked on the coffee table in front of him, along with several mobile phones and a delicate china teacup on a saucer.

  When he clocked his visitor he said, curtly, ‘I will call you back in a while,’ and ended the call, placing the phone down among the others.

  One of the minders announced him.

  Edi Konstandin greeted his visitor with an inquisitive smile and firm handshake. ‘Please sit down, Mr Nano.’ He beckoned him to the sofa opposite.

  Dritan mopped his face with his handkerchief and sat, feeling uneasy and a little intimidated. His motorcycling leathers felt wrong in these grand surroundings. The oil paintings on the walls. The beautiful furniture. The sculptures on plinths. A different world, grander even than Mr Dervishi’s home.

  ‘Can I offer you some refreshment, perhaps? Tea, coffee, water?’

  ‘No, thank you, I – I am good.’

  Konstandin peered hard at him. ‘Really, young man? You don’t look too good to me, not good at all. You look a little agitated. Are you sure you are good?’

  Dritan nodded, feverishly, still wondering why his three texts had not worked.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? You told my security that Mr Dervishi has sent you – for what purpose?’

  Dritan’s mouth felt dry. ‘Yes – I—’ He looked at Konstandin’s steel-grey eyes, fixed intently on him. He was shaking. ‘I just need to talk to you, in private.’

  Konstandin raised his hands. ‘So, we are private her
e, talk!’

  Dritan hesitated, then blurted it out. ‘Mr Dervishi sent me to kill you.’

  Konstandin looked amused. ‘Well, you do not seem to be doing too good a job of it so far.’

  Dritan smiled nervously back. ‘You see – I didn’t want to do that. I don’t know you. So, I decided I wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘You’ve presumably killed other people you don’t know, have you not?’

  ‘I have changed.’

  ‘That’s what you came to tell me? That you were going to kill me but decided not to?’

  ‘I came to see if—’ He shrugged. ‘If you could help me.’

  ‘So how exactly were you supposed to kill me?’ he asked.

  Dritan told him.

  When he had finished, Edi Konstandin was no longer looking amused. ‘OK, so what is it you want from me? You want me to shake your hand and say thank you for not killing me?’

  ‘I want to go home to my girlfriend, my fiancée, who is angry at me because of what I do. I need to find her and get her back.’

  Konstandin smiled again, but there was no warmth in his face. ‘Ah, a romantic. How lucky you are! A love story. You were willing to kill me for your love?’

  ‘No, never. I never wanted to kill anyone, Mr Konstandin.’

  ‘Yet in ten years of working for my nephew, you did kill people. You helped feed body parts to my nephew’s crocodile, Thatcher, right?’

  Dritan nodded, feeling deeply ashamed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now you have been offered money to come and kill me, and instead, being disloyal to the man who has employed you for the past ten years, you are warning me instead of killing me – why?’ There was menace in his voice.

  ‘Because—’ Dritan said, scared suddenly. Had he made a mistake in coming? He had thought this man would be pleased.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I am not a killer. I don’t want to be a killer. I want to be a good person.’