Dead if You Don't

by Peter James

‘You don’t think you have left that a bit late?’

  ‘Can a person not change?’

  ‘You believe you have changed?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I am here.’

  ‘And now you want to go home.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, go to Gatwick Airport and get on a plane!’

  ‘I think that might not be possible for me. I wanted to ask if you could help me – I know you have influence and connections.’

  ‘Perhaps you should let me have the whole story. If you want help from me, I need to know everything about you, everything you have done – right from the beginning.’

  Dritan told him everything. Right from the start and up until the moment he had ridden up to the entrance gates, less than ten minutes ago.

  Konstandin listened, only interrupting occasionally to clarify a point. When Dritan had finished, the old man sat in silence, staring at him with an unreadable expression. ‘So much violence you have committed, and always at the request of my nephew, Jorgji?’

  ‘Yes, yes always. And now a child has died.’

  Konstandin fell silent, reflecting, then he said, ‘You know, young man, as I’ve grown older, I’ve found violence increasingly repugnant. I am proud of being born an Albanian but I am not proud of some of the things my people here in this country, in this city of Brighton and Hove, have done.’ He studied Dritan. ‘I would like you to know that if I am to help you to disappear from this country, it would not be out of gratitude for sparing my life – it’s because I want to get rid of vermin like you who tarnish the names of all good Albanians, do you understand?’

  Dritan felt his face burning. He wanted to say something back in his defence, to tell Mr Konstandin that he misunderstood him. But the old man didn’t misunderstand him at all, he was right. That’s how he must look to a man living in this grand style.

  Vermin.

  ‘Tell me about this former medical student, Gentian Llupa, who also kills people for Mr Dervishi. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are able to contact him?’

  ‘Yes, he is my friend.’

  ‘Of course he would be,’ Konstandin said. He steepled his fingers. ‘You may use my phones or if you need to go and see him, my driver will take you. I want you to give him a message. It is a very simple one, a choice. He leaves the country with you, today, or I will see to it, personally, that the police have enough to arrest and convict him.’

  He paused to peer down at one of his phones, the display of which had lit up. Then he looked back up at Dritan. ‘Breaking news: a big explosion on an industrial estate some miles north-east of Brighton. You wouldn’t know anything about this?’

  ‘Explosion? Where?’

  The old man peered at the screen again. ‘It says on the Ranscombe Farm Industrial Estate.’ He looked at Dritan quizzically.

  Trying not to show his excitement, Dritan thought, It did work!

  ‘You know about this explosion?’

  ‘No,’ Dritan retorted, a bit too quickly.

  ‘You just disarmed the phone to make it safe, and dropped it down two different drains, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. It was finally broken by Konstandin.

  ‘So, Dritan Nano, how do you feel I should repay you for sparing my life?’

  ‘Can you have someone fly me out of this country and back home?’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Today, if possible? One problem is I don’t have my passport – it is at Mr Dervishi’s house.’

  Konstandin shrugged. ‘I can arrange to get you home without your passport. But airports can be dangerous, Dritan, even our little local one. A boat might be a better choice – do you get seasick?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The old man smiled. ‘Let’s hope not.’

  111

  Sunday 13 August

  17.00–18.00

  Roy Grace sprinted over to his car, while Potting briefed Gary Baines, showing him the photograph of Mungo in the darkness, hoping he might find a clue in it. Baines peered hard at it, then shook his head. ‘It could be anywhere, really, couldn’t it? But it might be here, yes, of course.’ He squinted at it. ‘Just can’t see any detail of the surroundings at all.’

  Grace opened the tailgate, unzipped his go-bag and rummaged inside. He pulled out a pair of bolt-cutters, pliers and a short length of rope, then ran back over to the three of them standing by the door. He sheared the padlock clasp with the bolt-cutters and pulled the doors open, then went through, followed by Potting, Baines and the woman. Ahead of them were steps down, all but the top two submerged by seawater. ‘Shit,’ he said, despondently, his heart sinking. ‘We’re too late.’

  ‘Well,’ Baines said, shooting a glance at his watch. ‘Not necessarily – it’s not high tide for another fifteen minutes.’

  ‘But it’s underwater!’ Grace said.

  ‘Depends where the lad is in the chamber if he’s here, which I think he might be,’ Baines replied. ‘He could be on the gun emplacement, and if he’s standing up, like it shows in this photograph, he might still have air for another ten or twenty minutes.’

  ‘How come?’

  The curator pointed at the water. ‘These steps go down about four more feet, into the gun emplacement room. The chamber itself has an arched ceiling, ten feet at its highest point – but it’s some way into the chamber before it starts. At the far end is a small slit in the wall for the gun to fire through. That’s what lets the water in, but it’s not big enough for a human to pass through.’

  Grace removed his jacket, knelt and unlaced his shoes.

  ‘Boss, what are you doing?’ Norman Potting cautioned.

  He kicked his shoes off and removed his socks, trousers, tie and shirt until he was down to his underpants.

  ‘Boss, you can’t go in!’

  Grace tugged his belt free of the trouser loops, then put it on around his midriff, buckling it tightly, and jammed the pliers inside it. Then he wound the rope round his waist. ‘Fine, Norman, call out a dive team, they’ll be here sometime tomorrow to recover a corpse.’

  ‘I’m not letting you!’

  ‘Call Oscar-1 for an ambulance and paramedics, Norman, and shut it!’

  Ignoring the cold of the water, Grace waded in and down, up to his chest, then his neck. He paused, took a deep breath, hearing Potting shout again and taking no notice, and went down a further step, taking another two deep breaths in rapid succession before immersing his head and hoping to hell that Baines was right.

  It was pitch-dark.

  He launched himself forward and down, eyes open, swimming breaststroke hard for all he was worth, kicking with his feet, trying to put out of his mind the thought that if Baines was wrong, he had no way back. His head and back scraped along the hard, slimy surface above him. Further. Further. Shit, his lungs were tightening. Further. Further.

  Thoughts of Cleo flashed through his mind. Noah. Bruno. Never seeing them again. His body, along with Mungo’s, recovered tomorrow.

  His lungs were bursting.

  He kicked, kicked, kicked with his feet, pushing through the water with his arms and hands, frantically, sliding along against the ceiling. Into eternal, never-ending darkness, his eyes stinging. Was this how it was going to end for him?

  Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

  He was shaking. Shaking. Convulsing. His lungs were going to burst.

  He was going to have to breathe. Can’t!

  He struggled on. His insides were being stretched on a rack. Every sinew was a string being wound tighter, tighter, tighter.

  Have to take a breath.

  Can’t.

  Water.

  He would be inhaling water.

  He would die if he did that.

  Can’t go on any more.

  Have to breathe.

  His lungs were going to implode, splitting his chest open.

  K
eep going. Keep going. Keep going.

  No more. He could not keep going. He was going to have to let go. Breathe in. Breathe in and die, it would be a relief.

  Let go, let go, let go! a voice screamed.

  Breathe. Deep. All be over. Relief !

  Suddenly, through the water, he saw very faint daylight. An instant later, in an explosion of relief, he broke the surface. Tearing at the air with his mouth and nostrils, sucking it down, his whole body shaking, heaving, his head spinning giddily, like he had been momentarily concussed. He gulped it down, gratefully, ravenously. Filling his lungs through his nose and mouth, his heart pumping, filling with oxygen, breathing precious air in, out, in, out, as if he had never in his life breathed before.

  I’m alive.

  He felt dizzy and disorientated.

  But he was breathing!

  Sweet air.

  He had made it through to the inner gun emplacement chamber.

  His head bashed against something hard that was pressing down on him. The ceiling.

  Faint streaks of light through cracks in the ceiling showed him dark water stretching out ahead, the arched brick roof above him coated in slime and weed.

  ‘Mungo!’ he yelled. ‘Mungo?’

  Silence.

  Just the swell of the sea.

  ‘Mungo?’

  His voice echoed back at him.

  ‘MUNGO!’

  He choked, swallowing salty water. For some moments he panicked, struggling for air again, until he regained his composure.

  ‘MUNGO!’

  The water rose, bashing him up against the roof.

  ‘MUNGO!’

  Then he spotted a shape. A few yards ahead. A barely visible silhouette through his eyes stinging from the salty water.

  The swell rose up, momentarily covering Grace’s head, and he swallowed more water, some of it shooting painfully up his nose, choking him.

  Keep calm. Have to keep calm.

  It was panic that killed people, he knew.

  Keep calm. Breathe. Breathe!

  When the water subsided, he could still see the youth, closer now. Much closer. Wire noose round his neck, duct tape over his mouth. Water up to his nose. Eyes wide with terror, fixed on his.

  He swam as fast as he could towards him, before the swell rose again, once more submerging his head.

  How long did they have?

  Four more strokes and he reached him, just as the swell rose yet again, covering both their heads. As it subsided, he said, ‘Police, I’m going to get you out, OK?’

  Numb with fear, the teenager could hardly nod.

  Grace lowered his feet through the water and found something hard to stand on. He stood, stretching himself as tall as he could, just above Mungo, pulled the pliers from his belt and cut the top of the wire noose, leaving for now the part of it round the boy’s neck. Next, as quickly as could, he tore the duct tape away from his mouth, hearing a yelp of pain.

  ‘Sorry. Are you OK?’

  ‘Please help me.’

  ‘Mungo?’

  A petrified nod. ‘My hands. Can you free my hands?’

  The thought flashed through his mind that he had both his ears intact. Whatever had been sent to the father must have come from elsewhere. ‘Mungo, I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to do exactly what I tell you, understand?’

  Another nod.

  Grace ducked under water and looked behind the boy. But it was too dark to see. His wrists were bound by what felt like cable ties, with a chain looped through them and tied in a clumsy knot. He managed to free them from the chain, but did not dare try to cut the ties for fear of cutting Mungo’s wrists.

  Surfacing again, Grace took a moment to check any possible escape from here. All he could see was water, which seemed to be rising by the second, and the arched ceiling above, coming closer. With his arms behind his back, how the hell was he going to get him out?

  ‘Mungo, are you good at holding your breath?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in a tiny, trembling voice.

  ‘Underwater?’

  The boy stared at him with an unreadable expression.

  ‘Underwater, Mungo? Can you? Can you hold your breath?’

  ‘Yes,’ he mouthed, nodding wildly.

  Grace pointed back. ‘We have to go that way, and quickly, we don’t have long. I’m going to tie this rope round you. Follow me, OK, and use your feet to kick as hard as you can in the water.’

  Mungo just stared at him.

  He tied one end of the rope securely round the boy’s chest under his armpits, and held the other in his hand. ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  At that moment, a surge of water filled the cavern and started to suck them backwards, towards the sea. Fighting it with all his strength, Grace launched himself through the water, back the way he had come, pulling Mungo, who felt like a dead weight. As he rose to the surface, his head, then his body, hit the slimy ceiling. Shit, the gap was decreasing rapidly as the tide kept on rising. The swell carried him up, once more submerging his head. As it subsided again, he turned to see Mungo close behind him.

  Just a few more strokes and he reached the entrance to the tunnel. The way into it was some feet below the top of the brick arch in front of him. His head broke the surface and he turned round, to see Mungo’s head appear also. ‘How are you doing?’

  He nodded, looking scared as hell.

  ‘Now, you are going to have to do something really hard. How long can you hold your breath?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mungo replied.

  ‘Take several deep breaths, first, then a really big one, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Start now.’

  As he watched the boy taking his breaths, Grace did the same. There was no going back from what they were about to do. If either of them ran out of air before they reached the steps at the entrance, they would die down here. There was no one to rescue them.

  Grace took four breaths. Five.

  Now!

  He launched himself forward and down beneath the tunnel entrance, pulling the rope, feeling his head again scraping against the roof. He swam down, deeper, going as fast as he could, his eyes open and stinging in the ink-black water.

  On.

  On.

  For several strokes he felt fine, powering along. Something kept touching one of his feet. Then his lungs began tightening.

  Keep going.

  He was running out of air. Keep going!

  His chest was hurting. His lungs bursting. He didn’t know if he could go on much more than a few seconds. His throat was tightening, he was shaking. Shaking. Convulsing. He was going to have to—

  To let go.

  No.

  Going to have to—

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  His hands bashed hard against something solid.

  The steps.

  From somewhere he got a second wind.

  Felt Mungo strike his feet.

  He stumbled upwards, waited, feeling the teenager’s weight on the rope.

  Only seconds more. Please, only one more step!

  Then one more!

  He was going to have to breathe. Was going to have to. Could not go on. This was the end.

  One more step.

  Got to breathe.

  Then, suddenly, air!

  Air.

  He gulped it down, reached back, found an arm and pulled, as hard as he could. An instant later Mungo’s head broke the surface alongside his, gasping and spluttering, coughing up water.

  Alive.

  Grace looked up and saw an anxious face. Never, in all his life, had he felt more pleased to see the Detective Sergeant.

  ‘Nice swim, chief?’ Norman Potting enquired.

  112

  Sunday 13 August

  20.00–21.00

  Invisible to the outside world, Dritan Nano sat uncomfortably on the bare metal floor of the van. It was travelling at speed and, with nothing to hold on to, he was thr
own around every time the van braked hard or negotiated a bend. The exterior of the vehicle bore the name NEWHAVEN WET FISH SALES – WHOLESALE AND RETAIL, which had been stencilled on both sides and across the rear doors in Mr Konstandin’s garage an hour ago.

  Opposite him, looking increasingly nauseous from the motion, was the young medical student, Gentian Llupa. All the personal belongings the pair could carry were crammed into two rucksacks in the rear with them. The exhaust resonated as if they were in an echo chamber and the gaseous fumes, leaking in from somewhere, were making Dritan feel queasy.

  Neither of them spoke much. Dritan’s mind was preoccupied with Lindita. He kept looking at her photograph, his heart hurting each time. He could not wait to be back and go in search of her. He rehearsed, over and over in his mind, what he would say when he found her, to convince her he had changed. He would convince her. She would believe him.

  Wouldn’t she?

  He would take her flowers. She liked red flowers. He would take her the biggest bunch of red flowers she had ever seen in her life.

  He peered, anxiously, past the driver and out of the windscreen, at the falling dusk. Somewhere out there a massive manhunt would be underway for him. He had to trust Mr Konstandin. He had no option.

  As the van slowed, approaching the Newhaven swing bridge across the River Ouse, Dritan said to the quiet young man, ‘How are you feeling about going home?’

  ‘England – Brighton – is my home,’ Gentian Llupa replied, curtly.

  ‘You can continue your medical studies back home.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It is better than the alternative,’ Dritan said.

  ‘I was a refugee from Kosovo. Now I am a refugee from England. How do you think I feel?’

  ‘Perhaps you should feel fortunate to be alive.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe Mr Dervishi is dead,’ Llupa said.

  ‘So do I.’ Dritan attempted to sound sincere. ‘While he was alive we were safe. Now, no longer. Once the police begin investigating him, they will soon be looking for both of us. We don’t have an option.’

  ‘No,’ Llupa agreed, reluctantly.

  ‘We will be safe away from here,’ Dritan said.

  ‘I hope so.’

  Dritan looked out through the windscreen as they drove along a wharf past warehouses. The van pulled up.