Dead if You Don't

by Peter James

  ‘You look like you need a drink. There’s some in the bottle in the fridge.’

  ‘I need something stronger.’ He walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large whisky. ‘How are the boys?’

  ‘I’ve hardly seen them. Kaitlynn said Noah’s been good as gold. I looked in on Bruno a short while ago and he’s playing some war game again. Oh, by the way, before I forget, I need some dates from you for our appointment with Alan Larkin.

  ‘Alan Larkin?’

  ‘The solicitor at at the Family Law Partners, to see what he suggests we do about finalizing all the paperwork with Bruno’s move here from Munich.’

  Sandy’s parents, always difficult people at the best of times, were being a nightmare recently, and he was glad to have Larkin on board as a collaboratively trained lawyer to help with their differences over both access to Bruno and the provisions for him made in Sandy’s will.

  ‘Great, thanks.’ He popped a couple of ice cubes in his whisky and joined her on the sofa.

  ‘So?’ she quizzed. ‘I haven’t seen you since yesterday. What’s been happening, Mr Mystery?’

  ‘Well – it’s been a good day and a bad day.’

  ‘You want to start with the good or the bad?’

  He filled her in, with as much detail as he could. When he had finished he asked, ‘Tell me, the body parts that you’ve recovered from the crusher site. Did the head turn up yet?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes, it was brought in earlier this evening – but oddly missing an ear.’

  ‘Which one – left or right?’

  ‘The right.’

  He smiled. ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘I’m glad it does to someone.’

  He stood up. ‘Maybe I should look in on Bruno?’

  ‘Sure, but don’t be long, I have plans.’

  ‘Plans?’

  She gave him a very sexy smile. ‘If my darling superhero, swimmer extraordinaire, is not tooooo tired, that is.’

  He grinned back, hurried upstairs and stood outside Bruno’s door, listening. He heard a staccato burst of gunfire, followed by another, then the sound of his son cursing loudly in German. He tapped on the door and entered.

  Bruno, dressed in a hoodie, jeans and white socks, was lying on his bed, holding his Xbox controller, concentrating hard as figures darted across the television screen. As each appeared, he stabbed buttons on the controller, and the character was blown away. Then the screen froze and a score appeared.

  ‘Jah! You bastard, I got you! Du bist der verlierer!’ Without turning his head, Bruno said, ‘I won!’

  ‘See, Bruno, the lessons in shooting I gave you have paid off!’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So, how’ve you been? Mr Allen brought you home from the Amex OK, yesterday?’

  ‘Jah. He has an Audi A6.’

  ‘How did you get on with his boys – he has two sons, right?’

  ‘Boys? They were babies. Like, I don’t know, nine or seven or something. Logan and something like Jensen.’ He kept his focus on the screen, tapping his Xbox, starting another game. ‘So, what happened to the boy who was kidnapped?’

  ‘He’s safe, back with his family.’

  ‘The kidnappers did not get any ransom?’

  ‘They got some – part of it.’

  Bruno nodded, approvingly. ‘That is good.’

  ‘Good? Good that they only got part of it?’

  ‘No, Dad, good that they got some money. Won’t they be disappointed they did not get the rest?’

  Grace frowned. ‘Why do you say that, Bruno?’

  Two names appeared on the screen, Erik and Bruno.

  ‘Why do you say that, Bruno?’ he repeated.

  ‘I have to concentrate now.’

  Grace looked at the screen. It looked like a medieval fort, from the point-of-view of the camera. A man dashed across a gap at the end. Bruno hit a button and yelled out, in frustration, ‘No! I missed!’

  Grace pulled the control box from his son’s hands, in fury. ‘Listen to me. I just asked you a question and I expect you to answer. Right?’

  ‘You are going to let Erik win this game?’ Bruno retorted.

  ‘No, Bruno, let’s get something straight. It is you who is going to let Erik win by not answering me. I’m asking you a question. Why did you say it’s good that the kidnappers got some money – and would be disappointed by not getting the rest?’

  His son gave him a sullen look. ‘They took a risk, don’t they deserve some reward, surely?’

  Some minutes later, Grace went back downstairs. It was the second time this weekend that Bruno had made a very odd remark. Just what kind of upbringing had Sandy given him? One with a very strange, skewed moral compass, it seemed. Or maybe it was a rebellious phase he was going through, still unhappy about being displaced, taken away from what he had always considered home?

  But he was too tired to think about it any more.

  116

  Monday 14 August

  The first floor of the handsome Queen Anne mansion was where the top brass had their offices. Pewe’s assistant, who had escorted Roy Grace up here, knocked on the door and opened it. From the tone of the ACC’s text last night, Roy Grace figured the man wasn’t about to greet him with a bunch of flowers.

  He was right.

  ‘Roy,’ he said, ‘so good of you to be able to spare your time to see me. Do come in, take a seat, have a quick read of this.’

  As Grace perched on one of a pair of L-shaped sofas around a mahogany coffee table, the ACC literally threw down a copy of the morning’s Argus newspaper. The headline was stark and clear.

  BRIGHTON NEW MURDER CAPITAL OF EUROPE?

  ‘I have to step out for five minutes to see someone in Corporate Comms. Have a good read through, see what a great job you’re doing as Head of Major Crime.’

  Pewe walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Since a few months ago, due to further budget cuts reducing the number of police buildings, the senior officers at Sussex Police HQ were required to make do with much smaller work spaces. They had to accommodate, as well as other police officers, the recent arrival of the East Sussex Fire Brigade command team. The Chief Constable had led the way by having her once-imposing office reduced in size by over a half. Yet, somehow, Pewe had so far retained his own large office in its entirety. Word around the force was that his ego wouldn’t fit into anything smaller.

  Grace speed-read the alarmist front page of the newspaper, and coverage of the grim events of the weekend on subsequent pages, with photographs of some of the victims as well as of police cars, crime scene tape and CSIs in their oversuits. There was speculation regarding the three dead men found at Boden Court, that this was an internal Albanian settlement of scores.

  He was relieved by one thing, that in all the seeming mayhem, the coverage of the bomb hoax at the Amex amounted to only a few column inches towards the centre of the paper. After a quieter weekend he’d have probably been the front-page splash, with an embarrassing photograph of him running with the camera.

  He looked up the paper’s online pages on his phone to see if there were any updates reported.

  Among the new headlines there was one that caught his eye.

  NEWHAVEN LIFEBOAT INVESTIGATING EXPLOSION REPORT

  He read the short article. The crew of a private sailing yacht crossing the Channel had radioed the Coastguard shortly after 9.30 p.m. yesterday, reporting a large explosion a few nautical miles south of Newhaven. The paper reported that a search of the area had been carried out by the lifeboat and the Coastguard helicopter into the night, after debris had been sighted in the approximate area. Early this morning, the Newhaven lifeboat had recovered a lifebelt stencilled with the name Sweet Suzie. It belonged to a deep-sea fishing boat permanently berthed at Newhaven Harbour that had last been seen heading out to sea earlier the previous evening.

  Was there any connection, he wondered, noting down the boat’s name. He would get a check on the
owner. As he did so, Pewe came back into the office, closing the door firmly, and stood over him.

  Grace looked up. ‘A quick update on the kidnap, sir. The original kidnap turned out to be a plan by two teenage boys – the victim himself and his friend, the son of Jorgji Dervishi, a major Albanian crime boss in Brighton – to extort money from the victim’s father. Our enquiries revealed that the plans changed, and other Albanian gang members hijacked the original kidnap plot, because they became greedy. Finally, it appears, Dervishi himself saw an opportunity to get in on the act.’

  Pewe stared at him, glassily. Grace went on. ‘Although we believe that Dervishi was also behind the bomb threat and extortion attempt at the Amex, we are confident that these were not linked, but coincidental.’

  Pewe continued staring at him, his face tense. ‘Roy, taking a helicopter view of this past weekend, we seem to have moved the Major Crime needle somewhat. I’d say we’ve been pretty much thrown under the bus. What is your elevator pitch on events?’

  Grace stared back at the ACC, trying to interpret his latest corporate-speak.

  ‘It’s been a bit shit, sir.’

  ‘A bit shit? Really? Perhaps we need to dive deeper on this issue? Open the kimono?’

  ‘You’ve lost me, sir,’ Grace said, politely.

  ‘I’ve lost you? I’m so sorry. Let me jog your mind by winding the clock back over the last forty-eight hours. We’ve had a bomb threat at the Amex. A teenage boy kidnapped. A female drugs mule dead at Gatwick Airport. Body parts showing evidence of torture found at a crusher site at Shoreham Harbour. The crusher operator dead under suspicious circumstances in the Sussex County. Three people shot dead in a flat in Hove, yesterday. An explosion on an industrial estate outside Lewes, at what might have been a bomb factory, with two separate sets of body parts identified so far. Not bad for one weekend, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘We recovered the kidnap victim, which was my case and my priority, sir.’

  ‘Really? Jolly well done. From 40,000 feet that looks good. But once you get into the weeds, it all looks a little different. Would you like to explain everything else to me? Sussex has an average of twelve murders a year. In just this past weekend we have had eight – and counting.’

  Grace, feeling in need of a strong coffee, was about to respond when the Chief Constable, Lesley Manning, entered.

  ‘Roy!’ she said. ‘I heard you were in. I just want to congratulate you on your bravery this weekend.’

  He jumped to his feet. ‘Thank you, ma’am!’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ Pewe interrupted. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace broke every rule in the book yesterday. He behaved in a reckless manner over a bomb threat at the Amex. And he subsequently ignored all Health and Safety guidelines in the way he recovered a kidnap victim.’

  She looked at her ACC with a puzzled expression. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. I want to suspend him from all duties, pending a full investigation of both events.’

  ‘ACC Pewe,’ she said in a very formal voice, ‘as I understand, the bomb – a fake as we now know – had a timer activated on it. At the time Detective Superintendent Grace picked it up and ran with it, not knowing whether it was real or not, he made a calculated decision, at great personal risk to himself. Is this not upholding one of the sacrosanct traditions of the police? To serve and protect?’

  Pewe looked like he was chewing a wasp.

  She went on. ‘I have been told that Roy was correct when he recognized the device had a timer mechanism which informed his decision. Roy not only saved a potentially highly-damaging situation at the Amex, which would have had a serious impact on the future of the stadium and the economy of our city, he went on to risk his life saving a teenage boy. I am going to put forward a recommendation for Roy, with my strongest possible endorsement, for a Queen’s Gallantry medal. I very sincerely trust you will support this?’

  ‘Yes, well, of course, when you put it like that, ma’am,’ Pewe simpered. ‘I completely concur. Of course, I’ll support it fully.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, ma’am,’ Grace said, then turned to the ACC. ‘And of you, sir. Thank you both, thank you very much. I’m honoured.’

  ‘We are honoured to have you on our force, Roy,’ Lesley said. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Cassian?’

  The ACC nodded, his face twitching.

  It looked to Roy Grace like the wasp was putting up a pretty good fight. And winning.

  117

  Monday 14 August

  Kipp Brown sat at his office desk, his mind in turmoil. It was just past 10.40 a.m. He stared at the photographs of his family. And especially at Mungo.

  God, he loved this kid so much. And yet he was causing him so much grief.

  Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds’ worth of grief, to be precise.

  Bob Carter, his Chief Operating Officer, had already sent him an email querying the transaction from the client account, checking to see if Kipp was aware of it, and that they weren’t victims of an online fraud over the weekend.

  He was trying to think of what to reply, wary that emails were dangerous because of the trail they left that could never be erased. Sometime very soon he would have to go along to Carter’s office and give him an explanation.

  But what?

  What could he spin him that would extricate him from the very deep shit he was in?

  There was no way he would even try to persuade Carter to help him cover up this loss. That could lead to a prison sentence for Carter and the end of his career. Kipp was going to have to take the blame, and the consequences, himself. The price he had paid to try to save his son’s life.

  If it came to a prosecution, he could only hope for sympathy from the judge. But his own career would be finished.

  Shit.

  His mobile phone rang.

  ‘Kipp Brown,’ he answered, trying to sound brighter than he felt.

  ‘Kipp, it’s Edi.’

  Edi Konstandin, his biggest client. They spoke around this time most mornings, with the Albanian wanting updates on the overnight stock market movements, or on Mondays, those influenced by any weekend events.

  ‘Hi, Edi, how are you?’

  ‘More to the point, how are you? You have your son, Mungo, back safely?’

  ‘I do.’

  There was a brief silence before Konstandin spoke again. ‘I owe you an apology, Kipp.’

  ‘An apology?’

  ‘I need you to believe me, please, Kipp. I had no knowledge of your son’s kidnap, which was done by my crazy, reckless nephew, Jorgji Dervishi. Please believe me.’

  ‘Of course I believe you, Edi. You are a trusted friend.’

  ‘I think I have some nice news for you. Jorgji has gone away and will not be a problem ever again. But before he went, I made him pay the quarter of a million pounds he extorted from you, to me. I’ve arranged for it to be transferred to you this morning. My bank tells me it will arrive in your account before midday.’

  Kipp could scarcely believe his ears. ‘That’s amazing, Edi. I – I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything, Kipp. My mission in my declining years is to show that my countrymen – those over whom I have influence, at any rate – are decent people. I won’t tolerate anyone stepping out of line. Jorgji crossed that line. Now he has made restitution. I hope we are square?’

  ‘We are square!’ Kipp said, trying to play down the elation he felt. ‘Thank you. I don’t know how I can ever really thank you properly.’

  ‘I’ll tell you how,’ the old man said. ‘By just keeping doing what you are doing. Keep making me money, OK? Deal?’

  Kipp grinned. ‘Deal,’ he said.

  118

  Monday 14 August

  Moments after Kipp ended the call with Edi Konstandin, a text came in from his horse-racing tipster.

  Good morning Mr Brown, we have two bets today. The first horse is MUNGO and take the 4/1 with Betfred. Also back KAYLEIGH’S MOTHER
and take the 5/1 with Paddy. Both horses should be backed this morning taking the early price and both are WIN bets. Good luck – TONY FORBES.

  He stared at the text in disbelief. A horse called Mungo. A horse called Kayleigh’s Mother.

  He rang Forbes.

  ‘Tony, is this some kind of a joke?’

  ‘Joke, Kipp, what do you mean?’

  ‘These horses are real?’

  ‘Absolutely. Both horses are working really well at home and they are strongly fancied. I would be very keen on both of them today.’

  Thanking the tipster, he ended the call. Unreal. It had to be a bok. His luck, finally, was on the turn. He had a guardian angel!

  He dialled his private bookmaker who placed all his bigger bets for him. ‘Justin, there’s two horses today and I want one hundred thousand on each of them.’

  ‘Are you sure? Two hundred grand, Kipp?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Can you take it?’

  ‘That’s some way above your normal range – I’d have to have collateral – and I’d need to lay some off.’

  ‘I can give you collateral.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘The full amount if you need it. I should be able to get it to you by around 1 p.m.’

  ‘OK.’

  Ending the call, Kipp Brown sat very still. Those two horses had to be a sign, didn’t they?

  He emailed his COO back.

  Bob, the money will be back in our account later today with massive interest. Used it for an investment opportunity too good to turn down.

  Then he sat, very still, deep in thought. Had he just been dug out of one hole only to fall into another?

  Shouldn’t he just count his blessings?

  Every half-hour throughout the rest of the morning he checked his account. But no money came in. At 12.30 he called Edi Konstandin who apologized profusely, but his computer system was down and he was unable to make any transactions. His geek was on it.

  Konstandin’s geek was still on it, two and a half hours later.

  Kipp was shaking with frustration. His bookie was unable to place the bets without a major portion of the cash being deposited.