His eyes were now all over the place, shooting from left to right, wildly. ‘Well.’ His eyes veered left. ‘Yes. Mungo said he’d be in trouble if he didn’t go to his dad’s box, to talk to a bunch of his dad’s dull clients. So we parted, and I went to the game.’
‘And did you see Mungo afterwards?’
‘No.’
‘Are you absolutely sure, Aleksander?’
More hesitation. His eyes flicked to the left. To construct mode.
‘Yes.’
Grace looked hard at him. Something was very wrong. Why was the lad lying? Was he scared of his monster of a father or was something else going on? He’d probably been smoking weed. With his friend Mungo or with other friends? Was the wrong address that Dervishi had for him tonight a mistake caused by the drugs he had taken? Or was the boy being disingenuous?
If so, what was he hiding?
‘Aleksander,’ he said, leaning in closer to him. ‘When did you last see Mungo?’
A big flick of his eyes to the left. ‘Like I said, before the game started. Before kick-off.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
He shot a look at his mother. ‘I am, yes, absolutely.’
‘I don’t believe you, Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘You’ve lied to me about entering the stadium. You’ve lied to me about having a burger outside. What else have you lied about?’
‘Aleksander!’ his mother interjected, forcibly.
He said, defiantly, ‘I do not tell lies.’
‘I would beg to differ,’ Potting interjected suddenly, to Roy Grace’s irritation. Just as he felt he might be getting somewhere.
‘Where were you this evening, Aleksander?’ Grace asked, gently but firmly.
‘With friends.’
‘What were you doing with them?’
He hesitated. ‘Working on – you know – on a YouTube video project that we have.’
‘Was Mungo with you?’
‘He didn’t show up.’
‘Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘You gave your parents an address where you were tonight, but it was incorrect. Did you make a mistake?’
‘I must have.’
‘Or was it because you were all taking drugs and didn’t want to get caught, perhaps?’
His mother, looking shocked, said, ‘Is this true?’
He shrugged. ‘Somebody had a joint – it was no big deal.’
Grace raised an eyebrow at the boy’s mother.
‘Never! Aleksander’s a good boy, he never takes drugs,’ his mother said in an angry burst.
‘Except tonight, Mrs Dervishi, perhaps?’ Grace turned to him. ‘Is that right, Aleksander?’
He looked miserable, his face screwing up, fighting tears.
‘Would you let me have the correct address for where you were tonight, please?’ Grace asked.
Suddenly, the boy buried his face in his hands and began sobbing.
His mother went over to him and put an arm round him. ‘It’s OK, darling, it’s OK.’
He shook his head. ‘I only did it to help him,’ he blurted. ‘To get even with his father.’
‘You only did what, exactly?’ Grace asked.
Aleksander, sobbing uncontrollably, told him – but not quite everything.
59
Sunday 13 August
03.00–04.00
Ting!
Kipp Brown sat alone, early morning, playing a one-armed bandit in the deserted high-rollers’ room of the Waterfront Casino in Brighton Marina, aware the staff were waiting patiently for him to leave so they could close up for the night. He raised a hand in acknowledgement as someone brought him a fresh Hendricks and tonic with a slice of cucumber.
The stake on this machine was a £25 token, and the jackpot – four bars lined up – would pay out £50,000. He was close. Close!
The reels were spinning now and he could feel that jackpot coming closer. With each spin for the last hour, in between the cherries, lemons and apples, a jackpot bar would appear and stop on the winning line.
Ting!
Now two had lined up.
He inserted another token and pressed the button.
The reels span again.
Ting!
One bar stopped.
Ting!
Another!
Ting!
Another!
Ting!
The fourth! Yes, he felt a burst of happiness. Yes, yes, yes!
But no tokens poured out. He waited. Come on, come on!
Ting.
Suddenly, the light changed. Darkened. Slowly, a sense of dread enveloped him. He wasn’t in the casino at all, he realized, he was in bed, at home. He had been dreaming. It wasn’t the slot machine, after all, it was his phone. He lay still, not wanting to disturb Stacey. Until he remembered they were in different rooms. He was alone, in a spare room where he had been sleeping for several months.
He’d lain awake for hours tonight, lapsing into intermittent dozes. Waiting. Waiting for a further text. Instructions on where to pay the ransom. Anything.
Ping.
He grabbed the handset and peered at the screen.
60
Sunday 13 August
03.00–04.00
Blue light pulsed eerily across the central reservation barrier to their right and the grass verge to their left, as Roy Grace drove at high speed along the A27. They were heading east along the Lewes bypass. Kevin Hall, beside him in the front, kept watch on the satnav screen. Aleksander Dervishi sat in silence in the rear of the car with his mother. In his mirrors Grace could see the headlights and blue flashing lights of the car with Potting and Wilde in, following behind.
They crossed a roundabout and went down a long, sweeping hill. Another roundabout sign appeared on the screen, with options to turn right to Newhaven or go straight on to Eastbourne and Polegate.
‘Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘One thing you’ve not told us is how you got home tonight?’
‘I texted Valbone and told him to pick me up from this roundabout, right ahead.’ He was still crying.
Kevin Hall turned and looked at the boy in the darkness. ‘Can you direct us from here?’
He sniffed and nodded. ‘You go straight over the roundabout and carry on for a few hundred yards. When you see a traffic island, turn right.’
The island loomed ahead in the beam of the headlights. Grace indicated right, leaned forward and switched off the blue lights, slowing rapidly. In his mirrors, he saw the car behind him also indicating, and its blue lights shut off, too.
‘You go up the hill a little way,’ Aleksander directed.
Grace drove up a steep, narrow lane, with cottages and houses to the right, for several hundred yards. Suddenly, in front of him, he saw two tiny lights, sparkling like gemstones. Then a fox shot across their path, into the undergrowth to their left.
‘Coming up, turn right,’ Aleksander said.
There was a sign, saying PRIVATE ROAD. Grace turned into it and drove as fast as he dared along a deeply rutted cart track. The suspension bottomed out several times, jolting all of them. They passed a derelict barn, then Grace saw the shape of a house ahead, to their left. As they drew closer he could see a sizeable stone cottage.
‘This is it – I think,’ Aleksander said.
‘You think?’ Grace asked.
‘Well, I’m pretty sure.’
Grace’s watch showed it was approaching 4 a.m. He saw an overgrown driveway and turned into it. To his left were several rusting bits of agricultural equipment and ahead was a short, steep incline. The wheels spun on the wet grass, the car twitching until they got traction. He crested the hillock and stopped by the front door. Potting pulled up behind them.
Grabbing a torch and stifling a yawn, Grace climbed out and stood in the damp night air. The others in the car joined him, along with Potting and Wilde. ‘This is the place?’ he asked the boy.
He gave a forlorn nod. Above hi
m a full moon burned intensely in the sky, casting a glow almost bright enough to read by across the entire countryside.
They approached the oak front door, Aleksander Dervishi and his mother hanging back. Grace could see it was ajar, and went straight in, shining the beam around a small, musty and bare hallway. He hesitated, then turned to Aleksander. ‘If you call out to him, it won’t frighten him. OK?’
He nodded. Then in a small voice said, ‘Mungo! Hi, I’m back!’
There was no response.
Louder, this time, he called out, ‘Hey – er – Mungo – dude, I’m back!’
Still nothing.
‘Mungo!’ he called out. ‘Mungo!’ He looked at Grace. ‘Maybe he’s sleeping – down below.’
Grace handed him his torch. ‘Why don’t you lead the way?’
The five of them followed the teenager down a steep wooden staircase, Grace walking slowly and warily, the treads feeling rotten, as if they were barely taking his weight. A cobweb touched his face and he brushed it away with his hand. The musty smell was much stronger down here, combined with damp and the sickly-sweet stink of dry rot. But there was also a faint, lingering aroma of French fries.
The torch beam swept over some remains of McDonald’s cartons and two partially burned-down candles. Close to them, Roy Grace noticed a couple of what looked like stubbed-out joints on the floor.
‘Mungo!’ Aleksander called out. ‘Mungo!’
There was no response.
‘This is where I left him,’ he said to Grace.
‘Are you completely sure?’
‘Shit, yes, of course I’m sure. This is where we were!’ he said, in a sudden burst of anger and frustration. He shouted out, much louder now: ‘Mungo! Where the fuck are you?’
Silence.
‘Could he have gone somewhere, Aleksander?’ Grace asked him.
‘No, he was waiting for me to come back with some food.’
‘And he was OK that you left him alone?’
‘He wasn’t happy, but yes, he was OK with it. You know, I –’ he hesitated.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Well, we had a bit of weed.’
‘And now he’s gone. Where do you think he could be?’
‘He must be here, somewhere.’
‘You’re sure you are not mistaken?’ Potting asked.
‘No, I am not mistaken.’
As Grace shone his torch around he glimpsed something blue and white on the far side of the room and hurried over to it. A Seagulls scarf.
Aleksander ran to it and picked it up. ‘This is Mungo’s!’ He called out again, ‘Mungo! Mungo!’
There was still no response.
Tugging a couple of evidence bags from his pocket, Grace knelt down by the two joints. He picked up each in turn with his handkerchief and popped them into individual evidence bags, which he sealed and put in his pocket. For the next five minutes, guided by Aleksander who appeared to know the property well, they searched every room, every closet, and up in the loft. Finally, they assembled in the hallway.
‘Mungo’s not here, Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘So where is he? I’m not crazy about going on wild-goose chases at four in the morning. Do you have something else you’d like to tell us?’
‘Please tell them anything you know, darling,’ his mother implored.
‘Look,’ Grace went on. ‘You’ve been very silly and irresponsible, and I think you know that. But if you can take us to him, now, that will count a lot in your favour. OK?’
‘He was here,’ he said, wretchedly. ‘I promised him I would send him food and I would be back with more food in the morning. I don’t know where he is, I really don’t.’
Grace believed him. The kid was broken, way beyond telling lies any more.
Where had Mungo Brown gone?
‘Are there any outbuildings?’ Kevin Hall asked.
‘Just a collapsed shed,’ Aleksander said.
‘What time did your father’s employee, Mr Valbone Kadare, pick you up?’ Grace asked.
‘About 1 a.m.’
‘He came home half past one,’ his mother confirmed.
‘Mungo was hungry?’ Grace asked him.
Aleksander nodded. ‘He had the munchies. We both did.’
‘Do you think he might have gone off to try to get some food?’
‘There’s nowhere for miles around here,’ Norman Potting said. ‘Brighton’s the only place he could get anything at this hour – and how would he get there?’
‘Hitch a lift?’ Velvet Wilde ventured.
‘I told him I would send Valbone back with some for him.’
‘Where’s Valbone now?’ Grace asked.
‘We don’t know,’ Mirlinda Dervishi replied. ‘My husband’s trying to get hold of him.’
‘Could Mungo have gone home?’ Kevin Hall asked.
‘How?’ Aleksander replied.
‘I’ll phone his father and check,’ Grace said. But as he pulled his phone out, it rang.
It was Glenn Branson.
‘Boss,’ he said. ‘There’s been a development. Kipp Brown’s had another text – from a different phone. And it’s not good. I’m sending it to you now.’
61
Sunday 13 August
03.00–04.00
Seconds later, Grace received it.
The price for your son has just gone up. We will now require £2.5 million value in Bitcoins. We will be in touch with details where to pay this. Don’t be stupid and go looking for Mungo. If you succeed in finding him without having paid, all you will have is a corpse. Sorry to text so late. You will soon receive payment instrucions. Have a nice rest of night!
He showed it to everyone. ‘Do you know anything about this, Aleksander?’ he asked.
‘Two and a half million?’ the boy said, looking totally confused. ‘This was not our plan. No. No, I—’ He began to cry again.
‘Can you get cell-site analysis on this, Glenn?’ Grace asked.
‘We’re on it.’
He stared at the text.
payment instrucions
Yet another spelling error, he observed.
‘Aleksander, tell them what you know, for God’s sake, tell them!’ his mother implored.
The teenager stared blankly at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, lamely. ‘I don’t know. This is – this is not – I – this is not our plan.’
‘Tell them the truth!’
‘I am. I am telling the truth.’
Grace stepped out of earshot and updated Branson on the latest development at his end. ‘What does Kipp Brown say? If absolutely needed, could he stump up this ransom – even just for a few hours?’
‘He’s just told me he’s close to bankruptcy,’ Branson replied. ‘He’s had a disastrous gambling run in the past few months and is virtually broke. He was going to be hard pushed to come up with the original 250 grand. Let alone this.’
‘Yes, he implied that to me.’
‘Everyone thinks Kipp Brown is richer than God,’ Branson said. ‘He flies clients around in private jets, lives in a fuck-off house, child in private education. And he dotes on his son. I believed him when he told me he doesn’t have that kind of money. What are we going to do? Don’t the National Crime Agency have funds for these kinds of situations?’
‘Two and a half million? You are joking – they used to have a small amount but I don’t even know if they have that any more.’ Grace thought quickly. ‘OK, we know from Aleksander Dervishi the kidnap was a set-up by a very devious couple of lads, to screw some money from Kipp Brown. I don’t know what this new demand is about. The kid’s vanished. Is it real this time or another part of their dumb plan? What the hell are we dealing with here?’
‘I don’t know, boss. Any ideas? Hypotheses?’
‘I’m all out of them. And I’m just about to have our one suspect, Jorgji Dervishi, de-arrested.’
‘There’ll be people here working on this all night. You sound shattered, get some sleep. Let’s wait fo
r the next demand. Maybe bring in another SIO to take over from you for a few hours?’
‘I’ll be OK,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll go back and kip in the office.’
‘Look after yourself, boss. You won’t be any good to anyone if you’re shattered.’
‘I don’t feel I’m much good to anyone right now.’
62
Sunday 13 August
07.00–08.00
At first Mungo thought it was a prank being played on him by Aleksander. Two men, dressed in black and wearing balaclavas, bursting into the house, blinding him with flashlights, tying his hands roughly behind his back and trussing his legs together. All the time they talked to each other in a harsh guttural accent, totally ignoring his questions asking them who they were. Then they had carried him upstairs and out into the night, and dumped him in what felt like the boot of a car.
Now, as he lay for what seemed like hours, blindfolded and gagged and only able to breathe through his nose, he felt sick with fear. The hard, sharp bindings were cutting into his wrists and his ankles. He was parched with thirst and he needed to pee, badly. There was a stench of petrol and intermittent exhaust fumes. Beneath him, the floor pan vibrated and he could hear a steady, muted roar and the thrumming of tyres on the road.
He knew he’d fallen asleep for a while when the car had been stationary. Now he didn’t know for how long they had been travelling, nor where they were. For a while, the road had been twisty, and the car, travelling fast, threw him from side to side, and he slid forward, bashing his head painfully, each time the driver braked hard. After a while the car had slowed and they’d driven for a long while at a much steadier speed.
At one point he heard a siren and his hopes rose. But it howled on past them and away into the distance.
After what seemed an eternity, they stopped again and he was lifted out, clumsily, then carried a short distance. He could hear the sound of the sea and smelled salty air. Nothing else. Dead silence. No other clues as to where he might be. Then the footsteps of his captors. Their voices. They entered some kind of chamber and descended steps. Then he was dumped roughly on his back onto a hard, cold surface, with the sound of lapping water only inches away.