93
Sunday 13 August
16.00–17.00
Grace was regretting asking Potting to drive, which he had done to leave himself free to make calls. The DS drove at what seemed to him to be a ridiculously slow speed along the top of the Downs, almost making a mockery of the flashing blue lights and wailing siren.
The speedometer wavered between 45 mph and 50 mph.
‘You could go a bit faster, Norman,’ he encouraged.
Potting shook his head. ‘You have to justify your actions, boss,’ he said in a pedantic tone. ‘I don’t want them bastards in Professional Standards breathing down my neck because I crossed the limit.’
‘This is an emergency, life at risk, just put your bloody foot down!’
Ten seconds later, Grace was regretting his instruction.
The car was flying. Now, at 70 mph, they were approaching a blind brow, with a golf club entrance to the right; a van was looking like it was about to pull out of it, in front of them.
Grace pressed his right foot hard against the floor.
Norman Potting was still accelerating, either oblivious to the danger or putting too much trust in the blues and twos. Fortunately, the van stayed put. They crested the hill.
‘Sharp left-hander at the bottom, Norman,’ Grace warned.
Potting grunted. At the last possible moment, he dabbed the brakes. Somehow, drifting wide into the oncoming lane, the car made the bend.
Sweat was popping on Grace’s forehead. ‘Maybe slow a little,’ he suggested.
Potting gripped the wheel, his face set into a rictus of concentration. ‘Don’t worry, chief, I did the refresher course just recently – and DS Branson gave me some high speed roadcraft tips.’
‘I can tell.’
Grace knew this road like the back of his hand, it was the route he often took home from Brighton. They were heading towards the brow of another hill, which had a nasty right-handed kink. As they crested it, the car dancing in Potting’s hands, Grace saw the whites of the eyes of the driver of an oncoming lorry.
Somehow, they passed it, still alive.
He raised his voice. ‘Turn-off coming up, left four hundred metres.’
To his relief, he felt the car slow, just a little. They passed a dangerous junction, shot down into a dip and up the far side, then Potting braked hard and made the left turn into a single-track lane.
A cyclist was struggling up the hill towards them, forcing Potting to pull hard over to the left into the semblance of a lay-by to let him pass. Grace checked his watch anxiously. At that moment, his private phone rang. It was Cleo. He always loved to hear her voice and he was determined not to make the mistakes he had with Sandy, of either ignoring her calls or cutting her short because he was busy.
‘Hey, how are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Not great – you?’
The cyclist puffed past, glaring at them as if they had no right to be on the road instead of maybe thanking them, with their blue lights flashing, for courteously letting him pass.
‘Look, I know you’re under the cosh so I’ll be quick,’ she said. ‘I have something that might be of help.’
‘Yes?’
Potting drove on down the winding lane, siren wailing again.
‘Theobald’s started the PM on the body parts from the crusher site. They’re covered in what looks like razor cuts – just like a few cases I’ve seen before, and one you dealt with a while back, that was linked to the local Albanian community.’
‘Razor cuts as in torture?’
‘Yes. Theobald says the cuts were made while the victim was still alive.’
Five minutes later, after winding through the villages of Poynings then Fulking, Potting turned right, pulled up in front of wrought-iron gates and switched off the blues and twos. Ahead, at the end of a long drive, was a handsome, imposing white Georgian mansion. He put down his window and pressed a button on the entry-phone panel.
‘Thanks, darling, that might be really helpful. Call you in a bit.’
‘Love you.’
‘You too.’
‘Police, we would like to speak to Mr Konstandin,’ Potting said and held up his warrant card to the camera lens.
The gates opened and they drove up to the house. A bronze Bentley Bentayga was parked outside, along with twin, garish, black American SUVs. As they pulled up, the front door opened and two man-mountains emerged, similarly attired to the ones at Jorgji Dervishi’s home that they had encountered last night.
As both detectives showed their warrant cards, a booming voice from somewhere inside, with a cultured, broken-English accent, said, ‘Please, show our distinguished guests in!’
The two bodyguards stepped aside to allow the detectives through into an imposing hallway. The floor was black and white marble tiles, in a chessboard pattern, and the walls were hung with what looked, to Roy Grace’s inexpert eye, like Old Master paintings. There were fine antique hall tables and chairs, as well as a number of busts on plinths.
A handsome, elderly, pot-bellied man propelled himself towards them in a wheelchair. He had bouffant silver hair and wore a checked sports jacket with a velvet collar, shirt and cravat, beige trousers and monogrammed velvet slippers.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’ he said, oozing charm. ‘Edi Konstandin, how may I be of assistance?’
Grace showed him his warrant card. ‘We’d like to talk to you very urgently, sir, in case you can assist us.’
‘Well, of course – any help I can give to Sussex Police, you only have to ask! This way, please. My wife is out riding at the moment, but she should be back soon, in case you would like to speak to her, too.’
He spun the wheelchair deftly round and shot back through the doorway from which he had emerged.
The two detectives followed him into a grand drawing room, furnished with antiques, the walls hung with more ornately framed paintings. The decor was muted pastels. Konstandin halted his wheelchair and beckoned them, with a hand sporting a flashy watch and several rings, to a sofa.
‘Tea, gentlemen? Or perhaps something stronger?’ he asked Grace and Potting as they sat down.
‘We’re fine, thank you, Mr Konstandin,’ Grace said. ‘We’re actually in a very urgent and time-critical situation.’
The old man looked at them quizzically. ‘Please let me know how I can be of help.’
‘This is a very beautiful home you have,’ Roy Grace said, watching his eyes carefully.
‘Thank you.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Fifteen years. I bought it from a Brighton antiques dealer – he restored it many years ago from a wreck, sparing no expense.’
‘So I can see, sir.’ Grace handed him the photograph of the man in the red baseball cap, continuing to watch his eyes carefully. ‘Do you by any chance know this person?’
Konstandin studied it carefully. Grace saw just a glint of recognition. But he looked back at the detective and shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t, I’m sorry, Detective – er?’
‘Grace.’
‘Detective Grace. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.’ He smiled. ‘Truly, I wish I could. Is there anything else I can assist you with?’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think there is.’
‘Oh?’
Grace looked pointedly at his watch. ‘In precisely one hour and twenty-five minutes’ time a teenage boy called Mungo Brown, who we believe has been kidnapped by Albanians, is going to die. He will drown, Mr Konstandin. We at Sussex Police know you are at the top of your tree, and good luck to you. We’ve been trying to forge relationships with you and your Albanian community for a long time and I thought we might be making progress. But events of the last twenty-four hours indicate otherwise.’
‘Events?’ the old man questioned.
‘If I understand our intelligence correctly, the second-in-command in your empire is a gentleman called Jorgji Dervishi? Do you admit that? Do you admit to knowing him?’
br />
‘I’m not admitting to anything without my solicitor present,’ he said, his genial demeanour turning to steely hardness.
‘We don’t have time for that, Mr Konstandin. Hear me out. Let’s forget about your past, I’m not interested in that. In recent times, we are aware you have made creditable efforts at integrating the Brighton and Hove Albanian community into the life of our city. But one of your underlings is undermining all that and you may not be aware of it. An innocent life is at risk, and we believe Dervishi is up to his neck in this kidnapping. We have an average of twelve suspicious deaths a year in this county, but in the past twenty-four hours we have had six. An Albanian drugs mule linked to Mr Dervishi. Body parts bearing the hallmark of an Albanian revenge killing. A local heavy machinery operator, suspected murdered last night, linked to the body parts. And, most recently, three men of suspected Albanian origin, linked to the kidnap, found shot dead in a Hove flat.’ Grace watched him carefully.
Konstandin raised his arms in a gesture of innocence. ‘What are you trying to say?’
All the man’s body language told Grace he was not going to get anything from him by playing Mr Nice Guy. He changed tack. ‘Allow me to continue. The photograph I just showed you has been identified as another of your countrymen, who is linked to a bomb threat at the Amex Stadium, as part of an extortion plan. We know that your people don’t talk to the police, but this has gone too far. I don’t know how much of all this you are aware of, but let me tell you something. You may be the local Mr Big, Mr Konstandin, but,’ he said, tapping his own chest, ‘I’m in charge of Major Crime in this city – and throughout Sussex and Surrey – and I won’t put up with this kind of crap on my patch. If you don’t cooperate with us, this instant, then for the rest of your life we’ll be in your face, we’ll be everywhere, crawling all over every one of your businesses, and every aspect of your life. Health and Safety will close your kebab houses down and your car washes, every single one of your employees will be interviewed by the Home Office Slavery Commission and the Inland Revenue will seize this house. I’m not having this behaviour in my city. Do you understand?’
‘Very clearly, Detective Grace.’
‘Do you have anything you would like to say, in light of that?’ Grace glanced at his watch. ‘Bearing in mind we’re running out of time to save this boy.’
‘I do,’ Konstandin said. ‘If you go back out of this room, turn left and walk down the hallway, you will find the front door. Good day, gentlemen.’
94
Sunday 13 August
16.00–17.00
As Grace and Potting drove out of Konstandin’s driveway, the DS said, ‘He’s a piece of work, boss.’
Roy Grace sat in silence, immersed in his thoughts as they wound back up the hill. Eventually, he said, ‘His eye movements told me he was lying, Norman. Konstandin knows the man in the red cap. How much else does he know?’ He glanced at the time as his phone rang.
‘Roy, it’s Dan Salter, Digital Forensics – we’re at Boden Court and I’ve just found the burner phone that one of the ransom demands was sent from. Vodafone have come back to me on our request for information, and say it could be anywhere in the western part of Shoreham Harbour or Shoreham Beach.’
‘There’s no way they can pinpoint it any closer, Dan?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir – because the mast is on the coast, they can’t use triangulation.’
‘Thanks, Dan,’ Grace said, ending the call. ‘Fuck.’
Potting looked at him.
‘Anywhere in the western part of Shoreham Harbour or Shoreham Beach, Norman. Any thoughts? Any bright ideas about how we search about five miles of waterfront in the time we have left?’
Another call came in on his job phone.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
It was DS Exton. ‘Sir, I’m at Shoreham Port.’
‘And?’ Grace asked, expectantly.
‘Not good news so far, I’m afraid. There’s around twenty possibilities, maybe more.’
‘Start working on them, Jon,’ he instructed.
‘I have, sir. Eliminated two already.’
‘Keep me posted.’
‘I will.’
Grace thought back to their encounter with Konstandin. The wily old bastard knew something and wasn’t telling, wasn’t responding to his threats. Why not?
He calculated the time.
Time they no longer had.
Seventy-five minutes.
He turned to Potting. ‘Norman, head to Shoreham, as fast as you can.’
‘Whereabouts in Shoreham, boss?’
‘If I knew I’d sodding tell you.’
95
Sunday 13 August
16.00–17.00
Mum! Dad!
The sea level was up to his groin now. Every few minutes the water would surge, breaking over his stomach and spraying across his face.
Aleksander. Someone. Please. Someone please help me.
The tape over his mouth stifled all his cries.
He was standing, struggling to stay upright, to maintain his balance. He knew he had to keep his feet on the ledge. Had to. It was getting increasingly difficult, but if he lost his foothold the wire round his neck would get him. Already it felt raw, even the smallest movement of his head was agony. And every retreating wave pulled at his legs, tugged at them harder all the time, as if the sea itself was trying to dislodge him. He had to fight back, hard. Concentrate every second.
Help me!
He thought about Steven Brathwaite at school. Big, tall, powerful Steven, who the whole of his class was afraid of. The class bully. School bully. Brathwaite picked on him because he was clever. The bully liked to sneak up behind him and kick him in the back of the knees, making his legs buckle, so he fell over. Mungo had learned to stand up to Brathwaite by bracing his legs hard, then flexing at just the right moment to absorb the kick. It annoyed the bully.
It served him well now.
As each wave tried to pull him over, to make him lose his balance, and the wire cut into his neck, he used the same technique as he used against the bully. Brace. Flex. Brace.
The water surged over his belt.
He looked around. Looked at the slime and weed on the walls – and ceiling. The weed, fresh and living, waiting for the water to come.
He had already checked his height against the high-water mark. That mark was a good six inches or more above the top of his head. Water would fill this chamber completely.
He shook with terror.
96
Sunday 13 August
16.00–17.00
Number 26, bearing a large name board, CABURN HEATING & PLUMBING SERVICES, was one of thirty-six similar units on the Ranscombe Farm Industrial Estate, two miles east of the county town of Lewes. All were constructed from galvanized steel, with both the office and the main up-and-over shuttered doors to the interior workspace painted in yellow.
Most of the businesses on the estate were closed for the weekend, their parking bays deserted, but there were two vehicles outside Number 26: a small, grey Hyundai saloon and a blue van bearing the name of the fictitious plumbing firm.
The front door opened into an office that was completely bare, apart from a few unopened circulars scattered on the floor beneath the letter box. A connecting door led into the 2,000-square-foot factory floor, where Ylli Prek and Luka Lebedev stood behind several sturdy metal tables that were linked together into an E-shape. The surfaces were cluttered with tools, opaque jars, reels of wire, the innards of mobile phones, a set of scales, a bottle of water, a gas cylinder and a Sony FS7 camera, similar to the one Prek had taken to the Amex yesterday.
The only other items of furniture in the cavernous space were two chairs, which looked as if they’d been retrieved from a skip, and a rack of Dexion shelving on which stood several jars of chemicals marked with danger symbols. There was also a small fridge, a kettle, a cluster of mugs and a catering-size tin of coffee. Beyond the end of the shelves wa
s a kitchen sink and tap, and an open door to a toilet.
Lebedev, a shaven-headed, bull-necked man of forty, wearing a boiler suit, had a barbed-wire tattoo across his forehead, above a tiny skull, and a teardrop tattoo below his left eye. On his forearms were several dagger tattoos. At this moment, with a smouldering roll-up in his mouth, he was prising the back off a Samsung phone. When he had done that, he picked up a tiny ball, no bigger than a pea, of PE4 plastic explosive, and rolled it between his finger and thumb. ‘You have to be careful with this stuff, Ylli. If I drop this—’ He shrugged, gave a wan smile, then made a cut-throat gesture with his right hand.
‘That’s enough to kill us?’ Prek responded, incredulous.
‘You want to see what it can do – just this little amount?’
‘OK,’ Prek said, warily.
Lebedev placed the ball inside the phone and pressed the back on, fiddling with it until it clicked home. Then he walked over to the far end of the room and put it on the floor. ‘Ready?’
Prek nodded.
Lebedev handed him a pair of ear defenders. ‘Put them on.’
Prek did as he was instructed, and Lebedev donned a similar pair. Then he handed Prek a pair of protective goggles and also put on a pair himself.
‘Ready?’ he asked again.
Prek nodded, unsure what was about to happen.
Lebedev picked up a mobile phone from the table and a torn-off sheet of notepaper on which was what looked like a phone number. ‘Put these numbers into the phone.’
Frowning, Prek entered them.
‘Good,’ Lebedev said. ‘Now send a message to this number.’
‘What message?’
‘Anything you like. Do you want to have sex with me? How is your leg healing? Where do badgers live? Happy birthday!’ He shrugged. ‘Anything.’
Prek typed How is your day so far?
‘Now send it.’
He sent it.
Nothing happened.
‘Send it again!’ Lebedev commanded.
He resent it. Still nothing happened.