Dead if You Don't, Page 3

  He had in his wallet a ticket for a seat in the South Stand. Quite a lot of adults and children should be killed or maimed, if all went well.

  ‘I’m a bomber, I’m a bomber!’ he sang under his breath. A small, thin, bespectacled man of twenty-three, with a beaky nose and a shapeless mop of prematurely thinning dark hair that looked like a bad toupee, squashed beneath a red baseball cap. He strode along in a tracksuit with baggy trousers, with a gait that was a lot more confident than he felt inside.

  I’m a star. I’m a freedom fighter!

  I’ve been paid more money than I could ever have dreamed of. My mother will be so happy when she receives it!

  This beat the crap out of working in the car wash for the past eighteen months. Wiping, polishing, vacuuming. Damp, cold, constantly numb hands. Shit pay. Shit accommodation, four of them in a single room.

  Now I’m a bomber!

  Oh yes. Uh-huh!

  I have status! I’m a somebody.

  8

  Saturday 12 August

  15.00–16.00

  ‘You wanker!’ Kipp Brown muttered under his breath at the security guard manning the entrance to car park A, Bennett’s Field. As he drove up to the barrier in his matt-black Porsche 911, he was in a mood because he was late – his own fault, he had been working. It was 3.45 p.m. and he had a bunch of clients whom he and two of his colleagues were meant to be entertaining to a late lunch. And he was angry at himself for trying to be too greedy with his bets today. One of Tony Forbes’s tips had paid off handsomely, but he’d had big losses on a series of accumulators he’d bet recklessly large amounts on, online, and was now badly down on the day – although there were still some results to come.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he said to the guard.

  ‘We are carrying out extra security checks today, sir. You don’t have your car-park pass.’ He swung a mirror, on a long stick, under the Porsche.

  ‘Yep, well I couldn’t bloody find it. You have my registration on your list.’

  ‘I’ll have to make a phone call to check, sir.’ The guard peered in, looking at the rear seats. ‘Would you mind opening the boot of your car?’

  ‘I have a season ticket and a corporate box. Do I look like a sodding terrorist?’

  ‘Dad,’ Mungo cautioned, looking up from his phone, his newly bleached hair, the colour of winter wheat, scraped back into a topknot; his rubbish, cheap Samsung phone that his mean, embarrassing father had bought to replace the iPhone he’d got for his last birthday, and accidentally dropped down a gutter last week. Well, he hadn’t dropped it, actually, it fell out of his trouser pocket.

  He was trying at this moment to send a Snapchat message to his best friend, Aleksander, who was also going to be here today, but it wouldn’t send. This phone was, like, useless.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Kipp turned to his son, flipping the catch.

  ‘It’s not that man’s fault,’ Mungo said, as the security guard raised the bonnet at the front of the car.

  ‘Right – so whose fault, exactly, is it?’

  The guard lowered the bonnet. ‘I’ve heard back from the office, you’re free to go through, sir,’ he said politely.

  ‘Is there any point?’ He stamped on the accelerator, squealing the tyres as he roared forward, jerking Mungo’s head back against the headrest.

  ‘Dad, take a chill pill.’

  ‘What is your problem today?’ he said to his son.

  ‘You!’ Mungo retorted. ‘You’re just in a weird mood.’

  You would be too, Kipp Brown thought, if you knew just how much I’ve been screwed over by that goddamn roulette wheel at the Waterfront Casino. If you were aware that I don’t actually know where your next term’s school fees are coming from, and that I’m probably going to have to take you out of Brighton College and put you in a state school. That would wipe that smug, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou look from your face.

  Maybe his spread bet on today’s football games would come good, he hoped. A small bet, from his emergency cash stash. If he got it right, he could be back in funds by tonight.

  And if he got it wrong?

  He didn’t want to think about that.

  He never wanted to think about those kinds of consequences.

  Brighton and Hove Albion had come into the new season on a roll. He needed them to win. Not to draw, not to lose, just to win. And a couple of other clubs as well. Six, actually. They all should. Just like his numbers at the casino should have come up, but didn’t.

  Today would be different.

  Today would put him back in the saddle.

  He had a good feeling about today. Despite his son’s scowling face.

  He had the radio tuned to the specialist football programme The Albion Roar. Presenters Alan and Ady were discussing the Albion’s chances. He agreed with their prediction that their home team would win, 2–1.

  Please God!

  He parked in a bay next to a white Bentley GT convertible that he recognized as belonging to one of his clients, property developer Dan Fox. Dan would already be in his box, waiting for him to arrive and no doubt drinking a pint of Harveys.

  Mungo pulled down his sun visor and checked his hair in the vanity mirror.

  9

  Saturday 12 August

  15.00–16.00

  On the far side of the Amex Stadium car park, Dritan Nano sat behind the wheel of a stolen, old-model 5 Series BMW, on false plates. He was relieved to see the Porsche arrive; it was an hour later than expected, and he had been beginning to wonder whether something had happened and it was not going to appear at all.

  The thirty-two-year-old Albanian had a permanently sad-looking face, which was at odds with his powerful, muscular body mass. Limp, damp-looking hair brushed forward into a widow’s peak lay low on his forehead. With large, round eyes, he looked vulnerable in the way a tortoise’s head looks out of proportion and exposed when protruding from the safety of its shell.

  He watched the Porsche drive past the barrier and pull in to a parking bay. The smartly dressed man and his son, in jeans and a shirt, climbed out and headed off towards the stands. Their body language told him they’d had an argument, the father striding on ahead, the son, hands in pockets, following in his own time.

  Dritan had had an argument today, too, and was feeling terrible. Crap. Totally. Crap. He had woken feeling nervous about his task ahead, but full of excitement for what lay beyond. A big day today, in every way.

  Until the text from Lindita.

  His girlfriend of five years, whom he was due to marry next spring, had gone back, three months ago, to her native Kosovo, because her grandmother had only days to live. Somehow, defying the doctor’s predictions, the old bird had struggled on. Then, last week, she had finally succumbed.

  Yesterday, he had texted Lindita excitedly, telling her – a little white lie – that he was due a big bonus from his employee, Mr Dervishi, and this would give him enough money to buy the lease of a coffee house. He would quit his job and run the café with her, as they had long dreamed of doing. With luck, he should have the money in a few days, and they could be open for business by October. Lindita would create the snacks and sandwiches – she was a great cook – and he would, by then, have done a barista course.

  Last night Lindita had texted him back. She was sorry, she said. She had met someone back home and was not returning to England after all.

  He looked at the text again, for the twentieth time or maybe the thirtieth, fighting back tears.

  She finished it saying:

  I like u, Dritan, but I don’t like some of the things you do, u know what I’m talking about. I think it would scare me to have a child by u. Somewhere inside u is a decent person. Try to find it one day and become that person. I am seeing someone else and I think he is better for me. I’m sorry. Paç fat X

  He had tried numerous times to reply but she had blocked him. He couldn’t believe it, nor accept it. He loved her so much; they had planned their whole lif
e together. Sure, OK, she knew who he worked for and she had an idea of some of the things that involved; but he had always promised her this was only until he had got enough money together for the coffee house they dreamed of, and she had seemed to believe him.

  He pulled her tiny photograph out of his wallet and stared at it. Her short brown hair slanting across her forehead. Her smile. Her green eyes staring at him, filled with warmth and trust.

  Now she had found someone else. How, how could she? That hurt so much.

  Earlier today he had confided in his friend and colleague, Valbone, with whom he shared the apartment above Mr Dervishi’s garages, and who was somewhere in the stadium now. But he didn’t get much sympathy. His fellow Albanian told him to man up, and that there were plenty more fish in the sea.

  Dritan replied that he didn’t want fish. He wanted Lindita.

  They’d had a big falling-out.

  Now he was aware that he was dangerously distracted, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing but getting away as quickly as he could, going to Kosovo and finding Lindita. Finding her and convincing her he had changed, totally, completely, utterly. She would believe him, wouldn’t she?

  He looked at his watch. Less than two hours till kick-off.

  Less than two hours to go. He tried to focus on his task, although there wasn’t really much to focus on. When the time came, all he had to do was drive.

  10

  Saturday 12 August

  15.00–16.00

  The first fans had already begun arriving at the Amex Stadium an hour ago, some making their way to the private boxes and hospitality suites, most heading to the catering stalls or bars for their pies and pints. All were surprised by a much larger police presence than they could remember. But of course, now they were Premier League, it was bound to be different. Few grumbled, and the security guards carrying out the searches were mostly good-natured.

  Ylli Prek, mingling with the crowd, made his way towards the long queue ahead of him at the turnstiles, and saw the security searches in operation. Suddenly the spring in his step was gone and he felt nervous. Nervous of failure. Of what would happen to him if he did fail. What if they checked inside the camera? He’d seen the video, heard the splashing sound. All of them who worked for Mr Dervishi had seen that video and heard that splashing. He didn’t know if it was true about the reptile, but he had seen for himself the horrific things Mr Dervishi ordered done to people who failed him.

  He’d seen, on another video, Mr Dervishi command his surgeon to slash a man’s eyeball open with a razor. He’d watched a man strapped to a table being skinned alive by the surgeon on Mr Dervishi’s command. He could easily believe it was indeed true that his boss kept a sixteen-foot-long man-eating Nile crocodile in the basement of his mansion. And regularly fed it bits of people who disappointed him.

  But no one asked him to open the camera. One big, tall guy patted him down thoroughly, checked his pockets and made him open his coat.

  Then he was through.

  Holding his ticket in his hand.

  And his instructions in his mind.

  Ylli Prek made his way into the South Stand. He found his seat, number 311S, and perched on it, waiting patiently – if anxiously – over the next ninety minutes as the stands filled.

  Two small boys sat on their own nearby, both wearing Seagulls baseball caps and the blue-and-white club scarves. He held his camera, with its lens that he could not see through, on his knees. It was safe, he had been assured. It could not detonate accidentally, he could even drop it and nothing would happen, not until he primed it. He glanced a few times at these two boys, feeling a bit bad about them. They’d be blown to pieces, for certain.

  But better that than him meeting the crocodile.

  Hey-ho.

  Boom, boom! I’m the secret bomber! I have no fear!

  He might have been just a little less confident had he known that two rows behind him, in the rapidly filling stand, sat Sussex’s senior homicide officer, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, with his ten-year-old son, Bruno.

  11

  Saturday 12 August

  15.00–16.00

  Kipp Brown shot a glance over his shoulder at Mungo, feeling a little bad about his rudeness to his son today. Mungo had been affected, in his own way, just as he and Stacey had been, when his older sister had died tragically. He smiled at him, but Mungo didn’t notice. Dressed in skinny jeans, white socks, sneakers and a checked shirt with a Seagulls scarf wrapped round his neck, and that ridiculous topknot, Mungo lagged some distance behind him, engaged in Snapchatting – or Instagramming – or whatever he did on his new phone that he complained didn’t do anything.

  Kipp waited for him to catch up, then put an arm round him. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you, Mungo, I’m just a bit stressed at the moment.’

  ‘At the moment? You and Mum – you’re both, like, stressed all the time. It’s all about Kayleigh, all the time, like all you care about is her. What about me? Just sometimes.’

  ‘Hey, come on, your mum and I love you very much, you’re everything to us.’

  ‘Really?’ Mungo broke free of his father’s arm and walked silently beside him as they joined the throng of casually dressed people, many wearing team scarves, hurrying through the brilliant sunshine towards the queues for the Amex Stadium entrances.

  Mungo suddenly waved a hand at a tall, handsome teenage boy with gelled black wavy hair and called out, ‘Hi, Aleksander!’

  Almost at the same moment, Kipp saw the figure of one of his clients, accountant Barry Carden, striding past.

  ‘Hey, Barry!’

  ‘Kipp!’

  ‘Good to see you,’ Kipp said.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘What do you think of Albion’s chances – do you think we’ll win?’

  ‘Hey, we’ve come this far, Kipp. Let’s think positively.’

  ‘Totally agree!’

  They chatted for a couple of minutes, then Kipp glanced anxiously at his watch. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Me too.’

  As Carden hurried off, Kipp turned, but could not see his son. He looked all around but there was no sign of him.

  For a moment, he hesitated. Shit, the kid was in a foul mood today. He had his ticket, so he’d probably gone on without waiting, up to the box.

  He hurried to the South Stand reception, grumpily endured the extra security check, standing patiently as he was wanded, then hurried up the stairs and along the corridor to the hospitality suites. He entered the door marked KIPP BROWN ASSOCIATES and apologized to his invited group of clients for being so late, relieved to see they all had glasses in their hands. He began to work the room. Dan Fox was there with his partner, Liz, and his twin teenage daughters.

  ‘Where’s Mungo?’ one of the girls asked.

  ‘He’ll be here in a minute,’ Kipp replied. Then he turned to a very tanned Graham Batchelor and his stunning partner, Sarah Casson. ‘You guys look well!’ he said.

  Graham beamed. ‘We’ve just got married, in Santorini, five days ago, Kipp.’

  ‘Wow, hey! Congratulations! Married life seems like it suits you!’ He grabbed a glass of Ridgeview bubbly and toasted the newlyweds, before moving on to another couple, Fraser and Kim Edmonds, also deeply tanned, who told him they were just back from Dubrovnik.

  ‘If you’ve never been, Kipp, you absolutely must, it’s beautiful!’ Kim said.

  Kipp privately thought that anywhere would look pretty good when you visited it, as they had, on a ten-million-pound yacht.

  ‘How’s business, Kipp?’ Fraser asked.

  ‘Yep, good.’ He forced a smile. ‘I thought you guys were always away for the whole of August?’

  ‘Had to get back for this game – today’s one of the highlights of my life!’ Fraser said.

  Kipp glanced around. Still no sign of Mungo.

  Where was he?

  A waitress served poached salmon salads. Kipp dug into his with a fork, whilst
talking animatedly to Dan Fox, before paying special attention to a particularly important guest, the courtly, dapper, wheelchair-bound octogenarian businessman and very public philanthropist Edi Konstandin. He had a large paunch and was dressed every inch the English country gentleman, apart from several vulgar jewelled rings on his fingers.

  The Albanian, who was one of the largest employers in the city, owned an empire of businesses that included one of the UK’s biggest property development companies, a portfolio of rental flats, car washes, launderettes, coffee bars, cafés and kebab takeaways around the county, and many interests abroad. Kipp suspected that Konstandin used these businesses to launder the much bigger money he made controlling part of the city’s drugs and prostitution trade. But he wasn’t in the business of making moral judgements about his clients. He’d long ago told Stacey that if he did, he probably wouldn’t have any clients at all.

  Then music blared out. The fans began singing and waving flags. The atmosphere rapidly became electrifying.

  Still no sign of Mungo.

  Where are you, kid?

  12

  Saturday 12 August

  16.00–17.00

  Keith Ellis opened the security barrier with his pass card and rode through into the sprawling campus of Sussex Police Headquarters. He dismounted from his Triumph Tiger in the car park of the Contact & Communications Centre, a modern, almost futuristic-looking red-brick building opposite the one that housed the police driving school. It was just gone 4.30 p.m., and the Oscar-1 Inspector – formerly known as Ops-1 – had been on a rest day, but he had agreed to go in to relieve a colleague who wanted to attend his son’s seventh birthday party.

  Tall and lightly bearded, Ellis cut an imposing figure as he strode across to the side entrance in his Kevlar jeans and lightweight jacket – his last middle-aged throw at being trendy – and pressed his card against the door panel. He felt a twinge of nostalgia, aware he would only be doing this for a few more weeks, after thirty years in varied roles in the force, which included behind-the-scenes at Gatwick Airport, a role in Traffic where he rose to become a Road Death Senior Investigating Officer, followed by a posting as Critical Incident Inspector for East Sussex Division, and now for the past three years serving as an Oscar-1. In this latest role, he had considerable authority and power. Between the hours of 10 p.m. and 7 a.m. the duty Oscar-1 would be one of the very few senior police officers on duty in the county.