The man-mountain looked warily at the dog, then grinned at the creature. ‘I reckon you’re just a big wuss, aren’t you?’ He knelt and stroked him. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Otto,’ Brown replied.
‘Otto, you and me are going to be fine,’ he said and stood up. He pulled a warrant card out and held it up. ‘Detective Inspector Glenn Branson, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, sir, and this is my colleague, Acting Detective Sergeant Jack Alexander. We’re your covert negotiation team — and I’m desperate for a pee.’
Brown pointed towards the end of the hall. ‘Last door on the left.’
Branson hurried off.
Brown looked quizzically at the three remaining police officers. ‘So, where’s my fridge?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘Couldn’t fit it in the box, sir,’ Scotland said, apologetically. He pointed a finger towards the disappearing figure of Branson. ‘That big bugger took up most of the space.’
37
Saturday 12 August
19.30–20.30
Twenty minutes after Scotland and Roberts departed, taking Mungo’s laptop with them, as well as a clone of Kipp Brown’s phone, the two detectives installed themselves safely out of sight in the windowless basement cinema room of the Browns’ house. They were setting up what, they assured Kipp Brown, was a secure encrypted comms system and intercept on all his phones.
In the kitchen, fighting tears and wondering what he would say to Stacey when she arrived home any moment now, Kipp boiled the kettle to make the two detectives the coffees he’d offered. As he was about to pour, Otto barked.
‘What is it, boy?’
He heard the front door open.
For an instant, his heart jumped and he ran into the hall, desperately hoping it might be Mungo.
It was Stacey.
He followed the dog along the hallway to her.
Her blonde hair, which she used to wear long and flowing, framing her pretty face, had recently been chopped into a severe, razored style, with a sweeping fringe lying to one side. It made her look quite butch, despite the very feminine tennis whites she was wearing.
‘Hi,’ she said robotically. He leaned forward to kiss her on the lips, but as she always did now, she turned her face, offering him only a cheek.
‘How was the tournament?’
‘Fine. Nicky and I won.’
‘Great! Well done.’
There was no reaction back.
He smiled, awkwardly. ‘Remind me who Nicky is?’
‘You’ve met her several times — Nicky Felix — she runs a company called Box2. That green dress I wore to Ladies Day at Ascot came from her.’
‘Ah, right. That was lovely.’
‘She’s doing really well — selling around the globe. Might be a possible client for you.’
‘Yep, good thought.’
‘So, it’s just you and me and Mungo tonight,’ she said. ‘A nice romantic evening on our own,’ she added, with a hint of sarcasm. ‘How was the football — who won?’
He stared at her dumbly.
‘Hello? The football — the big game?’
He didn’t know who had won, he realized. He’d been so preoccupied since leaving the stadium, he hadn’t thought to check.
She waved her hand in front of his face. ‘Hello? Are you OK?’
‘I... I—’ he faltered.
‘Did Brighton win — the Seagulls?’
He stared back in a daze, helpless.
She peered at him more closely. ‘Your eyes are red — have you been crying?’
He looked down at the floor, lost for words. His brain was racing but couldn’t get traction. He didn’t know what to say to her.
The colour began draining from her face. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’ Then, suspiciously, ‘Is it Mungo? Has something happened to him? Where is he?’
It took him a while before he could look her in the eye. ‘I don’t know, Stace,’ he said.
‘What? What do you mean?’ She stared at him, bewildered. ‘What do you mean you don’t know where your son is? Where is he, Kipp, where the hell is he?’
‘When I last saw him, he was at the stadium, talking to a school friend, I think.’
‘You think? Which school friend was he talking to?’
‘Aleksander.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘I—’
‘Where is he?’ She was trembling, her voice quavering. ‘Where is he? He’s all right, please, he’s all right, isn’t he?’
He wasn’t sure what to say. What could he say? ‘I — don’t know, babe.’
‘You don’t know?’
He nodded, lamely.
‘What do you mean? You took him to the football — you’ve lost him?’ She looked totally panic-stricken, her eyes darting around wildly as if she didn’t know which way to look or turn.
‘I bumped into Barry Carden and was chatting to him. I thought Mungo was right by me with his friend. Remember Barry?’
‘That’s just so typical of you. All our time together, whenever you’ve seen someone you might do business with, you forget me, ignore your family, and home in on them. Am I right? So you’ve just left him there — left him at the stadium somewhere and come home?’
Then suddenly Stacey looked past him, startled, as if she had seen a ghost, and he heard Detective Inspector Glenn Branson’s voice.
‘Could you show me where the fuse box is, sir?’
‘Excuse me, who are you?’ Stacey rounded on him, confused. ‘You’re not our normal electrician.’
Kipp Brown took a deep breath, then told her everything.
38
Saturday 12 August
19.30–20.30
On the A23, two miles north of Brighton, Mike Roberts, driving the PORTSLADE DOMESTIC APPLIANCES lorry as fast as he dared safely, saw strobing blue lights in his mirror and heard a siren. He pulled into a lay-by a short distance ahead, putting on his hazard flashers. A police motorcycle pulled up in front of him.
The rider dismounted and hurried up to the passenger door. Iain Scotland passed Mungo Brown’s laptop out of the window. The rider ran back to his machine, put the computer in his pannier and raced off into the distance.
Fifteen minutes later, ignoring the building’s slow lift, the police motorcyclist, holding the boy’s laptop and the clone of his father’s phone, ran up to the second floor of Haywards Heath police station. He passed the hall of fame — or notoriety — of convicted villains, on the wall, and rang the buzzer at the entrance to Digital Forensics — as the High Tech Crime Unit was now named.
Aiden Gilbert, a stocky, energetic civilian with short dark hair turning to grey, and dressed in a blue T-shirt, jeans and trainers, greeted him. He led him in and through to the large, open-plan office, to his desk where he signed a receipt, for chain-of-evidence purposes, for the laptop and the clone. With him were three colleagues, similarly casually dressed, Daniel Salter, Jason Quigley and Shaun Robbins, a retired police officer who had returned as a civilian to this unit.
Quigley immediately plugged a USB into a port on Mungo’s Mac, while Salter set to work on the phone, to identify the source of the text. The motorcyclist left and the unit members waited patiently for the ten minutes that it took for the contents of the computer to upload. They had been instructed to look, urgently, for all communications Mungo Brown had had in the past four weeks, on email and on social media.
When the download was complete, Quigley plugged the USB into his own system and immediately, with the others peering over his shoulder, began studying his large Apple Mac screen.