Mirlinda Dervishi turned and spoke briefly and sharply to both bodyguards, again in the harsh language. The shaven-headed one answered her back and she raised her voice in reply, clearly angry at him. Gesturing the detectives to follow her, she strode down the hallway and stopped in front of a door. She knocked, then opened without waiting for a reply and ushered Potting and Wilde through into a large, masculine study, which smelled strongly of cigar smoke.
High up, all around, above the wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with antique, leather-bound tomes, were mounted stuffed animal heads on wooden plaques. A stag with massive antlers, a wildebeest, a giraffe and a zebra, plus the so-called ‘Big Five’ — a lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard and rhinoceros. Velvet Wilde looked at them in both revulsion and anger; she didn’t like anyone who could be proud of killing such beautiful creatures. There was a studded black leather sofa and two matching armchairs arranged around a glass-topped coffee table and at the far end of the room a vast, vulgar walnut desk with ornate gold inlays.
It was occupied by a man who immediately got to his feet. He was short and wiry, with a cocksure, arrogant demeanour that was barely masked by his welcoming smile. His hair was razored to a hard-looking dark stubble and much of his face was covered similarly. He was dressed in a thin, black polo-neck jumper and jeans with a flashy belt buckle. The fingers of his left hand were adorned with jewelled rings and on his right hand was a black leather glove holding a torpedo cigar.
Potting recognized him from his photograph and stared at him, trying to figure out which was his glass eye.
Dervishi pointed at the two chairs in front of the coffee table, and joined them. Speaking in a genial voice with a much stronger accent than his wife’s, he said, ‘Detective Sergeant Potting and Detective Constable Wilde?’ His gaze lingered approvingly on the female detective.
Potting held up his warrant card, but Jorgji Dervishi dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘It is good of you to come, my wife is getting very anxious about our son — you see, this is just not like him, not typical at all. Aleksander, he normally always tells us his plans.’
‘Mr Dervishi,’ Potting cut him short. ‘We would like to talk to your son urgently, but we also need to speak to you.’
‘Of course!’ he said. ‘Please sit down. May I offer you a drink? I have good whisky — you like thirty-year-old Craigellachie?’ He raised a cut-glass tumbler to display its amber content. ‘Or Napoleon brandy, a glass of wine, coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ Potting said.
Wilde shook her head.
‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of two detectives visiting me at this late hour?’ His eyes lingered on Wilde as he drew on his cigar and blew out a perfect smoke ring, as if trying to tease approval from her.
‘Does the name Fatjon Sava mean anything to you?’ Potting asked, watching the man’s eyes carefully — still trying to decide which was the glass one. But all he saw was a flicker of uncertainty as Dervishi stared fixedly back at him.
‘A man by this name worked for me once, yes. But he was an idiot. I dismissed him a long time ago. So, how else may I help you?’
Potting still could not spot the prosthetic. ‘A fourteen-year-old boy was kidnapped today at the Amex Stadium,’ he said. ‘His name is Mungo Brown and we understand he and your son are good friends at school.’
‘Yes, this boy has been here a few times — I think they play computer games. He has been kidnapped? When?’
‘He was last seen talking to your son an hour and a half before the start of the match this afternoon — around 4.00 p.m. Later, a ransom demand was made by text from a mobile phone that we have linked to a former employee of yours, Mr Fatjon Sava. What can you tell us about him?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Dervishi said, ‘I told you, Sava was an idiot. A psycho. The moment I realized this, I fired him. I’m trying to be a good citizen, you know?’ He smiled, unconvincingly.
‘Very laudable,’ Potting said, a tad more cynically than he had intended to sound.
‘Are you still in contact with Mr Sava?’ Velvet Wilde asked.
‘No.’
‘Are you able to give us an address for him?’ she persisted. ‘Or anyone who could?’
Suddenly, without any warning, Dervishi’s gloved right hand began to rotate.
Both detectives stared at it.
It went through 180 degrees. Then another 90 degrees. Then a complete 360 degrees. ‘The war in Bosnia,’ Dervishi said. ‘A grenade with a faulty timer. I was lucky, it could have been worse. As a result, I have a hand that is better than the one God made.’ He smiled at them. And now, clearly, Potting could see the glass eye, the right eye. Glinting. The one that, he had been told, looked warmer.
That was true, he realized.
Dervishi drew on his cigar again. ‘I would of course connect you to Mr Sava, if I could. I have the greatest respect for your police force in Brighton. But I have had no contact with this gentleman for over a year. I don’t know even if he is in this country or back in Albania or Kosovo. Is there anything else I can help you with? I am here, at your service.’
‘We need to speak to your son, urgently,’ Potting said.
‘I would very much like to speak to him, also. He went to the football today and has not come home yet.’ He shrugged. ‘But you know how kids are today.’
Potting stared hard back at him. ‘Actually, no, I don’t.’
The glass eye glinted. ‘They are very independent, Detective Sergeant Pothole.’
‘Potting,’ he corrected.
‘Forgive me. Sometimes my English is a little — how you say — erratic.’
‘Like your memory?’
Dervishi smiled. ‘Indeed. Now, if you have no more questions, I would like to wish you both goodnight.’ He stared at Velvet. ‘Such a shame not to get to know you better, Detective Constable Wilde. Perhaps another occasion?’
She stared back at him, facing him off. ‘Maybe in court, one day?’
Dervishi laughed. The confident laugh of an untouchable.
She asked, ‘We’d like the address of where your son is at his sleepover, please.’
‘He will be home tomorrow, perhaps it is better to talk to him then?’
‘This is a kidnap situation,’ Potting said. ‘Every minute that passes is important. We need to talk to him tonight, as soon as possible. He may have seen something of vital importance to our enquiry. We’ll need to pick him up and bring him here for interview.’
Dervishi pressed an intercom button on his desk and spoke in a foreign language. A gruff voice replied on the speaker. Dervishi picked up an ornate fountain pen and scrawled on a notepad. Then he tore the sheet off and handed it to Wilde. ‘This is the address where Aleksander is staying. I don’t think they will be pleased to see you so late.’
‘I don’t think Mungo Brown’s parents would be pleased to know we let a vital witness get his beauty sleep while their son is being held bound and gagged, Mr Dervishi,’ Wilde retorted coldly. ‘How would you feel if it was your son?’
‘If it was my son, I can tell you I would not be putting my faith in the police to get him back.’ He picked up his cigar, drew on it and blew out another perfect smoke ring. It coiled slowly upwards, expanding and dispersing towards the ceiling as the two officers left.
Dervishi waited, seething in silent fury, until he heard the sound of their car starting. Then he stabbed his intercom again and barked out an instruction. His two bodyguards hurried in. The consiglieri did not look a happy man.
54
Saturday 12 August