‘He likes to take his meat underwater and keep it there for a while, to tenderize it.’ He smiled. ‘How would you feel as you were dragged beneath the surface by a crocodile? By your leg or arm? And your last thought, as you could no longer hold your breath and began to drown, would be to think about that creature eating you, bit by bit, over the coming weeks. Do you like that thought?’
‘Please, Mr Dervishi, please understand that I did what you told me,’ Prek pleaded.
‘No, Ylli. I was expecting the stadium to be evacuated and the match abandoned, that was your mission. It didn’t happen. You failed me.’
‘No!’ He shook his head in terror. ‘Please, I did what you instructed me. I did. I left the camera there, on the seat. I did. I primed it, I followed your instructions, I don’t understand why it did not explode.’
Dervishi stared at him. ‘So, it didn’t work out. But I’m a very fair man, Ylli, I’ve come to offer you a deal.’
‘Yes? Please. Please, I will do anything.’
‘I know that,’ Dervishi replied. Then he smiled. ‘I’m going to turn you from a loser into a hero. Do you like the sound of that?’
‘Yes, yes I do, thank you!’
‘Oh, I’m not so sure you will be thanking me. But I will be thanking you, I promise you. Does it sound good?’
‘Yes!’
‘Ylli, there was a great Hollywood film producer called Darryl Zanuck. He won three Academy Awards — Oscars — pretty impressive, right?’
‘Oh yes, very.’
‘He made The Sound of Music, Jaws and Driving Miss Daisy. Not bad, eh?’
‘No, I liked Jaws very much. Very scary.’
‘Very scary indeed. You know, I still don’t like to swim in the sea. Do you like to swim in the sea, Ylli? Does it worry you that a shark might eat you when you do?’
‘I can’t swim.’
‘No?’ Dervishi said. ‘OK, so you’ve never had to worry about being eaten by a shark?’
‘No, no, sir.’
‘Lucky. Do you consider yourself lucky?’
‘No, Mr Dervishi sir, not lucky, not really.’
‘Well let me correct you. Ylli, this is your lucky day. Does it make you happy to hear that?’
‘Yes.’
Dervishi went out of the room and returned holding a large, raw chicken. He opened the barred door and called out into the darkness, ‘Sorry, Thatcher, it is only chicken tonight, not human meat — but who knows what tomorrow will bring, eh?’
Prek, still shaking with fear, saw the man lay the chicken down at the tiled edge of the pool, retreat and close the door again. Almost instantly, he heard a sudden, deep, thrashing of water. He saw two reptilian claws appear on the tiles, followed by another whoosh of water as the creature lifted itself up and Prek stared into the gaping mouth with its rows of massive, uneven teeth. They clamped over the chicken and, seconds later, with another deep splash, the crocodile was gone.
‘I have a proposition to put to you, Ylli. To save your life. How do you feel about that?’
‘Yes! Yes please.’ Prek was staring, mesmerized, at the darkness beyond the barred door.
Dervishi took another drag on the shrinking stub of his cigar and tapped some ash off the end. It fell to the floor. ‘Mr Darryl Zanuck was famous for one thing he used to tell people. He used to tell them, Don’t say yes until I stop talking.’
Ylli Prek said nothing, watching him.
‘Do you understand that, Ylli?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to give you a second chance. Are you happy about this?’
‘Yes, yes please, I am.’
‘Good, so now wait until I have finished talking before you say yes again.’
57
Sunday 13 August
01.00–02.00
Shortly after 1 a.m., Roy Grace made himself a fresh cup of coffee and went back into the Intel suite, tired but running on adrenaline and caffeine — and pure cussed determination to find Mungo Brown. So far, the helicopter search of the suspect area had produced nothing and it had returned to its base to refuel. There had been no reported sightings of the teenager at Newhaven, where every vehicle had been checked, nor from the French port of Dieppe where the last ferry had docked and a similar check had been carried out.
He had, with some misgivings, sanctioned Norman Potting’s request to arrest Jorgji Dervishi if necessary. Under normal circumstances it would have been pushing the envelope too far to arrest him simply for being linked to the phone, and passing on a wrong address, but these were not normal circumstances. A boy’s life was at risk and that upped the ante considerably.
He wrote his reasons down in his Policy Book to cover his back against the inevitable grilling he would get from Cassian Pewe, after Dervishi had got some of his powerful city contacts to throw their weight around. But that was for later. He instructed one of his team, burly DS Kevin Taylor, to liaise with the Duty Inspector at John Street police station on accompanying Grace’s team to Dervishi’s address. Not knowing what they would face at Dervishi’s fortified home, Taylor might need a group of Local Support Team officers to accompany DS Potting and DC Wilde to effect entry. The LST were the specially trained crowd and riot control police, who were also equally specialized at putting in doors and forcing entry. Little fazed them.
Hall, seated opposite him, holding his phone to his ear and stifling a yawn, suddenly perked up. He put the phone down and called across to him. ‘Boss! That was Dan Salter at Digital Forensics. He’s just heard from the phone company. A phone signal from the texter’s phone was identified by triangulation in our target area made at 12.55 a.m.!’
‘Brilliant!’ Grace said.
‘It puts it within a three-mile radius of where we are looking — somewhere between the Beddingham roundabout and Newhaven.’
Immediately, Grace called Oscar-1 and was glad to hear the voice of Inspector Keith Ellis, who had remained on duty. He updated him, and Ellis said he would get the helicopter back over the area as quickly as possible.
Moments later his phone rang. It was Norman Potting.
‘I’ve got the troops ready, chief.’
‘Nice work, Norman!’ Grace said, elated. He jumped up and turned to Kevin Hall, opposite him. ‘You in a party mood?’
‘Always. Especially on a Saturday night.’
‘It’s Sunday morning now — in case you hadn’t noticed. But hey, let’s not split hairs.’
‘Never, boss.’
‘Rock ’n’ roll!’
58
Sunday 13 August
02.00–03.00
‘Boss?’
Dervishi held his phone to his ear and looked at his clock radio: 2.52 a.m. ‘This had better be good,’ he said, angrily and sleepily.
Beside him, Mirlinda stirred. ‘All OK?’
‘Hold on,’ he said into the phone. He gave his wife a reassuring caress with his good hand, slid out of bed and walked out of the room, naked, holding the phone to his ear. ‘Yes, Dritan?’
‘There are police outside the gates, boss. They say if we don’t open the gates they will force entry. We see several police cars and a van. What should I do?’
‘Is downstairs to the basement sealed?’
‘It is.’
The basement was soundproofed, and the entrance concealed by a bookshelf that moved across it when the security switch was activated.
‘Let them in, and I will go out to greet them.’
‘Yes, boss. Is this a good idea?’
‘You have a better one?’
There was silence down the phone.
He went back into the bedroom, put on his dressing gown and slippers, then closed the door behind him, went downstairs and along the hallway to the front door. As he reached it he heard loud knocking and a shout of ‘POLICE!’