‘I must have.’
‘Or was it because you were all taking drugs and didn’t want to get caught, perhaps?’
His mother, looking shocked, said, ‘Is this true?’
He shrugged. ‘Somebody had a joint — it was no big deal.’
Grace raised an eyebrow at the boy’s mother.
‘Never! Aleksander’s a good boy, he never takes drugs,’ his mother said in an angry burst.
‘Except tonight, Mrs Dervishi, perhaps?’ Grace turned to him. ‘Is that right, Aleksander?’
He looked miserable, his face screwing up, fighting tears.
‘Would you let me have the correct address for where you were tonight, please?’ Grace asked.
Suddenly, the boy buried his face in his hands and began sobbing.
His mother went over to him and put an arm round him. ‘It’s OK, darling, it’s OK.’
He shook his head. ‘I only did it to help him,’ he blurted. ‘To get even with his father.’
‘You only did what, exactly?’ Grace asked.
Aleksander, sobbing uncontrollably, told him — but not quite everything.
59
Sunday 13 August
03.00–04.00
Ting!
Kipp Brown sat alone, early morning, playing a one-armed bandit in the deserted high-rollers’ room of the Waterfront Casino in Brighton Marina, aware the staff were waiting patiently for him to leave so they could close up for the night. He raised a hand in acknowledgement as someone brought him a fresh Hendricks and tonic with a slice of cucumber.
The stake on this machine was a £25 token, and the jackpot — four bars lined up — would pay out £50,000. He was close. Close!
The reels were spinning now and he could feel that jackpot coming closer. With each spin for the last hour, in between the cherries, lemons and apples, a jackpot bar would appear and stop on the winning line.
Ting!
Now two had lined up.
He inserted another token and pressed the button.
The reels span again.
Ting!
One bar stopped.
Ting!
Another!
Ting!
Another!
Ting!
The fourth! Yes, he felt a burst of happiness. Yes, yes, yes!
But no tokens poured out. He waited. Come on, come on!
Ting.
Suddenly, the light changed. Darkened. Slowly, a sense of dread enveloped him. He wasn’t in the casino at all, he realized, he was in bed, at home. He had been dreaming. It wasn’t the slot machine, after all, it was his phone. He lay still, not wanting to disturb Stacey. Until he remembered they were in different rooms. He was alone, in a spare room where he had been sleeping for several months.
He’d lain awake for hours tonight, lapsing into intermittent dozes. Waiting. Waiting for a further text. Instructions on where to pay the ransom. Anything.
Ping.
He grabbed the handset and peered at the screen.
60
Sunday 13 August
03.00–04.00
Blue light pulsed eerily across the central reservation barrier to their right and the grass verge to their left, as Roy Grace drove at high speed along the A27. They were heading east along the Lewes bypass. Kevin Hall, beside him in the front, kept watch on the satnav screen. Aleksander Dervishi sat in silence in the rear of the car with his mother. In his mirrors Grace could see the headlights and blue flashing lights of the car with Potting and Wilde in, following behind.
They crossed a roundabout and went down a long, sweeping hill. Another roundabout sign appeared on the screen, with options to turn right to Newhaven or go straight on to Eastbourne and Polegate.
‘Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘One thing you’ve not told us is how you got home tonight?’
‘I texted Valbone and told him to pick me up from this roundabout, right ahead.’ He was still crying.
Kevin Hall turned and looked at the boy in the darkness. ‘Can you direct us from here?’
He sniffed and nodded. ‘You go straight over the roundabout and carry on for a few hundred yards. When you see a traffic island, turn right.’
The island loomed ahead in the beam of the headlights. Grace indicated right, leaned forward and switched off the blue lights, slowing rapidly. In his mirrors, he saw the car behind him also indicating, and its blue lights shut off, too.
‘You go up the hill a little way,’ Aleksander directed.
Grace drove up a steep, narrow lane, with cottages and houses to the right, for several hundred yards. Suddenly, in front of him, he saw two tiny lights, sparkling like gemstones. Then a fox shot across their path, into the undergrowth to their left.
‘Coming up, turn right,’ Aleksander said.
There was a sign, saying PRIVATE ROAD. Grace turned into it and drove as fast as he dared along a deeply rutted cart track. The suspension bottomed out several times, jolting all of them. They passed a derelict barn, then Grace saw the shape of a house ahead, to their left. As they drew closer he could see a sizeable stone cottage.
‘This is it — I think,’ Aleksander said.
‘You think?’ Grace asked.
‘Well, I’m pretty sure.’
Grace’s watch showed it was approaching 4 a.m. He saw an overgrown driveway and turned into it. To his left were several rusting bits of agricultural equipment and ahead was a short, steep incline. The wheels spun on the wet grass, the car twitching until they got traction. He crested the hillock and stopped by the front door. Potting pulled up behind them.
Grabbing a torch and stifling a yawn, Grace climbed out and stood in the damp night air. The others in the car joined him, along with Potting and Wilde. ‘This is the place?’ he asked the boy.
He gave a forlorn nod. Above him a full moon burned intensely in the sky, casting a glow almost bright enough to read by across the entire countryside.
They approached the oak front door, Aleksander Dervishi and his mother hanging back. Grace could see it was ajar, and went straight in, shining the beam around a small, musty and bare hallway. He hesitated, then turned to Aleksander. ‘If you call out to him, it won’t frighten him. OK?’
He nodded. Then in a small voice said, ‘Mungo! Hi, I’m back!’
There was no response.
Louder, this time, he called out, ‘Hey — er — Mungo — dude, I’m back!’
Still nothing.
‘Mungo!’ he called out. ‘Mungo!’ He looked at Grace. ‘Maybe he’s sleeping — down below.’
Grace handed him his torch. ‘Why don’t you lead the way?’
The five of them followed the teenager down a steep wooden staircase, Grace walking slowly and warily, the treads feeling rotten, as if they were barely taking his weight. A cobweb touched his face and he brushed it away with his hand. The musty smell was much stronger down here, combined with damp and the sickly-sweet stink of dry rot. But there was also a faint, lingering aroma of French fries.
The torch beam swept over some remains of McDonald’s cartons and two partially burned-down candles. Close to them, Roy Grace noticed a couple of what looked like stubbed-out joints on the floor.
‘Mungo!’ Aleksander called out. ‘Mungo!’
There was no response.
‘This is where I left him,’ he said to Grace.
‘Are you completely sure?’
‘Shit, yes, of course I’m sure. This is where we were!’ he said, in a sudden burst of anger and frustration. He shouted out, much louder now: ‘Mungo! Where the fuck are you?’