Silence.
‘Could he have gone somewhere, Aleksander?’ Grace asked him.
‘No, he was waiting for me to come back with some food.’
‘And he was OK that you left him alone?’
‘He wasn’t happy, but yes, he was OK with it. You know, I —’ he hesitated.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Well, we had a bit of weed.’
‘And now he’s gone. Where do you think he could be?’
‘He must be here, somewhere.’
‘You’re sure you are not mistaken?’ Potting asked.
‘No, I am not mistaken.’
As Grace shone his torch around he glimpsed something blue and white on the far side of the room and hurried over to it. A Seagulls scarf.
Aleksander ran to it and picked it up. ‘This is Mungo’s!’ He called out again, ‘Mungo! Mungo!’
There was still no response.
Tugging a couple of evidence bags from his pocket, Grace knelt down by the two joints. He picked up each in turn with his handkerchief and popped them into individual evidence bags, which he sealed and put in his pocket. For the next five minutes, guided by Aleksander who appeared to know the property well, they searched every room, every closet, and up in the loft. Finally, they assembled in the hallway.
‘Mungo’s not here, Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘So where is he? I’m not crazy about going on wild-goose chases at four in the morning. Do you have something else you’d like to tell us?’
‘Please tell them anything you know, darling,’ his mother implored.
‘Look,’ Grace went on. ‘You’ve been very silly and irresponsible, and I think you know that. But if you can take us to him, now, that will count a lot in your favour. OK?’
‘He was here,’ he said, wretchedly. ‘I promised him I would send him food and I would be back with more food in the morning. I don’t know where he is, I really don’t.’
Grace believed him. The kid was broken, way beyond telling lies any more.
Where had Mungo Brown gone?
‘Are there any outbuildings?’ Kevin Hall asked.
‘Just a collapsed shed,’ Aleksander said.
‘What time did your father’s employee, Mr Valbone Kadare, pick you up?’ Grace asked.
‘About 1 a.m.’
‘He came home half past one,’ his mother confirmed.
‘Mungo was hungry?’ Grace asked him.
Aleksander nodded. ‘He had the munchies. We both did.’
‘Do you think he might have gone off to try to get some food?’
‘There’s nowhere for miles around here,’ Norman Potting said. ‘Brighton’s the only place he could get anything at this hour — and how would he get there?’
‘Hitch a lift?’ Velvet Wilde ventured.
‘I told him I would send Valbone back with some for him.’
‘Where’s Valbone now?’ Grace asked.
‘We don’t know,’ Mirlinda Dervishi replied. ‘My husband’s trying to get hold of him.’
‘Could Mungo have gone home?’ Kevin Hall asked.
‘How?’ Aleksander replied.
‘I’ll phone his father and check,’ Grace said. But as he pulled his phone out, it rang.
It was Glenn Branson.
‘Boss,’ he said. ‘There’s been a development. Kipp Brown’s had another text — from a different phone. And it’s not good. I’m sending it to you now.’
61
Sunday 13 August
03.00–04.00
Seconds later, Grace received it.
The price for your son has just gone up. We will now require £2.5 million value in Bitcoins. We will be in touch with details where to pay this. Don’t be stupid and go looking for Mungo. If you succeed in finding him without having paid, all you will have is a corpse. Sorry to text so late. You will soon receive payment instrucions. Have a nice rest of night!
He showed it to everyone. ‘Do you know anything about this, Aleksander?’ he asked.
‘Two and a half million?’ the boy said, looking totally confused. ‘This was not our plan. No. No, I—’ He began to cry again.
‘Can you get cell-site analysis on this, Glenn?’ Grace asked.
‘We’re on it.’
He stared at the text.
payment instrucions
Yet another spelling error, he observed.
‘Aleksander, tell them what you know, for God’s sake, tell them!’ his mother implored.
The teenager stared blankly at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, lamely. ‘I don’t know. This is — this is not — I — this is not our plan.’
‘Tell them the truth!’
‘I am. I am telling the truth.’
Grace stepped out of earshot and updated Branson on the latest development at his end. ‘What does Kipp Brown say? If absolutely needed, could he stump up this ransom — even just for a few hours?’
‘He’s just told me he’s close to bankruptcy,’ Branson replied. ‘He’s had a disastrous gambling run in the past few months and is virtually broke. He was going to be hard pushed to come up with the original 250 grand. Let alone this.’
‘Yes, he implied that to me.’
‘Everyone thinks Kipp Brown is richer than God,’ Branson said. ‘He flies clients around in private jets, lives in a fuck-off house, child in private education. And he dotes on his son. I believed him when he told me he doesn’t have that kind of money. What are we going to do? Don’t the National Crime Agency have funds for these kinds of situations?’
‘Two and a half million? You are joking — they used to have a small amount but I don’t even know if they have that any more.’ Grace thought quickly. ‘OK, we know from Aleksander Dervishi the kidnap was a set-up by a very devious couple of lads, to screw some money from Kipp Brown. I don’t know what this new demand is about. The kid’s vanished. Is it real this time or another part of their dumb plan? What the hell are we dealing with here?’
‘I don’t know, boss. Any ideas? Hypotheses?’
‘I’m all out of them. And I’m just about to have our one suspect, Jorgji Dervishi, de-arrested.’
‘There’ll be people here working on this all night. You sound shattered, get some sleep. Let’s wait for the next demand. Maybe bring in another SIO to take over from you for a few hours?’
‘I’ll be OK,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll go back and kip in the office.’
‘Look after yourself, boss. You won’t be any good to anyone if you’re shattered.’
‘I don’t feel I’m much good to anyone right now.’
62
Sunday 13 August
07.00–08.00
At first Mungo thought it was a prank being played on him by Aleksander. Two men, dressed in black and wearing balaclavas, bursting into the house, blinding him with flashlights, tying his hands roughly behind his back and trussing his legs together. All the time they talked to each other in a harsh guttural accent, totally ignoring his questions asking them who they were. Then they had carried him upstairs and out into the night, and dumped him in what felt like the boot of a car.
Now, as he lay for what seemed like hours, blindfolded and gagged and only able to breathe through his nose, he felt sick with fear. The hard, sharp bindings were cutting into his wrists and his ankles. He was parched with thirst and he needed to pee, badly. There was a stench of petrol and intermittent exhaust fumes. Beneath him, the floor pan vibrated and he could hear a steady, muted roar and the thrumming of tyres on the road.
He knew he’d fallen asleep for a while when the car had been stationary. Now he didn’t know for how long they had been travelling, nor where they were. For a while, the road had been twisty, and the car, travelling fast, threw him from side to side, and he slid forward, bashing his head painfully, each time the driver braked hard. After a while the car had slowed and they’d driven for a long while at a much steadier speed.