The woman went on to describe the graffiti, to mention again the suspicious new padlock and to explain that the man in charge of the restoration was away. When she had finished, the call handler said, ‘Madam, with respect, you have called the emergency number, 999, and this is not an emergency situation. Really you should be reporting this on the police force’s non-emergency number, 101.’
‘Look,’ Sharon said, indignantly. ‘You may not consider the destruction of our heritage an emergency, but I do, and I expect you to do something about it. Kindly get a police officer here right away.’
‘I’ll see what I can do about getting someone along to investigate, madam,’ Grace Holkham assured her.
‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Sharon Sampson replied.
‘We are very busy at the moment, I’m afraid, madam. A lot of it because of calls like yours,’ she added, unable to resist the dig.
The sound of barking distracted Sharon. She looked, in alarm, as Becks, barking furiously, raced towards a tiny Yorkshire terrier.
‘Becks! Becks!’ she yelled and broke into a run. ‘Becks!’
The spaniel grabbed the tiny dog by the scruff of its neck and began shaking it.
‘BECKS! BECKS! BECKS!’
In the Force Control Room, Grace Holkham terminated the call, fuming at the woman’s insensitivity. She stared at the screen, at the serial she had created for this call. VANDALISM AT SHOREHAM PORT. SUSPICIOUS NEW PADLOCK. S. SAMPSON. The truth was that twenty years ago when she had first started in this job, she would have sent a response or local officer to take a look, albeit on a non-urgent basis. But now with police resources stretched so thin, she was constantly having to make judgement calls that might seem, to the general public, callous. Tapping the keyboard again, she added the words NO FURTHER ACTION.
70
Sunday 13 August
10.00–11.00
‘You little shit!’
His father’s steel claw clamped his left shoulder and his good hand the right one, jerking him out of bed and sending him crashing to the carpeted floor of his bedroom.
Aleksander looked up in terror. He had never seen his father so angry.
He was shaken, then shaken again so hard, he felt dizzy. Then shaken again.
‘You little piece of scum.’
‘Dad — I—’
He stared into his father’s cold glass eye. Then into his good eye that was equally cold.
His father shook him again. ‘You little shit!’
‘Dad—’
He smelled rancid cigar smoke on his father’s breath. And his dense cologne.
‘You fucking little shit.’
The boy trembled.
‘Just what are you trying to do to our family? You’ve brought the police on us. Are you happy about that?’
‘Dad, please.’
‘Please? Please? Please what?’
Aleksander began crying.
‘You want to sob? You don’t have balls? I have son who has no balls? Shall I cut them off so you’ll know what it really feels like to have no balls?’
‘Dad!’
Dervishi pushed his hand down between his son’s legs, found his testicles and crushed them hard in his hand.
Aleksander screamed, his stomach constricting in pain. He vomited, then lay on the ground, hands over his balls and sobbing.
Dervishi stood up, brushing vomit from his tracksuit in disdain. ‘I was proud of you once. Not any more. You useless piece of shit. Who helped you?’
His son stared up at his father in terror. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘No?’
‘Dad, they’ll kill me.’
He gave his son a bemused smile. ‘Really? They will kill you?’
Aleksander nodded, frantically.
‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t, OK? Believe me, you don’t want me to kill you, you really don’t.’
‘Dad, please.’
‘Jorgji!’ Mirlinda called from downstairs.
‘Don’t move,’ he said to his son. ‘Not one inch.’ He stepped away, opened the bedroom door and shouted back, ‘Yes, what?’
‘There are police officers outside who want to speak to Aleksander.’
‘Tell them they have to wait. He’s not speaking to them without a lawyer.’
Mirlinda shouted back, anxiously, ‘Jorgji, if I don’t open the door they will break it down.’
‘Let them in,’ he shouted back. Then, looking at his son in fury, ‘I don’t care what you’ve done, you say nothing, OK, nothing until we have a lawyer here. OK?’
Cowering, the boy nodded.
His father kicked him, hard, in his backside.
71
Sunday 13 August
11.00–12.00
Miri Nela kicked the ball hard. The goalie made a desperate dive as it shot between him and the folded sweater which served as the left goalpost and bounced off the grassy mound behind him.
Watching from a bench at the side of the disused bowling green in Hove’s St Ann’s Well Gardens was PC Nikki Denero, wearing jeans, trainers and a yellow T-shirt printed with the slogan ALBANIANS ROCK! Her partner, Ellie Yarrow, was similarly attired and their lurcher, Horris, sat between them. Spread around them on other benches and on the grass, drinking, eating sandwiches, chatting and laughing while the seven-a-side game progressed, were about thirty Albanians, sitting in small groups, two with babies in buggies.
Nikki felt a deep sense of pride. This picnic had been her initiative, a further step forward in building bridges between Brighton’s Albanian community and Sussex Police. Immediately to her left, Lana, rocking her baby, cheered. She was married to Miri, who was developing his business here, Balcony Tea, specializing in a range of Mediterranean-inspired teas. Good, decent people, totally integrated into the city and much liked by both the Albanian and local community. As was everyone else who had come along, enjoying a rare sunny day in what had, otherwise, been a bit of a rubbish summer.
On a bench to Nikki’s left sat Valmira Bislimi, watching her husband playing whilst trying to keep their two-year-old daughter occupied on the grass in front of her. The whistle blew for half-time and Valmira’s husband, Rinor, tall and perspiring heavily, came over, kissed his wife, then knelt beside his daughter.
‘Well played, Rinor!’ Nikki Denero said. ‘Two goals! Amazing!’
He turned towards her, panting, his face alight with joy. ‘Thank you!’
To her surprise and delight, Nikki suddenly spotted the suited figure of Detective Superintendent Roy Grace striding towards her, clutching two bottles of rosé wine in his hand. She had invited him, but never expected him to actually join them.
‘Donation for the picnic!’ he said.
She thanked him, and introduced him to Rinor.
The two men shook hands. ‘Very well played,’ Grace said. ‘A great setup for that goal!’
‘Thank you.’
Rinor Bislimi was the reason he had come. Intelligence on the man had associated him with some of the Albanian criminal fraternity, although Grace knew that in recent years he had left that behind and concentrated on building a string of dry-cleaners. ‘Would it be possible to have a quick word?’ Grace asked him.
The Albanian shrugged, then said, ‘Sure, how can I help you?’
‘Does the name Fatjon Sava mean anything?’ Grace asked.
All the energy seemed to drain from the Albanian, suddenly. ‘Fatjon Sava? Why are you asking me this?’
‘You know the name?’
He was silent, reflecting. ‘Fatjon Sava?’ he said again. ‘Yes — but—’
‘But what, Rinor?’ Denero interjected.
Grace watched the exchange, curious about where this was going.