‘You recognize this house, Dritan?’
‘Of course. My family’s home.’
‘Where you grew up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take a look at the details on the photograph. Check the time and date,’ Dervishi said, calmly.
Along the top of the image, Dritan saw the date, yesterday; and the time, 4 p.m. ‘Who took this?’ he asked.
‘Someone who is there to protect them.’
Dritan gave his boss a quizzical stare, part frightened, part angry. ‘To protect them? Really?’ He clenched a fist. ‘If anyone hurts them—’
Dervishi placed his cigar in the ashtray and raised his hands. ‘No one will hurt them. Not if you do what I tell you when you find Valbone. If you can find him.’
‘I will find him.’
‘Of course you will.’
Dritan said nothing.
‘Use your motorbike, their number plates are harder for cameras to recognize. Attach a fresh plate.’
‘Yes.’
‘Very good. When you have finished, go straight to the Lewes warehouse. I will meet you there to make the payment and arrange your safe transport to the airport, if you are able to confirm to me the job is done. Yes?’
Dritan nodded, dubiously.
Jorgji Dervishi reached down to the floor, lifted up a Waitrose carrier bag and handed it to him.
Dritan took it. Whatever was inside was heavy.
‘Please explain to Valbone this is a little gift from me to him. To show no hard feelings. To thank him for his years of working, loyally, for me.’
Dritan looked at his boss uncomfortably, then peered inside the bag. Immediately, his mouth went dry and his heart felt heavy.
‘You have any questions, Dritan?’
‘I can trust you? I do this and you fly me in your private plane, yes? I can trust you?’
Dervishi shook his hand. ‘I give you my besa.’
Besa was a word of honour. No Albanian who gave besa would ever break it. Dritan left on his mission, reassured.
77
Sunday 13 August
12.00–13.00
They drove their two vehicles carefully, making sure they would attract no attention. They had staked out the long-term car park at Gatwick Airport two nights ago and selected an Audi A4 and a Volkswagen Golf half an hour after their owners had parked them and taken a bus, with their luggage, to start their holidays — wherever they were destined. So long as the cars were properly taxed, insured and MOT-tested, there should be no problem with the police, and the owners would not know their cars were missing until they returned from their travels. Long before then the vehicles would have been torched, somewhere remote.
Now, at midday, headed away from Shoreham Fort, Fatjon Sava drove the Audi, followed by Kushtim Kona in the Golf, through the entrance to the Hove apartment complex. Along with their partner in this plan, Valbone Kadare, they had rented a fourth-floor apartment as their temporary safe house.
As they climbed out in the underground car park, Kushtim, a bundle of nerves since leaving their victim in the gun emplacement, said, ‘Are we sure we trust this guy, Fatjon?’
‘With my life. Valbone is my brother!’
They rode the lift up, walked a short distance along the corridor and stopped outside flat number 112. There was a spy hole in the door.
Kona rang the bell.
It was opened a short distance, accompanied by the rattle of a safety chain. A shaven-headed face peered out, nervously, then smiled.
‘One moment!’
The door closed. There was another rattle of the chain, then it opened again. The two men entered, each in turn kissing Kadare. Within minutes they were seated round the kitchen table toasting each other with shot glasses of rakia. They were careful not to drink too much of the clear liquid and, after two glasses each, they switched to strong Skenderbeu coffee.
The room grew thick with the fug of cigarette smoke. The three of them exchanged stories, laughing. Periodically Valbone stepped away to check his phone and his computer, and all the time keeping an eye on the time — and tide. They did not want Mungo Brown to drown — not until they had all the money. At some point they would have to go and move him, but all was fine for now, there were still a good three hours to go before the danger point was reached.
And on his phone, a pulsing blue dot, the signal from the tracker they’d placed under Kipp Brown’s Porsche up at the Dyke last night, showed he was on the move. He had left his house and was heading in the direction of his office. Sensible man.
Valbone’s phone rang.
He answered it, good-humoured. ‘Yes? Hey, Dritan! My friend! Come and join us — we have good mulberry rakia here!’
He gave him the address. Then he turned back to his colleagues. ‘It is all going to plan! Hey! By tonight we will be wealthy men. In twenty-four hours, we will all be very rich men. One more glass, heh?’ He charged all the glasses, then picked his up. ‘A toast?’
They all clinked together and downed the contents.
Then his mobile phone rang again.
78
Sunday 13 August
12.00–13.00
In the suite, Roy Grace stood over Giles Powell’s shoulder as the analyst pointed excitedly at figures on the monitor.
‘Sir, this pairing is interesting.’
Grace saw two car registration numbers on the screen. RW15 AVU and TR57 GPN. ‘Yes?’
‘These both pinged an ANPR camera at the Beddingham roundabout at 3.21 this morning. At 3.41 they pinged another just outside Newhaven Port. At 3.57 one at Peacehaven. At 4.07 one at Saltdean. At 4.16 they were both picked up on another ANPR camera on Marine Parade, Kemp Town. At 4.22 a.m. they were picked up by another on Kingsway, in Hove, both cars heading towards Shoreham. They were next picked up by an ANPR in Shoreham. Then nothing for some while.’
‘Are you sure, Giles?’
‘From their last recorded position, they could have headed north, through Southwick, in which case they would have been picked up by an ANPR on the A27, or continued west, and been located on the one towards Steyning. Or they could have driven into the harbour.’
‘Any other options?’ Grace asked.
‘They could have headed into Shoreham Beach, sir.’
Shoreham Beach was a vast warren of upmarket houses and apartment blocks, located between the harbour mouth and the beachfront to the west.
‘Have you done a check on these vehicles?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Powell said. ‘RW15 AVU is an Audi A4, registered to a Mr Richard Sanderson of Harewoods Lane, Haywards Heath, and TR57 GPN is a Volkswagen Golf registered to a Mr Iain Maclean of Adelaide Crescent, Hove.’
‘What do we know about either of them?’
‘No criminal records. I’ve given the details to DS Exton’s Outside Enquiry Team, sir, to see if they can locate these people or relatives urgently. But one possibility is they’re away on overseas trips, which is why their cars were selected.’
‘Quite possibly,’ Grace agreed.
‘Now this is where it gets interesting, sir: an hour after disappearing, bingo! We see the pair again apparently retracing their steps, pinging the same ANPR in Shoreham and on Kingsway in Hove heading east. Then disappearing.’
‘Heading somewhere into Hove — or Brighton?’ Grace asked.
‘In my opinion, yes.’
Grace thought for some moments. ‘Having deposited Mungo Brown somewhere in the Shoreham or Shoreham Beach area?’
‘Yes,’ Powell said. ‘Or Southwick — or somewhere to the west.’
‘I think it’s significant they went to Newhaven at the same time that Valbone Kadare went there in Dervishi’s Range Rover, which has subsequently disappeared. Could they have gone to pick him up after he dumped the car somewhere? Perhaps in a container?’