‘That would fit, sir.’
Grace called Oscar-1. An inspector who had taken over from Keith Ellis was on duty. He asked her to put out alerts for sightings of either the Audi or Golf, but with a strict instruction that the cars were not to be followed or stopped. Next, he asked her to put in place an immediate search of Newhaven Port for the Range Rover, index KK04 YXB. When he had done that he turned to the map on the wall. Shoreham Beach was an area that he and Cleo had once considered moving to, but the property prices had been prohibitive. The video and the tide chart made sense. Somewhere close to the water, for there to have been a crab present. A cave or a cavern? The whole Sussex coast was riddled with caves and had once been a smugglers’ paradise. It was fishing and smuggling that had, back in the seventeenth century, been the start of Brighton’s rise to prosperity.
Grace turned back to the map, studying the Shoreham area, trying to put himself into the mindset of a kidnapper. Where would I hide someone in this complex?
The waterfront of Shoreham Harbour was a good seven miles long. It would take days to search it properly. They now had, according to the demand sent to Mungo’s father, little over five hours.
79
Sunday 13 August
12.00–13.00
Valbone looked at the display on his phone. It showed the caller’s number was withheld. After hesitating, he answered. ‘Yes?’
A hushed, frightened voice, barely above a whisper, said, ‘Valbone?’
‘Yes, Aleksander?’ he said, recognizing the voice instantly.
‘My father knows about you — your involvement — and he’s very angry. You are now in danger, I just wanted to warn you.’
‘What does he know?’
‘About our plan. He made me tell him.’
‘We’re cool, Aleksander. But good of you to call.’
‘You know my dad’s a very dangerous man. I think you should abort, Valbone.’
‘Don’t worry, Aleksander,’ he replied. ‘I can be very dangerous, too.’
80
Sunday 13 August
12.00–13.00
Kipp Brown used to joke to clients that his company had police protection. His new offices were almost next door to the former headquarters of Sussex CID on the Hollingbury industrial estate at the northern extremity of the city. But he wasn’t in a joking mood now as he parked his Porsche in front of the modern three-storey building. He felt a bit like a naughty schoolboy, having given the two officers in his house the slip by telling them he was going out for a walk for some air. Climbing out, he looked all around, feeling nervous as hell.
Fretting about the word ‘package’.
To his relief, he couldn’t see anything.
Punching in the passcode on the keypad, he pushed open the main entrance door and looked on the floor for any delivery company’s card — ordinary mail was not delivered here at weekends — but there was nothing. He entered the silent premises, checking that the door clicked shut behind him. The reception area had been carefully designed to impress, to make clients feel they were somewhere special, but to be welcoming and not intimidating. It was modern, with glass furniture and tan leather sofas, large plants and smiling photographic portraits on the walls of himself and his colleagues.
The office had that silent, Sunday feeling. The receptionist’s empty desk. The smell of floor polish. The water dispenser in the far corner made a brief gurgling sound, then stopped.
He was going against the original advice of the Detective Inspector. Branson and his colleague had cautioned him and Stacey about paying any ransom. In the old days, the DI said, when banknotes would be handed over in a bag, there was a good chance of recovering some or all of the money. But in the modern, murky world of cryptocurrencies, where transactions could be untraceable, there were no safeguards.
Nor, Branson informed Kipp and Stacey, was there any guarantee the kidnappers wouldn’t simply take the money and vanish. It was vital, he urged them, that before making any payment, they had evidence Mungo was alive and unharmed, and that a plan was agreed for his safe return.
It was easy for Branson, Kipp thought, it wasn’t his son. Their lives had been a nightmare for the past four years since Kayleigh had died. Now they were in another nightmare. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, except getting Mungo back. If he had to go to prison for taking clients’ money and lose everything he had to get their son back, so be it.
Ignoring the lift, he sprinted up the open-tread glass stairs, walked past the rows of empty desks in the huge open-plan area, lights coming on automatically as the sensors picked him up, and entered his own private office at the far end.
It was functional rather than swanky. There was a six-seater table, with a conference phone, and several pictures of clients’ businesses — past and present — on the walls, along with ones of a charter helicopter, a high-rise development and a warehousing complex. On his large, tidy desk, and on the wall, were framed photographs of Kayleigh, Mungo and Stacey.
He sat down and after checking there were no emails from the kidnappers, he heard another text ping in. It was detailed and specific, and in the space at the bottom was a black-and-white square QR code.
Go to https://www.coinbase.com/dashboard. Open an account. Buy Bitcoins to the value of £250,000 and place them in your wallet. When you have done that, download the QR reader app on your phone and scan the QR code below. It will take you to our wallet. If you then enter the 33-digit code, the money will transfer instantly. Be warned of the consequences of any delay.
Mindful of DI Branson’s instructions, he composed a text back.
I will do this on receipt of proof that Mungo is safe and unharmed. I need to know your plan for releasing him to my wife and me.
It would not send. He was blocked from replying.
Shit.
He opened his browser and entered https://www.coinbase.com/dashboard.
A sign-in request appeared for his name, email and a password. He entered them and instantly received a message that an email had been sent to him for verification. He checked his inbox, saw the one at the top and clicked on it. He was then asked to tick a box confirming he was not a robot.
A new page appeared, headed in blue letters: Welcome KB — Let’s get started.
There was a row of headings beneath: email; phone; upload to; payment; buy.
Under that was the message: Welcome to Coinbase! This guide will help you buy your first digital currency! Please start by choosing your account type.
There were two boxes, one marked INDIVIDUAL, the other BUSINESS, which was followed by: Submit an application to sign up as an institution.
He clicked on that and saw, to his dismay, the message: To open a business account, you’ll need to submit additional proof of your business records. Verification with Coinbase may take up to three business days.
Shit.
Three days he did not have.
He was totally out of his depth with this new kind of currency. Sure, he’d had a few clients asking about the investment potentials, but from what he’d read there seemed too much danger. He had built his business on sound advice and caution, but now he regretted not having done further research into what was undoubtedly a growing — if potentially nefarious — new financial paradigm.
What if this was just a scam? Or he did something wrong and the money simply disappeared into the ether? He needed advice from someone, but who? There was one person he could think of, his former boss from some years back, Steve Crouch. Although their companies were now rivals, since he had left to start out on his own, there had been no hard feelings.