He looked up Crouch’s mobile number and dialled it.
To his relief after two rings he heard his voice. ‘Kipp! Long time no hear, how are you?’
‘I’m — OK.’
‘You’re doing pretty well by all accounts — giving me a hard time!’
‘I’m just a minnow compared to your empire.’
‘So, to what do I owe the honour of this call?’
‘I need help, Steve.’
‘Are you OK? You sound — stressed?’
‘I am, very.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘What do you know about Bitcoins?’
‘Not much, but I’m starting to get asked by a few clients about these and other cryptocurrencies — there’s a growing raft of them.’
‘I’ve been asked to make a substantial transaction, Steve — a quarter of a million pounds in Bitcoins, to be followed by a further sum of over two million, and I need to know what I’m doing — and if I should do it at all.’
‘I’d be bloody careful.’
‘That’s what I feel.’
‘Do you know Clive Bennett?’
‘No.’
‘His daughter-in-law used to work for me — she’s just left on maternity leave. He’s your man. Would be worth speaking to him. How urgent is this?’
‘I have to make a transaction today — like, immediately.’
‘I’ve got his mobile number. I talked to him a couple of days ago, you’ll find him helpful.’
Kipp wrote down the number, thanked him and immediately dialled. After six rings, it went to voicemail. He left a message.
‘Hi, Mr Bennett, Steve Crouch gave me your number. My name is Kipp Brown and I need, very urgently, some help with a Bitcoin transaction I’ve been asked to make. Any chance you could give me a call back as soon as you get this?’
He ended the call, stood up and paced around his office, fretting. What should he do? What could he do?
He stared at a large photograph of Stacey, Kayleigh and Mungo on mountain bikes, up on the South Downs, all wearing their helmets and smiling. Then he looked at the photograph of Mungo. It had been taken a few years ago, when he was about nine or ten, up on the Devil’s Dyke — ironically, close to where he had driven to last night. Mungo was running towards the camera, in jeans and a striped T-shirt, and with his long hair floating like a mane, he looked impossibly cute.
Kipp’s insides felt knotted.
Suddenly, his phone rang, momentarily startling him. The display showed the number was withheld. Great! Clive Bennett, he hoped. ‘Kipp Brown,’ he answered. But it wasn’t Bennett, it was DI Branson.
‘Kipp, where are you? I hope I’ve caught you in time — have you paid the ransom?’
‘I had to go into the office, I’m in the process of trying to — this Bitcoin thing is quite elaborate.’
‘Don’t pay, hold. We have a development — we may have found the people who’ve taken your son.’
He felt a burst of elation. ‘You have?’
‘I can’t tell you too much but we believe we’ve identified their vehicles — we’ve a good chance of an arrest soon.’
‘OK — great — but what about Mungo? Will he be safe if you do?’
‘We’re pretty sure he’s not with them, that he’s still where they’ve hidden him. I strongly advise you not to pay the ransom until we’ve clarified the situation. At least give it another hour. Can you stall them?’
‘I would if I could, but their comms are all one-way. I’ve had the payment instructions.’
‘Can you send them to me?’
‘OK.’
‘Sir, I think you should come back to your home — we may have some very quick decisions to make.’
‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
Brown logged off, grabbed his keys, hurried back down into the empty reception area and out into the glorious early afternoon sunshine. And saw something pinned to the windscreen of his car by a wiper blade. Something white. A flyer of some kind, he presumed, a pizza delivery place or car-wash advert.
As he neared the car he saw it was an envelope.
He lifted the wiper and picked it up. There was something inside it, something soft and lumpy.
He ripped it open, then stood still. Staring in shock and horror.
‘Oh God. No. No.’
81
Sunday 13 August
13.00–14.00
It had been a long time since Sussex Police had been involved in a kidnap with a ransom demand at this level. Roy Grace hated the idea of the kidnappers getting away with a ransom, but if it meant the safe return of Mungo Brown, so be it — his primary goal was to protect the boy’s life. The worst possible result would be the family paying the ransom and Mungo being found dead. From the evidence he had so far, the kidnap was professional and well thought-out, which made him optimistic. If they were after money, it was unlikely the kidnappers were going to let Mungo die, regardless of their threats to the father.
He thought about Mungo’s original plan, hatched with his mate, Aleksander Dervishi. Was this boy’s criminal father, well-known to Brighton police, the mastermind behind it all? Some kind of elaborate double-bluff going on? He didn’t think so. He had grounds to arrest him, but what would that achieve at this moment? He had hoped the man would say something to Norman Potting and Velvet Wilde that would give them a lead. But so far, nothing.
He looked at his watch. It was 1 p.m. If the tide chart was to be believed, in less than five hours’ time Mungo Brown would drown. However much he doubted the people behind this would let that happen, he wouldn’t bet the ranch on it.
Giles Powell suddenly hurried over to Roy Grace. ‘Sir,’ he said, with excitement in his voice. ‘We have a development.’
‘Tell me?’
‘Following the alert that was put out for the Audi and Golf, an NPT car crew spotted both vehicles on Dyke Road Avenue, twenty minutes ago. They turned and followed — at a safe distance — and observed both vehicles turn into the entrance of Boden Court.’
‘Those blocks of flats at the top?’ Grace asked, his adrenaline surging.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dyke Road Avenue is the same street Kipp Brown lives in — can’t be more than about half a mile away from his house,’ Grace said, then wondered. Was this deliberate? The kidnappers staking him out from there? Whatever. He balled his fists and banged them together. ‘Brilliant, Giles! Do we know if the vehicles are still there?’
‘They are, sir — Oscar-1 instructed the unmarked car to park up and keep watch.’
Grace thanked him, went over to his desk and hurriedly scribbled out the paperwork for a search warrant. He didn’t strictly need one, but it was belt and braces; all officers had the power to force an immediate entry into premises where life was believed to be in danger. He dispatched DC Davies to the on-call magistrate to get it signed. Then he called the Force Gold and Critical Incident Manager, in turn, to inform them of the development. Next, he called Oscar-1, requesting the vehicles and personnel he needed.
As soon as he’d ended the last call, he told DC Hall to accompany him, and raced out to the car park.
82
Sunday 13 August
13.00–14.00
Kipp Brown stood outside his office building, staring at the contents of the envelope. He was shaking, his eyes blurred with tears, his heart filled with anger. Staring at a severed human ear, partially covered in congealed blood, that looked fake, like something you’d buy in a joke shop. But this was palpably real. As was Mungo’s terror in the Polaroid photograph that accompanied the ear. It showed the bloody bandage taped to the right side of his head. The ligature round his neck.