Maybe his spread bet on today’s football games would come good, he hoped. A small bet, from his emergency cash stash. If he got it right, he could be back in funds by tonight.
And if he got it wrong?
He didn’t want to think about that.
He never wanted to think about those kinds of consequences.
Brighton and Hove Albion had come into the new season on a roll. He needed them to win. Not to draw, not to lose, just to win. And a couple of other clubs as well. Six, actually. They all should. Just like his numbers at the casino should have come up, but didn’t.
Today would be different.
Today would put him back in the saddle.
He had a good feeling about today. Despite his son’s scowling face.
He had the radio tuned to the specialist football programme The Albion Roar. Presenters Alan and Ady were discussing the Albion’s chances. He agreed with their prediction that their home team would win, 2–1.
Please God!
He parked in a bay next to a white Bentley GT convertible that he recognized as belonging to one of his clients, property developer Dan Fox. Dan would already be in his box, waiting for him to arrive and no doubt drinking a pint of Harveys.
Mungo pulled down his sun visor and checked his hair in the vanity mirror.
9
Saturday 12 August
15.00–16.00
On the far side of the Amex Stadium car park, Dritan Nano sat behind the wheel of a stolen, old-model 5 Series BMW, on false plates. He was relieved to see the Porsche arrive; it was an hour later than expected, and he had been beginning to wonder whether something had happened and it was not going to appear at all.
The thirty-two-year-old Albanian had a permanently sad-looking face, which was at odds with his powerful, muscular body mass. Limp, damp-looking hair brushed forward into a widow’s peak lay low on his forehead. With large, round eyes, he looked vulnerable in the way a tortoise’s head looks out of proportion and exposed when protruding from the safety of its shell.
He watched the Porsche drive past the barrier and pull in to a parking bay. The smartly dressed man and his son, in jeans and a shirt, climbed out and headed off towards the stands. Their body language told him they’d had an argument, the father striding on ahead, the son, hands in pockets, following in his own time.
Dritan had had an argument today, too, and was feeling terrible. Crap. Totally. Crap. He had woken feeling nervous about his task ahead, but full of excitement for what lay beyond. A big day today, in every way.
Until the text from Lindita.
His girlfriend of five years, whom he was due to marry next spring, had gone back, three months ago, to her native Kosovo, because her grandmother had only days to live. Somehow, defying the doctor’s predictions, the old bird had struggled on. Then, last week, she had finally succumbed.
Yesterday, he had texted Lindita excitedly, telling her — a little white lie — that he was due a big bonus from his employee, Mr Dervishi, and this would give him enough money to buy the lease of a coffee house. He would quit his job and run the café with her, as they had long dreamed of doing. With luck, he should have the money in a few days, and they could be open for business by October. Lindita would create the snacks and sandwiches — she was a great cook — and he would, by then, have done a barista course.
Last night Lindita had texted him back. She was sorry, she said. She had met someone back home and was not returning to England after all.
He looked at the text again, for the twentieth time or maybe the thirtieth, fighting back tears.
She finished it saying:
I like u, Dritan, but I don’t like some of the things you do, u know what I’m talking about. I think it would scare me to have a child by u. Somewhere inside u is a decent person. Try to find it one day and become that person. I am seeing someone else and I think he is better for me. I’m sorry. Paç fat X
He had tried numerous times to reply but she had blocked him. He couldn’t believe it, nor accept it. He loved her so much; they had planned their whole life together. Sure, OK, she knew who he worked for and she had an idea of some of the things that involved; but he had always promised her this was only until he had got enough money together for the coffee house they dreamed of, and she had seemed to believe him.
He pulled her tiny photograph out of his wallet and stared at it. Her short brown hair slanting across her forehead. Her smile. Her green eyes staring at him, filled with warmth and trust.
Now she had found someone else. How, how could she? That hurt so much.
Earlier today he had confided in his friend and colleague, Valbone, with whom he shared the apartment above Mr Dervishi’s garages, and who was somewhere in the stadium now. But he didn’t get much sympathy. His fellow Albanian told him to man up, and that there were plenty more fish in the sea.
Dritan replied that he didn’t want fish. He wanted Lindita.
They’d had a big falling-out.
Now he was aware that he was dangerously distracted, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing but getting away as quickly as he could, going to Kosovo and finding Lindita. Finding her and convincing her he had changed, totally, completely, utterly. She would believe him, wouldn’t she?
He looked at his watch. Less than two hours till kick-off.
Less than two hours to go. He tried to focus on his task, although there wasn’t really much to focus on. When the time came, all he had to do was drive.
10
Saturday 12 August
15.00–16.00
The first fans had already begun arriving at the Amex Stadium an hour ago, some making their way to the private boxes and hospitality suites, most heading to the catering stalls or bars for their pies and pints. All were surprised by a much larger police presence than they could remember. But of course, now they were Premier League, it was bound to be different. Few grumbled, and the security guards carrying out the searches were mostly good-natured.
Ylli Prek, mingling with the crowd, made his way towards the long queue ahead of him at the turnstiles, and saw the security searches in operation. Suddenly the spring in his step was gone and he felt nervous. Nervous of failure. Of what would happen to him if he did fail. What if they checked inside the camera? He’d seen the video, heard the splashing sound. All of them who worked for Mr Dervishi had seen that video and heard that splashing. He didn’t know if it was true about the reptile, but he had seen for himself the horrific things Mr Dervishi ordered done to people who failed him.
He’d seen, on another video, Mr Dervishi command his surgeon to slash a man’s eyeball open with a razor. He’d watched a man strapped to a table being skinned alive by the surgeon on Mr Dervishi’s command. He could easily believe it was indeed true that his boss kept a sixteen-foot-long man-eating Nile crocodile in the basement of his mansion. And regularly fed it bits of people who disappointed him.
But no one asked him to open the camera. One big, tall guy patted him down thoroughly, checked his pockets and made him open his coat.
Then he was through.
Holding his ticket in his hand.
And his instructions in his mind.
Ylli Prek made his way into the South Stand. He found his seat, number 311S, and perched on it, waiting patiently — if anxiously — over the next ninety minutes as the stands filled.
Two small boys sat on their own nearby, both wearing Seagulls baseball caps and the blue-and-white club scarves. He held his camera, with its lens that he could not see through, on his knees. It was safe, he had been assured. It could not detonate accidentally, he could even drop it and nothing would happen, not until he primed it. He glanced a few times at these two boys, feeling a bit bad about them. They’d be blown to pieces, for certain.