Grace frowned. ‘That name continues to worry me.’
‘It should,’ Potting said. ‘He’s Mr Big. One of the kingpins of the Brighton Albanian mafia — and quite a big pillar of the community. Lots of legitimate businesses: property, storage depots, warehouses, industrial units, estate agencies, betting shops, launderettes, cafés and a couple of car washes.’
‘I know all that. Does he have any businesses down in the Shoreham area, Norman? Any that are on the waterfront?’
‘I can find out, boss.’
Sunday. Damned Sunday, Grace thought. So many business premises would be shut today. Warehouses, industrial units, storage depots — all classic places to hide someone, alive or dead. Mungo could be in any of them — or not. If the video and photograph were for real, he was at the water’s edge somewhere, below sea level.
He was repeatedly trying to hypothesize what might have happened, and to put himself in the mindset of the kidnappers. Mungo and his pal, Aleksander, had originally set this up. Aleksander had used his own father’s trusted bodyguards, Valbone Kadare and Dritan Nano, to help Mungo with the sting. Then at some point a double-cross had happened.
Question: Was Aleksander involved in that double-cross or not?
If he was, he would know where Mungo was. And with the little time they had, the only way to flush the truth out of him might be to frighten the hell out of him in front of his parents. Read him the riot act, warn him if Mungo died he would face a murder charge. He needed to send in a bully, and realized the suspended Detective Sergeant Guy Batchelor would have been the ideal hard man to interview him. He felt Guy’s absence from his team acutely, more than ever at this moment. And he still found it hard to believe what he had done.
Scarlett Riley, who was a trained cognitive interviewer and, despite her appearance, could be fierce when needed, would be a good person to interview Aleksander, he decided. To accompany her, he delegated another tough detective, the diminutive American FBI officer Arnie Crown — better known to the team these days as Notmuch, after a witticism by Norman Potting that had stuck. Arnie Crown had been seconded to them for training purposes as part of an information-sharing programme, and with his counter-terrorism background, he was highly experienced in extracting information quickly.
Grace stared at the large-scale map on the wall. He ran his index finger along from the start of Shoreham Port to where it ended, some way along the River Adur. There could only be so many hiding places along the wharves. Might a local historian know them? But who? And where were they going to find a historian on a Sunday afternoon? With the clock ticking, they just did not have the luxury of that time.
One option was a ground search along the entire waterfront. He knew there were places along the harbour, such as by the lock gates, with hidden sluices and tunnels. He’d need divers as part of a search team to cover the seven miles, but he’d have to bring them in from outside, and it would take hours just to get them into place. Hours they did not have. Sussex Police once had their own dive unit, but that had been a victim of budget cuts a few years back. He desperately wished, at this moment, they still had it.
He switched his train of thought back to Boden Court. The blood on the victims was still wet, indicating they had all been shot only a short time before he’d arrived. Perhaps with a silenced weapon — or weapons. How had the killer — or killers — arrived and left? What was the motive? Was it greed? Taking out these three colleagues in the kidnap plan? Or was it more cynical? Perhaps someone cut out of the deal simply taking revenge and to hell with the boy? He looked at his watch. Felt panic rising.
3.28 p.m.
Just over two hours.
His phone rang. It was Cassian Pewe. ‘What’s the update, Roy? I thought you were going to call me earlier.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been a bit busy.’
‘I’ve just heard that there’s more bodies, in a flat in Hove.’
‘Seems I didn’t need to update you, sir, you’re ahead of the curve. I guess that’s the advantage of integrating multiple initiatives into a systems-level approach.’
‘I beg your pardon? You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.’
‘Your words, sir,’ Grace reminded him, smiling privately. ‘May I call you back in a little while, we’re very time critical at the moment.’
‘Are you getting this young lad back? Mungo Brown? Give me a straight answer, Roy.’
‘Well, sir, we’re working on the aggregation of marginal gains.’
‘What?’
As soon as he had got the ACC off the line, Roy took several deep breaths. He had to forget his anger at the man, stay focused, think this through, look at the positives. Two hours. They still had just over two hours. How could he use them to the very best? What could he do that he wasn’t already doing?
What bases was he not covering?
At times like this, it felt like he had the loneliest job in the world. Sure, there were other detectives with kidnap experience he could call on, but he’d need to bring them up to speed and that would all eat into critical time. He had to accept that these next hours could be life or death for Mungo Brown. Very possibly depending on the decisions he now made and the actions he took.
One thought occurred to him as he hastily updated his Policy Book — making sure he had answers for the inevitable inquest Pewe would hold, regardless of the result. As he wrote, he turned to DI Dull. ‘Donald, can you check all serials in the past twenty-four hours, look for anything that has been reported within the Shoreham Harbour and Beach area. OK?’
‘Yes, sir, I’ll get on it after the briefing.’
‘No, start now.’
‘Roy?’ Forensic Podiatrist Haydn Kelly, looking like he’d done an all-nighter, his complexion pasty, his suit heavily creased and his tie slack, said, ‘I’ve been working together with JJ from the Super Recognizer Unit looking for the lad. We haven’t found images of him yet, but from the CCTV footage at the stadium we’ve viewed, we believe we’ve identified the individual in the red baseball cap who left the camera on the seat, then went through the doors and disappeared.’
Kelly pointed a laser at a new whiteboard, on which was a very clear blow-up of the man in the cap. Next to it was a photograph of a man of similar age and build, wearing a blue-and-white striped Seagulls shirt, a matching scarf and bobble hat, and blue jeans. Beside that was a large mugshot.
‘JJ and I both believe this is the same person,’ Kelly said.
‘And your reasons are?’ Grace asked. ‘Apart from it being odd to wear a bobble hat in August.’
The Super Recognizer, a tall DC in his early forties, with short, blonde hair and the eager attitude of someone who clearly loved his job, responded first, pointing the red dot of the laser at the chin of the man in the first photograph, then again at the second. ‘In my opinion,’ Jonathan Jackson said, ‘this is an identical match.’ Next, he pointed the dot on the first man’s nostril, then on the second. ‘Another match.’ He paused then went on. ‘The odds against any two persons having an identical chin and nostrils run into millions to one,’ he said, then gestured to Haydn Kelly, indicating it was his turn.
Kelly returned to the board. He pointed first at the man in the red cap. ‘Roy, I’ve analysed this man’s gait from the Amex CCTV footage, from the time he stood up, to reaching the exit door of the stand.’ He then pointed at the second image of the man in the blue-and-white bobble hat and Albion strip. ‘I managed to obtain footage from BTP — it helped speed things up that their ACC, Robin Smith, is a former Sussex ACC,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It showed this man walking along the station platform just a short while after leaving the stand. My software analysis shows, beyond any doubt, this is the same person. I also managed to get this photograph of our suspect’s face.’ He pointed at it. ‘Does anyone know this charmer?’