A handsome, elderly, pot-bellied man propelled himself towards them in a wheelchair. He had bouffant silver hair and wore a checked sports jacket with a velvet collar, shirt and cravat, beige trousers and monogrammed velvet slippers.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’ he said, oozing charm. ‘Edi Konstandin, how may I be of assistance?’
Grace showed him his warrant card. ‘We’d like to talk to you very urgently, sir, in case you can assist us.’
‘Well, of course — any help I can give to Sussex Police, you only have to ask! This way, please. My wife is out riding at the moment, but she should be back soon, in case you would like to speak to her, too.’
He spun the wheelchair deftly round and shot back through the doorway from which he had emerged.
The two detectives followed him into a grand drawing room, furnished with antiques, the walls hung with more ornately framed paintings. The decor was muted pastels. Konstandin halted his wheelchair and beckoned them, with a hand sporting a flashy watch and several rings, to a sofa.
‘Tea, gentlemen? Or perhaps something stronger?’ he asked Grace and Potting as they sat down.
‘We’re fine, thank you, Mr Konstandin,’ Grace said. ‘We’re actually in a very urgent and time-critical situation.’
The old man looked at them quizzically. ‘Please let me know how I can be of help.’
‘This is a very beautiful home you have,’ Roy Grace said, watching his eyes carefully.
‘Thank you.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Fifteen years. I bought it from a Brighton antiques dealer — he restored it many years ago from a wreck, sparing no expense.’
‘So I can see, sir.’ Grace handed him the photograph of the man in the red baseball cap, continuing to watch his eyes carefully. ‘Do you by any chance know this person?’
Konstandin studied it carefully. Grace saw just a glint of recognition. But he looked back at the detective and shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t, I’m sorry, Detective — er?’
‘Grace.’
‘Detective Grace. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.’ He smiled. ‘Truly, I wish I could. Is there anything else I can assist you with?’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think there is.’
‘Oh?’
Grace looked pointedly at his watch. ‘In precisely one hour and twenty-five minutes’ time a teenage boy called Mungo Brown, who we believe has been kidnapped by Albanians, is going to die. He will drown, Mr Konstandin. We at Sussex Police know you are at the top of your tree, and good luck to you. We’ve been trying to forge relationships with you and your Albanian community for a long time and I thought we might be making progress. But events of the last twenty-four hours indicate otherwise.’
‘Events?’ the old man questioned.
‘If I understand our intelligence correctly, the second-in-command in your empire is a gentleman called Jorgji Dervishi? Do you admit that? Do you admit to knowing him?’
‘I’m not admitting to anything without my solicitor present,’ he said, his genial demeanour turning to steely hardness.
‘We don’t have time for that, Mr Konstandin. Hear me out. Let’s forget about your past, I’m not interested in that. In recent times, we are aware you have made creditable efforts at integrating the Brighton and Hove Albanian community into the life of our city. But one of your underlings is undermining all that and you may not be aware of it. An innocent life is at risk, and we believe Dervishi is up to his neck in this kidnapping. We have an average of twelve suspicious deaths a year in this county, but in the past twenty-four hours we have had six. An Albanian drugs mule linked to Mr Dervishi. Body parts bearing the hallmark of an Albanian revenge killing. A local heavy machinery operator, suspected murdered last night, linked to the body parts. And, most recently, three men of suspected Albanian origin, linked to the kidnap, found shot dead in a Hove flat.’ Grace watched him carefully.
Konstandin raised his arms in a gesture of innocence. ‘What are you trying to say?’
All the man’s body language told Grace he was not going to get anything from him by playing Mr Nice Guy. He changed tack. ‘Allow me to continue. The photograph I just showed you has been identified as another of your countrymen, who is linked to a bomb threat at the Amex Stadium, as part of an extortion plan. We know that your people don’t talk to the police, but this has gone too far. I don’t know how much of all this you are aware of, but let me tell you something. You may be the local Mr Big, Mr Konstandin, but,’ he said, tapping his own chest, ‘I’m in charge of Major Crime in this city — and throughout Sussex and Surrey — and I won’t put up with this kind of crap on my patch. If you don’t cooperate with us, this instant, then for the rest of your life we’ll be in your face, we’ll be everywhere, crawling all over every one of your businesses, and every aspect of your life. Health and Safety will close your kebab houses down and your car washes, every single one of your employees will be interviewed by the Home Office Slavery Commission and the Inland Revenue will seize this house. I’m not having this behaviour in my city. Do you understand?’
‘Very clearly, Detective Grace.’
‘Do you have anything you would like to say, in light of that?’ Grace glanced at his watch. ‘Bearing in mind we’re running out of time to save this boy.’
‘I do,’ Konstandin said. ‘If you go back out of this room, turn left and walk down the hallway, you will find the front door. Good day, gentlemen.’
94
Sunday 13 August
16.00–17.00
As Grace and Potting drove out of Konstandin’s driveway, the DS said, ‘He’s a piece of work, boss.’
Roy Grace sat in silence, immersed in his thoughts as they wound back up the hill. Eventually, he said, ‘His eye movements told me he was lying, Norman. Konstandin knows the man in the red cap. How much else does he know?’ He glanced at the time as his phone rang.
‘Roy, it’s Dan Salter, Digital Forensics — we’re at Boden Court and I’ve just found the burner phone that one of the ransom demands was sent from. Vodafone have come back to me on our request for information, and say it could be anywhere in the western part of Shoreham Harbour or Shoreham Beach.’
‘There’s no way they can pinpoint it any closer, Dan?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir — because the mast is on the coast, they can’t use triangulation.’
‘Thanks, Dan,’ Grace said, ending the call. ‘Fuck.’
Potting looked at him.
‘Anywhere in the western part of Shoreham Harbour or Shoreham Beach, Norman. Any thoughts? Any bright ideas about how we search about five miles of waterfront in the time we have left?’
Another call came in on his job phone.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
It was DS Exton. ‘Sir, I’m at Shoreham Port.’
‘And?’ Grace asked, expectantly.
‘Not good news so far, I’m afraid. There’s around twenty possibilities, maybe more.’
‘Start working on them, Jon,’ he instructed.
‘I have, sir. Eliminated two already.’
‘Keep me posted.’
‘I will.’
Grace thought back to their encounter with Konstandin. The wily old bastard knew something and wasn’t telling, wasn’t responding to his threats. Why not?
He calculated the time.
Time they no longer had.
Seventy-five minutes.