He heard the door being unlocked — two locks, then a third — and finally it was opened by a short, thin, bespectacled man in his twenties, with a shapeless mop of thinning dark hair. He was dressed in an anorak, badly fitting jeans and cheap trainers, and looked nervous. ‘Ylli Prek?’
‘Yes — Dritan?’
He nodded.
‘Come in, quick.’
Prek peered past him, anxiously, then shut and relocked the door immediately after he had entered. Dritan followed him into the main workshop area of the unit and received a hostile glare from a shaven-headed man who was bent over the casing of a camera, a roll-up dangling from his lips.
The bomb-maker looked at the new arrival with suspicion. ‘You are here why?’
‘I work for Mr Dervishi. He told me to come here — to wait for him after a job I have done for him. What do you do here?’
‘I make bombs for Mr Dervishi.’ He removed his crinkled cigarette and smiled, flashing his metal teeth.
‘You are making a bomb from a camera?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like some tea — we have Albanian Balcony Tea or coffee?’ Prek asked the visitor.
‘Tea, please.’ He looked around, curious and wary. ‘What kind of a bomb, exactly?’
‘One that explodes!’ Lebedev grinned. ‘That’s what bombs do, don’t they?’ Again, he grinned, put the cigarette back in his mouth and held the flame of a plastic lighter to the end.
While Prek filled the kettle, Dritan addressed Lebedev. ‘You are happy for your handiwork to kill and maim innocent people?’
‘It’s not my skill that does this — that is the choice of the people who pay me.’
‘I know what your tattoos mean,’ Dritan replied.
‘So?’
‘They are Russian. You are Russian?’
Lebedev shrugged.
‘Do they make you feel brave?’ Dritan asked, coldly.
The bomb-maker stared at him. A long, silent, penetrating stare, full of loathing. ‘Why don’t you fuck off and mind your own business?’
‘Each spike of barbed wire is a year spent in prison. The skull means you have killed someone. As does the dagger. You have four daggers on your arms.’
‘Would you like me to make it five? It wouldn’t be a problem, it would be a pleasure.’ He tugged at each of his sleeves, provocatively, pulling them up as if readying for a fight.
The kettle began to whistle. At the same moment, there was a sharp ratta-tap-tap-tap from the direction of the office.
All three of them looked round.
The knocking repeated.
Ylli Prek hurried through, crouching low out of sight of the window.
Lebedev and Dritan stood still as he disappeared into the office. Dritan heard Jorgji Dervishi’s voice, and moments later his boss strutted into the room, wearing a fancy checked jacket and holding a smouldering cigar in his hand. He looked straight at Dritan.
‘So?’
‘I did what you instructed, Mr Dervishi. You have the money?’
Dervishi nodded, drew on his cigar and strode over to Lebedev. As he reached him, he pulled a mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket. ‘I want you to fill this with explosive, now, Luka.’
The bomb-maker frowned. ‘Explosive? How much?’
‘Enough to take a big house down — and everyone inside it. Enough to make sure no one survives. How quickly can you do this?’
‘There’s not enough room in the phone to make a bomb that effective.’
‘Make the room.’
‘Sure, I can make the room for the explosive, but not if you want the phone to work.’
‘Think of something.’ Dervishi puffed again and blew out a perfect smoke ring. ‘That’s why I pay you.’
‘OK, come back tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not having a pissing contest with you, Luka. I don’t want it tomorrow, I want it in thirty minutes.’
100
Sunday 13 August
17.00–18.00
Mungo’s ears were filled with the echoing roar of the sea as it surged in, then sucked back out, pulling his legs harder and harder each time.
When it surged, the water level slopped up to his shoulders.
Oh God, help me please.
He looked up at the walls. At the vaulted brick roof covered in slime and weed, at another tiny crab that had suddenly appeared and was running up the wall a short distance from him, as if taunting him, as if saying, I can do this, so can you!
A takeaway carton floated past him. One way, then the other.
Mummy!
Daddy!
A massive surge of water came in, rising right up to his chin.
No. No. No.
101
Sunday 13 August
17.00–18.00
Norman Potting shot down the oncoming traffic lane, lights flashing and siren wailing, as they approached the roundabout by the large modern structure of the Ropetackle Arts Centre. ‘Which way, chief?’
Left would take them into Shoreham Village, along the north side of the harbour front. Straight over would take them across the bridge, with Brighton City Airport to the right and the residential maze of Shoreham Beach to the left.
Grace did not know. Now they were actually here, the sheer enormity of the area was dawning on him even more. ‘Go round,’ he instructed the DS.
Potting drove, siren screaming, a full 360 degrees.
‘Over the bridge and pull in,’ Grace instructed him again, his brain racing.
His phone rang.
‘Yes?’ he answered.
‘Sir?’
He recognized the voice of Inspector Keith Ellis, who was back on duty as the Oscar-1.
‘Keith?’
‘I don’t know if it’s significant, but a forward-facing ANPR camera on Dyke Road Avenue picked up the index of a motorbike heading away from Boden Court at high speed on the wrong side of the road, overtaking a vehicle. It coincides with the time shortly before you were on the scene of the triple homicide. It’s on false, stolen or copied plates. Then an unmarked RPU car spotted it on the A27 near Lewes — they were alerted because it went twice round the roundabout, and they followed at a safe distance, mindful of your original instructions. They observed it retrace its steps, then head back down Ranscombe Hill and turn into a new development at Ranscombe Farm, where there is an industrial estate.’
‘This could be significant, Keith. Where are they now?’
‘Standing by, at the entrance.’
‘Nice work! Send them in, discreetly, to do a cruise around. If they spot the motorbike, tell them to stand off at a distance and observe — and let me know immediately.’
‘Roger that, sir.’
The moment the call ended, Grace’s phone rang again. It was Detective Inspector Dull.
‘Yes, Donald?’
‘I may have something, sir, from the serials from Shoreham Beach.’
‘Tell me.’
As they crossed the River Adur, Grace looked at the houseboats, then glanced down. The river was approaching high tide. How long did they have? Thirty minutes, maybe?
‘It may be nothing, boss,’ Dull said. ‘Apparently the lady who rang this in, a Mrs Sampson, is a regular caller and a bit of a nuisance, but I thought it might be worth running by you.’
‘What do you have?’
‘Shall I read you the transcript?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I’m, sorry, madam, we are very busy. What is your emergency, please?’
‘I would like to report new vandalism at Shoreham Fort, please, and something suspicious.’