by Peter James
He clicked on that and saw, to his dismay, the message: To open a business account, you’ll need to submit additional proof of your business records. Verification with Coinbase may take up to three business days.
Shit.
Three days he did not have.
He was totally out of his depth with this new kind of currency. Sure, he’d had a few clients asking about the investment potentials, but from what he’d read there seemed too much danger. He had built his business on sound advice and caution, but now he regretted not having done further research into what was undoubtedly a growing – if potentially nefarious – new financial paradigm.
What if this was just a scam? Or he did something wrong and the money simply disappeared into the ether? He needed advice from someone, but who? There was one person he could think of, his former boss from some years back, Steve Crouch. Although their companies were now rivals, since he had left to start out on his own, there had been no hard feelings.
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 vehi
cles 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.
The palm of a hand was in shot, holding a wristwatch on which the time, clearly visible, was 11.55 a.m. Just over an hour ago.
God, you bastards.
His mind was spinning. The detective said they’d identified the kidnappers’ cars. But they hadn’t arrested them. They didn’t know where Mungo was. Time was running out. They wanted two and a half million pounds but were willing to accept a deposit today, of a quarter of a million. That felt like one businessman talking to another. His language. If he paid the deposit, the kidnappers would know he was real, that he was going to pay the full ransom. They wouldn’t be cruel or dumb enough to harm Mungo, would they?
One of them was clearly watching his office, from somewhere nearby, and had put this on his car the moment he had gone inside. He spun round. Looking at the ASDA superstore across the road. At the parked cars alongside the pavement. No one in sight.
His phone rang. Number withheld. The kidnappers?
‘Mr Brown?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Clive Bennett.’
‘Oh – hey, Clive – right – thanks so much for calling back.’
‘How can I help you?’ He sounded friendly but direct.
‘I need to make a Bitcoin transaction, but I’ve never done anything with cryptocurrencies before – and Steve Crouch said you might be the man who could help me.’
‘Sure. What do you need to know? There’s Bitcoins, but there’s also a whole range of other altcoins, too – Ethereum, Ripple and Litecoin are some of the bigger ones – there’s a pretty wide choice these days.’
‘It has to be Bitcoins,’ Kipp said.
‘OK.’
‘What I need is a helping hand to make the transaction.’
‘Sure, I could meet you sometime this week?’
‘I have to make the payment now,’ he said. ‘I mean – literally now.’
‘How much money are we talking?’
‘Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I need to buy Bitcoins to this value and then deposit them.’
For a moment, there was no response. Then Bennett said, ‘That’s a big lump for your first Bitcoin transaction.’
‘I know, that’s why I need help to make sure I don’t screw up. And tomorrow I have to send a further £2,250,000.’
‘Excuse me asking, Mr Brown, but are you under some kind of pressure? It’s not my business, I know, but I’m just getting a sense of something not quite right here. But feel free to tell me to mind my own business.’
‘No – I – I’m not in any trouble – I’m acting on behalf of a very big client who wants to get into this emerging market.’
‘Emerging, but pretty volatile,’ he warned. ‘So urgently it can’t wait until business hours tomorrow?’
Kipp’s head felt on the verge of exploding. ‘OK, look, I’ll level with you, Clive, if you just keep this to yourself.’
‘Sure.’
He told Bennett, in quick summary, what had happened. When he had finished, Bennett replied, sympathetically.
‘God, I’m sorry. I don’t really know what to say – what a nightmare for you and your wife. Of course I’ll help you, but you do need to be aware that once you enter the ransomer’s code on your Bitcoin wallet, that will be it, the money’s gone, irretrievably. It’s an uncrackable code even with today’s technology. Are you confident this will get your son back?’
‘No, I’m not, but I don’t have any choice. They’re threatening that my son will die this afternoon if I don’t pay it.’ He pictured in his mind the photograph of Mungo running towards him. ‘Maybe I’m being a fool but I can’t risk it. I’ve just got to do what they demand.’
‘OK, so are you in front of your computer now?’
‘Just give me thirty seconds.’ Kipp went back up to his office, switched on to speakerphone and listened to Bennett’s instructions as he guided him through logging back on to Coinbase. This time he clicked on INDIVIDUAL.
Bennett continued talking him through the process, with Kipp in turn sending him screenshots of each stage. Within five minutes he had purchased, with money from his clients’ discretionary fund, Bitcoins to the value of £250,000 and placed them in his virtual wallet.
Next, he downloaded the QR reader app and scanned the square, black-and-white QR code.
After a short delay a window appeared on his computer screen. At the top, it said: DEPOSIT BITCOIN (BTC)
Below was the warning: I acknowledge the following information: By depositing tokens to this location you agree to our deposit recovery policy. Depositing tokens other than BTC to this address may result in your funds being lost.
It was followed by a code of letters and numbers written inside an address box.
GP1tr57a30ZxgF3di9nH7a904ft2hbV6x
Thirty-three digits, Kipp counted. From what he knew about security codes, six numbers were extremely hard to crack. Thirty-three, alternating upper- and lower-case letters and combined with numbers, was way beyond the capability of any computer system currently in existence.
His fingers hovered over the keys. Was he making a huge mistake? He thought of Detective Branson’s cautioning words.
‘What do you think, Clive?’ he asked.
‘I can’t tell you what to do, Kipp. All I can tell you is that your Bitcoins will go to the address you’ve been given. Once you’ve sent them, they’re gone, no getting them back. It’s your call.’
Kipp looked back at the photo of Mungo on his desk.
Then he hit the keys.
Seconds later he received an acknowledgement.
Thank you. Your funds have been received. You may not reply to this message.
83
Sunday 13 August
13.00–14.00
‘Shit, man,’ Fatjon Sava said, feeling more than a little drunk as he topped up his glass of the sharp rakia. He peered, having difficulty in focusing, at his two colleagues, Valbone and Kushtim. ‘What is this?’
‘You like it?’ Valbone Kadare asked. ‘It’s made by my cousin back home. We have mulberry and cherry also. Good, eh?’
‘We have to drive, Fatjon,’ Kushtim said, reminding him and slurring his words. ‘Only a few hours before we need to get the boy! No more drink!’
‘So why the fuck is his father not coming back to us?’ Valbone, still stone-cold sober, asked.
‘You need a drink, Valbone!’ Fatjon said, walking unsteadily towards him, brandishing the bottle.
The Albanian covered his glass of water with his hand. ‘You want one of us to get arrested for drink-driving with the boy in the boot of the car? I don’t think so, Fatjon.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Fatjon replied. He necked the bottle and staggered sideways, colliding with the table. Peering through unfocused eyes at Valbone, he rocked his head from side to side. ‘Not bottling out, are you?’ He roared with laughter at his joke as he held up the bottle. ‘You have another?’
‘You’ve had enough,’ Valbone said.
Fatjon turned on him, aggressively. ‘Oh? Valbone is telling me I’ve had enough to drink. Really? Poor sober Valbone!’
The ting of a bell suddenly silenced all three of them. The doorbell. It tinged again.
They nodded at each other.
Valbone walked out of the lounge, along the short hallway, and peered through the spy hole. The wid
e-angle lens showed a distorted image of his colleague, Dritan Nano, out in the corridor, wearing motorcycling leathers, holding a crash helmet in one hand and a carrier bag in the other.
He unhooked the safety chain and opened the door with a broad smile.
‘Hey! Good to see you! Come in!’
‘How’s your day so far?’ Dritan enquired.
84
Sunday 13 August
13.00–14.00
Roy Grace sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked Mondeo, updating the Force Gold and the CIM, and giving fast-time instructions to the Oscar-1 Inspector as he marshalled his team into place. In silent concentration, Kevin Hall drove at high speed on blue lights, siren wailing, passing the Amex Stadium to their left and the leafy, red-brick Sussex University campus to their right. Cursing, he suddenly braked hard, throwing Grace forward against his seat belt, and momentarily changed the pitch of the siren to a deep honking blast at a driver who had pulled a small Fiat straight out into the overtaking lane in front of them, without apparently looking in his mirrors.
‘Get out the way, you dozy git!’
The Fiat shot back into the gap it had vacated, and Hall sped on past. He headed up the long hill, down the far side, passing the Hollingbury Industrial Estate where their former CID HQ had been housed, drove down into the valley and swept up the far side. There was a windmill to their left, and to their right the open countryside of the South Downs National Park. Roy Grace was focused on his screen, using Google Earth to take an aerial view of the complex of separate four-storey buildings that comprised Boden Court, and the eighty or so flats they housed.
He was wondering how they could identify which flat the kidnappers were in. Speed was key in any raid. If they were wrong about where Mungo was being held and the kidnappers did have him in there, the big danger was alerting them to the police presence. They could just be vicious enough to kill Mungo out of spite in the moments before they were arrested. Grace could not take that chance, which was why he had ordered all units to stay well outside in the street, until further instructions.
Hall switched off the siren and blue lights half a mile before the approach to the roundabout at the top of the hill, not wanting to risk signposting their arrival to the kidnappers, and turned left into wide, residential Dyke Road Avenue. A couple of hundred yards ahead, on the right-hand side of the road, was the entrance to the cluster of brick buildings of Boden Court, marked with a bold, white sign. A number of police vehicles were pulled up a short distance further on, all parked along the cycle lane. Among them were two white vans, containing Local Support Team officers, with their Inspector, Ian Allchild, in the lead vehicle. The whole area looked like a military battalion had moved in. If any of the kidnappers drove out now they would panic for sure.
