by Peter James
Edi Konstandin’s driver said, curtly, ‘Here.’ He climbed out and pulled open the rear doors for Nano and Llupa.
They stood with their bags in the failing light and a strong breeze that smelled of salt and rope and seaweed. Below them a cluster of different-sized fishing boats was moored. A vessel with its navigation lights on cruised past them, on the inky water, out towards the open sea and a distant, flashing green light. On the far side of the harbour, Dritan saw an orange-hulled boat with a white superstructure alongside the quay. Two large containers, marked EWALS CARGO CARE, sat above it.
‘I really, really do not want to go,’ Llupa said.
‘Fine, stay. I come to visit you in prison in ten years’ time. Bring you some cake. Is that what you want?’
The medical student said nothing.
‘Gentian, I think that you, like me, never came here to this country with the intention of doing bad things. We got influenced, right? Bad influence, Mr Dervishi?’
‘Maybe.’
‘He was able to protect us. Now he is gone, we no longer have that protection. It doesn’t mean we cannot return one day. But for now, we should be grateful to Mr Konstandin, I think.’
‘Maybe,’ he said again.
A surly-looking bearded man in a beanie, dressed in baggy oilskins and rubber boots, suddenly appeared from below the edge of the quay and hauled himself up. ‘Nano and Llupa?’ he asked in a coarse voice.
‘Yes,’ they both said.
‘Come with me. I’m Nick, your skipper. I’m taking you out to Mr Konstandin’s yacht that’s waiting for you. Be careful, the ladder is steep.’
Nano and Llupa tugged on their heavy backpacks, then followed the man down a vertical ladder fixed to the weed-covered harbour wall and stepped onto a floating pontoon that formed part of a network.
Taking a moment to adjust to the motion, they followed him past moored yachts of varying sizes, rigging clacking in the wind, to the far end of one pontoon, where a fishing launch was berthed, stern-in. It had a wide deck at the rear and a tall superstructure, with twin satellite dishes mounted high up on the cross-beam of a radio mast. Its name was Sweet Suzie.
Their skipper ran, deftly, across the narrow gangway, waited at the rear of the boat and took each of their rucksacks, placing them down on the deck. Then he held out a hand to help both of them on board, all the time looking around, edgily.
Dritan jumped down onto the deck, breathing in a strong stench of rotting fish, varnish and diesel.
‘If you need the heads, they’re down below. But you’re less likely to puke if you stay up here in the open. It’s going to be choppy out there. I suggest you sit out on the deck, where you are, and focus on the horizon.’ He clambered up some steps to the bridge, perched on the one chair and started the engine, which began ticking over with a loud, metallic knocking sound. He clambered back down, again looking up and around warily, then ran back along the gangway onto the pontoon. He knelt and unhooked one hawser from a bollard, tossing it onto the deck, then another. As the boat began to drift, he leaped back aboard and pulled up the gangway, then clambered up onto the bridge again.
The vessel began picking up speed, Dritan felt the breeze much stronger now. He stared at the white, thrashing wake. At the sky, seemingly teeming with seagulls. At the silhouettes of cliffs sliding by and the slanted wooden pilings of the harbour mole. And at the lights of Newhaven town beyond. As they neared the harbour mouth and the open sea, the boat began to pitch and roll increasingly. He worried he might feel sick. He had been sick the last time he went on a boat, on a fishing trip with Valbone and a friend of his, out of Brighton Marina.
Valbone.
He felt guilt.
They passed a huge auto-graveyard on the quay. A hill of metal, crushed almost beyond recognition, with a green grabber crane at the edge. Where the cliffs ended he saw the long, stone, west mole. Several blocks of flats, with many lights on. Then, on either side of the harbour mouth, a red and a green light.
He listened to the pitch of the engines as they picked up speed out of the harbour speed restrictions. Felt the motion of the boat as they ploughed on into increasing darkness. The only illumination here on the deck, faint and shadowy, was thrown down from the boat’s masthead light. Soon, all he could see behind were twinkling white lights and the flashing of a lighthouse and a red aircraft warning beacon high on the top of the cliffs. All of them were fading steadily. England was fading steadily. Somewhere over to his left were the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head. That must be the lighthouse he could see.
He was hungry, trying to remember when he had last eaten anything. Wondering how long before he could get something. Perhaps there were chocolate bars or biscuits or something on board.
He shouted at the skipper on the bridge. ‘Nick, do you have anything to eat?’
‘Yeah, sure, I’ll give you a menu.’
‘Menu?’
‘What do you want? Caviar? Steak and chips? Lobster Thermidor?’ the skipper shouted back. ‘We have a signal booster for mobile phones on board. You should have a good strong signal – why don’t you phone ashore for a takeaway? A curry? Thai? Kebab?’
Dritan took a moment to realize the man was joking. ‘Any biscuits?’
‘I’m sure when we RV with Mr Konstandin’s yacht, you’ll have a nice dinner waiting.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘OK, thank you!’ he shouted back against the rising wind.
Gentian Llupa, who had not uttered a word in some while, suddenly stood up, stumbled to the side of the boat and puked over it.
‘You OK?’ Dritan rose to his feet, but the boat rolled suddenly, sending him hurtling back down onto his hard seat and bashing his elbow painfully.
Llupa puked again.
The smell was making Dritan feel queasy, too. He shivered, wishing he had put warmer clothes on. He had a lightweight anorak in his rucksack, but it had slid some distance away from him, towards the steps down into the cabin. Looking for something to grip, he stood up, carefully holding the side of the boat, planting his feet and waiting, steadying himself. He was very definitely feeling a little giddy and sick himself now. And really shivering.
He reached his rucksack. Holding on to the top of a locker with his left hand, he knelt and unzipped the centre section of the bag with the other, looking for a pullover. Just as he did so, a familiar voice behind him startled him, making his skin crawl. It came from inside the unlit cabin.
‘How’s your day so far?’
113
Sunday 13 August
20.00–21.00
Dritan, crouched on the heaving deck, was gripped with fear. He must be dreaming. It could not be him.
Could not. He was dead, wasn’t he?
As he turned, he found himself staring straight into the muzzle of a shiny automatic. Mr Dervishi, in yellow oilskins and a heavy sweater, stood securely wedged between the two sides of the cabin entrance, holding the gun in his good hand.
‘Much nicer for me to see you, Dritan, than for you to see me, I imagine, eh – and a little surprise?’
Dritan’s mouth had dried up.
Dervishi kept the gun trained on him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that for the moment, at least, Gentian Llupa was out of it, slumped over the deck rail, still retching. ‘Clever trick of yours, to circle back on your Ducati and put the phone behind that wheelie bin. Next time you try a stunt like that, permit me to offer you some advice. Stop further away, OK? Your Ducati has a very distinctive rattle when it is idling – because of its dry clutch, I believe.’
In the darkness across the water, some distance beyond his boss, Dritan could make out, from his kneeling position, a tiny, static light. Just below it was an intermittent flashing one.
‘I’d like to give you some more advice, Dritan – not that you will need it where you are going. Never try to mess with a family as tight as mine. Blood means everything to us. Did you really think my uncle Edi would t
ake you seriously? That he would believe a pathetic loser, a nobody, over me, his nephew and successor?’
‘It’s not what your uncle said to me.’
‘No? In a few minutes, I will show you something. But at this moment, let me tell you something. I’m the man with the gun in his hand and you’re the shitbag who is about to die. When we stick weights on you and dump your body overboard, unlike me, you are not coming back. You’ll be gone. No one will ever know what happened – ever know the truth. Oh, that low-life, Dritan Nano. He vanished one night. I suspect he went home to Albania, to search for the girl who dumped him.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what everyone will think, Dritan. That you went home to find little Lindita. Well, you’re going to have a new home now. Inside the stomachs of crabs, prawns and lobsters.’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
The static light Dritan had seen was getting larger and brighter. And he was starting to make out more lights now. The apparition was shaping up like a liner. Was it a ferry? A cruise ship? Could he somehow signal to it?
He felt growing hope. As they churned steadily forward through the swell, it was clear their paths were almost going to intersect.
Would they pass close enough for him to shout out, Dritan wondered?
Dervishi turned his head, as if to see what Dritan was peering at, then looked back at him. ‘My uncle’s yacht, Dritan. It is a lovely boat. Only Roman Abramovich and a handful of other billionaires have bigger ones. Today he has given it to me as a gift. Gentian and I will be enjoying a luxury cruise aboard, all the way to the Port of Durrës. Each time we dine on lobster, we will raise a glass of fine wine to the ones that are feasting on you!’ He grinned.
The hull of the massive craft was looming rapidly closer, the lights in the portholes getting brighter. Dritan’s brain was racing in blind panic. Could he rush the man? Dive at him and grab the gun?
The boat rolled again, sharply, unbalancing him. He fell sideways, onto the wet deck, and lay for a moment, heart thudding in panic, looking back at Dervishi’s laughing face, feeling utterly humiliated.
An instant later a powerful lamp shone down from the yacht onto his face, dazzling him. The beam swept backwards and forwards across their little fishing boat. Dritan could see three men in white tunics standing on the deck of the yacht. One of them hurled a rope ladder, which tumbled down, uncoiling, all the way to the water. He heard the change of pitch of the fishing boat’s engine, felt the craft accelerate briefly, swinging round, coming alongside.
He waited for the right moment. For Mr Dervishi to be distracted.
But his boss kept the gun, and his gaze, steadily on him.
He saw a row of fenders lowered down the side of the yacht, seconds before the two vessels nudged against each other. At that moment he saw Nick, their skipper, leap from the bridge and grab the rope ladder. Seconds later, as he clung to it, there was a deep, sonorous roar of powerful engines, and thrashing water, the smell of exhaust fumes, and Edi Konstandin’s yacht moved away.
In less than a second, a gap of several metres had opened up between the two boats. The fishing boat rocked wildly in the wake, almost unbalancing Dervishi.
To Dritan’s astonishment, the yacht was powering away into the distance.
And evidently, from his expression, to his boss’s astonishment, too.
‘Hey!’ Dervishi turned his head and shouted at the yacht, but still kept the gun trained on Dritan. ‘Hey! Hey!’
The yacht was clearly not coming back.
‘HEY!’ Dervishi yelled, venting his lungs, his fury, his astonishment. ‘HEY!’ he yelled again and again, until he was spent. Although he was still pointing the gun, he no longer looked venomous. Instead he looked lost, bewildered.
‘Maybe they didn’t like your face?’ Dritan said.
The lights of the yacht and the drone of its engines were fading away.
Dervishi used his free hand to pull a phone from his pocket. Without moving the gun, he peered at the display, then tapped the phone with his mechanical digit, and held it to his ear.
Dritan, unable to suppress a grin, waited. Waited for the right moment to make his move.
Gentian Llupa retched again.
Dritan kept his concentration on Dervishi, who still held the phone to his ear, looking increasingly bewildered and angry.
He lowered the phone, peered at the display once more, then stabbed the buttons with his thumb and raised it to his ear again.
‘Seems like whoever you are calling must be out, Mr Dervishi. Are you sure you are so very important?’
Then he heard the ping of an incoming text. It came from behind his boss, somewhere inside the cabin.
Dervishi turned his head, frowning.
Seconds later, there was another ping.
Dritan shook his head in disbelief. This could not be happening.
‘Phone!’ Dervishi screamed, suddenly, in blind terror. ‘Whose? Where is it? Throw it overboard for God’s sake – where the fuck is—?’
114
Sunday 13 August
22.00–23.00
Mungo was released from the Royal Sussex County Hospital shortly after 10 p.m. He had been thoroughly checked over, and the cut on his ear, and the wound on his neck from the wire noose had been dressed.
As Kipp Brown drove the Volvo SUV out of the grounds, Stacey sat in the rear, in the darkness, cuddling their very distressed son.
‘I’m sorry,’ the teenager said. ‘Are you mad at me, Dad? Mum?’
‘No, my love,’ she said. ‘We are not angry at you. We are just happy to have you back and safe. Aren’t we, darling?’
‘Sure,’ Kipp said, flatly. He would be having a stern conversation with Mungo later about all the trouble and the potential grief he had caused, but for now he was just relieved to have him back safely.
‘I thought – you know – like – you would want to kill me.’
‘Look, you’ve been through a horrendous thing, your mother and I love you very much, all we care about is you’re safe.’
‘Is Aleksander’s dad angry with him?’
‘I don’t know – I haven’t spoken to him. I think the police have been with him much of the time.’
‘Will Aleksander and I go to prison?’
‘No, darling, you won’t!’ his mother assured him.
‘I’ve ordered you a new iPhone,’ his father said. ‘It should arrive tomorrow.’
‘You have?’ Mungo sounded brighter. ‘Wow!’
Kipp drove along Eastern Road, travelling slowly behind a bus. His relief that his son was back with them and safe was clouded by one very big thing. The knowledge that he had against all the regulations taken a quarter of a million pounds from his client account, and that the money was gone – irretrievably, the police had confirmed. What the hell was he going to do?
He was already thinking about the bets he would place tomorrow. His luck had to change.
Had to.
Maybe getting Mungo back safely was the sign?
All his staff would be back at work in the morning. His Chief Operating Officer would discover what he had done and would grill him. The financial services industry was very strictly regulated. There was no way any of his team could risk jail sentences by covering for him. Somehow, he had to replace that money and fast. Very fast.
He glanced in the mirror. In the glare of the street-lighting he saw Stacey’s smiling face. His son looking as if nothing had happened, now that he knew he was getting another iPhone.
Crisis over.
Crisis beginning.
The bus stopped and he slammed on the brakes, very nearly running into the back of it.
‘Kipp!’ Stacey reprimanded.
115
Sunday 13 August
22.00–23.00
Roy Grace arrived home at 10.30 p.m. As he climbed out of his car, nearly on his knees with exhaustion, a text appeared on his job phone.
It was from Cassian Pewe.
I want you in my office at 9am witho
ut fail, Roy.
He stood, staring at it, thinking about something he had read in a management training course he had been on, some years back. Too often in organizations, sooner or later incompetent people fail upwards.
He was so tempted to text that to the ACC. Instead he sent a terse, one-word reply.
Fine.
It might have been nice if his boss had said a thank you for what he had done today – even just a tiny one. But it seemed Cassian Pewe had been born with the ability to give praise missing from his DNA.
Humphrey barked as Roy walked in the pitch-darkness from the car towards the house. The security light came on. He unlocked the front door and patted the excited dog, then went through to the living room. Cleo, looking as drained as he felt, was on the sofa, a glass of white wine on the coffee table in front of her, watching the news. Her face lit up as she saw him. ‘You’re back! What happened? I just saw on the news that the boy – Mungo Brown – is safe.’
He kissed her. ‘Yep, he is. He was an idiot and it could have had a very different outcome. How was your day?’
‘About as good as a day spent doing postmortems with Frazer Theobald is ever going to get. And we start again at 8 a.m.’
‘How’s your back been today?’
Cleo’s back had not been right since her pregnancy with Noah, made worse by the lifting injury a few months ago. The mortuary had invested a substantial sum of money with a Sussex firm, Posturite, for an ergonomic chair and workstation area to help her, as well as a specially supportive chair for her at home.
‘It’s been OK, thanks, I’m seeing the chiropractor again on Tuesday. Next time we get a forty-stone whopper to lay out, I’m hiring a fork-lift truck.’
He grinned.
‘How about you – how are you feeling?’
‘I’ve a meeting with my good buddy Cassian at 9 a.m. Followed by a briefing from DS Sally Medlock on a gang of particularly nasty romance fraudsters – she needs Major Crime to help catch them.’
‘I thought you might be occupied. I’ve got Kaitlynn here all day tomorrow from 7 a.m.’
‘Thanks.’
