Dead if You Don’t

108

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

As he left the estate, and accelerated down the hill, Dritan Nano was still thinking about that glance between Mr Dervishi and the hostile Russian. If he had learned one thing about Mr Dervishi in the years he had worked for him, it was that his boss never did anything that was not to his advantage.

What, he wondered, was to Mr Dervishi’s advantage in paying him over £60,000 and flying him home to Albania? Sure, it would distance his boss from any possible connection to the UK police investigation into the triple homicide. But there were, surely, other much cheaper options for Mr Dervishi. Dritan wondered what guarantee he would have that, if he carried out these instructions and murdered yet another person, Mr Dervishi would honour his word.

Despite his besa.

Lindita was right about Dervishi’s morality. Somewhere in the past decade, Dritan realized, he’d been intimidated by his boss into losing all concept of what was right and decent. At first, he’d been grateful just to be in the UK, and to have a well-paid job here. That was why he’d carried out terrible things for Mr Dervishi, the last of which was what he had done just a short while ago. Valbone had deserved it, but not the other two, who were strangers to him. Now he was being sent to kill another man, again about whom he knew little, except that he was very powerful.

He turned as soon as he could and raced back to the industrial estate. As he rode in, he saw the BMW was no longer there. He pulled over a few hundred yards away from the bomb factory, and sat, both feet on the ground, the engine again idling. Then he made a snap decision.

He switched off the engine, kicked down the stand and dismounted. After ensuring the bike was safely propped up, he sprinted towards the unit he had just left. All three vehicles were still outside.

As he drew close he slowed to a walk, treading as quietly as he could in his rubber-soled motorcycling boots. Tugging the phone from his breast pocket, he laid it on the ground behind a wheelie bin between the office door and the workshop entrance, and sprinted back to his bike.

Mounting the machine, he looked over his shoulder, anxiously, but to his relief there was no sign of any movement. His heart in his mouth, he started the engine, again checking the unit in his mirrors before heading towards the entrance of the estate, using the throttle as lightly as he could. He picked up speed a little past the holiday units, then halted at the junction with the dual carriageway, where he would have to turn left.

And froze.

During his time working for Mr Dervishi, he had learned to spot unmarked police cars. The police mainly used German models, in dark colours, with four doors and blacked-out rear windows.

The BMW, in a lay-by a short distance down the dual carriageway, ticked those boxes. It was identical to the one he had seen earlier on the industrial estate. Was it the same car?

He would have to pass it. Then see if it followed.

Oh shit.

He removed one glove, pulled his own mobile phone from his inside pocket, unlocked it with a trembling finger and looked at the number he had entered. He tapped send. Waited, then tapped send again. His hand was shaking so much he had to take a breath before tapping send a third time.

And listened.

He heard nothing. No explosion.

He looked down at the display, puzzled. Had he entered the number incorrectly? Surely not, he had checked it carefully. Maybe he had let too much time elapse between the three. More than sixty seconds?

He tried again. Sent the same text three times in rapid succession.

No. No. He looked behind him, feeling very scared. What was wrong?

He put the phone back in his pocket and tugged his glove back on. He revved the engine, pulled straight out into the path of an oncoming lorry and accelerated, full tilt, past the BMW.