Dead if You Don’t

30

Saturday 12 August

17.30–18.30

Followed by two stewards and two uniformed police officers, Roy Grace limped across the concourse. He’d pulled a muscle in his right thigh and it was really painful, but that was the least of his concerns at this moment. He was anxious to get back to Bruno, and he wanted to see what the EOD found when they arrived and examined the camera.

As he reached the top of the aisle in the stand, again mopping his face, he could see Bruno, absorbed in the game. His job phone began vibrating in his pocket.

He pulled it out and glanced at the display. No caller ID.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

A thunderous roar from the crowd drowned out the voice at the other end, as everyone rose to their feet.

‘Hang on!’ he said, and retreated down the steps into the exit tunnel, where it was quieter. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I can hear you now.’

‘Guv, it’s Keith Ellis. Gather you are quite the man. Glad to know you are a live hero and not a dead one.’

‘Yup, well I’m quite glad, too. I’ve spoken to the Match Commander and he’s taking control of dealing with the suspect device.’

‘Which hasn’t yet detonated, despite all your best efforts.’

‘Haha.’

In a change of tone to one more serious, Ellis said, ‘We have another situation. I have you down as the on-call SIO, is that correct?’

‘Yes, tell me?’

‘Looks like we’ve got a kidnap, guv. A man at the Amex arrived with his fourteen-year-old son before the start of the game, and his boy went missing shortly after. He’s now received a text warning him not to speak to the police if he wants to see the boy alive again, and that he’ll be getting a ransom demand. The boy’s under eighteen, so guidelines say this should be run as overt, but my view is we should start covert, though it’s up to you and Gold.’

Kidnap. Grace thought fast. He’d done the kidnap negotiator course some years back, and handled a number since. Most reported kidnaps turned out to be scuzzy low-life on low-life jobs over small drugs debts. The last one he’d handled, just a few weeks ago, had been someone kidnapped and beaten for a fifty-pound debt. It had been over within four hours.

Another recent one, that turned out not to be a kidnap at all, was a 999 phone call from a woman in the nearby town of Burgess Hill, who had reported seeing a man bundled into a car and driven off. They were four drug dealers who had gone to the house of a fellow dealer who had ripped them off for a couple of thousand pounds, intending to give him a beating. But he’d set on them with a baseball bat, knocking one of them senseless and badly hurting two of the others. They’d pulled their unconscious accomplice into the car and raced off.

However, something about this felt more serious.

Grace’s immediate thought processes were, firstly, what kind of kidnap was this? And, secondly, what were the pros and cons of handling this covertly or overtly? Thirdly, and critically, was to ask himself the question: What is my job here?

A question to which he already knew the answer.

To recover the boy safely.

Fourthly, he mentally fast-forwarded to a potential inquest in the Coroner’s Court in eighteen months’ time. And the grilling that could face him in the dock.

Detective Superintendent, you knew a child’s life was at risk if the police were involved. Yet you ignored the request to make this a covert operation?

Policy was a generalization, just that. Policy stated that police officers should not put their lives in danger. But as earlier with the camera, sometimes tough, spur-of-the-moment decisions had to be made. The only thing ultimately that mattered, regarding breaking policy, was that you could justify your actions.

The guidelines were clearly spelled out. If the person taken was below the age of eighteen, the operation needed to be overt, rather than covert — but depending on overall circumstances. In addition, there was an established Child Rescue Alert procedure. If that button was pressed, the media would instantly begin to report it. Did he have enough resources in place to cope with the information, much of it from the public, that would flood in? The appeal would go out on local newsflashes, radio stations, advertising hoardings. Once the button was pushed, it was near impossible to stop the chain of events that would be set in motion.

But if he did that, for sure the kidnappers would know the victim’s father had gone against their explicit instruction — and in any event, he didn’t have enough information on the boy and his disappearance to instigate the process.

This had to be — for now at least — a covert operation, and he would explain his actions later if he got hauled over the coals — as was likely, knowing his boss, ACC Cassian Pewe.

One of his first priorities was to eliminate any possibility of a hoax. And his immediate thought was whether there was a connection between the bomb threat that was happening here, now, and the missing boy.

He thought it through, rapidly. What were good reasons to link the bomb threat to the kidnap?

One, the Amex had never before had a bomb threat.

Two, there had never before been a kidnap here at the Amex.

Now there was both a bomb scare and a kidnap on the same day.

They had to be connected, surely? Was the bomb scare intended to create a smokescreen for the kidnap? But something about that did not make sense to him.

‘Where’s the father now, Keith?’ he asked.

‘Currently in a toilet in the South Stand, nervous of being seen with the police. He’s called us on a second, encrypted phone, that he says he has for business purposes.’

‘We need an urgent trace on the phone number the text came from, Keith.’

A loud voice right beside him startled Grace.

‘What up, Roy — what’s going on?’

He turned to see the tall, burly figure of police Crime Scene Photographer Peter Allen standing in the tunnel entrance.

‘Hold on one sec, Keith,’ he said, then turned to the CSI. ‘Peter, I’ve got an urgent situation. My son, Bruno, is five rows down. Can you tell him I’ve been called away — and run him home after the game?’

‘Sure, Roy. I was just going out for a pee. I’m sitting only a few rows behind with my boys, I know where he is.’

Grace thanked him, then turned his focus back to the Oscar-1 Inspector. ‘OK, Keith, what information do you have on the father — who is he?’

‘His name’s Kipp Brown.’

‘Kipp Brown?’ Grace frowned. ‘As in “Trust Kipp”?’

‘Dunno, but it’s an unusual name.’

‘And this kidnap sounds real to you?’

‘Very real.’

‘I’ve met Brown before, he’s a piece of work. This could be embarrassing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Guv, we’re using the code word apple for identification.’

Grace hurried to the South Stand toilets. Entering the gents, he wrinkled his nose at the strong stench of urine and disinfectant. All the cubicle doors except for one were open. He walked up to it, hoping he wasn’t in the wrong place, and called out, ‘Hello? Mr Brown?’

‘Who is that?’ said a deep, suspicious voice with the faintest trace of a Kiwi accent.

‘Apple,’ Grace said first. Then, ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, sir.’

‘You’ve come fast.’

‘I was already in the grounds, watching the game.’

The door opened a crack. A tall, good-looking man, with black hair swept back, greeted him. He reminded Grace, he realized, of the actor Alec Baldwin.

‘We’ve met before,’ Brown said, tersely. He looked deeply worried and on edge.

‘Yes, we have, back in April.’

There was an awkward moment of silence between them. In April, Brown had briefly been arrested on suspicion of murder, after being incorrectly identified as a suspect, and then released. Brown had been rude and arrogant, Grace remembered.

‘Just so you know,’ Brown said, coldly, ‘I haven’t murdered my son.’

‘Shall we put the past behind us and focus on now?’ Grace suggested.

Brown nodded.

‘So, can you give me a recap of what’s happened?’ He pulled out his Dictaphone and began recording.

The Independent Financial Advisor quickly summarized, and showed him the text on his phone. Grace took a photograph of it. ‘You’ve tried texting back?’

‘Yes. It’s blocked. The thing is, Detective Superintendent, I don’t know what to do — I can’t risk Mungo’s life by involving you openly.’

‘Without looking into all the facts, sir, there seems to be a pretty clear kidnap motive here. You are very high profile in this city, known to be wealthy, and whoever sent this has stated there’ll be a ransom. The absolute priority is to get your son back safe. Don’t try to deal with this alone, whatever your views on the police. We will deal with this covertly for as long as we can.’

‘What if these people kill him?’

‘The text you’ve been sent is unambiguous: whoever has taken Mungo is after your money, that’s what this appears to be about, not harming your son. Would you be prepared to pay a ransom? We would do our best to protect your money and recover it, but it could need an initial outlay.’

‘Ordinarily, yes. But a ransom could be a problem at the moment.’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘I have a bit of a cash-flow issue.’

‘How much could you raise in a hurry, if you had to?’

‘Not a lot. Look, this is confidential, right?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’ve been going through a bad time — bit of a run of bad luck. My marriage is rocky, I’ve not been focused on work and I’ve lost some big clients. I’m mortgaged up to the hilt, I’m on my overdraft limit and my cards are all maxed out.’

‘And whoever has taken Mungo is not going to believe that, sir, right?’

‘Nope.’

‘Are you able to lay your hands on any cash?’

Brown blushed. ‘Not legally, quickly, no.’

‘Legally?’

‘I have a client account containing substantial funds, but I can’t touch that.’

‘Understood. OK, we have a team of kidnap negotiators and set procedures that work very effectively, and confidentially, but you’re going to have to trust us.’ Grace looked him in the eye.

‘Doesn’t seem I have much option,’ Brown said.

‘The text warns you not to contact the police. But your son was missing for some time before you got this text. It is perfectly reasonable to assume that before receiving it you would have asked stewards and the police here if anyone had seen your son.’

‘I guess,’ Brown said, reluctantly.

‘When exactly did you last see Mungo?’

‘About five minutes after we arrived — we were late because of the traffic. Just as we were heading towards the reception he saw a friend and started chatting.’

‘Which reception area?’

‘The one for the South Stand.’

‘Do you know this friend?’

‘Not very well — I’ve heard him mention his name, Aleksander, he’s one of his online gaming pals at Brighton College with him.’

‘Alexander?’

‘Yes, but spelled with a “k-s”.’

‘Do you know his last name?’

‘No.’

‘We’ll ask the college. Go on.’

‘Then I bumped into a client and got distracted.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Barry Carden, he’s the managing partner of a substantial firm of accountants and business advisors in Brighton.’

Grace checked the spelling of Carden’s name with Brown.

‘I was chatting to him briefly, then I had to get to my box — where I had a number of clients as guests. I looked around and Mungo had vanished. I wasn’t that bothered — he had his ticket and he’d been a bit pissed off with me, so I figured he’d probably made his own way in, and I went on. But he didn’t appear. Then I got the text.’

‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘Your son was angry with you?’

‘He lost an iPhone I’d bought him, and to teach him a lesson I got him a cheap replacement. He was angry because he thought I was being mean.’

‘Have you tried phoning him?’

‘Of course, several times. It rings and goes to voicemail.’

Grace jotted down some notes on his pad, including Brown’s address and phone numbers, and the boy’s number. ‘How would you describe your relationship with your son?’

‘He’s an antsy teenager. I try to instil some values into him, but his mother dotes on him, spoiling him, telling me I’m being too harsh.’ He hesitated. ‘We lost our daughter in a road accident four years ago. I guess we both want to keep Mungo wrapped in cotton wool and struggle to accept that he’s nearly fifteen and growing into a young man — one of us always drops him at school and picks him up. It’s hard —’ he shrugged — ‘I guess — when you’ve lost a child.’

‘So, your relationship is — how would you describe it?’

‘Most of the time like being in a war zone. On occasions like today an uneasy truce. The truth is I love him to bits — but I’m trying to toughen him up, to face the real world.’

Grace noted that down, then looked up. ‘Where did you leave your car?’

‘In car park A.’

‘Can you give me a description of your son?’

‘He’s fourteen, about to be fifteen. Five foot seven, fair hair with a topknot.’ He thought for a moment. ‘He’s wearing a checked shirt, jeans and trainers — and a Seagulls scarf.’ Brown showed him a few photographs on his phone and Grace took them immediately onto his own, via AirDrop.

‘Do you have any other children?’

‘No.’

‘Have you informed your wife? Are you still living together — you said things were rocky?’

‘Yes, we’re together. It’s been tough since our daughter died. Hopefully we’ll eventually get through it.’

Grace smiled, sympathetically. ‘Wasn’t it Aristotle who said that the gods have no greater torment than for a mother to outlive her child?’

‘If he did, he was right. He could have added the father, too.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Kipp nodded, distractedly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Mungo uses social media?’

‘Instagram and Snapchat.’

‘With what usernames?’

Brown gave them to him.

‘Any others?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘He has a computer, presumably?’

‘Yes, lives on it. He actually doesn’t go out or socialize much, physically, with any of his friends, which my wife encourages. He spends most of his time in his bedroom, gaming with them online.’

Thinking about Bruno, Grace nodded. ‘I know what you mean. I’ve a son a few years younger, and he’s the same. We’ll need that computer, quickly.’

‘Please get him back safely,’ Brown pleaded.

‘We will, I’m sure, sir. But I’m going to need you to do exactly what I tell you. What I want you to do is go back out now, and act nonchalantly. Do what you’ve been instructed in the text and go home. I’ll contact you in a short while and I’ll get a trained kidnap negotiator to guide you.’

‘Please keep it under wraps.’

‘I’m not going to give you any information about our tactics, Mr Brown. You’ve asked the police for help, and if you want us to help you, then you’ll have to accept that we do know what we are doing and we have a lot of experience in this field. The text message about not speaking to the police is loud and clear. I see and hear it. But if you want us involved, you’ll have to trust us. Do we understand each other?’

Brown held up his encrypted phone. ‘You’ll only use this number, won’t you?’

‘Doesn’t look like the other’s much use at the moment,’ Grace said, glancing down at the iPhone on the toilet seat with its SIM card and battery next to it.

Brown gave him a thin, tearful smile. ‘You’ll get him back, you will, won’t you? You’ll find him and bring him back? I love him. He can be a right little sod sometimes, but I love him so much.’

‘We’ll do everything we possibly can to ensure he comes back to you safely and quickly. We’ll be getting an undercover team into your house to help you as soon as possible. If the kidnappers contact you again before that’s happened, stall them as best you can.’

‘How?’

‘You’re a successful businessman. I’m sure you’ve stalled people before. Think of something plausible. Tell them you have a client with you and ask them to call you back in an hour. Anything. OK?’

‘I’ll do my best.’