Dead if You Don’t

36

Saturday 12 August

18.30–19.30

A white lorry, with the logo and name PORTSLADE DOMESTIC APPLIANCES, drove slowly down Dyke Road Avenue, the exclusive residential street that ran along the spine of the city, dividing Brighton from Hove.

The driver, Mike Roberts, was known affectionately to his colleagues, on account of his muscle mass, as Gorilla. His colleague in the cab with him, Iain Scotland, was short, with no neck and the build of a bulldog. Scotland had begun his working life as a removals man, before a major change of career. Both men had been selected as suitable for this job for their physical strength — which they were about to need.

Dressed in the company uniform of green T-shirts with logos front and back, and blue dungarees, they were travelling slowly, peering at the house numbers and names as they cruised past gated mansion after mansion.

‘This is where I’d live if I won the lottery,’ said Roberts.

‘Yeah?’ said his colleague. ‘Well I won it three weeks ago, but I still can’t afford a pad like one of these.’

‘You won the lottery, Iain?’

‘Yup.’

‘You never told me! How much?’

‘Thirty-seven quid.’

The driver laughed. ‘And how much did that cost you?’

‘A fiver a week for the last six years, if you want to know, Mike.’

He did some quick mental arithmetic. ‘Fifteen hundred quid. Not a great return on your investment. I read you’ve more chance of being hit by lightning than winning the jackpot.’

‘You did? I read you’ve more chance of being killed by a goat.’

‘Goats kill people? How?’

‘With their horns, I suppose.’

‘I’d better beware of the missus in future.’

Iain grinned, then peering across through the driver’s window, he suddenly called out, ‘That’s it, there, Wingate House, on the right!’

The driver braked, switched on the hazard lights and pulled sharply over to the left, blocking the cycle lane. Opposite them was a substantial residence, set well back from the road, with an in-and-out circular gravel driveway and tall wrought-iron gates. An ostentatious matt-black Porsche was parked close to the front entrance.

Opening his door, Iain Scotland said, ‘I’ll run across and get him to open the gate.’

He jumped down, then looked up and down the road, taking in everything with his trained eye. There was a small blue van some distance up the road, but no parked vehicles close, and no one obviously lurking anywhere on the ground or up in any of the trees. He crossed over, up to the left-hand gate, and pressed a button on the entry panel, which had a camera lens above it. After a short delay, a wary-sounding voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘Apple,’ Iain said. Then immediately added, ‘Delivery for Mr Brown.’

After a brief pause the gates began, jerkily, to open.

He stepped out into the middle of the road, with his hands raised to stop the traffic, and the lorry began to swing across it. He walked backwards through the gates, waving the vehicle in. The driveway was wide enough for the lorry to pull up alongside the Porsche.

There was the sound of barking from inside the house. As the hydraulic hoist at the rear of the vehicle began lowering a massive cardboard box, seven feet high by four feet wide, to the ground, the front door opened and a tall man emerged, restraining a large German Shepherd by its collar. ‘It’s OK, Otto, it’s OK!’

‘Mr Kipp Brown?’ Iain Scotland enquired.

‘Do you have any news?’ Brown asked anxiously.

‘I’m afraid not, sir. May we bring this in?’

‘Yes — you OK with dogs?’

‘Fine, sir,’ he said, presenting him with an electronic pen for signature. ‘The fridge-freezer you ordered.’

Brown took it, giving him the faintest smile of acknowledgement, and scrawled his name between the two black electronic lines.

Then he stood in the doorway, still holding the dog, as the two men manhandled the vast package onto a porter’s trolley.

‘Shit!’ one said.

‘Fuck!’ said the other.

They trundled it to the bottom step, then swearing and cursing more, they manhandled it up all three steps to the front door, inside and into the hallway, where they stopped and levered the box off.

The hall was elegantly lined with framed black-and-white photographs, some portraits of Kipp Brown, his wife and their children, one of a pretty young girl in a riding hat, astride a horse, one of a much younger Mungo, standing with a fishing rod in one hand and a large fish, and several atmospheric ones of the skeletal remains of the West Pier.

Kipp Brown shut the door behind them, but continued to keep a restraining hand on the dog’s collar.

‘Shit, you are heavy bastards!’ said Mike Roberts, addressing the package. Then both he and his colleague produced their warrant cards and showed them to Brown.

‘Detective Constable Roberts and Detective Constable Scotland of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, sir.’

‘Nice of you to bring me a fridge I didn’t order. Just what I need,’ Brown replied sourly.

Scotland produced a Stanley knife from his dungaree pocket and proceeded to work the blade carefully down one side of the package to create an opening.

Brown was astonished to see a huge black man-mountain with a shaven head step out, immaculately attired in a sharp suit. He was followed by a slim, tall man in his twenties, also suited. Otto, startled, barked at both of them.

The man-mountain looked warily at the dog, then grinned at the creature. ‘I reckon you’re just a big wuss, aren’t you?’ He knelt and stroked him. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘Otto,’ Brown replied.

‘Otto, you and me are going to be fine,’ he said and stood up. He pulled a warrant card out and held it up. ‘Detective Inspector Glenn Branson, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, sir, and this is my colleague, Acting Detective Sergeant Jack Alexander. We’re your covert negotiation team — and I’m desperate for a pee.’

Brown pointed towards the end of the hall. ‘Last door on the left.’

Branson hurried off.

Brown looked quizzically at the three remaining police officers. ‘So, where’s my fridge?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘Couldn’t fit it in the box, sir,’ Scotland said, apologetically. He pointed a finger towards the disappearing figure of Branson. ‘That big bugger took up most of the space.’