Dead if You Don’t

54

Saturday 12 August

23.30–24.00

As Norman Potting waited for the gates at the bottom of Dervishi’s drive to open, Velvet Wilde was entering the address the man had given them into the car’s satnav.

‘What a sweetie,’ she said, sourly.

‘It’s what we’re up against with some of the Albanian community,’ Potting said, tapping the steering wheel. ‘There’s your problem with Johnny Foreigner.’

‘I don’t think that’s very politically correct,’ she chided, as he drove out onto the road.

Potting grunted. ‘The Albanians don’t trust us, they see us as the enemy.’

‘Let me guess which way you voted in the Brexit referendum,’ she said. ‘Out, right?’

‘Too right. And you, bleeding heart liberal, voted Remain?’

‘Yes, I voted for the future and you voted for the past. You know why? Because you’re a grumpy old dinosaur.’

He gave a sardonic smile. ‘I voted for Brexit to keep the likes of Jorgji Dervishi from polluting our country.’

As they drove west in the darkness, street lights strobing across their faces, she turned to him. ‘It seems to me, since joining the force, Sarge, there are two kinds of coppers. Those who went into the job because they wanted to make a difference and those who joined up because they liked the idea of putting on a uniform and being in authority. Which category do you fall into?’

‘It may surprise you that it’s the first. I wanted to try to make a difference. Once, long ago, I believed in human decency.’

‘Not now?’

‘If you dig deep enough you can still find some. My lovely Bella was the most decent person you could ever find.’

‘She sounds it. I am truly sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you think maybe you’ve not dug deep enough into the Albanian community in this city? That you’re making judgements based on prejudice, not on the reality of their situation?’

‘You heard Dervishi. He said that if his son was kidnapped, he wouldn’t be turning to the police. That’s the problem we’re up against with them, they settle their scores violently and sometimes publicly. They don’t trust us.’

‘I don’t think it’s Sussex Police that they don’t trust. It’s the whole notion of authority. They’ve had a very different upbringing in their country from us here. Years of living in a brutal police state, of communist suppression under a monster dictator — Enver Hoxha. I seem to remember he once proudly declared Albania to be the world’s first atheist state. For generations, they’ve lived in fear of authority, terrorized by corrupt officials. I don’t think that culturally they can accept the idea that police officers could be decent people, because never, in all their history, have they been able to trust their own police. That’s the hard task in front of us, to change that.’

‘Admirable sentiments, young lady.’

‘Norman,’ she said, good-humoured, but forcibly, ‘do not attempt to patronize me, ever. Understood?’

He raised his hands in surrender. They drove in silence for some minutes. A marked police car, lights flashing and siren wailing, shot past them. An ambulance, also on blues and twos, wailed past in the opposite direction. They passed trolleyed girls and equally drunk males, some staggering from bars and clubs, others standing in long lines to get in. Street fights. Police being chatted up or spat at, or in the thick of brawls. Saturday night in Brighton. Normal.

Entering the maze of streets in the quieter backwater of Hove, Potting kept an eye on the arrow on the satellite navigation screen, following it as they drove alongside Hove Park. He stifled his third yawn.

‘Past your bedtime?’ Velvet Wilde said with a grin, as he turned right and up a steep gradient. ‘Need an old-people’s nap?’

‘Let me tell you, madam —’ he began, then stopped as she read out a house number to their left.

‘Thirty-seven.’

Then another, as he slowed the car right down. ‘Thirty-five.’ Then, ‘Thirty-three,’ she said. As he stopped the car, she unhooked a torch from its bracket in the footwell, switched it on and shone the powerful beam at the smart but considerably more modest house than Dervishi’s. It was detached, 1930s, in the mock-Tudor style popular throughout the city. A dark-coloured Kia was parked outside. It was now shortly before midnight and the house seemed to be in total darkness.

They got out and walked up the short driveway towards the front door, Wilde holding the torch. As they approached, two security lights clicked on, almost dazzling them. A tiny creature, too fast and too small to identify, shot off in front of them and into the undergrowth.

The door had two bullseye windows and a spyhole. Norman Potting looked for the bell. He found it and pressed it, but they heard nothing. He pressed it again for longer. There was still no reaction. The officers glanced at each other and then he gave a true policeman’s knock. Ratta-tat-tat-tat-ratta-tat. He followed up with another.

A light came on behind a curtained window above them. Another light came on behind the door. There was the click of a lock, followed by a short rattle as the door opened a few inches, restrained by a safety chain. A cautious male voice. ‘Hello?’

‘Detective Sergeant Potting and Detective Constable Wilde, from Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team,’ Potting announced. ‘We’re very sorry to disturb you at this hour but we need to speak urgently with Aleksander Dervishi, whom we understand is on a sleepover tonight at your house.’

‘Aleksander who?’

‘Dervishi, sir.’

The door closed, they heard the rattle of the safety chain, then it opened again, wider. A man in his sixties, with silvery hair, some sticking up, stood blinking at them, sleepily. He was dressed in striped pyjamas and slippers. ‘Delvichy did you say?’ he asked, frowning.

‘Aleksander Dervishi. We were told he was staying over at your house tonight, sir. Could I ask your name and who lives here?’

‘My name’s Andrew Griffin and I live here with my wife, Gill. I’m sorry, I think you must have the wrong address. I don’t know anyone of that name. We don’t have sleepovers here — my daughter, Rebecca, who’s in her twenties, is away for the weekend.’

The man was clearly telling the truth. Potting apologized, saying they must indeed have the address wrong. As they walked back down the drive he turned to Wilde. ‘Either Dervishi gave us the wrong address or his son gave him the wrong one. The question is, accidentally or deliberately?’

In the car, Potting held the scrap of paper with the address up to the interior light. There was no mistaking, it was correct.

He dialled Dervishi’s number. It went to voicemail. He left a message that the address was wrong, and asked Dervishi to call him back, urgently. Ending the call, he turned to his colleague. ‘Plan B?’

‘Yep, well so far Plan A hasn’t worked out too well. Any thoughts on what Plan B might be, Sarge?’

‘I do, and I know a man who might agree.’

He dialled Roy Grace’s number.