Dead if You Don’t

57

Sunday 13 August

01.00–02.00

Shortly after 1 a.m., Roy Grace made himself a fresh cup of coffee and went back into the Intel suite, tired but running on adrenaline and caffeine — and pure cussed determination to find Mungo Brown. So far, the helicopter search of the suspect area had produced nothing and it had returned to its base to refuel. There had been no reported sightings of the teenager at Newhaven, where every vehicle had been checked, nor from the French port of Dieppe where the last ferry had docked and a similar check had been carried out.

He had, with some misgivings, sanctioned Norman Potting’s request to arrest Jorgji Dervishi if necessary. Under normal circumstances it would have been pushing the envelope too far to arrest him simply for being linked to the phone, and passing on a wrong address, but these were not normal circumstances. A boy’s life was at risk and that upped the ante considerably.

He wrote his reasons down in his Policy Book to cover his back against the inevitable grilling he would get from Cassian Pewe, after Dervishi had got some of his powerful city contacts to throw their weight around. But that was for later. He instructed one of his team, burly DS Kevin Taylor, to liaise with the Duty Inspector at John Street police station on accompanying Grace’s team to Dervishi’s address. Not knowing what they would face at Dervishi’s fortified home, Taylor might need a group of Local Support Team officers to accompany DS Potting and DC Wilde to effect entry. The LST were the specially trained crowd and riot control police, who were also equally specialized at putting in doors and forcing entry. Little fazed them.

Hall, seated opposite him, holding his phone to his ear and stifling a yawn, suddenly perked up. He put the phone down and called across to him. ‘Boss! That was Dan Salter at Digital Forensics. He’s just heard from the phone company. A phone signal from the texter’s phone was identified by triangulation in our target area made at 12.55 a.m.!’

‘Brilliant!’ Grace said.

‘It puts it within a three-mile radius of where we are looking — somewhere between the Beddingham roundabout and Newhaven.’

Immediately, Grace called Oscar-1 and was glad to hear the voice of Inspector Keith Ellis, who had remained on duty. He updated him, and Ellis said he would get the helicopter back over the area as quickly as possible.

Moments later his phone rang. It was Norman Potting.

‘I’ve got the troops ready, chief.’

‘Nice work, Norman!’ Grace said, elated. He jumped up and turned to Kevin Hall, opposite him. ‘You in a party mood?’

‘Always. Especially on a Saturday night.’

‘It’s Sunday morning now — in case you hadn’t noticed. But hey, let’s not split hairs.’

‘Never, boss.’

‘Rock ’n’ roll!’