Dead if You Don’t

58

Sunday 13 August

02.00–03.00

‘Boss?’

Dervishi held his phone to his ear and looked at his clock radio: 2.52 a.m. ‘This had better be good,’ he said, angrily and sleepily.

Beside him, Mirlinda stirred. ‘All OK?’

‘Hold on,’ he said into the phone. He gave his wife a reassuring caress with his good hand, slid out of bed and walked out of the room, naked, holding the phone to his ear. ‘Yes, Dritan?’

‘There are police outside the gates, boss. They say if we don’t open the gates they will force entry. We see several police cars and a van. What should I do?’

‘Is downstairs to the basement sealed?’

‘It is.’

The basement was soundproofed, and the entrance concealed by a bookshelf that moved across it when the security switch was activated.

‘Let them in, and I will go out to greet them.’

‘Yes, boss. Is this a good idea?’

‘You have a better one?’

There was silence down the phone.

He went back into the bedroom, put on his dressing gown and slippers, then closed the door behind him, went downstairs and along the hallway to the front door. As he reached it he heard loud knocking and a shout of ‘POLICE!’

He opened the door. In front of him he saw the male detective who had been at the house earlier, with the pretty female one standing next to him, and several others behind them.

‘Jorgji Dervishi,’ Potting said. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to kidnap and obstructing the police... You do not need to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Dervishi frowned and gave him a puzzled smile. ‘Detective—?’

‘Potting.’

‘Detective Potting, I am not in any way trying to obstruct the police. On the contrary, I really wish to help the police in this distressing enquiry.’

‘Is that right?’ Potting asked. ‘If I may say so, you’ve been doing a great job so far, giving us a false address for your son.’

‘Look, Officer — Detective Potting — I’m as angry as you about this. But my son is now home.’

‘He is?’

‘Yes, an hour ago. I was going to call you in the morning.’

‘We need to speak to him urgently.’

A worried-looking Mirlinda Dervishi, in a dressing gown, came hurrying down the stairs. ‘What’s happening, what’s going on?’

‘The officers just wish to speak to Aleksander, my love,’ he replied, and turned back to the policemen. ‘Of course, if it’s important.’ Then he looked at Roy Grace, who was now standing next to DC Wilde. ‘And you are?’ he questioned.

Grace showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Dervishi said.

Grace said nothing.

‘Would you like me to accompany my son or would you prefer to talk to him alone?’

‘He’s fourteen?’ Potting said.

‘Yes.’

Potting turned to Mrs Dervishi. ‘Are you willing to act in the role of Appropriate Adult, Mrs Dervishi?’ he asked.

‘He’s my son! What do you think? No?’

‘Bring him down to us,’ Potting said, and signalled to two of the Local Support Team to accompany Mrs Dervishi up the stairs.

A few minutes later a tall teenager, barefoot, in jeans and a creased T-shirt, came down the stairs and sat, morosely, at the huge white marble kitchen table. Opposite him were his father, mother, Norman Potting, Velvet Wilde and Roy Grace. Both the patio doors out onto the garden and the entrance to the hall were blocked by police officers.

Grace turned to Jorgji Dervishi. ‘Two of my officers will accompany you to another room and I’ll speak to you again after I’ve spoken to your son.’

‘I want to be there while you speak to him.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. Is there a room you can wait in?’

‘My office,’ he grumbled.

Grace turned to two members of the LST and addressed them. ‘Mr Dervishi is under arrest. He’s not to use any phones or communicate with anyone.’

They led him out of the kitchen, swearing loudly in Albanian. Grace turned to the boy.

‘Aleksander,’ he said. ‘We are sorry to wake you up in the middle of the night.’ He seemed agitated and Grace noticed his pupils were dilated. He detected a whiff of cannabis.

‘I’m cool with that.’

‘Where do you go to school, Aleksander?’ Roy Grace asked, watching his eyes closely. They went to the right as he replied.

‘Brighton College.’

‘And Mungo Brown is there with you?’

‘Yes.’

Again, his eyes went to the right. From this, Grace knew they would mostly go to the right when he told the truth — and to the left when he lied.

‘The reason we are here and need to talk to you so urgently, Aleksander, is that your friend, Mungo, has been kidnapped. You were the last person he was seen with, shortly before the start of the match at the Amex yesterday. According to his father, you were chatting to him, then a few minutes later you had both disappeared. Where did you and Mungo Brown go?’

His eyes flicked to the left. To construct mode. Constructing a lie, Grace wondered?

‘Umm — we — we went to a food stand to get a burger because he was hungry.’

‘Wouldn’t he have had lunch in his father’s box?’

‘He wanted a burger. He said all the people in the box would be boring.’

‘You went through the turnstile together to get into the stadium?’

Again, Aleksander’s eyes flicked to the left. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Mrs Dervishi interrupted. ‘Don’t say anything, we need a lawyer.’

‘It’s true, Mum, he wanted a burger!’

‘Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘Your friend Mungo had a season ticket like you. When you go through any entrance to the ground, the ticket is logged. There is no log that Mungo or you went through the turnstiles yesterday. It doesn’t look like he entered the grounds. Are you certain he did?’

‘Aleksander!’ his mother cautioned again, more forcibly.

The boy was quiet for a moment, thinking. ‘I’m trying to remember, no. I–I — maybe we went to a place that was outside the stadium.’

‘What did you eat there, Aleksander?’ Grace said calmly and quietly, as if he was talking to his best friend, rather than to a teenager.

Again, his eyes moved left. ‘Burgers,’ he replied.

‘Burgers?’

He nodded.

‘Aleksander, you don’t have to answer me if you’re not happy, but I need to ask if you are remembering clearly. There are no burger stalls outside the stadium. If you want a burger, you have to enter the ground. Do you want to think again back to yesterday, about where you and Mungo went?’

His eyes were now all over the place, shooting from left to right, wildly. ‘Well.’ His eyes veered left. ‘Yes. Mungo said he’d be in trouble if he didn’t go to his dad’s box, to talk to a bunch of his dad’s dull clients. So we parted, and I went to the game.’

‘And did you see Mungo afterwards?’

‘No.’

‘Are you absolutely sure, Aleksander?’

More hesitation. His eyes flicked to the left. To construct mode.

‘Yes.’

Grace looked hard at him. Something was very wrong. Why was the lad lying? Was he scared of his monster of a father or was something else going on? He’d probably been smoking weed. With his friend Mungo or with other friends? Was the wrong address that Dervishi had for him tonight a mistake caused by the drugs he had taken? Or was the boy being disingenuous?

If so, what was he hiding?

‘Aleksander,’ he said, leaning in closer to him. ‘When did you last see Mungo?’

A big flick of his eyes to the left. ‘Like I said, before the game started. Before kick-off.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

He shot a look at his mother. ‘I am, yes, absolutely.’

‘I don’t believe you, Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘You’ve lied to me about entering the stadium. You’ve lied to me about having a burger outside. What else have you lied about?’

‘Aleksander!’ his mother interjected, forcibly.

He said, defiantly, ‘I do not tell lies.’

‘I would beg to differ,’ Potting interjected suddenly, to Roy Grace’s irritation. Just as he felt he might be getting somewhere.

‘Where were you this evening, Aleksander?’ Grace asked, gently but firmly.

‘With friends.’

‘What were you doing with them?’

He hesitated. ‘Working on — you know — on a YouTube video project that we have.’

‘Was Mungo with you?’

‘He didn’t show up.’

‘Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘You gave your parents an address where you were tonight, but it was incorrect. Did you make a mistake?’

‘I must have.’

‘Or was it because you were all taking drugs and didn’t want to get caught, perhaps?’

His mother, looking shocked, said, ‘Is this true?’

He shrugged. ‘Somebody had a joint — it was no big deal.’

Grace raised an eyebrow at the boy’s mother.

‘Never! Aleksander’s a good boy, he never takes drugs,’ his mother said in an angry burst.

‘Except tonight, Mrs Dervishi, perhaps?’ Grace turned to him. ‘Is that right, Aleksander?’

He looked miserable, his face screwing up, fighting tears.

‘Would you let me have the correct address for where you were tonight, please?’ Grace asked.

Suddenly, the boy buried his face in his hands and began sobbing.

His mother went over to him and put an arm round him. ‘It’s OK, darling, it’s OK.’

He shook his head. ‘I only did it to help him,’ he blurted. ‘To get even with his father.’

‘You only did what, exactly?’ Grace asked.

Aleksander, sobbing uncontrollably, told him — but not quite everything.