Dead if You Don’t

60

Sunday 13 August

03.00–04.00

Blue light pulsed eerily across the central reservation barrier to their right and the grass verge to their left, as Roy Grace drove at high speed along the A27. They were heading east along the Lewes bypass. Kevin Hall, beside him in the front, kept watch on the satnav screen. Aleksander Dervishi sat in silence in the rear of the car with his mother. In his mirrors Grace could see the headlights and blue flashing lights of the car with Potting and Wilde in, following behind.

They crossed a roundabout and went down a long, sweeping hill. Another roundabout sign appeared on the screen, with options to turn right to Newhaven or go straight on to Eastbourne and Polegate.

‘Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘One thing you’ve not told us is how you got home tonight?’

‘I texted Valbone and told him to pick me up from this roundabout, right ahead.’ He was still crying.

Kevin Hall turned and looked at the boy in the darkness. ‘Can you direct us from here?’

He sniffed and nodded. ‘You go straight over the roundabout and carry on for a few hundred yards. When you see a traffic island, turn right.’

The island loomed ahead in the beam of the headlights. Grace indicated right, leaned forward and switched off the blue lights, slowing rapidly. In his mirrors, he saw the car behind him also indicating, and its blue lights shut off, too.

‘You go up the hill a little way,’ Aleksander directed.

Grace drove up a steep, narrow lane, with cottages and houses to the right, for several hundred yards. Suddenly, in front of him, he saw two tiny lights, sparkling like gemstones. Then a fox shot across their path, into the undergrowth to their left.

‘Coming up, turn right,’ Aleksander said.

There was a sign, saying PRIVATE ROAD. Grace turned into it and drove as fast as he dared along a deeply rutted cart track. The suspension bottomed out several times, jolting all of them. They passed a derelict barn, then Grace saw the shape of a house ahead, to their left. As they drew closer he could see a sizeable stone cottage.

‘This is it — I think,’ Aleksander said.

‘You think?’ Grace asked.

‘Well, I’m pretty sure.’

Grace’s watch showed it was approaching 4 a.m. He saw an overgrown driveway and turned into it. To his left were several rusting bits of agricultural equipment and ahead was a short, steep incline. The wheels spun on the wet grass, the car twitching until they got traction. He crested the hillock and stopped by the front door. Potting pulled up behind them.

Grabbing a torch and stifling a yawn, Grace climbed out and stood in the damp night air. The others in the car joined him, along with Potting and Wilde. ‘This is the place?’ he asked the boy.

He gave a forlorn nod. Above him a full moon burned intensely in the sky, casting a glow almost bright enough to read by across the entire countryside.

They approached the oak front door, Aleksander Dervishi and his mother hanging back. Grace could see it was ajar, and went straight in, shining the beam around a small, musty and bare hallway. He hesitated, then turned to Aleksander. ‘If you call out to him, it won’t frighten him. OK?’

He nodded. Then in a small voice said, ‘Mungo! Hi, I’m back!’

There was no response.

Louder, this time, he called out, ‘Hey — er — Mungo — dude, I’m back!’

Still nothing.

‘Mungo!’ he called out. ‘Mungo!’ He looked at Grace. ‘Maybe he’s sleeping — down below.’

Grace handed him his torch. ‘Why don’t you lead the way?’

The five of them followed the teenager down a steep wooden staircase, Grace walking slowly and warily, the treads feeling rotten, as if they were barely taking his weight. A cobweb touched his face and he brushed it away with his hand. The musty smell was much stronger down here, combined with damp and the sickly-sweet stink of dry rot. But there was also a faint, lingering aroma of French fries.

The torch beam swept over some remains of McDonald’s cartons and two partially burned-down candles. Close to them, Roy Grace noticed a couple of what looked like stubbed-out joints on the floor.

‘Mungo!’ Aleksander called out. ‘Mungo!’

There was no response.

‘This is where I left him,’ he said to Grace.

‘Are you completely sure?’

‘Shit, yes, of course I’m sure. This is where we were!’ he said, in a sudden burst of anger and frustration. He shouted out, much louder now: ‘Mungo! Where the fuck are you?’

Silence.

‘Could he have gone somewhere, Aleksander?’ Grace asked him.

‘No, he was waiting for me to come back with some food.’

‘And he was OK that you left him alone?’

‘He wasn’t happy, but yes, he was OK with it. You know, I —’ he hesitated.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Well, we had a bit of weed.’

‘And now he’s gone. Where do you think he could be?’

‘He must be here, somewhere.’

‘You’re sure you are not mistaken?’ Potting asked.

‘No, I am not mistaken.’

As Grace shone his torch around he glimpsed something blue and white on the far side of the room and hurried over to it. A Seagulls scarf.

Aleksander ran to it and picked it up. ‘This is Mungo’s!’ He called out again, ‘Mungo! Mungo!’

There was still no response.

Tugging a couple of evidence bags from his pocket, Grace knelt down by the two joints. He picked up each in turn with his handkerchief and popped them into individual evidence bags, which he sealed and put in his pocket. For the next five minutes, guided by Aleksander who appeared to know the property well, they searched every room, every closet, and up in the loft. Finally, they assembled in the hallway.

‘Mungo’s not here, Aleksander,’ Grace said. ‘So where is he? I’m not crazy about going on wild-goose chases at four in the morning. Do you have something else you’d like to tell us?’

‘Please tell them anything you know, darling,’ his mother implored.

‘Look,’ Grace went on. ‘You’ve been very silly and irresponsible, and I think you know that. But if you can take us to him, now, that will count a lot in your favour. OK?’

‘He was here,’ he said, wretchedly. ‘I promised him I would send him food and I would be back with more food in the morning. I don’t know where he is, I really don’t.’

Grace believed him. The kid was broken, way beyond telling lies any more.

Where had Mungo Brown gone?

‘Are there any outbuildings?’ Kevin Hall asked.

‘Just a collapsed shed,’ Aleksander said.

‘What time did your father’s employee, Mr Valbone Kadare, pick you up?’ Grace asked.

‘About 1 a.m.’

‘He came home half past one,’ his mother confirmed.

‘Mungo was hungry?’ Grace asked him.

Aleksander nodded. ‘He had the munchies. We both did.’

‘Do you think he might have gone off to try to get some food?’

‘There’s nowhere for miles around here,’ Norman Potting said. ‘Brighton’s the only place he could get anything at this hour — and how would he get there?’

‘Hitch a lift?’ Velvet Wilde ventured.

‘I told him I would send Valbone back with some for him.’

‘Where’s Valbone now?’ Grace asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Mirlinda Dervishi replied. ‘My husband’s trying to get hold of him.’

‘Could Mungo have gone home?’ Kevin Hall asked.

‘How?’ Aleksander replied.

‘I’ll phone his father and check,’ Grace said. But as he pulled his phone out, it rang.

It was Glenn Branson.

‘Boss,’ he said. ‘There’s been a development. Kipp Brown’s had another text — from a different phone. And it’s not good. I’m sending it to you now.’