Dead if You Don’t

88

Sunday 13 August

14.00–15.00

Stacey looked at Kipp anxiously and expectantly as he came in through the front door. She was holding a small plastic bag in one hand and the dog lead in the other, quaking. The two detectives stood some distance behind her.

‘What happened? How did it go? Did you—?’

He closed the door. ‘I paid the deposit they asked for, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds’ worth of Bitcoins.’

She closed her eyes in relief. ‘Thank God.’ Then she stared hard back at him. ‘Why — why do — do they want Mungo’s toothbrush and hairbrush?’ She held up the bag. ‘Have they found him? Is he dead? Are you not telling me?’

‘They just need to have it on file, darling,’ he said, relieved Branson had evidently not told her about the ear.

‘There’s only one reason they’d need it on file,’ she said darkly. ‘That’s to identify his body. You see it all the time on television in cop shows.’ She began crying. ‘They’ve found him, haven’t they? He’s dead, isn’t he, and they’re not telling us?’

He put his arms round her and held her tight. ‘Darling, Stace, I’ve paid the ransom, the deposit they asked. They’re not going to harm him if they know they’ve got another two million coming.’

‘So, did you get the proof he’s alive and OK before you sent the deposit — like Detective Branson told you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What proof?’

‘They texted me a photograph, showing the time,’ he fibbed. He had left the envelope with the ear and photograph in the car.

‘Let me see.’

He pulled out his phone and showed her.

As she looked at the image, she broke into a piercing scream. ‘My God, he’s bleeding, his head, look! Look! What have the bastards done to him?’

‘Maybe he put up a fight to get away,’ Kipp replied, fast.

Her legs suddenly collapsed beneath her. Kipp just caught her in time, dropping his phone in the process. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, opening the drawing-room door and helping her in, then guiding her down onto a sofa.

‘Let me see again.’ She was gasping, as if struggling to breathe.

He retrieved his phone, relieved the screen wasn’t cracked, brought it in and handed it to her.

She peered at it closely, wiping her tears with the backs of her hands.

‘You can see the time on the watch, Stace.’

‘What use is that? 11.55 when? Last night? How does this show he’s OK? They should be holding a page of today’s newspaper or something.’

‘Yep, well I can’t communicate with them, all I can do is get messages and instructions from them. I’m sure he’s OK, I really believe it.’ He sat beside her and squeezed her hand, feeling utterly helpless and impotent. He’d done what had been asked of him. Were they going to hurt Mungo further or, God forbid, kill him, despite his paying the money over?

Sensing their distress, Otto padded up to them suddenly, and sighed. He sat down and leaned against his master’s legs. Kipp stroked him with one hand, absently, as Stacey sobbed uncontrollably.

A shadow loomed over them. It was Branson. The room was stifling, airless, all the windows shut despite the glorious summer’s day. It was often the same, from the detective’s past experience of bereaved households. It was as if no one wanted to let fresh air or the outside world in to intrude on their thoughts.

‘Kipp,’ he whispered. ‘It would be good if you could get going, we’re time critical.’

Kipp nodded, carefully disentangling himself from Stacey. ‘Babes, I’ll be back in half an hour.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ Stacey said. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Just to walk Otto.’

‘It’s better if you stay here, Stacey,’ Branson said. ‘In case Mungo suddenly turns up.’

‘Please — please get my boy back. Please, I–I can’t stand it.’ She buried her face in her hands and shook with wracking sobs.

Glenn Branson looked at her, thoughts spinning through his head. He knew how he would feel if this had happened to his own son or daughter. He would want to tear the bastards’ heads off with his bare hands.

But equally, he knew — although not wanting to say anything inappropriate — what had made the Browns’ son a target: the family’s conspicuous wealth. Not that it meant if you were rich that you should go into a life of hiding.

As they walked to the front door, followed by Otto, Kipp asked the detective, ‘What do you guys know about Aleksander Dervishi’s father?’

‘Very little, sir, other than rumour,’ Branson replied.

‘Rumour?’

‘I can’t say too much.’

‘Detective Branson — Glenn — our son’s life is at stake and you can’t say too much? What kind of bullshit is that?’ Stacey said. ‘Isn’t Jorgji Dervishi reputed to be part of the Albanian mafia? Is he known to you — to you lot — to Sussex Police? Is he what you call a Person of Interest?’

‘Stacey, I’m not able to discuss that.’

‘Really? Come on, you’re a father, right?’

He nodded.

‘Imagine this was your son,’ Kipp interjected. ‘Just tell me the truth — I know someone who has power, who might be able to help.’

The truth. Glenn Branson wanted to be as honest as he could with the Browns, but equally he did not want to cause them needless distress or send them spiralling into worse panic than Stacey, in particular, was already suffering.

The truth?

How on earth could he tell them it was possible that the only three people who knew where Mungo was, and who might have been able to save him from drowning, were all dead?