Dead if You Don’t

8

Saturday 12 August

15.00–16.00

‘You wanker!’ Kipp Brown muttered under his breath at the security guard manning the entrance to car park A, Bennett’s Field. As he drove up to the barrier in his matt-black Porsche 911, he was in a mood because he was late — his own fault, he had been working. It was 3.45 p.m. and he had a bunch of clients whom he and two of his colleagues were meant to be entertaining to a late lunch. And he was angry at himself for trying to be too greedy with his bets today. One of Tony Forbes’s tips had paid off handsomely, but he’d had big losses on a series of accumulators he’d bet recklessly large amounts on, online, and was now badly down on the day — although there were still some results to come.

‘What’s going on here?’ he said to the guard.

‘We are carrying out extra security checks today, sir. You don’t have your car-park pass.’ He swung a mirror, on a long stick, under the Porsche.

‘Yep, well I couldn’t bloody find it. You have my registration on your list.’

‘I’ll have to make a phone call to check, sir.’ The guard peered in, looking at the rear seats. ‘Would you mind opening the boot of your car?’

‘I have a season ticket and a corporate box. Do I look like a sodding terrorist?’

‘Dad,’ Mungo cautioned, looking up from his phone, his newly bleached hair, the colour of winter wheat, scraped back into a topknot; his rubbish, cheap Samsung phone that his mean, embarrassing father had bought to replace the iPhone he’d got for his last birthday, and accidentally dropped down a gutter last week. Well, he hadn’t dropped it, actually, it fell out of his trouser pocket.

He was trying at this moment to send a Snapchat message to his best friend, Aleksander, who was also going to be here today, but it wouldn’t send. This phone was, like, useless.

‘What’s your problem?’ Kipp turned to his son, flipping the catch.

‘It’s not that man’s fault,’ Mungo said, as the security guard raised the bonnet at the front of the car.

‘Right — so whose fault, exactly, is it?’

The guard lowered the bonnet. ‘I’ve heard back from the office, you’re free to go through, sir,’ he said politely.

‘Is there any point?’ He stamped on the accelerator, squealing the tyres as he roared forward, jerking Mungo’s head back against the headrest.

‘Dad, take a chill pill.’

‘What is your problem today?’ he said to his son.

‘You!’ Mungo retorted. ‘You’re just in a weird mood.’

You would be too, Kipp Brown thought, if you knew just how much I’ve been screwed over by that goddamn roulette wheel at the Waterfront Casino. If you were aware that I don’t actually know where your next term’s school fees are coming from, and that I’m probably going to have to take you out of Brighton College and put you in a state school. That would wipe that smug, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou look from your face.

Maybe his spread bet on today’s football games would come good, he hoped. A small bet, from his emergency cash stash. If he got it right, he could be back in funds by tonight.

And if he got it wrong?

He didn’t want to think about that.

He never wanted to think about those kinds of consequences.

Brighton and Hove Albion had come into the new season on a roll. He needed them to win. Not to draw, not to lose, just to win. And a couple of other clubs as well. Six, actually. They all should. Just like his numbers at the casino should have come up, but didn’t.

Today would be different.

Today would put him back in the saddle.

He had a good feeling about today. Despite his son’s scowling face.

He had the radio tuned to the specialist football programme The Albion Roar. Presenters Alan and Ady were discussing the Albion’s chances. He agreed with their prediction that their home team would win, 2–1.

Please God!

He parked in a bay next to a white Bentley GT convertible that he recognized as belonging to one of his clients, property developer Dan Fox. Dan would already be in his box, waiting for him to arrive and no doubt drinking a pint of Harveys.

Mungo pulled down his sun visor and checked his hair in the vanity mirror.