Dead if You Don’t

91

Sunday 13 August

15.00–16.00

Kipp Brown, with Otto barking excitedly in the rear of the Range Rover behind the dog guard, drove up the A23 north from Brighton, then took the slip road left to Pyecombe and headed over Clayton Hill, as he had been instructed by DI Branson.

He passed the turn-off to the Pyecombe Golf Club, carried on and then slowed as he reached the crest, spotting the turn-off onto the single-track road coming up on the right.

To his relief, nothing followed him in. He drove along, as instructed, and then turned into the empty car park for the Jack and Jill windmills. He climbed out, pressed the clicker to open the tailgate, and as he did so heard a motorcycle approaching.

Apprehensively, he grabbed Otto’s lead and held it as the dog barked. A BMW bike drove in and stopped beside him. Its leather-clad rider raised her vizor and said, ‘Apple. Mr Brown?’ She produced a police warrant card with the name PC Georgina Lestini.

Kipp handed her the plastic bag, inside which was the ear, now in an evidence bag, as well as Mungo’s toothbrush and hairbrush. PC Lestini asked him to sign, date and time the transfer of the items, on the evidence bag. Then she slipped them into a pannier, thanked him and accelerated away. The encounter had taken less than thirty seconds.

Otto tugged, excitedly, on his leash, barking again.

‘OK, boy! OK!’ Kipp walked the dog away for some distance, waited until he could no longer hear the bike’s engine, then knelt and unclipped the lead. The dog raced off happily. Kipp followed, tugging his phone from his pocket. He pressed to bring up his Contacts list, then again to bring up his Favourites.

Near the top was one of his biggest clients, who had been with him at the Amex yesterday. He hit the man’s name.

Edi Konstandin answered on the third ring. ‘Kipp!’ the eighty-two-year-old said. ‘I’m so sorry I never got to say goodbye to you at the Amex yesterday. Shame about the result, eh?’

‘Yep — but hopefully the team will settle down.’

Despite everything, Kipp could not help it, a nagging voice in his mind was telling him that he needed to start thinking about strategic bets on future Seagulls games.

‘You’re a betting man, like me, Kipp,’ the old man said in his strong Albanian accent. ‘You think they’ll stay up?’

‘They will.’

‘I think so, too. But on a Sunday afternoon — I sense you’re not calling me just to discuss football?’

‘No, Edi. I need help.’

The crime kingpin responded, guardedly, ‘What kind of help?’

Kipp knew he was treading a fine line here. Not only was Konstandin one of his biggest clients in his own right, but for the past decade he had been his gatekeeper to many of the wealthy — and less wealthy — members of the Albanian community in the city. Whatever Edi Konstandin recommended, the Albanian expat community followed.

‘My son has been kidnapped, Edi. He disappeared at the Amex Stadium yesterday while we were there, and I’ve subsequently had a ransom demand. The police believe an Albanian gang is behind it. I’m calling you out of desperation to see if you can help me.’

There was a long silence. Kipp began to wonder if he had been cut off. Then he heard the old man’s voice again.

‘Kidnapped? Your son? The police are wrong, Kipp. I can assure you. My people are keen to integrate into your society. It has been a taboo for a long time for any Albanian here in Brighton to step outside our boundaries. None of our people commits crimes against the local community.’

‘Does the name “Dervishi” mean anything to you, Edi?’

Another long silence. ‘Jorgji Dervishi?’

‘Yes, and his son, Aleksander.’

‘You think Jorgji Dervishi is involved?’

‘I think he and his son might be.’

After another long silence, the old man said, ‘You’d better start from the beginning, and tell me everything you have.’