Dead if You Don’t

97

Sunday 13 August

16.00–17.00

The smell of cooking was tantalizing Jorgji Dervishi. Sunday lunch — today a very late one because of everything — was one of his favourite times of the week. When he sat down with Mirlinda and Aleksander and just talked, while they ate Mirlinda’s wonderful food. She was a great cook. Whilst he had his mistress to satisfy his sexual lust, Mirlinda always satisfied his other hungers, which included beautifully cooked food and good conversation. And on a normal Sunday he liked to hear how Aleksander was getting on at school.

Of course, the Sunday meal was always to be accompanied by a fine wine, and then afterwards a nice sleep in front of the television. Perhaps later a walk. He had read an article in a newspaper by a famous food writer who had said that life was too short to drink bad wine. He agreed with this man. Standing at the kitchen sink, he carefully and lovingly removed the foil cap and inserted the corkscrew into one of the many treasures from his wine cellar, a 1989 Haut-Brion.

As the cork slid out with a satisfying pop, he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. No hint of damp cardboard or mustiness. Perfume! Nectar!

He poured a little into his wide, deep glass. Swirled it around, smelled the aroma. Smiled.

‘My darling Mirlinda, I think you are going to like this wine, very much — a quite sensational bouquet!’

‘You know I always like your choices, my love.’

‘Ah, but this one is special indeed.’

And it was. A single bottle, at auction, would sell for around £250.

Dritan had texted him the Bitcoin code from Valbone’s computer at Boden Court, and a quarter of a million pounds in Bitcoins was in his account as of an hour ago. He could well afford wine of this quality.

He took another sip. It was improving, even more, by the second. ‘Where is Aleksander?’

‘In his room, crying.’

‘Fetch him,’ he commanded.

As Mirlinda left the room, his phone rang. The caller’s number showed on the display. Edi Konstandin.

‘Uncle Edi!’ he answered, joyfully.

But there was no joy in the old man’s voice.

‘What do you think you are playing at, Jorgji?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do I mean? I’ve just had two detectives here giving me a hard time. Are you mad?’

‘Mad? What do you mean, Uncle?’ He stepped out of the dining room and walked along to his office.

‘You’ve gone off-piste, very badly, Jorgji. We are family. And our family has only one boss, me. We have a code of honour, am I correct? We are on a mission to have Albanians in this city respected in the community. We harm the business contacts who cross us, but we do not harm innocent outsiders. You have family, you have a child — how would you feel if your boy, Aleksander, was blown up? Have you totally lost the plot? A bomb threat at the Amex? Kidnapping? What are you playing at?’

‘I’m running the family’s business now, Uncle. You gave me the authority, you said to me you are too old, you were letting me take over, is that not correct?’

‘What I said was take it over, not put it down the toilet, you fool.’

‘The world is changing, Uncle. You don’t see that, do you? You put me in charge of the business and that’s what I’m doing. Moving with the times.’

‘Moving with the times? What kind of business involves bomb threats at the football stadium on the most important day in the local team’s history? What kind of business is kidnapping the child of a high-profile local businessman?’

‘A very lucrative business, Uncle Edi.’

‘Lucrative? What are you talking about? Lucrative is a business that has a future. You are killing this future for yourself and for all of us. You are already a very rich man, why do you need to do this?’

‘Uncle Edi, you are eighty-two years old. You aren’t in touch with the modern world. You have to let me run this my way, now.’

‘Your way?’

‘Yes.’

Edi Konstandin was silent for some seconds, before speaking again. ‘Since I came to this country, Jorgji, I’ve done all I could for my family. Sure, we’ve had some violence on the way, but now we have good, honest businesses. We don’t need that any more. Why can’t you just focus on what we have and stay under the radar? We’re all making enough money to have a very good life here. Why do you want to risk destroying all of that?’

‘Just retire, Uncle. Retire, OK? You’ve done it your way, now I’m doing it my way. If you have a problem with that, I’m sorry.’

‘Jorgji, I want you see you now. Come to my house. We have to talk.’

‘Uncle, I come later this afternoon, I’m about to eat — and lunch is late enough already.’

‘No, you are not eating, you are coming to see me right away — NOW. Do you understand?’

‘I understand very clearly my vision for the future. Did you never read the Bible, Uncle? The Acts of the Apostles? Old men dream dreams, young men see visions? No? Stick to your dreams, Uncle Edi, I’ll stick to my visions. OK?’

‘Since when were you a Christian? You come here immediately. No delay. Do you hear me? You don’t come now, you are finished.’

‘I’ve just opened a very nice wine, but I’m afraid it might not last as long as your dreams, Uncle Edi.’ He hung up, just as Mirlinda came back into the room.

‘Aleksander is coming down,’ she said.

His phone rang again. On the display was Edi Konstandin. He killed the call and turned to his wife. ‘I’m sorry, my love, an urgent matter has come up, I have to go.’ He kissed her and walked across the room.

She looked worried. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, not important.’

‘Not important? Not important but you have to go?’

He stopped in the doorway. ‘I do. I need to deal with something.’

‘Have your lunch first. I’ve cooked your favourite, roast rib of Scottish beef, and I’ve cooked it how you like it.’

‘I’ll have it later.’

‘Later? The beef will be ruined.’

‘If I don’t go now, everything will be ruined.’

He hurried into his office, removed a spare pay-as-you-go phone from a drawer in his desk, picked up his wallet, cigar case and lighter. Then he went up to his dressing room, grabbed a lightweight sports jacket, and hurried out of the house into his garage, shaking with fury. That senile old fool was not going to dictate to him, no way.

In a short while, Edi Konstandin would be history.

But he did have a point about the kidnap — perhaps better to distance himself from that scenario. He’d scooped a quarter of a million for doing virtually nothing today. The balance of the £2,250,000 ransom payment would be very nice to have also, but he’d make much more than that amount with Konstandin out of the way. And there was nothing to link him to the kidnap. Unfortunately for Kipp Brown, the only people apart from himself and Dritan who knew where Mungo Brown was were now dead. He was very safely hidden. By the time his body was found, if it was ever found, it would be so eaten by crabs, lobsters, shrimps and other scavengers of the sea as to be virtually unidentifiable. A shame for a young boy to die. Collateral damage.

He climbed into his S-Class Mercedes and hit the clicker to open the garage door. As it clattered up, he phoned Dritan on the number his employee had used to text him the Bitcoin code, to inform him of his decision.