Dead if You Don’t

13

Saturday 12 August

17.00–18.00

Although Roy Grace was enjoying a precious day out with his son, and a day away from work, he was, like all police officers, rarely fully off duty — and today he was the on-call SIO. As Bruno studied the programme, commenting knowledgeably on the team squad and wondering who would be selected for today’s game against tough opposition, Manchester City, his father was preoccupied, staring around the terraces.

Grace was looking for the faces of local villains he had encountered during his two decades of policing the city of Brighton and Hove, always interested to see, in particular, who was sitting with whom and what new criminal alliances might have formed or be under discussion. In addition today, having been briefed by DCI Fitzherbert, he was being extra-vigilant as a result of the threats that had been made to the stadium.

He had already clocked something of interest, as people filed in and took their seats: a low-life drug dealer and car thief, Alan Letts. Letts was sitting beside one of Brighton’s oldest and nastiest villains, Jimmy Bardolph. Bardolph, a scabby, scarred creep, had once been a henchman for one of Brighton’s biggest crime families, but these days had long been a busted flush. The pair were engaged in earnest conversation and Grace would have loved to have been able to eavesdrop. What were they discussing? Not donations to a charity, that was for sure. He made a mental note to inform a colleague at Specialist Crime Command Intel.

‘Hello, Roy!’ a voice said right behind him.

He turned to see a retired police officer, Mike Hird, and his son, Paul. He greeted them briefly then noticed two people seated next to them, smiling at him. He recognized Cliff and Linda Faires, who ran the Brighton Shellfish & Oyster Bar on the seafront.

‘Enjoyed those oysters last week did you and the missus, Roy?’

‘We did, very much! We tried to get my son, Bruno, to try them, but he preferred his prawn sandwich.’ Grace resumed scanning the crowd.

‘So, Papa, who will win, what will be the score?’ Bruno said.

‘What’s your prediction?’ Grace asked his son. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing the Albion’s German midfielder, Gross?’

‘From Ingolstadt,’ Bruno said, solemnly. ‘He is good. But I think Manchester City will win, two — nil.’

‘We’re meant to be supporting Brighton, aren’t we?’

Bruno nodded, looking as ever his serious self. ‘But I don’t think they will win today, not with their formation. They have it wrong.’

The players were coming out onto the pitch. The roar of the crowd began as a ripple, then rose in a crescendo as everyone got to their feet, clutching the blue-and-white flags that had been placed on their seats, singing, heartily, the club anthem, ‘Sussex by the Sea’, interspersed with chants of, ‘ALBION!’

Grace noticed the man in the baseball cap, with the big camera, two rows in front of him. Something about his body language seemed odd. The man was looking around him, nervously, edgy, then fiddling with a dial on the top of his camera. A professional-looking job of the kind favoured by paparazzi or perhaps birdwatchers — twitchers. Or, he thought with his ever-suspicious mind, peeping Toms. Because of yesterday’s threat, Roy continued to watch him, not liking the look of him. If he was press, he would have been with the others in the middle of the stadium’s West Stand, behind the dugouts, or at the far end, behind the goalposts. Probably just a fan, like a lot of others, with a passion for photography.

Ylli Prek raised his camera and pressed his eye to the viewfinder, pretending to take pictures in case anyone was watching. Then he laid it down on his lap again and peered at the dial on the top. Ordinarily, it would have been for setting the shutter speed. But on this camera, it was the timer. Twisting it would prime the bomb. The options were one minute, five minutes, ten minutes and upwards in further increments of five minutes. He had been instructed to wait until the game had started, just in case of any delay, then to allow himself enough margin to get well clear of the stadium; but not to let it run to half-time, when the stands wouldn’t be so full. And not to leave the camera on its own for so long that people would get suspicious.

Fifteen minutes, Ylli Prek decided. Or would ten be better?

Roy Grace kept a steady, uneasy eye on the man.