Dead if You Don’t

43

Saturday 12 August

20.30–21.30

Kipp Brown stood in his son’s bedroom, his heart heaving. The room smelled of a mix of fresh paint, the sour odour of rodents and pond weed. The walls had recently been redecorated from the bright yellow that had been there for years to the very specific mushroom colour Mungo had requested, reflecting his growing adult tastes. Kipp thought about this with a tinge of sadness. About how his son spent ages on his hair in the mirror every day.

The teenager was already taking an interest in girls. Soon, he would be dating, and in just a few years he would be gone to university or out into the big wide world, to whatever the future held, and independent of his family.

Kipp worked his way along the rodent cages, firstly feeding the mice, putting in a small chunk of cucumber, which Stacey told him Mungo always gave them, and replenished their water. Next, he topped up the hamsters’ food bowl, followed by the gerbils’, and finally tapped what he hoped was the right amount of feed into the tropical fish tank.

The tidy room was like a shrine to his son’s passions, Kipp thought, looking around carefully — something he never had the chance to do when Mungo was here. Against the headboard was a cushion printed with a bison’s head and a row of cuddly soft toys. On the bed’s black, grey and white check counterpane lay an open Reservoir Dogs boxed souvenir set, comprising a video of the film, a silver comb made to look like a cut-throat razor, a handcuff lapel pin and key fob, a Zippo lighter and a jar of hair gel, labelled DRESS GROOVIER.

A row of Star Wars helmets sat on a black shelf, high up. On another stack of shelves were lined up a film clapperboard, a video camera, a baseball glove, a fake snake, a Detective Deadpool DVD sleeve, two large speakers, a boxed set of the Stanley Kubrick Archives and a neat row of every kind of Coca-Cola can — red, black, silver, green, orange and pink — as well as, randomly, a Rubik’s cube.

Ranked along one wall was a row of kayaking medals. Mungo had been passionate about the sport until a year or so ago when he seemed to have lost interest — perhaps coinciding with the occasional smell of cigarettes or alcohol or hash on him, one more sign, along with his deepening voice and facial hair, that he was moving on from childhood.

When he finished with the pets, Kipp sat on the bed. God, how much he loved this wilful and bright kid. Sure, they fought at times, and Mungo could really piss him off when he was in the mood to do so. But he loved him with all his heart.

Where are you? What has happened? Who has taken you?

Please be all right.

He looked at the small desk, above which on the wall was mounted Mungo’s large monitor. The laptop had been taken by the police and hopefully they might find clues on that.

In need of some air, he went downstairs, through the kitchen, opened the patio doors and walked out into the garden in the falling dusk, past the swimming pool with its cover on and down the terrace of lawns, each with a neat bed of flowers either side, towards the tennis court at the far end. The ground was damp with dew, the moisture seeping into his loafers, but he barely noticed.

He looked up at the basketball net fixed to the side of an oak tree. Mungo used to spend hours throwing a ball, aiming for that net. He was fighting back tears as he stared at it, then heard a voice behind him.

‘Sir? Mr Brown?’

He turned and saw the big detective. ‘Mr Brown, you’ve got another text.’ He handed him the phone.

Kipp stared at the message on the display.

He noticed the misspelling of ‘derelict’. It was like a knife twisting inside his guts, reminding him of Mungo’s spelling. He was slightly dyslexic, which was why there were few books in his room. He looked at Branson. ‘I know that place well, Mungo used to love flying a kite up there.’

He and Mungo used to love doing all kinds of stuff together. Flying model aircraft. Fishing. Not any more.

It was a popular spot, with commanding views across the Downs and across Brighton towards the English Channel. And a dead end. A narrow country road led up to it. A road which could be observed, easily, from any number of concealed points.

‘What do you suggest?’ he asked the detective.

‘That you go there, sir, and take your encrypted phone as well as this one. We’ve installed a tracking device on it. Seems like your son’s kidnappers have planned carefully and chosen smartly. Go there and call us when you can. Let’s see what they have in mind.’

Kipp hurried indoors and told Stacey.

‘I’m coming with you,’ she replied.

‘No,’ he said, adamantly. ‘It says to go alone.’

‘What if it’s a trap?’

‘It’s not going to be a trap. Whoever has taken Mungo wants money. Let me find out how much they want.’

Very reluctantly, she agreed.