Dead if You Don’t

50

Saturday 12 August

21.30–22.30

Roy Grace stared at the latest text purportedly from the kidnappers, which Glenn Branson had forwarded. The ransom demand. And he understood Glenn’s comment, it’s a strange one.

The mention of the fridge was, he presumed, to underline that they were watching Kipp Brown. Fine. But what bothered him was the amount of the ransom demand and the vehicle through which the kidnappers wanted it paid.

He called the DI. ‘Glenn, what’s going on? Who kidnaps someone for this amount? Who in God’s name would go to all this trouble for a relatively poxy £250k? More likely to be a million — or even five million — wouldn’t you think?’

‘But we’ve dealt recently with a kidnap ransom of just a hundred quid,’ Branson reminded him.

‘You’re right,’ Grace said. ‘But those small demands — from fifty quid to a few hundred — are usually just scuzzy little squabbles over drug debts. Something doesn’t feel right about this. They’ve made spelling mistakes, maybe they missed off a zero. What’s Brown saying?’

‘He wants to pay.’

According to the law, although blackmail was a criminal offence, paying a ransom was not. If someone wanted to pay a ransom demand, they were free to do so, and there was nothing the police could do to stop them.

‘Tell him he’s crazy if he does. They’re not going to stop at £250k, they’re just testing the water.’

‘Why would they do that?’ Branson asked.

‘Because no one’s going to go to this amount of trouble for peanuts, matey. Risk fifteen years in jail for pocket money?’

‘It’s all relative,’ Branson replied. ‘To someone who’s chopping up his door frames to keep warm in winter, £250k is a fortune, right?’

‘Maybe, but it worries me. There’s something very amateurish about the amount. Explain to Brown and his wife that if they pay this ransom money, it may not be the end. There’s likely to be another demand. Then another. His kidnappers believe Mungo’s father is a rich man with deep pockets.’

‘And how do I explain that if he doesn’t pay, his son might die, boss?’

‘Very simply. They’ve done all this, risking a decade or longer in jail for the money. They’re going to be after bigger bucks than 250 grand. Just tell him to play the long game. If Mungo dies, what do the kidnappers have? Nothing but a murder investigation, with the odds against them. We catch around ninety per cent of all killers in the UK, year on year. Tell Kipp Brown to keep them sweet, to say he’s going to download the Bitcoin app. Play for time. Meanwhile, let’s see what our good friend — not — Mr Dervishi has to say.’

He looked at Norman Potting and Velvet Wilde.

Then he was interrupted as his phone rang. It was his boss, ACC Cassian Pewe. And he was incandescent with rage.

‘Roy,’ he said. ‘Just what is going on? A bomb scare at the Amex, a kidnapped boy and now a dismembered body at a crushing plant. Meantime you are watching footy and playing lunatic heroics while you’re supposed to be the on-call SIO. I want to see you first thing tomorrow, in my office, 9 a.m., and you’d better have some bloody good answers for me.’

Grace was well aware his actions at the Amex had given Pewe the excuse to discipline him that he had long looked for. But right now, he did not care.

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

Fuck you, he thought.