Dead if You Don’t

5

Saturday 12 August

05.00–06.00

Adrian Morris’s phone began ringing. It didn’t rouse him, he was already awake, as he had been for much of the night, lying in the grip of fear, his brain releasing him occasionally into sleep, only to torment him with nightmares.

He was in turmoil. Should he have made the decision to call the game off? Was not doing this something he would come to regret for the rest of his life?

It still wasn’t too late.

The room was brightening; from outside came the first tentative sounds of the dawn chorus. Dawn. Dawn breaking on the biggest day in his club’s history, and a shadow loomed over it. Question after question churned over and over in his mind. What had he missed? What could he do that he had not already done?

Chirrup-chirrup. Chirrup-chirrup.

For a few seconds, in his hazy mind, he thought it was just another bird joining in the growing orchestra out there in their garden. Then his wife stirred. ‘Phone,’ she murmured.

The clock showed 5.04 a.m.

Who was phoning at this hour? One of his night-security team?

He reached across his bedside table and grabbed the cordless off its cradle. ‘Adrian Morris,’ he answered.

The voice chilled him. The same accented English, as polite as before.

‘Mr Morris?’

He responded as quietly as he could, walking across the thickly carpeted floor towards the door. ‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry for this inconvenient hour, but we don’t really have very much time left, do we?’

‘Can you hold a moment, please.’

He slipped out onto the landing, closed the door behind him and entered his den, switching on the light and perching on the chair in front of his desk. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘You are speaking to a football fan who is very concerned about your beautiful stadium — and who does not like to hurt people.’

‘How did you get this number?’ Morris asked. It was his private home landline, and ex-directory.

‘By disobeying my instructions and going to the police, you have eliminated my option to call you on your mobile. So I had to make, shall we say, a little more effort. You can get anything if you push the right buttons. Anything, Mr Morris. You can join the football stadium as an ordinary steward and one day rise to become its security boss. Anything at all. And that includes a bomb in your stadium, on or under a seat, this afternoon. Unless you pay the £250,000 I’ve suggested. This is a small amount. You will today, just in ticket sales alone, take around £1.5 million — and about the same again in drinks and pies, and over £10 million for the television rights. So, for a mere fraction of today’s revenue you can sleep in peace and the club will be safe. Would this not be a win-win?’

‘In your sick mind, perhaps.’

‘Who will come off worse from this tragedy? You, the Amex Stadium or Sussex Police? You would prefer to see fifty — perhaps one hundred — of your loyal fans blown to pieces, Mr Morris? That is all human life means to you? I think you should take a look in your bathroom mirror, and there you’ll see the one who has the sick mind. Why don’t you sleep on it? I will make contact later to give you one last chance.’

‘Look,’ Morris said, his brain racing. ‘Even if I was to agree, you’ve left it very late — how could I find a quarter of a million pounds on a Saturday morning?’

‘You really should have thought about that yesterday, this is very bad planning by you. I’m glad you don’t work for me. Goodbye, Mr Morris.’

The line went dead.

Instantly, Morris dialled 1471 to see if he could get the number. But all he got was the message saying it was withheld. He picked up his wallet, which was lying beside his laptop, and pulled out the number of the Detective Inspector who had come along yesterday with two other officers, after the blackmailer’s first call.

Glenn Branson answered on the first ring.