Dead if You Don’t

77

Sunday 13 August

12.00–13.00

They drove their two vehicles carefully, making sure they would attract no attention. They had staked out the long-term car park at Gatwick Airport two nights ago and selected an Audi A4 and a Volkswagen Golf half an hour after their owners had parked them and taken a bus, with their luggage, to start their holidays — wherever they were destined. So long as the cars were properly taxed, insured and MOT-tested, there should be no problem with the police, and the owners would not know their cars were missing until they returned from their travels. Long before then the vehicles would have been torched, somewhere remote.

Now, at midday, headed away from Shoreham Fort, Fatjon Sava drove the Audi, followed by Kushtim Kona in the Golf, through the entrance to the Hove apartment complex. Along with their partner in this plan, Valbone Kadare, they had rented a fourth-floor apartment as their temporary safe house.

As they climbed out in the underground car park, Kushtim, a bundle of nerves since leaving their victim in the gun emplacement, said, ‘Are we sure we trust this guy, Fatjon?’

‘With my life. Valbone is my brother!’

They rode the lift up, walked a short distance along the corridor and stopped outside flat number 112. There was a spy hole in the door.

Kona rang the bell.

It was opened a short distance, accompanied by the rattle of a safety chain. A shaven-headed face peered out, nervously, then smiled.

‘One moment!’

The door closed. There was another rattle of the chain, then it opened again. The two men entered, each in turn kissing Kadare. Within minutes they were seated round the kitchen table toasting each other with shot glasses of rakia. They were careful not to drink too much of the clear liquid and, after two glasses each, they switched to strong Skenderbeu coffee.

The room grew thick with the fug of cigarette smoke. The three of them exchanged stories, laughing. Periodically Valbone stepped away to check his phone and his computer, and all the time keeping an eye on the time — and tide. They did not want Mungo Brown to drown — not until they had all the money. At some point they would have to go and move him, but all was fine for now, there were still a good three hours to go before the danger point was reached.

And on his phone, a pulsing blue dot, the signal from the tracker they’d placed under Kipp Brown’s Porsche up at the Dyke last night, showed he was on the move. He had left his house and was heading in the direction of his office. Sensible man.

Valbone’s phone rang.

He answered it, good-humoured. ‘Yes? Hey, Dritan! My friend! Come and join us — we have good mulberry rakia here!’

He gave him the address. Then he turned back to his colleagues. ‘It is all going to plan! Hey! By tonight we will be wealthy men. In twenty-four hours, we will all be very rich men. One more glass, heh?’ He charged all the glasses, then picked his up. ‘A toast?’

They all clinked together and downed the contents.

Then his mobile phone rang again.