Dead if You Don’t

80

Sunday 13 August

12.00–13.00

Kipp Brown used to joke to clients that his company had police protection. His new offices were almost next door to the former headquarters of Sussex CID on the Hollingbury industrial estate at the northern extremity of the city. But he wasn’t in a joking mood now as he parked his Porsche in front of the modern three-storey building. He felt a bit like a naughty schoolboy, having given the two officers in his house the slip by telling them he was going out for a walk for some air. Climbing out, he looked all around, feeling nervous as hell.

Fretting about the word ‘package’.

To his relief, he couldn’t see anything.

Punching in the passcode on the keypad, he pushed open the main entrance door and looked on the floor for any delivery company’s card — ordinary mail was not delivered here at weekends — but there was nothing. He entered the silent premises, checking that the door clicked shut behind him. The reception area had been carefully designed to impress, to make clients feel they were somewhere special, but to be welcoming and not intimidating. It was modern, with glass furniture and tan leather sofas, large plants and smiling photographic portraits on the walls of himself and his colleagues.

The office had that silent, Sunday feeling. The receptionist’s empty desk. The smell of floor polish. The water dispenser in the far corner made a brief gurgling sound, then stopped.

He was going against the original advice of the Detective Inspector. Branson and his colleague had cautioned him and Stacey about paying any ransom. In the old days, the DI said, when banknotes would be handed over in a bag, there was a good chance of recovering some or all of the money. But in the modern, murky world of cryptocurrencies, where transactions could be untraceable, there were no safeguards.

Nor, Branson informed Kipp and Stacey, was there any guarantee the kidnappers wouldn’t simply take the money and vanish. It was vital, he urged them, that before making any payment, they had evidence Mungo was alive and unharmed, and that a plan was agreed for his safe return.

It was easy for Branson, Kipp thought, it wasn’t his son. Their lives had been a nightmare for the past four years since Kayleigh had died. Now they were in another nightmare. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, except getting Mungo back. If he had to go to prison for taking clients’ money and lose everything he had to get their son back, so be it.

Ignoring the lift, he sprinted up the open-tread glass stairs, walked past the rows of empty desks in the huge open-plan area, lights coming on automatically as the sensors picked him up, and entered his own private office at the far end.

It was functional rather than swanky. There was a six-seater table, with a conference phone, and several pictures of clients’ businesses — past and present — on the walls, along with ones of a charter helicopter, a high-rise development and a warehousing complex. On his large, tidy desk, and on the wall, were framed photographs of Kayleigh, Mungo and Stacey.

He sat down and after checking there were no emails from the kidnappers, he heard another text ping in. It was detailed and specific, and in the space at the bottom was a black-and-white square QR code.

Mindful of DI Branson’s instructions, he composed a text back.

It would not send. He was blocked from replying.

Shit.

He opened his browser and entered https://www.coinbase.com/dashboard.

A sign-in request appeared for his name, email and a password. He entered them and instantly received a message that an email had been sent to him for verification. He checked his inbox, saw the one at the top and clicked on it. He was then asked to tick a box confirming he was not a robot.

A new page appeared, headed in blue letters: Welcome KB — Let’s get started.

There was a row of headings beneath: email; phone; upload to; payment; buy.

Under that was the message: Welcome to Coinbase! This guide will help you buy your first digital currency! Please start by choosing your account type.

There were two boxes, one marked INDIVIDUAL, the other BUSINESS, which was followed by: Submit an application to sign up as an institution.

He clicked on that and saw, to his dismay, the message: To open a business account, you’ll need to submit additional proof of your business records. Verification with Coinbase may take up to three business days.

Shit.

Three days he did not have.

He was totally out of his depth with this new kind of currency. Sure, he’d had a few clients asking about the investment potentials, but from what he’d read there seemed too much danger. He had built his business on sound advice and caution, but now he regretted not having done further research into what was undoubtedly a growing — if potentially nefarious — new financial paradigm.

What if this was just a scam? Or he did something wrong and the money simply disappeared into the ether? He needed advice from someone, but who? There was one person he could think of, his former boss from some years back, Steve Crouch. Although their companies were now rivals, since he had left to start out on his own, there had been no hard feelings.

He looked up Crouch’s mobile number and dialled it.

To his relief after two rings he heard his voice. ‘Kipp! Long time no hear, how are you?’

‘I’m — OK.’

‘You’re doing pretty well by all accounts — giving me a hard time!’

‘I’m just a minnow compared to your empire.’

‘So, to what do I owe the honour of this call?’

‘I need help, Steve.’

‘Are you OK? You sound — stressed?’

‘I am, very.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘What do you know about Bitcoins?’

‘Not much, but I’m starting to get asked by a few clients about these and other cryptocurrencies — there’s a growing raft of them.’

‘I’ve been asked to make a substantial transaction, Steve — a quarter of a million pounds in Bitcoins, to be followed by a further sum of over two million, and I need to know what I’m doing — and if I should do it at all.’

‘I’d be bloody careful.’

‘That’s what I feel.’

‘Do you know Clive Bennett?’

‘No.’

‘His daughter-in-law used to work for me — she’s just left on maternity leave. He’s your man. Would be worth speaking to him. How urgent is this?’

‘I have to make a transaction today — like, immediately.’

‘I’ve got his mobile number. I talked to him a couple of days ago, you’ll find him helpful.’

Kipp wrote down the number, thanked him and immediately dialled. After six rings, it went to voicemail. He left a message.

‘Hi, Mr Bennett, Steve Crouch gave me your number. My name is Kipp Brown and I need, very urgently, some help with a Bitcoin transaction I’ve been asked to make. Any chance you could give me a call back as soon as you get this?’

He ended the call, stood up and paced around his office, fretting. What should he do? What could he do?

He stared at a large photograph of Stacey, Kayleigh and Mungo on mountain bikes, up on the South Downs, all wearing their helmets and smiling. Then he looked at the photograph of Mungo. It had been taken a few years ago, when he was about nine or ten, up on the Devil’s Dyke — ironically, close to where he had driven to last night. Mungo was running towards the camera, in jeans and a striped T-shirt, and with his long hair floating like a mane, he looked impossibly cute.

Kipp’s insides felt knotted.

Suddenly, his phone rang, momentarily startling him. The display showed the number was withheld. Great! Clive Bennett, he hoped. ‘Kipp Brown,’ he answered. But it wasn’t Bennett, it was DI Branson.

‘Kipp, where are you? I hope I’ve caught you in time — have you paid the ransom?’

‘I had to go into the office, I’m in the process of trying to — this Bitcoin thing is quite elaborate.’

‘Don’t pay, hold. We have a development — we may have found the people who’ve taken your son.’

He felt a burst of elation. ‘You have?’

‘I can’t tell you too much but we believe we’ve identified their vehicles — we’ve a good chance of an arrest soon.’

‘OK — great — but what about Mungo? Will he be safe if you do?’

‘We’re pretty sure he’s not with them, that he’s still where they’ve hidden him. I strongly advise you not to pay the ransom until we’ve clarified the situation. At least give it another hour. Can you stall them?’

‘I would if I could, but their comms are all one-way. I’ve had the payment instructions.’

‘Can you send them to me?’

‘OK.’

‘Sir, I think you should come back to your home — we may have some very quick decisions to make.’

‘I’m on my way,’ he said.

Brown logged off, grabbed his keys, hurried back down into the empty reception area and out into the glorious early afternoon sunshine. And saw something pinned to the windscreen of his car by a wiper blade. Something white. A flyer of some kind, he presumed, a pizza delivery place or car-wash advert.

As he neared the car he saw it was an envelope.

He lifted the wiper and picked it up. There was something inside it, something soft and lumpy.

He ripped it open, then stood still. Staring in shock and horror.

‘Oh God. No. No.’