Питер Джеймс - Dead if You Don’t

‘Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One, do you have visual contact?’ Ellis asked.

‘Not at this moment — we will shortly.’

‘Follow at a discreet distance when you do.’

‘Yes, yes.’

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

Norman Potting clipped a kerb, taking the racing line as he slid the car at speed through a left turn, onto a road that ran parallel to the pebble beach and the sea beyond. Roy Grace clung to the grab handle, glancing repeatedly at his watch. Less than ten minutes to rescue Mungo, if his calculations were correct.

They drove into a fenced parking area, with just a couple of vehicles in it, and both detectives jumped out almost before the car had stopped moving. A distinguished-looking blonde woman in her early fifties hurried towards them through the blustery wind. She was followed by a man in his forties, with a crew cut, wearing a grey top, jeans and trainers.

Grace flashed his warrant card. ‘Mrs Sampson?’

‘Yes — and this is Gary Baines — he’s in charge of the restoration of the fort.’

Grace shook his hand and shot a fleeting glance around him, getting his bearings. They were on the west side of the harbour, in a huge, flat area of wild, unkempt grass, in a complex of old brick structures. Straight ahead to the east, visible beyond the low roof of a green corrugated-iron Nissen hut, was the superstructure of a white building bearing the large words, in black, NATIONAL COAST-WATCH, SHOREHAM. Past that, across the rippling water of the harbour mouth, were two arms; on the end of one he could see several anglers. Across the River Adur were the houses of Shoreham Village. To his right was a steep grass embankment topped by crumbling, buttressed flint and brick walls, with a pebble beach to the south and the sea beyond. Sunk into the embankment, every twenty feet or so, were brick steps down to solid-looking steel doors.

‘That one there, officers!’ Sharon Sampson said, excitedly, pointing at one pair of doors secured by a shiny brass padlock.

‘What’s down there?’ Grace asked.

‘The old gun emplacements,’ Gary Baines said. ‘These contained the cannon facing out to sea and across the harbour entrance, to repel any invasion by the French — which never happened, luckily. Some of the cannon were taken and smelted down, unfortunately, but we still have some here.’

‘Are these emplacements above or below sea-level?’ Potting asked.

‘Well, these were constructed in the early 1850s, before anyone knew about global warming, sir. They’re all submerged now at high tide — we’re trying to salvage the remaining cannon and restore them.’

Sharon Sampson hurried over, down the brick steps, and pointed at the large padlock. ‘This, see? You didn’t put it on, did you, Gary?’

Baines shook his head. ‘No, that’s not mine.’

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

As he left the estate, and accelerated down the hill, Dritan Nano was still thinking about that glance between Mr Dervishi and the hostile Russian. If he had learned one thing about Mr Dervishi in the years he had worked for him, it was that his boss never did anything that was not to his advantage.

What, he wondered, was to Mr Dervishi’s advantage in paying him over £60,000 and flying him home to Albania? Sure, it would distance his boss from any possible connection to the UK police investigation into the triple homicide. But there were, surely, other much cheaper options for Mr Dervishi. Dritan wondered what guarantee he would have that, if he carried out these instructions and murdered yet another person, Mr Dervishi would honour his word.

Despite his besa .

Lindita was right about Dervishi’s morality. Somewhere in the past decade, Dritan realized, he’d been intimidated by his boss into losing all concept of what was right and decent. At first, he’d been grateful just to be in the UK, and to have a well-paid job here. That was why he’d carried out terrible things for Mr Dervishi, the last of which was what he had done just a short while ago. Valbone had deserved it, but not the other two, who were strangers to him. Now he was being sent to kill another man, again about whom he knew little, except that he was very powerful.

He turned as soon as he could and raced back to the industrial estate. As he rode in, he saw the BMW was no longer there. He pulled over a few hundred yards away from the bomb factory, and sat, both feet on the ground, the engine again idling. Then he made a snap decision.

He switched off the engine, kicked down the stand and dismounted. After ensuring the bike was safely propped up, he sprinted towards the unit he had just left. All three vehicles were still outside.

As he drew close he slowed to a walk, treading as quietly as he could in his rubber-soled motorcycling boots. Tugging the phone from his breast pocket, he laid it on the ground behind a wheelie bin between the office door and the workshop entrance, and sprinted back to his bike.

Mounting the machine, he looked over his shoulder, anxiously, but to his relief there was no sign of any movement. His heart in his mouth, he started the engine, again checking the unit in his mirrors before heading towards the entrance of the estate, using the throttle as lightly as he could. He picked up speed a little past the holiday units, then halted at the junction with the dual carriageway, where he would have to turn left.

And froze.

During his time working for Mr Dervishi, he had learned to spot unmarked police cars. The police mainly used German models, in dark colours, with four doors and blacked-out rear windows.

The BMW, in a lay-by a short distance down the dual carriageway, ticked those boxes. It was identical to the one he had seen earlier on the industrial estate. Was it the same car?

He would have to pass it. Then see if it followed.

Oh shit.

He removed one glove, pulled his own mobile phone from his inside pocket, unlocked it with a trembling finger and looked at the number he had entered. He tapped send . Waited, then tapped send again. His hand was shaking so much he had to take a breath before tapping send a third time.

And listened.

He heard nothing. No explosion.

He looked down at the display, puzzled. Had he entered the number incorrectly? Surely not, he had checked it carefully. Maybe he had let too much time elapse between the three. More than sixty seconds?

He tried again. Sent the same text three times in rapid succession.

No. No. He looked behind him, feeling very scared. What was wrong?

He put the phone back in his pocket and tugged his glove back on. He revved the engine, pulled straight out into the path of an oncoming lorry and accelerated, full tilt, past the BMW.

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

‘Go, go, go!’ Pip Edwards said, resisting the temptation to put the blue lights on, as Trundle waited for the lorry to pass, then floored the accelerator, pulling into the outside lane.

Edwards radioed Oscar-1. ‘Hotel Tango Two-Eight-One, subject vehicle has just gone past at high speed, heading towards the Beddingham roundabout. We are following. For Oscar-1’s info, driver is a green permit holder in a suitable vehicle.’

‘Try to keep him in sight but don’t let him see you are following. Do not attempt a stop.’

‘Yes, yes.’

As they approached the roundabout at over 100 mph, they saw the bike circle it skilfully, then head back up the hill, passing them on the far side of the dual carriageway. Braking sharply, Trundle entered ahead of a car which just slowed in time, held the BMW in a power slide, then accelerated back up the hill. The motorbike was already out of sight. The BMW’s speedometer read 110 mph. 120 mph. As they approached the next roundabout, where there was a build-up of traffic, they could not see which way the Ducati had gone.