Питер Джеймс - Dead if You Don’t

‘Yes, he is my friend.’

‘Of course he would be,’ Konstandin said. He steepled his fingers. ‘You may use my phones or if you need to go and see him, my driver will take you. I want you to give him a message. It is a very simple one, a choice. He leaves the country with you, today, or I will see to it, personally, that the police have enough to arrest and convict him.’

He paused to peer down at one of his phones, the display of which had lit up. Then he looked back up at Dritan. ‘Breaking news: a big explosion on an industrial estate some miles north-east of Brighton. You wouldn’t know anything about this?’

‘Explosion? Where?’

The old man peered at the screen again. ‘It says on the Ranscombe Farm Industrial Estate.’ He looked at Dritan quizzically.

Trying not to show his excitement, Dritan thought, It did work!

‘You know about this explosion?’

‘No,’ Dritan retorted, a bit too quickly.

‘You just disarmed the phone to make it safe, and dropped it down two different drains, correct?’

‘Correct.’

There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. It was finally broken by Konstandin.

‘So, Dritan Nano, how do you feel I should repay you for sparing my life?’

‘Can you have someone fly me out of this country and back home?’

‘How soon?’

‘Today, if possible? One problem is I don’t have my passport — it is at Mr Dervishi’s house.’

Konstandin shrugged. ‘I can arrange to get you home without your passport. But airports can be dangerous, Dritan, even our little local one. A boat might be a better choice — do you get seasick?’

‘I don’t know.’

The old man smiled. ‘Let’s hope not.’

Sunday 13 August

17.00–18.00

Roy Grace sprinted over to his car, while Potting briefed Gary Baines, showing him the photograph of Mungo in the darkness, hoping he might find a clue in it. Baines peered hard at it, then shook his head. ‘It could be anywhere, really, couldn’t it? But it might be here, yes, of course.’ He squinted at it. ‘Just can’t see any detail of the surroundings at all.’

Grace opened the tailgate, unzipped his go-bag and rummaged inside. He pulled out a pair of bolt-cutters, pliers and a short length of rope, then ran back over to the three of them standing by the door. He sheared the padlock clasp with the bolt-cutters and pulled the doors open, then went through, followed by Potting, Baines and the woman. Ahead of them were steps down, all but the top two submerged by seawater. ‘Shit,’ he said, despondently, his heart sinking. ‘We’re too late.’

‘Well,’ Baines said, shooting a glance at his watch. ‘Not necessarily — it’s not high tide for another fifteen minutes.’

‘But it’s underwater!’ Grace said.

‘Depends where the lad is in the chamber if he’s here, which I think he might be,’ Baines replied. ‘He could be on the gun emplacement, and if he’s standing up, like it shows in this photograph, he might still have air for another ten or twenty minutes.’

‘How come?’

The curator pointed at the water. ‘These steps go down about four more feet, into the gun emplacement room. The chamber itself has an arched ceiling, ten feet at its highest point — but it’s some way into the chamber before it starts. At the far end is a small slit in the wall for the gun to fire through. That’s what lets the water in, but it’s not big enough for a human to pass through.’

Grace removed his jacket, knelt and unlaced his shoes.

‘Boss, what are you doing?’ Norman Potting cautioned.

He kicked his shoes off and removed his socks, trousers, tie and shirt until he was down to his underpants.

‘Boss, you can’t go in!’

Grace tugged his belt free of the trouser loops, then put it on around his midriff, buckling it tightly, and jammed the pliers inside it. Then he wound the rope round his waist. ‘Fine, Norman, call out a dive team, they’ll be here sometime tomorrow to recover a corpse.’

‘I’m not letting you!’

‘Call Oscar-1 for an ambulance and paramedics, Norman, and shut it!’

Ignoring the cold of the water, Grace waded in and down, up to his chest, then his neck. He paused, took a deep breath, hearing Potting shout again and taking no notice, and went down a further step, taking another two deep breaths in rapid succession before immersing his head and hoping to hell that Baines was right.

It was pitch-dark.

He launched himself forward and down, eyes open, swimming breaststroke hard for all he was worth, kicking with his feet, trying to put out of his mind the thought that if Baines was wrong, he had no way back. His head and back scraped along the hard, slimy surface above him. Further. Further. Shit, his lungs were tightening. Further. Further.

Thoughts of Cleo flashed through his mind. Noah. Bruno. Never seeing them again. His body, along with Mungo’s, recovered tomorrow.

His lungs were bursting.

He kicked, kicked, kicked with his feet, pushing through the water with his arms and hands, frantically, sliding along against the ceiling. Into eternal, never-ending darkness, his eyes stinging. Was this how it was going to end for him?

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

He was shaking. Shaking. Convulsing. His lungs were going to burst.

He was going to have to breathe. Can’t!

He struggled on. His insides were being stretched on a rack. Every sinew was a string being wound tighter, tighter, tighter.

Have to take a breath.

Can’t.

Water .

He would be inhaling water.

He would die if he did that.

Can’t go on any more.

Have to breathe.

His lungs were going to implode, splitting his chest open.

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

No more. He could not keep going. He was going to have to let go. Breathe in. Breathe in and die, it would be a relief.

Let go, let go, let go! a voice screamed.

Breathe. Deep. All be over. Relief!

Suddenly, through the water, he saw very faint daylight. An instant later, in an explosion of relief, he broke the surface. Tearing at the air with his mouth and nostrils, sucking it down, his whole body shaking, heaving, his head spinning giddily, like he had been momentarily concussed. He gulped it down, gratefully, ravenously. Filling his lungs through his nose and mouth, his heart pumping, filling with oxygen, breathing precious air in, out, in, out, as if he had never in his life breathed before.

I’m alive.

He felt dizzy and disorientated.

But he was breathing!

Sweet air.

He had made it through to the inner gun emplacement chamber.

His head bashed against something hard that was pressing down on him. The ceiling.

Faint streaks of light through cracks in the ceiling showed him dark water stretching out ahead, the arched brick roof above him coated in slime and weed.

‘Mungo!’ he yelled. ‘Mungo?’

Silence.

Just the swell of the sea.

‘Mungo?’

His voice echoed back at him.

‘MUNGO!’

He choked, swallowing salty water. For some moments he panicked, struggling for air again, until he regained his composure.

‘MUNGO!’

The water rose, bashing him up against the roof.

‘MUNGO!’

Then he spotted a shape. A few yards ahead. A barely visible silhouette through his eyes stinging from the salty water.

The swell rose up, momentarily covering Grace’s head, and he swallowed more water, some of it shooting painfully up his nose, choking him.

Keep calm. Have to keep calm.

It was panic that killed people, he knew.