Питер Джеймс - Dead if You Don’t

In the darkness across the water, some distance beyond his boss, Dritan could make out, from his kneeling position, a tiny, static light. Just below it was an intermittent flashing one.

‘I’d like to give you some more advice, Dritan — not that you will need it where you are going. Never try to mess with a family as tight as mine. Blood means everything to us. Did you really think my uncle Edi would take you seriously? That he would believe a pathetic loser, a nobody, over me, his nephew and successor?’

‘It’s not what your uncle said to me.’

‘No? In a few minutes, I will show you something. But at this moment, let me tell you something. I’m the man with the gun in his hand and you’re the shitbag who is about to die. When we stick weights on you and dump your body overboard, unlike me, you are not coming back. You’ll be gone. No one will ever know what happened — ever know the truth. Oh, that low-life, Dritan Nano. He vanished one night. I suspect he went home to Albania, to search for the girl who dumped him. ’ He smiled. ‘That’s what everyone will think, Dritan. That you went home to find little Lindita. Well, you’re going to have a new home now. Inside the stomachs of crabs, prawns and lobsters.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

The static light Dritan had seen was getting larger and brighter. And he was starting to make out more lights now. The apparition was shaping up like a liner. Was it a ferry? A cruise ship? Could he somehow signal to it?

He felt growing hope. As they churned steadily forward through the swell, it was clear their paths were almost going to intersect.

Would they pass close enough for him to shout out, Dritan wondered?

Dervishi turned his head, as if to see what Dritan was peering at, then looked back at him. ‘My uncle’s yacht, Dritan. It is a lovely boat. Only Roman Abramovich and a handful of other billionaires have bigger ones. Today he has given it to me as a gift. Gentian and I will be enjoying a luxury cruise aboard, all the way to the Port of Durrës. Each time we dine on lobster, we will raise a glass of fine wine to the ones that are feasting on you!’ He grinned.

The hull of the massive craft was looming rapidly closer, the lights in the portholes getting brighter. Dritan’s brain was racing in blind panic. Could he rush the man? Dive at him and grab the gun?

The boat rolled again, sharply, unbalancing him. He fell sideways, onto the wet deck, and lay for a moment, heart thudding in panic, looking back at Dervishi’s laughing face, feeling utterly humiliated.

An instant later a powerful lamp shone down from the yacht onto his face, dazzling him. The beam swept backwards and forwards across their little fishing boat. Dritan could see three men in white tunics standing on the deck of the yacht. One of them hurled a rope ladder, which tumbled down, uncoiling, all the way to the water. He heard the change of pitch of the fishing boat’s engine, felt the craft accelerate briefly, swinging round, coming alongside.

He waited for the right moment. For Mr Dervishi to be distracted.

But his boss kept the gun, and his gaze, steadily on him.

He saw a row of fenders lowered down the side of the yacht, seconds before the two vessels nudged against each other. At that moment he saw Nick, their skipper, leap from the bridge and grab the rope ladder. Seconds later, as he clung to it, there was a deep, sonorous roar of powerful engines, and thrashing water, the smell of exhaust fumes, and Edi Konstandin’s yacht moved away.

In less than a second, a gap of several metres had opened up between the two boats. The fishing boat rocked wildly in the wake, almost unbalancing Dervishi.

To Dritan’s astonishment, the yacht was powering away into the distance.

And evidently, from his expression, to his boss’s astonishment, too.

‘Hey!’ Dervishi turned his head and shouted at the yacht, but still kept the gun trained on Dritan. ‘Hey! Hey!’

The yacht was clearly not coming back.

‘HEY!’ Dervishi yelled, venting his lungs, his fury, his astonishment. ‘HEY!’ he yelled again and again, until he was spent. Although he was still pointing the gun, he no longer looked venomous. Instead he looked lost, bewildered.

‘Maybe they didn’t like your face?’ Dritan said.

The lights of the yacht and the drone of its engines were fading away.

Dervishi used his free hand to pull a phone from his pocket. Without moving the gun, he peered at the display, then tapped the phone with his mechanical digit, and held it to his ear.

Dritan, unable to suppress a grin, waited. Waited for the right moment to make his move.

Gentian Llupa retched again.

Dritan kept his concentration on Dervishi, who still held the phone to his ear, looking increasingly bewildered and angry.

He lowered the phone, peered at the display once more, then stabbed the buttons with his thumb and raised it to his ear again.

‘Seems like whoever you are calling must be out, Mr Dervishi. Are you sure you are so very important?’

Then he heard the ping of an incoming text. It came from behind his boss, somewhere inside the cabin.

Dervishi turned his head, frowning.

Seconds later, there was another ping.

Dritan shook his head in disbelief. This could not be happening.

‘Phone!’ Dervishi screamed, suddenly, in blind terror. ‘Whose? Where is it? Throw it overboard for God’s sake — where the fuck is—?’

Sunday 13 August

22.00–23.00

Mungo was released from the Royal Sussex County Hospital shortly after 10 p.m. He had been thoroughly checked over, and the cut on his ear, and the wound on his neck from the wire noose had been dressed.

As Kipp Brown drove the Volvo SUV out of the grounds, Stacey sat in the rear, in the darkness, cuddling their very distressed son.

‘I’m sorry,’ the teenager said. ‘Are you mad at me, Dad? Mum?’

‘No, my love,’ she said. ‘We are not angry at you. We are just happy to have you back and safe. Aren’t we, darling?’

‘Sure,’ Kipp said, flatly. He would be having a stern conversation with Mungo later about all the trouble and the potential grief he had caused, but for now he was just relieved to have him back safely.

‘I thought — you know — like — you would want to kill me.’

‘Look, you’ve been through a horrendous thing, your mother and I love you very much, all we care about is you’re safe.’

‘Is Aleksander’s dad angry with him?’

‘I don’t know — I haven’t spoken to him. I think the police have been with him much of the time.’

‘Will Aleksander and I go to prison?’

‘No, darling, you won’t!’ his mother assured him.

‘I’ve ordered you a new iPhone,’ his father said. ‘It should arrive tomorrow.’

‘You have?’ Mungo sounded brighter. ‘Wow!’

Kipp drove along Eastern Road, travelling slowly behind a bus. His relief that his son was back with them and safe was clouded by one very big thing. The knowledge that he had against all the regulations taken a quarter of a million pounds from his client account, and that the money was gone — irretrievably, the police had confirmed. What the hell was he going to do?

He was already thinking about the bets he would place tomorrow. His luck had to change.

Had to.

Maybe getting Mungo back safely was the sign?

All his staff would be back at work in the morning. His Chief Operating Officer would discover what he had done and would grill him. The financial services industry was very strictly regulated. There was no way any of his team could risk jail sentences by covering for him. Somehow, he had to replace that money and fast. Very fast.