At one point he heard a siren and his hopes rose. But it howled on past them and away into the distance.
After what seemed an eternity, they stopped again and he was lifted out, clumsily, then carried a short distance. He could hear the sound of the sea and smelled salty air. Nothing else. Dead silence. No other clues as to where he might be. Then the footsteps of his captors. Their voices. They entered some kind of chamber and descended steps. Then he was dumped roughly on his back onto a hard, cold surface, with the sound of lapping water only inches away.
A moment later, he cried out in pain as the tape across his eyes was ripped off, and he lay blinking against the bright light of a torch. He cried out again as the tape over his mouth was also ripped off, forcefully.
‘Aleksander!’ he shouted. ‘Where is Aleksander?’
There was no response.
‘I’m desperate for a pee! Please! I have to pee!’
Again, no response.
‘I’m going to piss my pants. Please.’
‘So, piss in them,’ a voice said in heavily accented English.
A bottle of water was jammed between his lips.
He took a sip and spluttered as he choked. One of the men helped him sit up a little. The bottle was replaced by a chocolate bar and crammed into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. As soon as he had finished he was pushed, roughly, back down, a hand pinning him by the neck.
He shook in fear. Were they going to kill him? But they wouldn’t have given him a drink and food if they were going to do that, would they?
Was this Aleksander’s idea of a joke?
Fresh tape was pressed in place over his mouth and pulled tight against his cheeks. He saw the glint of a knife blade. Something tugged hard on his right ear and he let out a muffled scream as he felt a sudden searing pain in it. He saw a bandage raised in the air, then felt it taped over his burning ear. He felt something warm trickle down his neck.
Then he was lifted up again. Each of his captors taking an arm, he was carried down steps and into water that came up to his waist. The two men cursed as they splashed through it and down into what seemed like an underground chamber. Ahead was an ancient, partly submerged cannon, water slopping over its wooden plinth. They carried on, continuing through the water for some yards, towards it, the roar of the sea growing louder. Then he was hoisted up, his legs were grabbed and pushed backwards, and as he was lowered again his feet touched something solid and rested on it.
‘Look up,’ a voice said, shining the torch beam.
Mungo looked. And saw a metal hoop in the arched brick ceiling, high above him. From it was suspended a length of wire, ending in a noose.
‘Now look down,’ he was commanded.
He did what he was told, his terror increasing as he realized what was happening. His feet were on a block of concrete about two feet high and a little over one foot wide, that was under water. Then his arms, already bound with cord behind his back, were tugged further backwards, as he heard the clanking of a chain.
‘You be OK,’ one man said. ‘Tide going out. Is good. When tide come back in, is not so good.’ He laughed and so did his companion.
Strong hands on Mungo’s shoulders suddenly forced him down, and he sat on the narrow plinth of the cannon, water lapping over his waist. Then, despite his feeble attempt to resist, the noose was pulled down over his head and tightened round his neck. As he moved his head, he felt it sharp against his skin.
‘Like razor wire. You move, you die,’ one of the men said.
The other held up a phone and took a flash photograph. Then they began walking, splashing, away.
‘Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me,’ Mungo tried pleading. But it just came out as a series of muffled grunts. ‘I can’t move my arms. Please.’
He heard more laughter.
Footsteps receding, the bobbing beam of the torch fading away.
Mungo realized if he slipped off the plinth he would either hang or garrotte himself.
He sobbed in terror. He wanted his mother. His father. Aleksander.
Please help me.
63
Sunday 13 August
08.00–09.00
At a few minutes before 8.30 a.m., Roy Grace stood in the shower adjoining the Intel suite, then shaved and put on the fresh boxers and shirt he always kept in the office for such situations, swallowed a tepid coffee and grabbed a muffin from a tray someone had brought in.
He ate it while he strode across the Police HQ campus, in a strong, warm breeze. After a long night and just two hours of sleep he was feeling fractious and in a combative mood, ready for whatever crap Cassian Pewe might throw at him.
As he walked down the steep hill, towards the rear of the Queen Anne house where the brass had their offices, he saw a van emblazoned with the name VALETPRO. A man was busy polishing an immaculate, old-model convertible Jaguar XJS.
‘Nice shine!’ Grace said.
‘Thanks, black’s a difficult one.’ The man fished out a card and a product sampler. ‘If you need your car doing anytime, mate, we’re in the area.’
‘Whose car is this, by the way?’
‘Mr Pewe’s.’
‘Ah, right. That figures.’ He went into the building.
The Assistant Chief Constable’s assistant showed him in to the almost absurdly grand office, with its magnificent view out across Lewes and the South Downs. The one thing that put a smile on Grace’s face was the knowledge that with space on the HQ campus getting tighter and tighter, partly thanks to the rehousing of the East Sussex Fire and Rescue team here, soon Pewe might be having to share this with the other top brass.
As usual, the ACC sat behind his huge, neat desk in his crisp white shirt bearing the epaulettes with the gold ACC crescent, his fair hair, like the rest of him, immaculate. Without rising, he said in his voice that sounded snide even on the rare occasions when he was being pleasant, ‘Good morning, Roy, tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please, as strong as possible.’
Pewe barked a command into his intercom, then looked at him, leaving him standing. ‘Long night?’
‘You could say that.’
‘You are the Head of Major Crime for this county, Roy. In the last twenty-four hours, we’ve had a bomb threat at the Amex — which you responded to like a total madman, breaking every police regulation we have for dealing with such situations. A teenager kidnapped. Dismembered human remains found at Shoreham Harbour — which are still in the process of being recovered — and now the sudden death in hospital of the digger operator who found them. And on top of that a young woman dead at Gatwick Airport. What on earth is happening? Has the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team totally lost the plot?’
‘Hang on a minute, you can hardly hold me and my team personally responsible for all these incidents.’ Grace continued, facetiously, ‘I haven’t killed or dismembered anyone, to the best of my knowledge,’ although he thought at this very moment he would like to. More calmly than he felt, and still uninvited to sit, he gave an account of all that he was aware of.
Pewe listened pensively, making the occasional note with a fountain pen. When he had finished, the ACC looked down at his notes, then back up at him.
‘You are aware, are you not, of the current delicate situation with the Albanian community in our city? Of all the hard work that Inspector Boniface and PC Denero are putting in, trying to build bridges with them?’
‘Very aware, sir.’
‘The optics aren’t good. So, who’s driving the bus?’