Closer Than Blood: An addictive and gripping crime thriller
Paul Grzegorzek
You would do anything for your family. Wouldn’t you? A gripping crime thriller, perfect for fans of Peter James. ‘Writes with raw, engaging, authenticity’ Peter James The real nightmare begins when the missing person returns… PC Gareth Bell is about to arrest a cocaine dealer on Brighton Marina, when he makes a shocking discovery that turns his world upside down: the dealer is his long-lost brother, Jake, someone he thought had died years ago. But their reunion is short lived. For Jake is on the run from a cold-blooded killer, whose network reaches all the way into the police force itself. Now that his brother’s life is on the line, Bell has only two choices. Family, or duty?
Closer Than Blood
PAUL GRZEGORZEK
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
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KillerReads
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Copyright © Paul Grzegorzek 2019
Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Paul Grzegorzek asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008329990
Version: 2019-07-16
To all those who dedicate their lives to saving ours
Table of Contents
Cover (#u84cf3433-ecaf-5a1e-9bee-e3c8044e4496)
Title Page (#u2925ffc1-c13e-5dd7-bdd3-2f2e281b3593)
Copyright (#u997fc7bb-a7ae-55fa-9a84-5b053b24825a)
Dedication (#u58310b8a-551b-594a-adb1-278e2f9f2cf8)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Author’s Note
Keep Reading …
Also by Paul Grzegorzek
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter 1 (#u0b0d2862-92c5-5237-b960-fad7aaa8c638)
It’s been ten years since I killed a man. Not in cold blood, but in hot rage born of fear for those I loved. Ten years of terrible dreams by night and frustration by day. Ten years of watching those younger and less capable than me get promoted, while I remain an eternal sergeant, a relic at the back of the office no one is sure what to do with.
Killing a man tarnishes your soul as well as your reputation. I used to live by the creed that if I could look myself in the eye every morning and not feel ashamed then I was doing things right. Now, when I look at myself in the mirror I see a killer, a man who knows what he’s capable of when the chains come off.
After this long I’ve made some measure of peace with it, but I still have moments when the darkness rears up, trying to drag me back into those old memories of pain and blood and death.
“Contact, contact, we have eyeball on the X-ray.”
The voice jerked me back to the present and I straightened up behind the wheel, glancing across to my colleague, Tom. He was younger than me, somewhere in his mid-twenties, and he still had the fire and zeal that coppers radiate before they get burned out.
“Should we move, Sarge?” he asked, almost bouncing on the edge of his seat. No wonder; we’d been after our target for months now, slowly building up enough evidence to put him away for years. Eric Simmonds, charmer, socialite and club owner, with no fewer than three of Brighton’s premier entertainment venues displaying his name above the door. He is also, we discovered from a discontented former employee, responsible for a good twenty percent of the city’s cocaine distribution.
“Not yet. Let’s see which way he’s going first.”
Simmonds lived in one of the palatial flats in Palmeira Square, a hundred and fifty square metres of space in a building called Palmeira Grand that overlooks the sculpted public gardens.
It was home turf for me, just one street over from my flat, a tiny, functional place that was all I could afford after a messy divorce.
“X-ray is moving south into Palmeira Square, heading towards his car. Confirm he is carrying a black rucksack. Also wearing a red jacket and black trousers. I have the eyeball.”
“All received,” I said, touching the pressel hidden in my pocket to send. “Units two and three to box the square north and east. Tom and I will take south.”
I started the car and nosed out, ignoring the angry honk of a bus as I picked up speed.
“X-ray is to his car and is starting the engine, and we’re south, south, south towards King’s Road.”
I nodded to Tom who acknowledged the message, then pulled up as I reached the bottom of Lansdowne Place, two streets over from Simmonds. I wound down the window to dispel some of the muggy afternoon heat, but it didn’t help much.
“Unit one is in position,” I confirmed over the radio. “Give me an early head’s up east or west.”
“He’s towards town, confirming east.” That was unit three, which consisted of Phil Blunt, an old copper with a face like a bulldog, and Jane Finchley, a young but excellent copper who had made the Intelligence Unit after only two years in the job, a thing almost unheard of. It was her that spoke now. “He’s out of sight towards you.”
Simmonds’s silver Mercedes E-class flashed past the bottom of the road and I pulled out, leaving a car between us for cover.
“Confirmed unit one has the eyeball,” I said, glancing at Tom as I spoke so that to any casual onlooker we would appear to be having a conversation. “And he remains heading east on King’s Road. Unit’s two and three try and get ahead, unit four follow us and prepare to take eyeball if necessary.”
A series of confirming clicks came back through my earbud, a cunning little device that could only be seen by someone right next to me. Even then it would look like nothing more than a hearing aid.
I stayed back and ‘drove casual’, as my old sergeant would have put it, although I needn’t have worried. Simmonds was, as usual, oblivious, even when I had to run a red light to keep up with him.
“Any idea where he’s going, Sarge?” Tom asked, fingers drumming nervously on his seatbelt buckle.
“If I knew that, I’d be there already.”
“Good point.”
“I rather thought so.”
The traffic was surprisingly light, and we made good time as we followed Simmonds across town, always east along the seafront road until we were approaching the marina, the Georgian era white-painted houses on our left petering out to be replaced by drab modern buildings.
“He’s right, right into the marina,” Tom said for me as I switched lanes, curving back on ourselves and down the ramp towards the marina complex. As we looped and emerged from the tunnel, the sun broke out from behind the clouds, dappling the water ahead of us with a million sparkling reflections.
I picked up speed to keep Simmonds in sight. The ramp we were on led down to a roundabout, and from there he could go left into a superstore car park, right towards the cinema and Bowlplex, or straight on into the residential area where low, expensive blocks of flats looked out over the smooth waters inside the marina wall. Although there was only one way in or out by car, it would be easy to lose him in the maze-like roads.
Simmonds went right, his car little more than a flash of silver as he rounded the bend towards a multi-storey car park.
Tom updated the other units, now strung out behind us on the road, while I followed, seeing him turn in and drive straight through the entrance.
“Phil,” I called up, ignoring radio protocol. “You and Jane get to the marina security office and get eyes on their cameras. This place is a fucking maze and we can’t afford to lose him.”
“Received.” Phil’s voice, rough as a fifty-a-day smoker, cut across the airwaves like sandpaper on wood.
“Unit four, sit up on the exit ramp. In case we do lose him and he leaves. Unit two, follow us in, park by Asda and enter the car park on foot.”
A chorus of acknowledgements came over the radio as we entered the car park and I blinked furiously, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim light within.
“Up-ramp,” Tom said, pointing. I slapped his hand down.
“Don’t point, dickhead.”
“Sorry, Gareth.”
I headed for the ramp, then eased out to see Simmonds parking next to a beaten up, ancient-looking ford fiesta. A man leaned against the car, face hidden beneath the hood of his moth-eaten jacket, his fingers tearing an unlit cigarette to shreds. A large rucksack sat on the floor between his feet.
“What’s the betting that’s his contact?” I said, driving past and up half a level before sliding into a space. “Let’s go.”
The engine was barely off as we hurtled out of the car, running back the way we’d come. For us to get a successful conviction, we needed to catch Simmonds in possession of cocaine. So for the last three weeks we had bust all of his dealers, forced him to do some of the dirty work himself and limited his options. Instead of doing a deal in a back office somewhere we didn’t have eyes, it forced him to do things like meet strangers in public car parks to get his gear. It was a tried and tested tactic, and all the time it worked we would keep using it.
I slowed as we approached the ramp, holding out a hand to stop Tom from pelting past me. Our footfalls were too loud on the oil-stained concrete, and the slapping of running feet would no doubt alert our prey and ruin a righteous bust.
Slipping down the ramp like a ghost, I paused at the bottom, hidden by the concrete wall. Breaking every rule in the book, I eased half of my head around the corner to see Simmonds in conversation with the nervous man, talking animatedly and gesturing with his hands. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was anything but friendly.
I turned to Tom.
“I’m going to walk towards the exit door over there, then when I’m out of sight I’ll double back. You stay here and come running if it kicks off. Let the others know what’s happening and get unit four here fast, to hold on the ground floor.”
He nodded and I stepped out, my back towards Simmonds as I strolled towards the door in the far corner.
The conversation halted as I walked but I didn’t turn, instead pulling out my phone and tapping at the screen. I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the cavernous space, but kept moving towards the peeling, red-painted door until a nearby van blocked their line of sight.
From there, I hurried to the door and pushed it open with a creak that echoed through the car park. Then ducked and doubled back. Only once the door had shut again did the conversation resume. Crouching, I moved slowly and carefully along the backs of the cars, making sure to remain out of sight until I was close enough to hear what they were saying.
“… Don’t give a damn. We agreed a price and I expect you to stick to it!” Simmonds grated, but it was the other voice that made me pause.
“I’ve had some supply problems. I had to pay more, so you have to pay more. This isn’t a fucking charity.”
I knew that voice. Knew it like I knew my own yet still couldn’t place it. It felt like auditory déjà vu, or like a word you use every day that won’t come to mind when you need it, staying rooted on the tip of your tongue.
“No, it’s a fucking business,” Simmonds retorted, “and businesses are supposed to make money. If I pay what you’re asking, I’ll barely break even.”
“Then I’ll take my product somewhere else.” It was worse this time, like an itch I couldn’t scratch. It took every scrap of self-control I had not to stand up, stride towards them and pull back that hood to see the face hidden within.
“Alright, alright. How much can I get for what we originally agreed on?”
“Five kilos, I reckon. That way you’re only down one, we both make a bit and job’s a good’un.”
“Jake?” I stood up suddenly, a roaring sound in my ears. The world seemed to narrow to a single point as I began walking towards them.
Simmonds stared at me in alarm.
“Who the fuck is that?” he demanded, beginning to backpedal.
The man in the hood whipped around and his hood fell back. A face that I knew better than almost any other in the world. Eyes I had seen countless times before, that had watched me grow from a boy to a man before their owner disappeared. He looked shocked at first, then his sharp features dropped into a grin that was equal parts pleasure, guilt and chagrin.
“Gareth. Well fuck me. Simmonds, this is Gareth, my brother. Oh, and if I were you I’d run, because last I heard he was a copper too, and if he’s here it means they’re on to you.”
Chapter 2 (#u0b0d2862-92c5-5237-b960-fad7aaa8c638)
For a split second no one moved, then all of us burst into action at once.
Jake and I hadn’t seen each other since he’d disappeared so many years before, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing the rucksack and shoving his way past Simmonds, knocking the older man down, then sprinting towards the ramp on the far side of the car park.
“Runner!” I shouted over the radio, trying to recover from shock as my feet began to move after him of their own accord.
As I ran, I realised just how badly I’d screwed up. Instead of catching our target with a bag full of drugs, I’d disrupted the deal before the exchange could be made and now the evidence was being carried away by the brother I’d assumed had died of an overdose years before.
I heard Tom behind me, feet slapping on the concrete as he sprinted for Simmonds, but I was already out of sight and down the ramp before he reached the downed man.
I hit the bottom of the ramp at full speed, not far behind Jake as he ran for the exit barrier. Unit four, the Barry’s as we called them, was just coming through, but Jake must have pegged them for coppers and dived to his right and over the barrier, dropping ten feet to the road outside with barely a break in his stride.
I jumped after him, landing badly and feeling a twinge in my knee that I tried to ignore as he tore across the plaza in front of the Bowlplex and headed for the sea wall.
“Stop!” I yelled, but Jake didn’t even look back, instead picking up the pace. He’d always been a fast runner as a kid, and it seemed that years of drug abuse hadn’t slowed him any.
He reached the steps to the wall ten metres ahead of me, the nagging pain in my knee turning to stabs of molten fire as I pushed on, scattering people left and right. By the time I reached the top of the stairs his lead had doubled, but I knew there was nowhere for him to go so I eased up a little. I could see the Barry’s now, their bald heads bobbing as they climbed the steps on the far side, boxing Jake in.
“There’s nowhere to run, Jake,” I called, catching my breath, pushing past a couple out for a stroll. “Just give it up.”
Jake spun and his grin died as he spotted the Barry’s heading towards him. Looking around hurriedly, he leapt up onto the top of the wall, leaving nothing between him and the hard sea twenty metres below.
“You don’t understand, Gareth.”
“This I understand,” I countered. “What I don’t understand is you stealing from Dad and disappearing. We thought you were dead?”
A flicker of pain crossed my brother’s face at the mention of our dad. I edged closer. “You know he’s dying?”
“Dad?”
“Yeah. Cancer. He’s in a hospice. Days left at best. Come down off the wall and maybe we can go and see him together. He’d like that.”
“Sure he would.” I could hear the pain in his words, or maybe it was guilt. “I live in a different world now Gareth, and no matter how much of a shit I might be, I’m not bringing that to his door.”
I stepped towards the wall, ignoring the ring of worried-looking public that was forming to watch Jake’s antics. One man stepped forward to say something, but I flashed my badge at him and he backed off looking relieved.
“You know,” I said, striving for a conversational tone and not missing by too far, “that sea will be like concrete from this height. You hit that, you’re going to break your legs. Just come down, give me the bag and we can talk.”
“You never used to listen to me,” he said, shaking his head, “but take my advice this time – just for once. I’m fucked. I’m in deep with some very nasty people. You take what’s in this bag and I’m dead. Sorry, but I’ll take the chance of broken legs over a slit throat in a prison cell.”
“Don’t.”
I would have said more but without another word Jake jumped, arms and legs flailing as he plunged towards the water below. Someone in the crowd screamed, and I rushed to the wall in time to see him stretch into a surprisingly graceful dive, hitting the water with a splash so loud I could hear it from high above.
I waited for him to surface, not realising that I was holding my breath until my lungs began to burn, but even after the Barry’s reached me there was no sign. I couldn’t even begin to process how I felt, having found the brother I thought was dead only to lose him again in the space of moments. I was still standing there, staring out at the whitecaps racing towards the shore in the slowly fading sunlight when the lifeboats arrived, followed soon after by the chugging roar of a coastguard helicopter.
It wasn’t until my boss arrived, striding up the steps like fury personified, that I turned from the sea to face the storm of shit that was about to blow my way.
Chapter 3 (#u0b0d2862-92c5-5237-b960-fad7aaa8c638)
In my experience there are three types of people who make Inspector. Those who are good at the job and settle into it like a comfortable coat, those who hang around for a couple of years before being promoted, and finally those who have risen as far as they will ever go and so wield their modicum of power with an unpleasant intensity that burns anyone who challenges it. There are exceptions to that rule, of course, but Toby Pike wasn’t one of them. Tall and thin with straw-coloured hair that stuck out at odd angles and wrapped in a long brown mac over his suit despite the clement weather, he looked like nothing so much as an angry scarecrow.
“What kind of fucked up operation do you think you’re running?” he demanded as we stood by his car, abandoned at the bottom of the steps to the marina wall. “My fucking nephew could run a better follow and he’s three!”
Unfortunately, in this case he was right.
“There were complications,” I admitted, “and yes, I fucked up.”
“Royally.” He scowled first at me, then at the team who hung back, unwilling to get too close in case they ended up sharing the outpouring of wrath. “What have we got, eh? Nothing, that’s what.”
“We’ve got Simmonds in custody.”
“For what?”
“Well, money laundering for a start. He had fifty grand in that backpack, and I’ll bet he can’t explain where it came from.”
“I’ll take that bet, his solicitor is a devious little prick.”
“Then there’s this.” I held up my phone and replayed the audio I’d started recording in the car park while pretending to text on my phone. It was tinny, but you could clearly hear the conversation between Simmonds and Jake. I shut it off just at the part where I stood up.
Pike listened to it carefully, then shook his head.
“Still isn’t conclusive, ‘product’ could mean anything. What the hell were you thinking, showing out like that?”
“I wasn’t,” I said. “I know I blew it, but the second man. He was my brother.”
“Your brother is a drug dealer?” He eyed me suspiciously, no doubt wondering why he didn’t already know something that important.
“Actually, I thought he was dead. He disappeared years ago.” Even now the words intensified the ache in my gut. Rotten apple he might be, but he was still my brother and we’d been close as kids.
“Well he probably is now,” Pike said with his usual lack of tact. “But I guess that’s for PSD to sort out. Have they still got you on speed dial?”
PSD, or professional standards, are the British version of Internal Affairs. I’d had more than my fair share of run-ins with them, it was true, but I’d kept my nose clean for a long time now and Pike’s attitude was starting to rankle.
“I doubt it,” I said, trying not to rise to the bait. “Most of the people who were in PSD last time I was in trouble have probably retired by now. Was there anything else, sir? Only we’ve got a prisoner, and I need to debrief the team.”
Pike stared at me for a while, clearly trying to figure out how to push my buttons a little more effectively. He was always like this, snide comments and not-so-subtle digs designed to rouse my infamous temper. It might have worked ten years ago, but I was older now. A little wiser and despite my stalled career, very keen not to lose my job.
“Sir?”
“Fine.” Pike sighed. “Get your team debriefed and the prisoner handed over to uniform, then check in later. By then I’ll no doubt have a better idea of just how badly you fucked up.”
Burying an angry retort, I nodded and waved the team over. I moved far enough away until Pike was out of earshot, then looked at the expectant faces surrounding me.
“Firstly, I want to apologise,” I began, squaring my shoulders. “I screwed it up. For those of you who haven’t pieced it together by now, the man Simmonds was meeting was my brother. I won’t bore you with the reasons, but when I realised it was him it threw me. It was stupid and unprofessional and it blew months of our, your, hard work.”
One of the Barry’s shrugged and looked around at the others.
“We still get paid the same, right? Not like we’re on commission. Besides, Simmonds is in custody and we’ll get him for something. Seems to me like that’s still half a win.”
The others nodded and I felt more than a little relieved. The rest of the force could think whatever they wanted about me, but I needed the trust of my team or I had nothing.
“Thank you. I can promise you it won’t happen again. Now, who wants to take a trip up to custody to book Simmonds in and deal with the property? I don’t want to let that cash out of our sight until it’s locked away in the store. Barry, Jane, well volunteered.”
The officers I’d picked nodded and walked towards the marked van that had arrived to transport Simmonds. I looked at the rest of the team.
“Right, the rest of you follow me back to the nick, then we can have a chat with CID about interviewing our prisoner.”
I began to walk back to the spot where we’d left the car, only to feel a hand on my arm. I slowed as Phil spoke quietly in my ear, his gravelly voice a rumble like a rockslide in an earthquake.
“You OK? What about your brother?”
“What about him?” I forced myself to sound cheerful, despite the sick feeling in my gut and the little voice in my head telling me that he was dead for real this time. “He’s a tough nut, always was. A quick dip in the sea is nothing.”
“You can’t kid a kidder, Gareth. You know you’d be perfectly within your rights to take some time off, what with your dad, and now this.”
“What I don’t need,” I replied emphatically, “is time to think. I need to keep busy. I appreciate the concern though.”
“Then at least stay here and wait to see if they find him. If it was me I’d be up on that wall right now. You go back to the nick and you’ll be useless.”
“I’ve got a job to do.”
“No disrespect, but any one of us can cover you for a few hours. Stay here, let me speak to CID and the others will do whatever else needs doing. We’ve got this, you go look for your brother.”
I slowed, then stopped. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Stay.”
“OK, but call me if you need me, yeah?”
He nodded again and I turned, heading back towards the wall.
Pike saw the movement and watched me as I crossed the plaza and climbed the steps again. He stared for a moment then got back in his car, face unreadable.
I tried to find it in me to care, but instead all I felt inside was emptiness as I returned to the place where my brother had dropped into the cold waters below.
Chapter 4 (#u0b0d2862-92c5-5237-b960-fad7aaa8c638)
It was dark when they finally called off the search. I stayed there on the wall, eyes searching the waves as lifeboats and a coastguard dinghy cut frothy white lines in the water.
Sometime during the evening a thoughtful police officer, one of those waiting nearby in case anything was found, had brought me a cup of coffee, but other than that I’d been left alone with my thoughts.
What I wanted, I realised, was closure. Even though Dad and I had given up hope, I realised now that a tiny part of me had never really believed that Jake was dead. Now I faced the same agony again, and I admitted to myself that I would rather know he was dead than spend more years wondering. Criminal he might be, but he was my brother and a part of me still loved him.
“Sarge?” The voice made me turn to see a young officer, face all but hidden in the twilight.
“What’s up?”
“They’re calling off the search, too dark.” He sounded apologetic.
“Thanks, I hadn’t realised how late it was.”
“You need a lift back?”
“No thanks,” I shook my head. “I’ve got a car nearby.”
He nodded and left. I stayed there a while longer, shivering slightly as the wind picked up, bringing with it the briny scent of the sea. Then, when the lights dotted along the top of the wall began to glow faint orange, I turned and made my way back to the car. I was dreading what I had to do next. I had two choices, and each one left me with a sour taste in my mouth. Did I tell my dad that Jake had been alive that morning, allowing him the false hope that that might still be the case, or did I stay quiet and lie by omission? What made it worse was that I couldn’t get his advice on the matter. Ever since I was young he’d been the one I turned to when I had a problem I couldn’t solve on my own, and I’d come to rely on his support the same way I relied on the fact there was air to breathe.
By the time I reached the Hospice in Woodingdean, a little under ten minutes’ drive from the marina, I still hadn’t made a decision.
It was beautiful, with sprawling red-brick buildings and gardens both sculpted and natural-looking, and it occurred to me that there were worse places to spend your last days. They had managed to instil an air of tranquillity, and as I climbed out of the car and walked towards the door I could barely hear the traffic passing on the busy road nearby.
I punched the code into the door and heard the lock release, letting myself in to be hit by the smell of roast beef and baked bread. Unlike the hospital Dad had been in until recently, the food here was excellent and right up to the point he’d lost his appetite he was constantly remarking that he hadn’t eaten so will since Mum was with us.
I waved at one of the nurses as I climbed the stairs to his room. Dad had only been here for a week but already I was a familiar face, coming as I did both before and after work every day. I paused outside his door and knocked loudly, hearing the muffled sounds of the TV through the wood.
“Come.”
I opened it and stepped inside, forcing a smile as he saw me and beamed.
“Dad,” I crossed to the bed and gave him a careful hug. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad, all things considered. Managed a bit of beef today.”
“That’s good.” I pulled up an armchair and sunk into it. He looked, for want of a better phrase, like death. Never a small man, despite his short stature, he had ballooned in the last few years. The only exercise he’d had since Mum passed away had been walking the dog, Lily. But when she too passed on Dad had done little more than potter around the garden. Now, his skin hung in yellow folds, drooping towards his jaw. Dark circles rimmed his feverish eyes, and he looked more frail than I had ever thought to see him. I turned away and stared at the TV.
“What you watching?” I blinked to bring the blurry figures into focus.
“Gardening programmes, mostly. Speaking of which, Sylvia from number 72 popped in to see me earlier, I’ve agreed to do her garden when I’m back on my feet.”
I looked at him, unsure what to say. Pancreatic cancer wasn’t the sort of thing you ‘got back on your feet’ from, and my father was not a stupid man, but there were times when he acted as though he had nothing more than a touch of the flu.
“I’m not stupid,” he said, echoing my thoughts, “but I’m hoping I’ll rally enough to get outside one more time at least.”
“I hope so, Dad, I really do.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see. Have you eaten? I’m sure they’ll feed you if you’re hungry, they always offer.”
The tears came then, and I couldn’t stop them. Here he was on his deathbed, still trying to look after me instead of the other way around.
“Don’t,” he warned, his voice thick, “or you’ll start me off.”
“Sorry Dad, I just …” I reached out and took his hand, surprised at how strong his grip was even now.
“I know.”
I sniffed a few times and shook my head, then suddenly I reached a decision.
“Dad, Jake’s alive.” I blurted the words out before I could change my mind.
The grip, strong before, became iron.
“Say that again.”
“Jake’s alive, or at least he was this afternoon.”
Behind his glasses, Dad’s eyes grew wide. “What? How?”
“It’s a bit complicated.”
“Just tell me!” My fingers grew white from the strength of his grip. I sighed in relief as he finally released my hand and pushed himself up on his pillows.
And so I told him, relaying the whole thing from start to finish and leaving nothing out. By the time I finished, he too was crying, silent tears running down his cheeks to lose themselves in the folds of skin around his jaw.
“Gareth,” he said after a long moment. “You have to find him. I don’t care what he’s done, I need to know that he’s safe. Please, Gareth.”
“Dad,” I warned, “If I see him I’m going to have to arrest him. Anything less and I might lose my job or worse. Besides, he might not even be alive, there’s no guarantee he survived that fall.”
“He did, he must have done. Everything happens for a reason, my boy, and Jake reappearing now can’t be coincidence. And at least if you arrest him I know he’ll be safe.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start looking.”
“Really? I can already think of one place you might try.”
“Where?”
“You told him I was here, right?”
“Not where exactly, but I told him you were in a hospice.”
“Then he knows my place is empty. Where better to hide than somewhere you already know?”
The moment he said it I knew he was right. Jake might not want to bring trouble to Dad, but if Dad wasn’t there then the bungalow would be a perfect spot for him to lay low.
“Are you sure you want me to do this?” I asked, standing reluctantly. Some tiny part of me was, I realised, jealous of the fact that Dad was so desperate to see Jake, despite everything he’d done. I pushed it away as he spoke, back into the darkness that spawned it.
“Gareth, I’ve never asked you for anything, have I? Well, I’m asking now and if it makes a difference you can consider it a dying wish. Find out where Jake is, find out what kind of trouble he’s in and for the love of God, if you can do it, keep him safe.”
Chapter 5 (#u0b0d2862-92c5-5237-b960-fad7aaa8c638)
Dad’s bungalow was up a steep hill called, unimaginatively, Hillside, at the top of Woodingdean, a few miles to the east of Brighton. At the end of the road, the chalk hills of the downs curved away east and west, while from the garden you could see the sea to the south.
The road itself was quiet, the homes little more than slashes of light escaping from around drawn curtains to disappear in the dark evening. The evening wind had died down now, and as the darkness deepened it brought with it an oppressive mugginess that made even the short walk from the car to the house sticky and unpleasant.
I could see lights on in Dad’s place as I approached, although that could be the timer I’d installed to make it look as though someone was always in. I moved as quietly as I could along the side of the building, feet still crunching on gravel as I passed forlorn-looking plants that were usually so well-tended. As if the house was a reflection of Dad’s health, once hale and hearty but rapidly slipping into decay.
Taking out my keys, I searched for the right one by feel and slid it softly into the lock on the side door, hearing it bump gently against the tumblers. With a careful twist it opened silently. Even after all these years, I still expected Lily to bark as she ran at the door, but the kitchen was empty.
I closed the door in silence and crept across the faded lino towards the small hallway. Although technically a bungalow, the loft had been turned into bedrooms when we were kids, and so I headed up the stairs, avoiding the ones that squeaked with an ease born from years of midnight raids on the fridge.
The light was on in Jake’s old room, fingers of it creeping out from under the door. I placed my ear against it and heard movement within. Taking a breath, I put a hand on the handle and turned it sharply, bursting into the room to see Jake, now dressed in some of my old clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hands.
He was off the bed in a flash, fist flying towards my face. I ducked it easily, slamming an open hand into his chest and hurling him back onto the bed.
“Jake, it’s me!”
He paused in the act of scrambling back to his feet and I saw realisation dawn. He stood slowly, favouring his right leg and keeping the bed between us.
“Didn’t think you’d come here.” His eyes never left mine, as if I was a snake that might bite him if he turned away.
“Dad thought you’d be here.”
“You told him? Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because he deserves to know! He’s got days left, maybe a week at best, and I couldn’t bear the thought of him going to his grave not knowing what had happened to you. He wants to see you.”
“No way.” Jake shook his head. “I wasn’t kidding earlier. The guys looking for me are the worst kind. If they even get a sniff of where Dad is, they’ll hurt him just to draw me out. Tell him … tell him I’m sorry, and that I love him, but I can’t go. You try and make me and you’ll be hurting Dad as much as it hurts me.”
I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, folding my arms.
“Then tell me who they are.”
“Look, I know you don’t leave shit alone, so the less I tell you, the better for all of us. These people won’t give a damn that you’re a copper, they’ll still leave you in a ditch.”
“Then surely I’m safer if I know what might be coming my way?”
“Gareth, leave it! This is not a problem you can solve. I pissed off the wrong people, and the only way I come out of this with my skin intact is by getting enough money for a new identity and a flight somewhere obscure. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Then tell me where you’ve been, at least. It’s been almost twenty years.”
“That long? Shit. I’ve been around, London and Glasgow mostly. I’m off the brown now, but I was on it for years. Nearly died a few times, from bad shit or too much, but now,” he paused and pointed to himself, looking slightly ludicrous in trousers that were too short topped with an ancient Christmas jumper, “I’m a respectable businessman.”
“Respectable?”
“Respected?”
“Really?” I raised an eyebrow.
“OK, maybe not but I can turn a profit.”
“Which is why you’re so popular with whoever is after you, I guess.”
“Sort of.”
“Come on, if you can’t tell me who, at least tell me why.”
“I, uh, I may have borrowed some of their product.”
“You stole cocaine? You idiot. How much?”
“Six kilos.”
I stared at him, unable to find any words. He looked much as I remembered him, a little more meat on his frame perhaps. Like me, his dark curly hair was now suffering from the inevitable creep of grey, but his face was thinner than mine and his nose a little longer. Other than that our features were eerily similar, and no one looking at us could confuse us for anything other than brothers. It was like looking at a warped reflection, and I wondered if right now we both had the same haunted look in our eyes.
“Let me get this right. You stole six kilos of cocaine?” He nodded. “Who even has six kilos of cocaine?”
“Nasty bastards, usually.”
“Just how nasty are we talking, Jake?”
“Skin your face and rub it in salt nasty.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
I realised then that he had been right earlier. If I arrested him, he would be fair game for whoever was after him. The sort of people who had six kilos of coke lying around had the kind of clout that could get anyone killed, inside prison or out, with a click of their fingers. I wasn’t sure if I could keep the promise I’d made Dad, but arresting Jake would be the first step in the wrong direction.
I looked at him, standing there like a caged animal, ready to fly at the slightest provocation, and suddenly felt a tremendous wash of guilt. Jake was still my brother, yet all I’d shown him was anger and disappointment. Before he could react, I darted across the room and grabbed him in a bear hug, smelling the salty tang of the sea on his skin as I squeezed him tight.
“I missed you, you fucking idiot,” I said as he initially struggled to get free, then relaxed a little and began to pat me on the back. “Even with everything that’s happened, I missed you. Me and Dad both.”
“Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely. As I drew back I could see a glint in his eye that looked suspiciously like a tear. “Me too. Wanted to call pretty much every day at first, but the longer I was away, the harder it became and eventually it felt like it was too late.”
“It was never too late,” I replied gruffly, releasing him and stepping back as something made my own eyes sting. “We’re family, Jake, and there’s nothing closer than blood.”
He nodded and took a step towards the window, then winced and bent to put a hand on his knee.
“You OK?” I asked.
“You were right,” he replied, still rubbing his knee, “water was like concrete. Thought I’d broken my legs when I hit.”
“Speaking of which, how did you not get spotted by the life boats?”
“There’s loads of metalwork on the outside of the marina. I used it to pull myself around to the other side. Couldn’t get my legs to work at first, and then the sea caught me and sucked me down. I thought I was done for, but it pushed me against the wall and I grabbed hold of the first thing I found. While the boats were all searching for me on the east side, I was already halfway across the west. Only bit I had to swim across was the marina entrance and my legs had come back to life by then.”
“Bet your drugs didn’t like being dipped in the sea.”
“Don’t matter, the bag’s got a waterproof liner.” He reached over and hefted the bag with a grin. “I’ve still got six kilos of finest …”
The grin faltered as he remembered who he was talking to. “So what am I supposed to do with you?” I moved to sit on the end of his bed. The room hadn’t changed since Jake had left, and I stared idly at the ancient Manchester United strip that graced his duvet covers.
Jake sat on the far side of the bed, careful to keep out of reach. I guessed that years of living in the murky world of drugs had eroded his faith in anyone but himself. His eyes kept flicking to my hands, as if waiting for me to jump him, or maybe he was worried I’d try and hug him again.
“Just let me do my thing,” he said finally. “I only came down to Brighton again because the market here isn’t connected to … to the people looking for me. It’s one of the few places I can sell it without getting caught.”
“You want me to leave you alone so that you can sell drugs in my town and disappear?”
“Well, yeah.”
“No way. Tell you what. You leave now, walk out that door and don’t come back. Go wherever the hell you like, but you leave my city alone. I can’t and won’t protect you if you try and sell your shit here. There are plenty of other places.”
“You don’t understand, they’ve got eyes everywhere else!”
“Then tell me who the fuck they are!” I thundered, standing again to loom over my brother. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me anything.”
“Fine.” Jake stood, shouldering his bag. “I’ll go. Say hi to Dad for me.”
He stormed out onto the landing and down the stairs. I heard the front door open and waited for it to slam shut. There was a moment of silence. And then something that sounded suspiciously like the smack of flesh on flesh, followed by a sharp cry and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Jake’s enemies, it seemed, had found him after all.
Chapter 6 (#u0b0d2862-92c5-5237-b960-fad7aaa8c638)
I was moving less than a second later, barrelling out of the door and down the stairs to see Jake in a heap on the doormat. Above him stood a bear of a man in a black thigh-length leather jacket that strained to contain his biceps and shoulders. He looked up in surprise and then I was on him, one foot lashing out to catch him under the kneecap while my fists struck chest, cheek and jaw.
The man’s head snapped backwards with the force of the punches, blows designed to drop a man in his tracks. But then he shook himself and lumbered towards me, dark eyes flaring with anger.
He stomped on Jake’s arm as he came, and I heard the sound of grinding bone as I backed off to give myself some space.
The hallway was narrow. My opponent filled it from wall to wall as he raised his fists in a guard, elbows at eye level. Whatever the outcome, I had the distinct impression that this was going to hurt.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” I said, stopping as I reached the centre of the hall, a small square that led to all the other downstairs rooms, “but this is private property. I suggest you leave.”
My only answer was a meaty first, hurled at my head faster than I would have thought someone that big could move. I ducked to one side, grabbed the wrist and twisted his arm so that his elbow was pointing up, dropping my own elbow onto it with a force honed by years of kung fu and street fighting combined.
To my amazement, the joint cracked but didn’t break, causing the man to roar and shake me off before hammering a fist into my ribs that I was too slow to block.
I gasped as the pain hit, then felt a lazy grin forming as my body’s chemical cocktail kicked in, flooding my system with its mixture of endorphins, adrenaline and half a dozen other useful things. Concern over my brother, fear over fighting an unknown opponent who looked as if he could kill me, everything faded away but the need to beat him, to win.
You see, I love fighting, always have. Right or wrong, I relish the chance to slip the chains free and leap into the fray, testing myself against those who think they can best me. When the adrenaline flows it’s as if I’m a different person, playing by a different set of rules.
The bear came in again, throwing fast, sharp jabs that would have broken my nose and cheekbone if they’d connected. Instead, I slapped his fist past me with an open hand, pushing him off line, then spun and dropped to sweep his legs.
It half-worked. Given the limited space, all it did was throw him into the wall rather than take him off his feet, but he was disorientated and facing away from me, and so I leaped into the air and drove my elbow into the nerve point on the back of his shoulder, putting my full bodyweight behind it.
The big man collapsed, legs turning to jelly as his body lost control. I landed behind him, slamming a quick knee into his temple to make sure he stayed down.
The real world flooded back. The sound of my harsh breathing echoed loud in my ears, my hands shaking with the now-unneeded chemicals in my system.
I took a moment, breathing deeply, then dropped to my knees and put two fingers to Jake’s neck to check his pulse. I sighed with relief when I found it, rolling him over to see a large, purple bruise already forming on his jaw.
“Hey,” I slapped Jake gently and was rewarded with the sight of his eyes flickering open. “I need you with me, wake up.”
“What happened?” He sat up slowly, putting a hand to his head.
“That man-mountain over there hit you.”
He looked past me and his eyes widened.
“Oh shit. What have you done?”
“What have I done? I’ve gone and bloody saved your life is what, you ungrateful shit!”
“No, you don’t understand,” he shook his head and then hissed with the pain from his battered skull. “You can’t lay hands on these guys, no matter what. You do and the rest will kill you.”
“Oh come on,” I scoffed. “You’re expected to just let them do whatever they want without fighting back?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Bullshit. You know what? I’ve had enough of this. I don’t doubt that you’re in danger, but if this is the worst they can throw at you then I reckon I can keep you safe enough in custody.”
“No, Gareth, please.” Jake stood shakily, holding his hands out. “I promise you, they’ll kill me. Just let me disappear. If I get a few hours’ head start, I’ll bury myself so deep they’ll never find me.”
“And I’d forgotten how full of shit you can be. What was I thinking? Come on, let’s go.”
I grabbed him before he could protest, forcing him towards the door.
“I’m going to get you in the car, then I’m calling this in and coming back to make sure sleeping beauty there doesn’t wake up before the cavalry arrives.”
What I didn’t tell him was that my cuffs were in the car, and that he’d be wearing them before I left him alone for a second. I’d swallowed the story earlier, and I had no doubt that some of it was true, but Jake’s attempts to make his enemies sound like they were evil incarnate just seemed a little too farfetched.
Right up to the point that we stepped outside and saw the other two men, loitering at the end of the path with their pistols pointed towards the door.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_fb9cdf5e-e023-5bcd-a942-6d0a169d91a5)
Years of street-honed reflexes kicked in. I grabbed Jake by the collar and pulled him backwards, collapsing through the doorway as the soft sound of silenced shots hissed through the air.
Chips of wood flew out of the porch and doorframe, some of the rounds punching through to bury themselves in the floorboards near our feet.
I kicked the door shut and got to my hands and knees, Jake right behind me as we scrabbled up the stairs.
“You fucking arsehole,” I found myself muttering over and over as the sound of shots was replaced by feet crunching on gravel.
We ran into Dad’s room and I looked around for something to use as a barricade. Although the door was locked, it wouldn’t take someone long to break through it.
“Help me with this.” I pointed at the heavy oak wardrobe against one wall. “Push it towards the door but leave a gap so we can tip it.”
Jake nodded, face pale with fear, but moved to help. Even with the two of us straining at it, we nearly couldn’t shift the monstrous wardrobe. How anyone had managed to get it up the stairs in the first place I had no idea.
As we half-dragged, half-shoved it into position, the sound of the front door being kicked in echoed through the house. Using more haste than care, I rocked the wardrobe over so that the top of it wedged itself against the door, forming a barrier that I doubted anyone would get through without a chainsaw.
That done, I pulled my phone out and dialled three nines.
“This is Charlie Papa 291,” I almost shouted as the stairs creaked outside. “I’m at seventy-four, repeat seven four Hillside, Woodingdean. I have armed intruders in the house and need urgent assistance. Confirm they have firearms and have fired on an officer.”
To give her credit, the call taker barely missed a beat as she plugged Ops One, the Inspector in charge of the control room, into the call.
His voice came on, clear but tense.
“Charlie Papa 291, confirm you have a firearms incident?”
“Yes!”
“Understood, we have units en route to you now. How many assailants?”
“Two, both armed with pistols. We’ve barricaded ourselves in one of the bedrooms upstairs.”
The door shuddered as someone threw their shoulder against it. I added my weight to the wardrobe and prayed it was thick enough to stop a bullet.
“OK, who is in there with you?”
“I’ve got one in custody for drug offences, it’s just us.”
“OK, understood. Gareth, right?”
“Yeah.” I flinched as a silenced shot sent a bullet burrowing through the door and into the back of the wardrobe with a dull thud. It struck the inside of the door behind me, knocking me forward slightly as it lodged in the wood. “Jesus! They’re shooting again.”
“We have a Hotel Foxtrot unit making from Lewes, short ETA. Can you hold out?”
“I fucking hope so.”
“OK Gareth.” He spoke to me the way you would a wounded animal, a soothing voice in the middle of what could be my final moments. I realised then how scared I was. This wasn’t a scrap, something that would result in broken bones at worst. No, this was someone determined and well able to kill us, and that thought was enough to make my knees shake.
Nothing we could do would stop these men from shooting us if they got through the door. No amount of training was enough to guarantee taking a gun off someone, and all it would take was for the second shooter to stand back and pick me off no matter how lucky I might be with the first.
A noise from the back of the room made me look up to see Jake opening the skylight window and hauling himself up on the sill.
“Jake,” I hissed, covering the microphone with my thumb. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“It’s me they’re after,” he whispered back. “I’ll get out and draw them away.”
“No you bloody won’t,” I growled, taking a step towards him.
The moment I took my weight off, the door opened a crack and the wardrobe threatened to topple. A pistol poked through and fired shots at random into the room.
Throwing myself against the wardrobe, I was rewarded with a grunt of pain and the hand withdrew. The door slammed shut again, giving me a chance to look back at Jake, or rather the space where he’d been. While I’d been saving our lives, my brother had taken the chance to run away.
Part of me hoped that he would draw them off, but long seconds passed and the shoving from the other side of the door didn’t lessen. Then, I heard the sound of an engine starting outside and patted the pocket where I kept my car keys. Where they had been until moments ago.
I closed my eyes. Somehow, in the midst of everything that had happened, Jake had managed to pick my pocket and was now escaping in a job car. The only way the day could get worse was if my assailants actually managed to shoot me.
As if on cue, both men began firing, rounds punching through the door and slamming into the wardrobe. Wood began to splinter, and I turned myself to one side to narrow my profile as much as possible, still leaning against the doors to keep them out.
Then, faintly, I heard the sound of approaching sirens echoing off the hills.
“The cavalry are coming!” I yelled. “Hear that you bastards? They’re coming for you!”
The shots stopped. Feet pounded down the stairs. A moment later I heard another car start, then pull away with a squeal of tyres.
Exhausted, I slumped down against the wardrobe, not daring to move it in case they’d left a shooter behind. I was still sat there, shaking with the aftermath of the adrenaline, when the world turned strobing blue and booted feet ran towards the house.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_5c06fe9e-968a-54a8-8fc2-00a2798a8f54)
“Jesus, Gareth, what the fuck have you gotten yourself into now?”
I looked up from where I sat, huddled under a blanket on the wall outside the bungalow, and grinned despite the circumstances. In amongst the flurry of uniforms and SOCOs milling around, the newly minted Inspector Jimmy Holdsworth, my old partner, was making his way towards me with a look that was half concern, half relief at seeing me in one piece.
“Inspector Holdsworth.” I threw a lazy salute. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Charlie Golf nine-nine,” he replied, giving the call sign for the inspector in charge of the division. “So they’ve called me in to sort your mess out. What happened?”
“Jake.”
“Your brother? Don’t tell me he did this?”
“No,” I shook my head and began patting Jimmy’s pockets until I found his cigarettes. “But the guys who did were after him.”
I took two cigarettes from the packet, then slipped one back when Jimmy shook his head and passed me a lighter. I lit mine and coughed, it had been almost a year since I’d last smoked.
“So,” Jimmy continued. “What actually happened?”
I glanced at the still form of the man I’d knocked out as he was carted off on an ambulance gurney. He was still unconscious, but as a precaution they had handcuffed him to the metal arms of the trolley and had three officers with him, two of them armed with tasers. “I had a bad day.”
“No shit. I could do with some details though. Come on, I’ll give you a lift back to the nick to write your statement and you can tell me on the way. They’ve got it in hand here.”
And so, as we drove back into the city, I relayed the entire day’s events to my old friend, leaving nothing out. If there was one person in the world aside from my dad that I could trust with anything, it was Jimmy. His stabbing was the reason I went off the rails all those years ago, that and his subsequent kidnapping by the same people. I got the impression that he felt he still owed me somehow.
“What are you going to do?” he asked as we pulled into the back yard of John Street Police Station.
“Nothing stupid. I reckon my best bet is to go and write a bloody good statement, then go home and get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
I was about to open my door and clamber out when Jimmy’s radio blasted, a flat, ugly sound that meant an officer was in distress. Half a second later, a panicked voice began screaming over the airwaves.
“1020, 1020, urgent assistance! They’re attacking the ambulance!”
Jimmy and I stared at each other in shock as the controller’s voice came over the radio, her tone calm but words fast.
“CC106, message received. What’s your location? Units are coming, but we need to know where you are.”
“I don’t know, we’re in the back of the ambulance. Near the hosp … Oh shit, they’ve got guns!”
The transmission cut off abruptly with a pained grunt. Jimmy spun the car, flicked the lights on and shot out of the car park as the back doors to the police station began to disgorge a steady stream of officers running towards any available vehicle.
We came out of the car park so fast we almost took off, Jimmy hunched over the wheel as we screamed up the steep incline of Carlton Hill towards the hospital.
The radio began flooding with messages as units assigned themselves, until Jimmy found a break in the calls and sent his own message.
“All call signs, this is Charlie Golf nine-nine. No divisional units are to make an approach until Hotel Foxtrot have cleared the scene. Locate the ambulance, but do not approach. Confirm last received.”
I looked over at Jimmy approvingly as the controller picked up his message and repeated it. He’d not been an inspector long, but already he was thinking strategically, even when involved in something himself. Most officers, myself included, would likely have thought of nothing more than finding their endangered colleagues.
“Control, this is CC109,” an excited voice called up. “I have sight of the ambulance on Wilsons Avenue. Doors are shut and no sign of any hostiles. Permission to approach?”
“Negative,” Jimmy called up before anyone else could speak. “I have a short ETA, keep any public back and stand by.”
True to his word we were there in less than two minutes, fighting through the traffic that was building up in both directions. Wilsons Avenue was on the very outskirts of Brighton, with houses on one side and fields on the other, but it was a major road. Jimmy ended up driving onto the pavement to get us past, lights and sirens still going until we reached CC109.
As we leapt out I could see the ambulance, the driver’s wing dented where it had been rammed half off the road. The front doors both open, no sign of the paramedics. I convinced myself that was good news.
Two officers, a man and a woman both in their early twenties, hurried over to us as we approached.
“Orders, Guv?” The woman asked, glancing up and down the street. Her fingers drummed against the taser she carried strapped to her vest.
Jimmy looked around, then at me. “What do you reckon, Gareth?”
“No sign of anyone else, and they’d be idiots to hide in the ambulance. I say we go see if our colleagues are OK.”
He nodded. “Agreed. Amanda, right?”
The woman nodded. “Sir.”
“We’ll approach, you cover us. Anyone does anything out of the ordinary and you pop them.”
She nodded again and drew her taser, following us with her colleague.
We hurried towards the ambulance, watched now by dozens of people who had exited their cars, many of whom had phones out to video our approach.
We paused by the back doors, Jimmy and I taking a handle each as he mouthed a countdown. For the third time that day, adrenaline began to flood my system, making my heart pound. When he reached ‘go’, we pulled the handles and stepped to the sides, allowing Amanda a clear look into the back.
“Fuck,” she breathed. “Are they dead?”
Inside, the three police officers and two paramedics who had been accompanying my bear of an assailant to hospital lay on the floor, the yellow metal awash with blood. The gurney the prisoner had been strapped to was empty, the cuffs that had been holding him neatly cut through with some kind of power tool.
Leaping into the back, I leaned down and began checking pulses.
“They’re alive,” I said with relief, although I wasn’t sure how bad their injuries were. Each of them had nasty wounds to the face or temple, and from the shape of the injuries I guessed that they’d been pistol-whipped into unconsciousness. “Get another ambulance rolling, now.”
The radio crackled to life as Jimmy climbed into the back with me.
“Looks like your shooters came back for their friend,” his voice was almost drowned out by the wail of multiple sirens as other units began to arrive. “Who the hell are these guys?”
“I wish I knew,” I said grimly, “but the only person who does is in the wind and after seeing this, I reckon that if he’s sensible he’ll be hiding so deep that we’ll never find him.”
Chapter 9 (#ulink_bb9af783-2ad8-587e-bdab-af97f63aa225)
Things moved quickly after we found the ambulance. A little over an hour later I’d found myself in the divisional commander’s briefing room on the second floor of the nick, with Jimmy and an older man in a rumpled suit with a tired face but eyes that missed nothing. He introduced himself as DCI Tomlinson from Major Crimes, but refrained from saying anything further as we waited for the Chief Superintendent to arrive.
Despite my long years of service, I still wasn’t particularly comfortable around the top brass. In my experience, they either had unrealistic expectations or preconceived notions that couldn’t be changed, and neither was good news for someone as low down the food chain as me.
Our new Chief Super was supposedly of a different breed and although I’d only met her once, I’d found her surprisingly pleasant. She had a habit of really listening to whoever she was talking to which, while that didn’t dispel my nervousness altogether, made me think I wasn’t about to be put through the wringer too badly for my inadvertent part in the day’s proceedings.
After a few minutes of waiting in strained silence, Chief Superintendent Claire Striker walked into the room, dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved top that looked strange when you were used to seeing her in a pristine uniform.
“Gentlemen,” she said without preamble. “Tell me what the bloody hell is happening in my city. I have two officers with concussion and one with a fractured skull. Armed men racing around causing havoc. I have a conference call with Force Gold and the ACC in fifteen minutes, and I want to know everything before I talk to them. Sergeant Bell, you start.”
I was a little more sparing with the details this time, leaving out the personal parts that I’d shared with Jimmy. The Chief Super wanted cold, hard facts about the case, not my personal musings, and so I kept it professional and dispassionate.
Jimmy took over when I finished, detailing which units were assigned and where, and what initial actions were being taken. The DCI remained silent but took copious notes while we spoke.
When Jimmy was done, Striker nodded her thanks to us both.
“Well done gents, sounds like you’ve made the best out of a bad situation. Sergeant Bell, do you have any idea at all where your brother might be? We tracked the lo-jack in your car, and it was abandoned on the outskirts of Hove about half an hour after he left your house.”
I shook my head. “I wish. He’s been gone so long I doubt he knows anyone here now.”
“Well we need to find him. Not only do I want to prevent his murder, I want to stop the people looking for him hurting anyone else. The best way to do that is to bring him, and the drugs he stole, in.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“So, as you’re uniquely placed to find him, being both his brother and an intelligence officer, I want you to drop everything else and concentrate on this. I don’t care if you have to use every favour and blow out every source you have, I want your brother behind bars before someone else gets hurt. You report directly to me, and if anyone gives you any stick, send them my way.”
“Understood ma’am.”
“Tommo,” she said, turning to the DCI. “Find out who the men looking for him are. We’ve got statements being taken from witnesses to the attack on the ambulance, which should give us a car make and model. From there we can check ANPR cameras in the area and get a hit. Start with that and work outwards. I want this in the bag before the national press start calling, and believe me they will.”
“Ma’am,” he replied.
“That’s all, thank you. I have enough to pass up the chain for now.”
She stood and left, as did the DCI, leaving Jimmy and I looking at each other in silence.
“Well,” he said finally. “That’s my nice peaceful late shift fucked.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Thanks. Smoke?”
I nodded and followed him out, then down the stairs to the smoking area, tucked away around the corner near the car park. The night air was cool enough to make me shiver, and it was late enough that I cracked a huge yawn before lighting my cigarette.
“Didn’t you quit?” Jimmy asked as he lit his own.
“Yeah, Sally hated the smell. And the taste.”
“You seen her recently?” Jimmy had been my partner when my now ex-wife, Sally, had been our analyst in DIU. We’d been married for four wonderful years and then two terrible ones, finally separating and then getting divorced when we found we couldn’t even talk to each other without rowing. I still loved her, and I like to think she did me, but there was simply something missing from our relationship. If we’d worked out what it was, I had no doubt we would still be together, but instead she had moved divisions and now worked and lived in Hastings. I saw her name on the occasional report, but that was as close as we ever came.
“Christ no, and I’ve got enough past-life issues at the moment, thanks very much. Speaking of which, how in hell am I going to find Jake? It’s all well and good the Chief Super telling me to use my sources, but if he’s smart enough to stay out of sight it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“From what you said, he still needs to sell the drugs, right? That means he’s got to stick his head out at some point, and probably sooner rather than later. Can you use that somehow?” Jimmy finished his cigarette and stubbed the butt out in a nearby sand bucket. “Look, I need to go, got a division to run, but if you want me you know where I am.”
I shook his hand and stole another cigarette before he left, lighting it from the glowing embers of the first as I mulled over what Jimmy had said. He was right, Jake needed to sell the drugs to raise money for his escape, and so he would need a buyer. With Simmonds out of the picture, that meant him asking around until an opportunity presented itself. Unless, that is, I could manufacture an opportunity that was too good for him to pass up. And it just so happened that I knew the very man to make that opportunity appear.
Chapter 10 (#ulink_44ec6cef-bd4f-5791-96e4-eaceca6fc0ae)
Three hours of sleep and an hour of frantic planning later, I was banging on the door of a flat in the corner of Clarence Square, just south of the main shopping area in Brighton. The white-painted Georgian houses here were all split into flats, some little more than two or three rooms as landlords sought to capitalise on the superb location. Although I could hear the crowds and buses on nearby Western Road, hardly anyone was in the square itself.
After several minutes of knocking, the door was finally opened by a man in his late twenties, with short dark hair and a frame that was only just starting to pack muscle back on after years of drug abuse.
“Gareth,” he said, glancing around the Square with hard eyes. “Unexpected pleasure.”
His tone implied it was anything but.
“Hi Coop. Sorry to bother you, mate, but we need to talk.”
He swung the door wide and let me in, giving the street a final look before shutting it and leading me down the short hallway into his flat. It was tidier than I remembered, all traces of the mould that had been eating away at the walls gone, and instead of smelling like an old sock it just smelled of cigarettes and air freshener.
“Coffee?” Coop asked, gesturing me towards the lone sofa.
“Yeah, sure.” I watched as he walked into the kitchen, more self-assured and confident by far than when I’d seen him last. John Cooper was an enigma, a man who had managed to straddle the line between drug user and copper for years before the badge finally beat the needle and he came back to the fold, albeit in secret.
He was now attached, loosely, to the force surveillance unit, but only known about by people under the rank of Chief Inspector as anything other than a code name. I was one of the very few below that rank who knew who he was and what he did, and that was only because I’d been involved in getting him onboard. I also liked him, despite his rough edges. He reminded me of my younger self in a lot of ways, not least of which was his impetuous nature and willingness to get stuck in to put things right, no matter the cost.
Coop came back in with two coffees, passing me one and then moving to lean against the wall as he sipped his.
“What can I do for you, Gareth?” He watched me over the rim of his mug, his expression almost feral. He still carried the scars from his time in Brighton’s murky underworld, but then I guessed he always would. Besides, that very quality was what made him so effective; no one would ever guess he was a copper.
“I need your help.”
“I figured. What with?”
“I need you to put out word that you have a hankering to buy some coke.”
“Coke? Not really my thing. How much are we talking?”
“At least two kilos, more if someone has it.”
Coop whistled. “That’s a lot of gear.”
“It is, but we’re looking for a specific seller.”
He sat on the sofa, pulled out a cigarette and lit it without offering me one. “I think you’d better tell me the whole story.”
I did, but quickly, a little tired of repeating it by now.
“So,” I summarised, “I need to draw him to us when he pops his head up to sell the coke.”
Coop nodded thoughtfully. “How risky is it?”
“Honestly? Pretty high risk. I don’t know who these guys are but they don’t mess about. If you see them, I’d turn the other way and run.”
“OK. Is this on the books or off?”
“On,” I said, “I don’t go off the rails nowadays.”
“Fine. I’ll make some calls, let the right people know I’m interested. That kind of weight is too much for them, so they’ll start asking around to get a cut of the action when they find a seller. If your brother is in the market, I guarantee our paths will cross soon enough.”
“Thank you, John. Can I do anything to help?”
“Yeah, you can bugger off and leave me to do my job. You know I don’t like people coming to the flat, especially people who are so well known. Next time, just call, yeah?”
“Sure.” I stood and shook his hand. “Thanks again.”
“Yeah.”
I left, moving quickly so that I wouldn’t be spotted near Coop’s flat. He had a point. Every visit to his home was a risk but what I was asking needed to be done face to face.
I walked up to Western Road, enveloping myself in the comfortable anonymity of the early morning rush. The streets thronged with buses and taxis as I walked by just-opening shops and down through Churchill Square and then North Street towards the nick.
The day promised to be hot, the sun already warm enough that I slung my jacket over one arm. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying like lost souls in search of absolution.
In the light of day, the events of the night before seemed unreal, like something out of a John Woo movie instead of something that had actually happened in sleepy Woodingdean. Brighton and its surrounds had stabbings and drug deals galore, but armed men charging around taking pot-shots at people? Not so much.
I felt the familiar excited tingle begin to build as I tried to work out who these men might be. I’ve always loved a puzzle, loved piecing together the small pieces of intel that passed through DIU, sticking them together with hunches and guesswork until you had enough of the picture to work it out. It was what I was made for, and I picked up the pace as I headed towards work, keen to get in and start poking the ants’ nest that was the Brighton underworld to see what might spill out.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_8d4b58ca-960e-581d-bbff-4344a8882413)
The office was a hive of activity, officers and analysts in casual clothes chatting over tatty brown desk-dividers as they worked.
DIU was at the back of the police station on the first floor. One set of windows overlooked the roof of the courthouse and the sea beyond, the other a car park where police vehicles sat waiting, sunlight glinting off reflective markings and silver bodywork.
The buzz of conversation dipped slightly as I walked in, people looking at me expectantly. Perhaps, I thought wryly, wondering if I was about to go off the rails again and drag them all down with me.
I reached my desk and turned, remaining standing as I caught eye after eye until the noise reduced to a muted buzz.
“Listen in!” I called, and the sudden silence was deafening. “You’ve all no doubt heard about what happened yesterday, or at least a version of it, so let me be blunt. My brother, Jake, is out there somewhere with a bag full of stolen cocaine and some nasty bastards looking for him. They put three of our colleagues and two paramedics in hospital last night, and the Chief Super wants us to find him before they do. I want every single one of you to keep your ears to the ground. Speak to your sources, check your intel, go and walk the streets and talk to every single beggar and shoplifter you can find if you have to. Jake is arrestable for possession of cocaine, so if you see him then by all means, nick him. Hopefully we’ll be able to pull a still image off the marina CCTV from yesterday?” I paused and saw Phil Blunt nod. “Good. Make sure you all get a copy. He looks like me only not quite as handsome.” This got a few chuckles.
“Does it need to be an armed stop if we locate him?” Jane asked from her seat next to Phil.
“No,” I replied. “Unless you see anyone in close proximity who might be following him. Or if you get solid intel or sight on the people looking for him. No approaches to any suspects are to be made until they’ve been risk assessed and signed off. Follow if you can, but the moment you get clocked you turn and run. Clear?” Everyone nodded. “Good. OK people, let’s get out there and find my arsehole of a brother before he gets himself killed.”
The chatter of conversation returned as people went to their tasks. I waved my team into the Inspector’s office. He tended to go straight to the morning meeting when he got in, giving us a good couple of hours to use his office as we pleased.
My usual team consisted of Phil Blunt, Jane Finchley, the ever-excitable Tom Shepherd and the Barry’s, Barry Mason and Barry Everett. If we had a big job on, like we had the day before, I ‘borrowed’ other officers from the unit, but this was my core team, my direct reports.
“Morning all. What have we got?”
“Simmonds has been released from custody,” Phil replied, leafing through a file he’d brought in with him. He was, I noticed, wearing knee length shorts that not only clashed with his check shirt, but were also a big no-no as far as the command team were concerned. You could look as scruffy as you liked in our particular corner of the job, but show your knees? That was asking for trouble. “We were holding him on money laundering, but we’ve had to bail him until we can prove the money is hooky.”
“That’s for CID to worry about,” I said bluntly, “we’ve got bigger fish to fry now. Phil, you link in with Major Crimes, see if they got anything from the witnesses to the ambulance attack last night. I know we’re looking for Jake, not the gunmen, but too much intel never hurt anyone. And put some fucking jeans on, your legs are so white you’ll show out from a mile off.”
He nodded with a grin as I turned to the next officer.
“Tom, I want you out on the streets. Take Jake’s picture, and show it to anyone and everyone who might have seen him. Beggars, users, Big Issue sellers, I don’t care. Just find someone who’s seen him.”
“Yes, Sarge,” Tom sighed.
“Problem?” I asked before he could turn away. He hesitated, still young enough in service to be unsure whether or not to speak his mind, then shrugged.
“I was just hoping to get in on the action,” he said, looking at me from underneath his eyebrows as if expecting me to bite. “This all seems a bit …”
“Like proper intelligence work? Tom, it can’t all be Follows and car chases, mate. This is the real bread and butter of what we do, you know that. You want more adrenaline, go join LST,” I replied, more gently than I probably should have done. Tom was a nice lad, maybe too nice, despite his love of getting stuck in, and everyone but him knew he wasn’t really cut out for a career in intelligence. “Just get it done, yeah?”
Tom nodded, face glum, then followed Phil out as I continued speaking.
“Jane, I want you and Barry M to do house-to-house in the area where my car was recovered. See if anyone saw Jake when he dumped it. It’s a long shot, but it might turn something up.”
“Will do,” Jane confirmed, standing. “I’ll get one of the analysts to run a search on ANPR and known privately-owned CCTV in the area too.”
They filed out, leaving me with Barry Everett.
“Where does that leave us?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his bald head to wick away the sweat that was already forming.
“Trying to find out how Simmonds made contact with Jake in the first place. I’d ask Simmonds himself, but he won’t tell us shit.”
Barry nodded, donning his trademark brown leather jacket despite the heat.
We left the office, stopping only to grab our bags and a set of car keys. The bags contained what we referred to as our ‘fighting kit’; baton, spray and cuffs. Regulations stated that we should have them on us at all times while on duty, but I’ve never yet found a way to hide them effectively without tell-tale bulges all over the place. And that can be more dangerous in our little niche part of police work than being unarmed.
“How’s your dad?” Barry asked as we headed down into the bowels of the station.
“Dying,” I said, too harshly, then shook my head and softened my tone. “Sorry, that was rude, but he is. The docs gave him three months to live when he first got diagnosed, but here we are seven weeks later and they give him a week at the outside.”
“You know no one would blame you if you took time off to be with him, right?” Barry’s voice was soft, echoing gently as we passed through the locker room and down the steps into the underground car park.
“He would.” I barked a laugh. “He made me promise to find Jake and keep him safe.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Keeping Jake safe is like trying to nail jelly to the ceiling. It’s impossible, and you get covered in shit if you try. Still, it makes a nice change to be pulled in the same direction by Dad’s wishes and the Chief Super. Not sure what I’d do if I’d been ordered off the case instead.”
“Best not to think about it. Who’s driving?”
“I am,” I said and hurried to the driver’s door. Barry was an excellent officer, but a good driver he was not.
As my allocated vehicle was still on its way back from wherever Jake had left it, presumably via a forensics team, I’d taken the keys to one of the pool vehicles, a beaten-up old Vauxhall Corsa that had been ragged to hell and back.
“So where first?” Barry asked as we pulled out of the car park and onto William Street, the engine sounding more like a Land Rover than a Corsa.
“Whitehawk,” I replied, referring to the poverty-stricken council estate on the east edge of the city. “And you’d better keep your fighting kit handy, because this could get messy.”
Chapter 12 (#ulink_09e35a29-27b1-5356-bd88-f4b3dd0ba57b)
The Baker family were a legend in the City’s criminal underworld.
They bred like rabbits, and out of the seven brothers that made up this generation’s crop, at least three were usually in prison at any one time.
The family lived in five of the houses on Warbleton Place, a too-pleasant sounding name for the collection of tiny terraced homes that crowded both sides of the street. How the Bakers had convinced the council to let them congregate in one place I had no idea. You could spot their houses easily compared to the others; theirs were the ones with gardens full of discarded kitchen cabinets, old beds and other, less identifiable items.
Between them they terrorised the rest of the street and few were brave enough to report them to the police. They had their own brand of justice in east Brighton, and it usually involved baseball bats and the occasional petrol bomb.
More importantly, however, two of the Bakers – Eddie and Marcus – occasionally worked for Simmonds as muscle. They were the worst the family had to offer, happy to do absolutely anything, no questions asked, if the price was right.
Eddie had been arrested for attempted murder no fewer than three times, but never charged with anything more than GBH, and Marcus had a string of weapons offences and assaults that would put a London gang to shame.
We pulled up outside Eddie’s house, a tiny two-bedroom mid-terrace with a garden so covered in rubbish you could barely see the grass. In the few clear spaces, dog turds sat like brown landmines, waiting to go off should the unwary trespasser enter.
“You sure about this?” Barry asked, eyeing the place nervously. “They’ve not got the best track record when it comes to dealing with coppers.”
“Eddie thinks he owes me a favour,” I replied, slipping my pepper spray out of my bag and into the pocket of my jeans, just in case. “Remember when I nicked Colin Murphy last year?”
“The paedophile? Yeah, vaguely.”
“Well, turns out he was targeting the school where Eddie’s little girl goes. He was there outside the school when I nicked Murphy, nearly had to nick him as well when he found out there was a nonce trying to pick up kids there. Anyway, now he figures he owes me, so I was hoping to call in the favour.”
“And what if you’re wrong?”
“Then we have a nice polite chat and walk away. Even I’m not stupid enough to go two against however many of the Bakers are nearby at the moment.”
We climbed out of the car to the sound of aggressive barking coming from the house, accompanied by the scrabbling of claws on wood. The sound cut off abruptly with a yelp.
Sticking carefully to the path, I made my way towards the door with Barry close behind. Before I could knock it was opened by a disgruntled-looking Eddie, huge arms folded across his chest, rippling muscle underneath full sleeve tattoos. He was about my age but looked ten years older, his fair hair receding and greying at the temples. He wore a white vest and grey jogging trousers, the latter looking like they hadn’t been washed in a month.
“You’re on my property,” he said bluntly as I stopped a safe distance away.
“Actually Eddie, it’s council property, but I’m not here to fight.”
“Why are you here then?”
“I thought we could have a chat.”
“About what?”
“About,” I paused and looked around ostentatiously, “something that probably shouldn’t be discussed out on the street.”
He eyed me up and down, then glanced back over his shoulder. Deeper in the house, I could just hear the sounds of something heavy being moved, along with a rapid scraping noise.
“Is this a bad time?” I asked, trying to look past him without being too obvious.
“Depends. You looking for one of my brothers?” He squared his shoulders.
“Christ no. It’s about one of your employers, actually.”
“I’m on the JSA, ain’t got an employer.”
“Come on, Eddie, this is me you’re talking to. How long have we known each other?”
“Years, but that don’t make us friends.”
“I never thought that it did. I prefer to think of us as opposite tradesmen, but there’s no reason there can’t be a bit of mutual respect, is there?”
“All clear, Eddie!” A young-sounding voice called from inside. Eddie shut his eyes and shook his head. I tried not to grin, knowing he’d take it the wrong way.
“You can come in,” he said, then nodded at Barry. “But the poof stays outside.”
I felt more than heard Barry stiffen. Brighton was famed for being laid back to the point of falling over, but on the outskirts, homophobia was alive and well and both the Barry’s went nuclear when it raised its ugly head.
“That poof,” I said, before Barry could react, “is a police officer, my colleague and my friend. Whatever you and your brothers might believe, Eddie, you can’t catch gay, and even if you could Barry wouldn’t give it to you. Now stop being a dick, and either let us in or fuck us off, but get on with it.”
Eddie grunted something unintelligible and gestured us inside. I glanced at Barry to make sure he was happy going in, and he gave me a reassuring nod.
The hallway smelled like a kennel, if the dogs in it smoked forty a day each. I almost gagged as we were led through into a tiny lounge, where three mismatched armchairs crowded around a coffee table completely hidden by ashtrays, beer cans and coffee mugs.
One of the other brothers, Greg, was sat in a chair, while his eldest son, a gangly kid of about sixteen, hovered by a suspiciously clean sideboard on the far side of the room.
“Officers.” Greg nodded, lighting another cigarette to add to the haze that already filled the air. “What can we do for you?”
“It’s Eddie we need, actually.”
Eddie stepped in, closed the door and sat in one of the chairs, neglecting to offer either of us the third one. A quick glance was enough to know I’d have to burn my trousers after sitting in it anyway.
“Anything you can say to me you can say in front of them.” He lit his own cigarette, his face almost lost in the smoke.
“Eric Simmonds.” I let the words float there for a moment with the smoke, watching their faces carefully. “He just tried to make a buy from someone, I want to know how they were introduced.”
Eddie shrugged and stood. “Don’t know no Simmonds. Sorry you wasted your time.”
“What happened to mutual respect?” I asked, squaring up so that Eddie would have to go through me to reach the door. “You’re lying to me, Eddie.”
The heat seemed to drain from the room as the big man looked up at me from beneath his eyebrows, chin lowered like a bull about to charge.
“You what?” The words were soft, laced with menace.
“You’re lying. I saw your face when I said his name, you know him. I also know that you’ve been seen at his office on at least three occasions, so don’t treat me like a mug.”
“You come into my house and call me a liar? I should put you through the fucking window!” He roared the last, bringing Greg out of his own chair to loom protectively behind his brother.
I pulled my pepper spray out and began playing with the catch, keeping my eyes locked on Eddie’s.
“I don’t think that would do either of us any favours, do you?”
“Get the fuck out!”
“Fine.” I shrugged. “Barry, we’re wasting our time, let’s go.”
I heard the door open behind me and Barry’s hand landed on my shoulder, guiding me backwards so I could stay facing the angry brothers as I left. Eddie edged forwards in time with me, keeping just out of reach as Barry pulled me down the hallway and through the front door. I reached out and closed it behind me, almost in Eddie’s face, then turned and hurried back to the car, ignoring the frown Barry was throwing at me.
“What the hell?” He demanded once we were in the car. I started it before he had his door fully closed, then spun it around and shot out of the close. I tore up the road about a hundred metres then swung it around again, parking up behind a van.
“Tactical goading.”
Barry’s frown deepened. “You what now?”
“Just trust me, OK?”
“You can be a real pain in the arse, you know that?” he asked, shaking his head.
“I know,” I grinned, counting out the seconds silently in my head. I had got to forty-seven when a battered Ford Focus pulled out of the close. I pointed towards it as it shot towards the town. “But I’m a pain in the arse who’s good at his job. Now, let’s go see where our good friend Eddie is off to in such a hurry, shall we?”
Chapter 13 (#ulink_0df495a8-9e55-5dc6-85e3-72f5caa7a780)
Simmonds’ office was in the basement of a seedy hotel on the seafront in Kemptown, the area of the city that started out full of trendy bars and shops and gradually bled into Whitehawk. It was about five minutes’ drive from Eddie’s house, but he made it in half that, ignoring red lights and give-way signs with equal abandon.
It was hard to keep up without being spotted, but as he pulled into the tiny car park in front of the hotel I was only a couple of cars behind him. I parked on the seafront opposite, just far enough down that we couldn’t be seen from the building itself, then we got out of the car and crossed towards the hotel, Barry still glaring daggers at me.
“Was it really that bad?” I asked as we approached the dirty white building, its neon sign almost obscured by bird shit and black gunk from the traffic on the busy road.
“You went into Eddie Baker’s home and called him a liar. People have died for less!”
“We were never in any danger.”
“Really? It looked pretty dangerous to me.”
“No.” I shook my head. “They wouldn’t have risked a scrap with us, not today.”
“Why not?”
“You saw the clear sideboard next to the kid, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Was there any other place in the entire room that wasn’t littered with crap?”
“Not from where I was standing, no.”
“They wouldn’t have fought us,” I assured him. “Greg is a burglar, which probably means whatever was on that sideboard when we knocked on the door was stolen property. They probably bunged it in the kitchen or upstairs while Eddie held us at the door. No way are they going to start a fight with us when they had that in the house. One touch of a button and their lounge is full of very annoyed coppers.”
“You put our lives on the line because of an empty sideboard? God help me.” He sounded impressed in spite of himself. “You really do like living dangerously, don’t you?”
“There’s another way to live?”
Barry shoved me, finally giving in to a rueful laugh. “So, what now?”
“We go and see Bobby at the hotel, see what we can hear.”
Bobby Dixon was the hotel manager, a small, inoffensive-looking man in his early twenties with bad teeth and a habit of looking at his shoes when he spoke. He’d come to our notice when he’d been nicked for allowing prostitutes to use the hotel for their business, and we’d kept him out of custody on the understanding that he let us listen in on Simmonds whenever we wanted.
We crossed the car park outside the hotel quickly and stepped through into the shabby reception area, the door creaking alarmingly as it swung shut.
It was dim inside, almost dark, and a bored-looking girl in her late teens glanced up at us with disinterest from behind the counter.
“You want a room?”
“No, we want Bobby.”
“He’s in his office, you know the way?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. Before we passed her she was buried in her phone again.
Bobby’s office was at the back of the building, directly above Simmonds’ basement one. Thanks to some holes carefully drilled in the floorboards, it was now possible to hear everything happening in the room below, which was how we’d known about the drug deal in the first place. It was low-tech, but it worked.
I pushed the office door open without knocking, to see Bobby asleep in his chair, feet up on the desk and head back as he snored.
“Hey, wake up. Need your office.”
He started and scrambled to his feet, then saw who it was and immediately looked down at the floor.
“Oh, sure, uh, sure.” He hurried out, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, then paused in the doorway. “I don’t suppose, uh, I could find out when …”
“When I say so,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re lucky you’re not in a cell right now.”
“But what if he finds out I’ve been letting you use the place? He’ll kill me!”
“Then you’d better make sure your staff keep their mouths shut, because the only way he’ll find out is if someone here tells him. Now bugger off.”
He nodded, still looking at the floor, and left, closing the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, I rolled back the stinking carpet in the far corner and after perhaps thirty seconds of listening we were rewarded with the sound of approaching voices from below.
“… my fucking house and starts asking questions about you.” Eddie’s voice was loud enough to hear clearly, but when Simmonds responded, I had to strain to catch the words.
“What did he ask?”
“He wanted to know how you got in touch with that Jake bloke.”
There was a pause. “And what did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know you.”
“And what happened then?”
“I threw the cunt out!”
“You threw him out?”
“Well, yeah. I told him to fuck off and he did.”
“Did he mention that Jake is his brother?”
“His brother? He didn’t say nothing about that.”
“Probably would have done if you’d given him the chance. Anyway, it’s a good job we didn’t buy off him in the end. Word is he stole that coke from the Russians and they want it back, along with his head.”
“Russians?”
“Yeah, a gang of them from London. They’ve put feelers out for Jake, want him dead or alive as long as they get their bag back. Fifty grand, they’re offering, so you tell your brothers that the one who finds him gets a cut. Any idea where he might be hiding?”
“No,” Eddie replied, his voice filled with greed, “but I can think of fifty thousand reasons to find out.”
Chapter 14 (#ulink_025c47a5-7018-51ca-8d88-3a7589256b72)
Barry and I sat in near-silence outside the Chief Superintendent’s office, broken only by the curses I was muttering under my breath as we waited for her to call us in.
“We’ll find him before they do,” Barry said finally, doing his best to sound positive. “There’s not many places he can hide.”
“Fifty grand!” I replied, shaking my head. “I know a dozen people who would carve his heart out for half that. It’s going to turn into a free-for-all. And speaking of which, what kind of fucking moron steals drugs from a Russian gang?”
“It is pretty stupid,” Barry agreed cautiously. “But maybe he didn’t realise …”
“This is Jake we’re talking about. If there’s one thing you can say about my brother, it’s that he doesn’t care who he’s screwing over, as long as he gets what he wants.”
I was about to say more, but broke off as the Chief Super opened the door to her office and gestured us in. She was back in uniform today, her shirt and trousers spotless and perfectly pressed.
“What news?” she asked as we all took seats around a small table near her desk. “Have you found him?”
“No, and we’re not the only ones looking.” I launched into my explanation, watching Striker’s frown deepen until it was almost a scowl.
“So,” she said when I’d finished, “let me make sure I’ve got this right. What you’re telling me is that the Russians your brother stole drugs from have put fifty thousand pounds on the table for his head?”
“That’s about the size of it,” I confirmed. “And I still have no idea where Jake is.”
“Fuck.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“So, what’s your next step?”
“Well it occurs to me that if the Russians have been offering money, they’ve been talking to people and that in turn means a trail we can follow. Instead of looking for Jake, I think we should concentrate on them.”
“OK, I can see the logic in that. Where are you going to start?”
“My team are already out and about asking questions. While they’re doing that, I was thinking we could canvass the local B&Bs and hotels. They’ve got to be staying somewhere, and if Jake was telling the truth then they don’t have much of a network down here. I also want to find out if we’ve got anything from the ambulance on Wilsons Avenue – there were loads of people with their phones out when we arrived.”
“Good.” Striker nodded. “I’ll get CID to help. I’d like to avoid using uniform as much as possible, I don’t want to spook these Russians and provoke them into doing something stupid. What else?”
“Well …” I thought furiously for a moment. I’d been too worried to think this through properly, but the Chief Super was the type of senior officer who expected her troops to come to her with answers as well as problems. “I can visit a few people, see if anyone I know has actually spoken to the Russians. If they’ve been putting the word out, someone must have been face to face with them.”
“Do that. I want these men in a cell before someone else gets hurt or they find your brother and disappear. If you need more resources, I’ll throw the whole damn division your way.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” I stood, recognising the dismissal for what it was, and ushered Barry out.
“That could have been worse,” Barry whispered as we took the stairs down to our office.
“It could have been,” I agreed, “but it could have been better too. These guys are professionals, and despite what I said upstairs I don’t think we’ll find them easily.”
“What do you need me to do?”
That was one of the things I loved about my team. We’d been working together for a long time now, and no matter how difficult the task they simply got on with it – no fuss, no bullshit.
“This fifty grand changes things. It’s going to draw some of the nastier bastards out from whatever rock they’ve been hiding under. So speak to your regulars, see if anyone interesting has surfaced. It’s early days yet, but you never know.”
We’d almost reached the door to DIU when it burst open, Phil Blunt careening through it with a dark expression on his face. The moment he saw me, he thrust his phone at me.
“You’re gonna want to see this,” he growled.
I took the phone and looked at it, seeing the webpage for the local paper, The Argus. I had little love for them, having had my fair share of negative press over the years, and so I wasn’t terribly surprised when I read the headline “War in Woodingdean!”
“Great,” I muttered as I read on.
A little before 9 o’clock last night, the sleepy village of Woodingdean was rocked by a scene more in keeping with downtown L.A. than the Sussex coast. According to reports, armed men, rumoured to be from a drug cartel, stormed the family home of Sergeant Gareth Bell, an officer known for …
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