Closer Than Blood: An addictive and gripping crime thriller

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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

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

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

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

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

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.”