Closer Than Blood. Paul Grzegorzek

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ