It screeched around the corner from Dyke Road with a roar and a plume of exhaust smoke, pulling to a halt a few feet away from him. The side door slid open.
Before it could lock back Cooper was already moving, street-bred instincts making him leap the wall to the churchyard and sprint back the way he’d come, directly towards me.
My own first instinct was to turn and join him, but instead I continued along the path through the graveyard, walking towards him, while a man I didn’t recognise leapt from the open door of the van and began pounding after him.
I stepped to one side as Cooper ran past, then back out onto the path, hands in pockets and trying very hard to act like I wasn’t interested in the man now sprinting directly at me.
He was in his mid-thirties, I guessed, and fit with it, his green t-shirt stretched tight over a body that moved like a martial artist’s. He ran fast, closing the distance between himself and his quarry rapidly, and had I not been there I have no doubt he would have caught Cooper in moments.
Instead, I stuck out a foot as he sprinted past me, sending him sprawling to the solid brick of the path. He landed hard but rolled and came back to his feet, turning to face me with his hands up in a guard.
“Police!” I shouted, pulling both baton and warrant card from my jacket pockets. “Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your back!”
Instead of answering he darted towards me and spat in my face. Without meaning to I flinched, and before I could recover he was on me, a low sweeping kick coming in to take my legs. I danced backwards and swung my baton, aiming for his bicep, but he jerked aside and looped his arm around mine, dropping his weight in an effort to snap my elbow.
I let go of the baton and spun inside his guard, throwing my free elbow at his nose. He blocked it with his forearm, but it gave me the leverage I needed to break free of his hold, my whole arm aching from the pressure it had been under.
I tried to step back and get some space but he followed me in, driving a knee up into my stomach. I crossed my wrists and caught the knee between them, the force jarring me right up to the shoulders, then leaned in with a headbutt. He tucked his chin in and took it on the forehead, saving his nose but sending us both reeling backwards from the impact.
“Just fucking stop!” I gasped, feeling the world tilt alarmingly. We’d only been fighting a few seconds but already my lungs were drawing in huge, searing breaths, and I could see that he was doing the same.
He came at me again, recovering a fraction of a second before I did, this time leaping at me in an attempt to wrap his legs around my torso and flip me. I recognised it as a move from Sambo, a brutally effective Russian martial art, but then he changed the move halfway through and slammed both feet into my chest.
I blocked one, slapping the foot off-line so that it shot past me, but the other collided with my left shoulder, spinning me around. Then his body struck, driving me to the ground with him on top.
I tried to roll backwards and slip free, but the man was an eel, pinning me to the ground and then clambering up my body until he was sat on my chest, throwing punch after punch at my throat.
I slipped some and blocked others, but I was tiring rapidly and he was in the dominant position. I was, I realised with a mixture of shock and horror, outclassed and about to lose.
Technique turned to desperation then, my hands reaching out to grab at his windpipe as his blows began to land, each one striking like a hammer.
One hit me square in the throat and I began to choke, darkness flooding in at the edge of my vision. This was it. I would die here, beaten to death by a man who would do the same to my brother given half a chance. And I would no longer be there to protect him.
Still I fought, the world growing hazy as my battered throat began to swell shut, but I may as well have been tickling him for all the good I was doing. Reaching the very edge of my endurance I gave one last great heave, throwing him up in the air only to have him come right back down again, landing with one knee in my solar plexus.
The world exploded into light and pain, tears streaming from my eyes as his weight prevented me from even the simple comfort of curling into a ball.
Using his knees to trap my arms firmly, my opponent drew a blade from the back of his belt and reversed it so that it sat along the inside of his forearm.
“No,” I tried to gasp, but the word wouldn’t come out. Instead, I could only watch the blade as it rose, catching the last rays of the dying sun.
And then it tumbled from his hand, accompanied by the meaty thud of metal on bone. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he collapsed sideways to reveal Cooper standing there, my discarded baton in his hand and a spray of blood up one side of his face.
“Shit, Gareth,” he said as he stooped to haul me to my feet. “I thought you were the one supposed to be keeping me safe, not the other way around.”
Chapter 20
Blue lights threw strobing reflections from the walls of nearby houses as a paramedic finished examining my throat in the gathering dusk.
“Just bruised,” he confirmed, “but it will hurt to talk for a while. I’d suggest taking ibuprofen, probably in liquid form as the tablets will be hard to swallow.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and left, to show Chief Superintendent Striker waiting for me with her arms folded across her chest.
We were just outside the cordon that uniform had set up, taping off the area where I had fought the man now on his way to hospital in the back of an ambulance. He still lived, or he had when they’d rushed him off, but Cooper’s strike had shattered his skull and they hadn’t hung around in getting him away.
“This is a mess, Gareth,” she said with a frown, crossing to join me. “The woman gave surveillance the slip, God only knows how, they made a grab for Cooper and the team at the Calamity have seen no sign of anyone. To top that off, the residents of the houseboats we cleared out are threatening legal action to get back to their homes. All in all, not the best evening’s work we’ve ever done.”
“Are we any closer to figuring out who they are yet?” I asked hoarsely. It still hurt to talk and every word was a throaty rasp, but at least I was alive and nothing was broken.
“Surveillance got some photos of the woman and they’re being sent out for an ID now, but the man who attacked you has no documents and the van left as soon as Cooper put him down. We’ll send a SOCO to collect his clothes for forensics and fingerprint him, but we’ve still got nothing solid.”
“What about Cooper?”
“He hit a man in the head with a baton, so even with his special status he’s suspended pending further investigation. I have no doubt he’ll get cleared, but DCI Carrick is less than pleased and has refused any further assistance. It’s blown a job they’ve been working on for weeks, Cooper was supposed to go back in tomorrow.”
“Shit.”
“Yes, well it’s better than you being dead, isn’t it?”
“No argument here.”
“Are you fit enough to write a statement?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’ll have you taken back to the nick. Write your statement, go home and get some sleep. There’s still a lot to be done but nothing that can’t wait until morning. Except the statement, of course. If your man dies overnight, I want to make sure we’re watertight.”
She waved an officer over and directed him to drive me back to the station. We travelled in silence, mainly to rest my throat, and even though I hurried through my statement it was almost 10pm by the time I got away. I’d intended to see Dad, but I could barely manage the drive home, let alone to Woodingdean and back.
It took me another ten minutes to find a parking space near my house, one of the curses of living so close to the city centre. And when I finally opened the door to my flat I almost fell through it.
I probably should have gone straight to bed, but instead I headed for the lounge and dropped onto the sofa, stopping only to pull a bottle of single malt and a gla
ss from the cupboard on the way.
“Alexa,” I croaked. “Play Pearl Jam, Ten, half volume.”
I poured a glass of whisky as music filled the air, then took a tentative sip. It hurt, but not as badly as I’d feared and so I took another, closing my eyes and resting my head back on the sofa.
It had been, I decided, a shit day. I had achieved exactly nothing, except to beat up a reporter who already seemed to have it in for me, and then almost get myself killed.
I hated the feeling that the investigation was fractured into so many parts, like a jigsaw puzzle with hundreds of pieces but no picture. It was like a constant itch that I couldn’t scratch, which was probably why I’d gravitated towards intelligence work in the first place. It gave you a chance to weave all the separate threads together, to form tiny snatches of seemingly unconnected intel into a whole that, more often than not, helped you to stop the bad guys before they could get away with whatever they were doing.
Not this time, however. There were too many different parts, and no one person sitting there tying them all together. It should have been me but I was too involved, too close to the centre of the problem, and every time I did get a moment to try and piece it all together, one of the strings would pull harder than the others and I’d have to go haring off after it. It felt as if I was only doing half a job and I didn’t like it.
Sighing, I finished the glass of whisky and tried to gather the strength to haul myself up and into the bedroom but everything hurt, and after a few moments I gave up and settled back on the sofa, glass still in hand as I drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 21
I woke to the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against my forehead.
There was no gradual awakening, no slow coming around, just a sudden and certain knowledge that I was not alone and that my guests were not friendly.
My eyes flicked open to find my view of the room blocked by the bulk of the Bear, the man I’d knocked unconscious in Dad’s bungalow. His meaty fist made the pistol it held look tiny, despite the fact that it was wedged between my eyes.
My mouth went dry and my bladder burnt with the sudden urge to pee.
“I want you to be very clear that you should not do anything stupid.” I recognised the clipped tones of the woman who had met Cooper earlier, emanating from somewhere behind the Bear.
“I think I got that,” I said, my voice several octaves higher than usual despite its gruffness. I could smell strawberries, and I wondered why until the Bear stepped away to show the woman sat opposite me. Still dressed in the same suit, she drew on an e-cigarette, releasing the vapour in a cloud that drifted slowly through the air until it began to fray at the edges. Up close there was a coldness to her, a kind of palpable lack of morality that made her eyes flat, almost blank. “What do you want?”
“You seem to have a habit of getting involved in our business, and you are becoming a pain in my arse. I have two choices now, and I am trying to decide which course of action to take.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that one of those choices is to kill me?”
“Very perceptive. Care to guess the second one, too?”
“Uh, let me go and hand yourselves in?”
The woman chuckled. “I don’t think so. I need you to work for me.”
“What?” I barked a laugh. The sound drew a second man in from the hallway, but the woman waved him away. “You know I’m a police officer, right? Why the hell would I work for you?”
“Don’t lay claim to morals you don’t have, Sergeant Bell, I’ve done my homework. Your PSD file is very … thorough. Honestly, I’m surprised they let you keep your job. Besides, this is the only chance you have of saving your brother’s life.”
“You mean you want me to find him and if I do then you’ll let him live?” I shook my head, wondering how the hell she’d accessed my PSD file. “No, as soon as you get your drugs back you’ll kill him.”
“You think it’s the drugs we’re after?” The woman raised an eyebrow. “That’s interesting. I guess your brother didn’t tell you the whole story.”
“Nothing new there. I don’t even know who you are.”
“And yet again I find the reputation of the British police vastly over-inflated. As you don’t have it, I see little point in giving you my name.”
“Hardly a good start to an interview,” I replied, watching the Bear carefully as he toyed with the pistol.
She gave me an odd look. “Interview?”
“Yeah, you want me to work for you, so this is a job interview, right?”
“Then let me lay out the terms of employment. You will find your brother and return the bag he stole to us. Once we have what we want, we will be gone.”
“And what exactly is it that you want?”
“I just told you.”
“But you said earlier you weren’t after the drugs. What’s so special about the bag?”
She hesitated for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision.
“I’ve told you enough. You have forty-eight hours to find your brother. If we find him before you do, we will kill him anyway. If you don’t find him within forty-eight hours we will kill your father, then your ex-wife, then your colleagues until we have what we want, and then we will kill you too. Oh, and don’t tell anyone else about our arrangement. We’ll know if you do.”
As her words sank in, slow, burning anger began to replace the fear.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I growled, “to come into my life and threaten the people I love? What have I ever done to you?”
The woman gave a small shrug.
“Your family stole from me. Where I come from that makes you as responsible as him. Now, will you do as I ask, or should I just have Dmitri shoot you?”
The Bear moved a step towards me, his deep-set eyes gleaming with the thought of payback. I held my hands up. Once they were gone I could think this through, but for now I had no choice but to agree.
“Fine. I’ll find Jake, but I promise you: if you go back on your word you’ll regret it.”
“Don’t waste your breath,” she stood and brushed imaginary dust off her suit. “We will contact you in forty-eight hours. If you find the bag before that, send an email to this address.”
She threw a business card onto the sofa next to me. For a moment I considered lunging at her, but getting shot wasn’t high on my list of priorities.
I left the card where it lay and watched them file out of the room, the Bear walking backwards with the pistol pointed in my direction.
As soon as I heard the front door slam, I turned to the window and peered through the blinds to see a silver Ford Mondeo parked up on the pavement opposite, lights on and engine running. The woman and her bodyguards emerged and got in. Before the doors were closed it was speeding away, too fast for me to get the index number.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself as I sat back on the sofa. “You, Gareth Bell, are a fucking shit magnet and no mistake.”
Chapter 22
8 o’clock the next morning found me sitting, once again, outside Striker’s office, clutching the remains of a triple-shot latte as if my life depended on it.
I’d not slept after my visit – no great surprise – and instead I had spent the rest of the night struggling with my conscience. I’d promised myself many years ago that I would never again step outside the law, but my brother’s life was on the line, not to mention the lives of everyone else I cared about. In exchange a bag and its contents seemed a small price to pay, but by failing to report what had happened I was taking the first step towards handing over evidence and letting the people who had assaulted several of my colleagues get away without so much as a whiff of justice. I’d spent the last decade doing everything right, never truly letting the chains off the beast that lurked somewhere deep in my psyche, terrified of what it might do if freed again. Now, however, it seemed that those years were wasted, and if I wanted to find Jake, keep him alive and stop the Russians from massa
cring my friends, I would have no choice.
By the time I gave up trying to figure it out it was half six in the morning, and so instead of going to bed I had showered and dressed, then gone and found the strongest coffee I could before heading into work.
I’d not even made it to my desk when word came that I was to head upstairs and await the Chief Super’s pleasure. And await I had, the tension building inside me like a volcano preparing to erupt. Did she know about my nocturnal visitors? If so, how? Was she even now preparing to have me arrested, or at the very least suspended? In the end I sat there listening to her argue with someone for almost forty-five minutes before the voices went quiet and the door opened.
“Gareth”, Striker said, the circles under her eyes poorly hidden beneath a layer of foundation. “Get in here.”
I eased myself up, hiding a wince as my battered body protested at the sudden movement, and entered the office. Sat on the near side of the desk was a man I didn’t recognise, wearing a dark pinstripe suit and a light blue shirt. He was in his early fifties, with a figure that told me he spent too much time behind his own desk. But his gaze was sharp as he rose smoothly and held out his hand.
“Sergeant Bell,” he said with a Manchester accent, softened by years of living down south. “I’m Tony Patterson.”
I shook his hand and tried not to look as nervous as I felt. Striker pointed to a chair and moved around the desk to take her own.
“Tony,” she said, “is from the National Crime Agency.”
“And why,” I asked with a mixture of relief and concern, “am I talking to him? No disrespect.”
“Because,” she frowned at Patterson, “the NCA have a vested interest in this case and in twenty-four hours they’ll be taking it over.”
“Why?” I directed this at Patterson, who glanced at Striker before speaking.
“I can’t tell you why, but I can assure you that we’re doing everything we can to find your brother before the people looking for him do.”
Closer Than Blood Page 8