Closer Than Blood

by Paul Grzegorzek

  The NCA being involved didn’t surprise me greatly, being that organised crime at a national level was squarely within their remit, but the way he’d chosen his words implied that he was more interested in Jake than the Russians.

  “Has this been approved?” I asked Striker.

  “It has,” she confirmed. “They wanted an immediate handover, but Tony and I have come to an agreement and so we’ve still got twenty-four hours. When that’s up, we’re to turn over all findings and provide operational support if requested, but other than that it’s their job.”

  “He’s not their brother though, is he?” I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth. They came straight from the old Gareth, the one who acted before he thought. The one whose time limit had just been cut in half unexpectedly.

  “And that’s exactly why I’ve brought you in to do you the courtesy of letting you know,” she said sternly, her expression darkening. “This has gone from a job with a personal involvement to a personal crusade. No one has been killed so far but it’s only a matter of time. I, for one, will be glad to hand this mess over, as should you be.”

  She glared at me for a moment longer, then her face softened.

  “Go and spend some time with your father,” she continued. “Let Tony worry about finding Jake.”

  “I made him a promise,” I shook my head. “I promised him I’d make sure Jake was safe. How can I do that if I’m not on the case?”

  “You carry on like you have been and all you’ll end up doing is getting someone killed,” Patterson interjected. “And we can’t let that happen. I assure you we’re very keen to find your brother, whatever you might think.”

  “But you won’t tell me why!” I snapped. “So why should I trust you? What would you do if it was your brother instead of mine? I bet you’d be out there looking for him no matter what.”

  Patterson sighed and sat back, looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

  “Can he keep his gob shut?” he asked Striker, as if I wasn’t there.

  She nodded. “It’s one of his better qualities.”

  “Fine.” Patterson sat forwards and lowered his voice. “What I’m about to tell you does not leave this room. If you utter a word of it to anyone, anyone, I will not only have your badge but will have you prosecuted for breaching the official secrets act. Are we clear?”

  I nodded, intrigue winning out over the frustration at being shut out of the case. “Clear.”

  “Good. Your brother has been doing some work for us.”

  “Jake is Crime Agency?” For a brief moment I wondered if I was actually asleep and dreaming. I couldn’t think of a more ludicrous idea.

  “Christ no, he’s a CHIS.”

  “Ah, OK.” A CHIS, or to give it its full name a covert human intelligence source, is what used to be called grass, or a snout, depending on where you come from. It meant that Jake had been providing the NCA with information, likely in exchange for money or getting out of a prosecution that would have put him away.

  “Jake was selling heroin in East London, and he was shifting enough that he got into bed with some fairly unpleasant types.”

  “The Russians.”

  “The Russians,” he confirmed. “We were already watching them, and he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with a bag of gear big enough to put him away for ten years. We had the local plod nick him, and he rolled over in interview and told us everything he knew.”

  “And then he started informing for you.”

  “… He did, yes.” The hesitation was almost non-existent, but anyone who’s been a copper as long as I have would have spotted it. I put two and two together with what Jake and the Russian woman had said, and suddenly I thought I knew what might be going on.

  “Or did you task him with ‘evidence gathering’?” I asked.

  Patterson’s eyes narrowed for a moment.

  “You’re sharper than you look. OK, fine. We tasked him with retrieving a particular item and created an opportunity for him to do so. He took that opportunity but instead of bringing the item to us, he ran away and tried to sell the drugs that were also in the bag. We wouldn’t have known where he was until it was too late, but then we received the picture you sent out of … the woman from yesterday and so here we are.”

  “What was the item?”

  “Classified, I’m afraid. All I can tell you is that it’s a matter of national security.”

  “Then why are you here instead of MI5?”

  “Because it’s gang related and so still within our remit.”

  “OK then, who are the Russians?”

  “Also classified, but what I can tell you is that they are very nasty people.”

  “If it’s classified, that means they’re state-backed,” I said, taking his silence for confirmation. I’d seen enough intelligence to know that the Russian government liked to support its criminals overseas, particularly if that helped destabilise one of its old rivals such as the UK. “Which means that bag is worth killing for.”

  Something occurred to me then and I went cold.

  “For the love of God, don’t say this has something to do with Novichok.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “At least not directly, and we’re now skirting the very edge of what I can say. Have I convinced you that we want your brother alive as badly as you do?”

  “Not even close. You want what he has. You’ve already put him in harm’s way once, what’s to stop you from doing it again?”

  Patterson sighed, somewhat dramatically, I thought.

  “Sergeant, we’re the National Crime Agency, not the CIA. We’re not in the habit of letting people get killed.”

  “And I appreciate that. But it’s hardly the same as doing everything you can to prevent it from happening, is it?”

  “And that, gentlemen,” Striker said, standing, “is all we have time for. Gareth, don’t go anywhere, I need to speak to you.”

  Patterson stood and nodded at us.

  “I’ll see you at 0800 hours tomorrow, Sergeant. Try not to get killed in the meantime, you seem like a nice bloke.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. The moment it clicked shut, Striker dropped into her chair with a sigh.

  “Can they really take over like that?” I stared at the door.

  “They can and they will,” she replied grimly. “They wanted to take over immediately, but they’ve had to apply for permission, which is why we’ve got twenty-four hours. I’ve not made any friends by forcing them to do it the hard way, mind. So when you’re out there finding your brother, just remember that I’ve gone out on a limb for you.”

  I nodded, not sure how else to respond.

  “Now go and find Jake and do it fast. I want Sussex to be the ones to put this to bed, not the Crime Agency. Just try and make sure that you don’t get anyone killed in the process.”

  Chapter 23

  The frenzied buzz of DIU washed over me in a wave as I returned to the office, slipping into my chair with little more than a nod to those who greeted me.

  I had no idea where to pick up the search, and it was bothering me. There were a few leads, but all of them were slow burners – such as Craig Harrison, Jake’s old friend – and relied on me sitting back like a spider in a web, with one foot on the nearest strand, waiting for something to brush against it.

  With twenty-four hours until the NCA took over, I had to think outside the box. The moment they took control I’d be on the outside, and Jake was as good as dead.

  “What are we doing then?” Phil Blunt dropped onto my desk hard enough to rattle coffee mugs on the far side of the office. Despite the early hour he looked tired, which, I assumed, was the result of the hangover he had most mornings. “The team on Harrison’s house have got nothing, not even a hint of movement, and we’ve had officers in every B&B and hotel in Brighton with no trace of the Russians. We are, as they say, without a fucking clue.”

  “Any leads on the guy who’s spreading word a
bout the money for Jake?”

  “MJ? No, he’s disappeared. Probably hiding in a brothel somewhere, knowing him.”

  “Well keep on him,” I turned to my computer and logged in to the intelligence database. “He’s got to be out there somewhere.”

  “OK, sure.” Phil stood, then paused and looked at me, his bulldog face drawn into a frown. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” I forced myself to sound cheerful. “Just tired. I’ve got a few things I want to check out, see if we missed anything.”

  He nodded, still frowning, then headed for his desk. We’d been working together for a while, but he had never been good with personal conversations – he was no doubt relieved I’d brushed away his concern.

  As soon as he was away from my desk, I pulled up the surveillance photographs from yesterday’s disastrous meet. The ones of the woman were taken from a distance, but even so you could feel the coldness radiating out of her.

  I flicked through them idly, not really seeing them as I tried to work out my next step, but then a small dialogue box popped up on my screen. It simply read:

  System message: This is not helping. Remember our deal.

  I swore out loud and jumped to my feet, looking around as if the Russians might pop out from behind a nearby pillar. No wonder they knew so much, they were in our fucking computer systems! If I’d harboured any doubts at all about just how dangerous these people were, they evaporated just as quickly as the message that sat on my screen for a few seconds before disappearing. A moment later the photographs vanished too, to be replaced by three words: FILE NOT FOUND.

  Suddenly, I realised that everyone was staring at me.

  “Spider,” I said, getting a few laughs. My fear of the little bastards was well known after a chase through an abandoned pub cellar a few months before. I’d managed to keep the secret for years, but running around yelling while they crawl through your hair tends to make it fairly obvious. “Size of my bloody shoe.”

  As soon as people stopped laughing and turned back to their work, I slipped out of the back door and down the fire escape, stopping only to grab my car keys. I knew the team would wonder where I was going, but right then I didn’t care. I felt sick to my stomach, as if they’d somehow violated the very nick itself. I headed to the car, got in and pulled out into the morning traffic with no particular destination in mind.

  I’ve always found that driving helps clear my head. There’s something almost zen about it, and I let myself slip into autopilot as I navigated the haphazard mess of one-way streets and random speed limits that makes Brighton such a pain in the arse to drive around.

  What I needed was a new angle. The answer to finding Jake had to be there somewhere, I just hadn’t seen it yet.

  I’d driven three loops of the city when I finally got it: I needed to go right back to the beginning. We’d found Jake by following Eric Simmonds, but what we’d never asked was how Simmonds got in touch with Jake in the first place. Now I thought of it, it seemed glaringly obvious but that’s often the way with leads on a case. Looking back, you wonder how you failed to notice something, or put two and two together when it was right in front of you, but there’s such a thing as being too close to the answer, like being unable to see the wood for trees.

  Once I’d made the decision to act, it took me less than five minutes to reach Simmonds’ office. I parked up nearby and reached for the door handle, then stopped myself and deliberately placed both hands on the wheel.

  Right now, I’d done nothing wrong. I’d left the office, sure, but I could be on a routine enquiry. The moment I stepped into Simmonds’ office, everything would change. He was a suspect in an active case, and as such any contact I had with him should be logged and authorised. I could still pick up my phone, call Striker and tell her everything.

  If I did, however, I had no doubt that the Russians would make good on their threats and my team, my ex-wife and even my dad would suffer the consequences. Banging a fist against the wheel in frustration, I threw the door open and strode towards the office, struck by how pleasant and sunny a morning it was for a day that had such a high chance of devolving into bloody violence in the very near future.

  It felt strange walking past the steps to the hotel and down into the basement that led to his office. In all the months we’d been watching him, we’d never once gone into this room.

  The stairs down were white stone, now mostly grey with age and ground-in dirt. They ended in a tiny yard with a single blue-painted door, bits of it peeling away to show the weathered wood beneath.

  Two buzzers sat to one side of the door, one covered in tape and the other with a tiny, hand-written sign saying ‘All-star property management’.

  I pressed the second, my heart beating several times for every second I waited. I desperately wanted to turn around and walk away, to go back to the nick, find Striker and come clean, but I knew that if I did then those I cared about would die.

  It was then that I really began to hate the woman who’d put me in this position. I’d spent the last decade trying to undo what I’d done the last time I took the law into my own hands. Ten years of biting my lip, covering my arse and burying my personality so deeply that, if I was going to be brutally honest about it, had cost me my marriage.

  And all for what? So that some bitch of a crime-boss could use me as her personal sniffer-dog? I’d find Jake for her, all right, but the moment I knew he was safe I swore to myself that I would bring her in, along with everyone who worked for her, no matter what it took.

  The buzzer crackled, pulling me back to the present. My hands ached and I looked down to see that they were balled into fists so tight the skin was pure white.

  “Yeah?” A tinny voice asked over the intercom.

  “Eric,” I kept my voice slow and calm. “It’s Gareth Bell. I want to have a chat about something … mutually beneficial.”

  It went silent for so long I thought he’d hung up, then the door clicked as the lock disengaged. I pushed it open before I could change my mind and stepped inside, wondering which one of us was more worried about what might happen in the next few minutes.

  Chapter 24

  I was in a long corridor with three more doors leading off it, one on each side and the last at the far end. That one was slightly open, and I could see a hulking shape watching me through the crack between door and frame.

  The walls were covered in brown wallpaper, giving it a dingy air that the fluorescent light on the ceiling did little to dispel.

  “You alone?” It was Eddie Baker. I’d hoped he wouldn’t be here, but it seemed I was out of luck.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come in then, but no fucking about.” He pulled the door wide and pointed at me with the business end of a pool cue.

  “That’s no way to speak to a guest,” I strode towards him with a confidence I didn’t feel. “I’ve come here in good faith.”

  “Ain’t my concern,” he stepped aside to let me through. “I’m just here to make sure things don’t get unfriendly.”

  I walked into an office that was larger than I’d expected. The floor was covered in dirty red carpet, the pattern on it all but obscured by years of hard use and little cleaning, but the rest of the room was surprisingly neat and tidy.

  The walls were painted magnolia and lined with shelves that held box files and folders, while at the far end stood a chipboard desk and two chairs. An old but serviceable computer sat in the middle of it, from behind which I could see the top of Simmonds’ head.

  “Officer Bell,” he said cheerfully. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  He straightened, pushing his chair back so that he could place his feet up on the desk with deliberate nonchalance. He was a tall man, but thin, and beneath a thinning mop of sandy hair his face was a fascinating map of deep lines and jutting cheekbones around a nose built for cocaine. His blue eyes were both sharp and hooded at the same time, seeing everything but giving little away.

  “Me neither,” I
said, taking a seat without being asked. “But I hear you’re looking to cash in on my brother, and that’s something I’d like to avoid.”

  Simmonds laughed and lit a cigarette, crumpled the empty packet and threw it into a large, cut-glass ashtray on the desk between us.

  “Going to make me a better offer?”

  “Don’t suppose you’d take a ‘get out of jail free’ card?”

  “Not likely. I know the bullshit you lot have to go through nowadays, you can’t guarantee me anything. Besides, last time I checked, you didn’t have enough to put me in jail in the first place.”

  “Not yet we haven’t,” I allowed myself a sliver of hope that this might not go the way I’d feared. “But you never know what’s going to happen. Now, down to business. As Eddie here has no doubt already told you, I need to know who put you in touch with Jake.”

  “Jake?” The air of innocence was so cloying I almost choked on it. “Who’s Jake?”

  “My brother? You know, the man you were buying coke off.”

  “Oh, you mean the guy who stopped me to ask for directions in the car park before you chased him away? No idea. Never met him before.”

  “Don’t be a funny fucker. I’m not going to go into the details, but I really need to know.”

  “Sorry, officer,” he grinned, “can’t help you.”

  “Then why the fuck did you let me in here in the first place?” I demanded, my temper beginning to fray. “If you wanted to be a dick, you could have just told me to fuck off at the door.”

  “I was curious. I figured you were here for one of two reasons. Either you were wearing a wire and trying to get me to admit to something I know nothing about, or you were here off the books to use your, uh, position of authority for personal reasons. Wanted to see which was which.”

  “You mean you wanted to see what I might offer you for the information.”

  “That too.”

  “Then how’s this,” I snarled. “You tell me what I want to know and you don’t end up in A&E with a pool cue jammed up your arse.”

  Something heavy landed on my right shoulder. I glanced down to see the end of Eddie’s cue resting on my jacket.