Closer Than Blood: An addictive and gripping crime thriller

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.”