Closer Than Blood: An addictive and gripping crime thriller

The officers I’d picked nodded and walked towards the marked van that had arrived to transport Simmonds. I looked at the rest of the team.

“Right, the rest of you follow me back to the nick, then we can have a chat with CID about interviewing our prisoner.”

I began to walk back to the spot where we’d left the car, only to feel a hand on my arm. I slowed as Phil spoke quietly in my ear, his gravelly voice a rumble like a rockslide in an earthquake.

“You OK? What about your brother?”

“What about him?” I forced myself to sound cheerful, despite the sick feeling in my gut and the little voice in my head telling me that he was dead for real this time. “He’s a tough nut, always was. A quick dip in the sea is nothing.”

“You can’t kid a kidder, Gareth. You know you’d be perfectly within your rights to take some time off, what with your dad, and now this.”

“What I don’t need,” I replied emphatically, “is time to think. I need to keep busy. I appreciate the concern though.”

“Then at least stay here and wait to see if they find him. If it was me I’d be up on that wall right now. You go back to the nick and you’ll be useless.”

“I’ve got a job to do.”

“No disrespect, but any one of us can cover you for a few hours. Stay here, let me speak to CID and the others will do whatever else needs doing. We’ve got this, you go look for your brother.”

I slowed, then stopped. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Stay.”

“OK, but call me if you need me, yeah?”

He nodded again and I turned, heading back towards the wall.

Pike saw the movement and watched me as I crossed the plaza and climbed the steps again. He stared for a moment then got back in his car, face unreadable.

I tried to find it in me to care, but instead all I felt inside was emptiness as I returned to the place where my brother had dropped into the cold waters below.

Chapter 4 (#u0b0d2862-92c5-5237-b960-fad7aaa8c638)

It was dark when they finally called off the search. I stayed there on the wall, eyes searching the waves as lifeboats and a coastguard dinghy cut frothy white lines in the water.

Sometime during the evening a thoughtful police officer, one of those waiting nearby in case anything was found, had brought me a cup of coffee, but other than that I’d been left alone with my thoughts.

What I wanted, I realised, was closure. Even though Dad and I had given up hope, I realised now that a tiny part of me had never really believed that Jake was dead. Now I faced the same agony again, and I admitted to myself that I would rather know he was dead than spend more years wondering. Criminal he might be, but he was my brother and a part of me still loved him.

“Sarge?” The voice made me turn to see a young officer, face all but hidden in the twilight.

“What’s up?”

“They’re calling off the search, too dark.” He sounded apologetic.

“Thanks, I hadn’t realised how late it was.”

“You need a lift back?”

“No thanks,” I shook my head. “I’ve got a car nearby.”

He nodded and left. I stayed there a while longer, shivering slightly as the wind picked up, bringing with it the briny scent of the sea. Then, when the lights dotted along the top of the wall began to glow faint orange, I turned and made my way back to the car. I was dreading what I had to do next. I had two choices, and each one left me with a sour taste in my mouth. Did I tell my dad that Jake had been alive that morning, allowing him the false hope that that might still be the case, or did I stay quiet and lie by omission? What made it worse was that I couldn’t get his advice on the matter. Ever since I was young he’d been the one I turned to when I had a problem I couldn’t solve on my own, and I’d come to rely on his support the same way I relied on the fact there was air to breathe.

By the time I reached the Hospice in Woodingdean, a little under ten minutes’ drive from the marina, I still hadn’t made a decision.

It was beautiful, with sprawling red-brick buildings and gardens both sculpted and natural-looking, and it occurred to me that there were worse places to spend your last days. They had managed to instil an air of tranquillity, and as I climbed out of the car and walked towards the door I could barely hear the traffic passing on the busy road nearby.

I punched the code into the door and heard the lock release, letting myself in to be hit by the smell of roast beef and baked bread. Unlike the hospital Dad had been in until recently, the food here was excellent and right up to the point he’d lost his appetite he was constantly remarking that he hadn’t eaten so will since Mum was with us.

I waved at one of the nurses as I climbed the stairs to his room. Dad had only been here for a week but already I was a familiar face, coming as I did both before and after work every day. I paused outside his door and knocked loudly, hearing the muffled sounds of the TV through the wood.

“Come.”

I opened it and stepped inside, forcing a smile as he saw me and beamed.

“Dad,” I crossed to the bed and gave him a careful hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, all things considered. Managed a bit of beef today.”

“That’s good.” I pulled up an armchair and sunk into it. He looked, for want of a better phrase, like death. Never a small man, despite his short stature, he had ballooned in the last few years. The only exercise he’d had since Mum passed away had been walking the dog, Lily. But when she too passed on Dad had done little more than potter around the garden. Now, his skin hung in yellow folds, drooping towards his jaw. Dark circles rimmed his feverish eyes, and he looked more frail than I had ever thought to see him. I turned away and stared at the TV.

“What you watching?” I blinked to bring the blurry figures into focus.

“Gardening programmes, mostly. Speaking of which, Sylvia from number 72 popped in to see me earlier, I’ve agreed to do her garden when I’m back on my feet.”

I looked at him, unsure what to say. Pancreatic cancer wasn’t the sort of thing you ‘got back on your feet’ from, and my father was not a stupid man, but there were times when he acted as though he had nothing more than a touch of the flu.

“I’m not stupid,” he said, echoing my thoughts, “but I’m hoping I’ll rally enough to get outside one more time at least.”

“I hope so, Dad, I really do.”

“Well, I guess we’ll see. Have you eaten? I’m sure they’ll feed you if you’re hungry, they always offer.”

The tears came then, and I couldn’t stop them. Here he was on his deathbed, still trying to look after me instead of the other way around.

“Don’t,” he warned, his voice thick, “or you’ll start me off.”

“Sorry Dad, I just …” I reached out and took his hand, surprised at how strong his grip was even now.

“I know.”

I sniffed a few times and shook my head, then suddenly I reached a decision.

“Dad, Jake’s alive.” I blurted the words out before I could change my mind.

The grip, strong before, became iron.

“Say that again.”