Читать книгу Closer Than Blood - Paul Grzegorzek - Страница 15

Three hours of sleep and an hour of frantic planning later, I was banging on the door of a flat in the corner of Clarence Square, just south of the main shopping area in Brighton. The white-painted Georgian houses here were all split into flats, some little more than two or three rooms as landlords sought to capitalise on the superb location. Although I could hear the crowds and buses on nearby Western Road, hardly anyone was in the square itself.

After several minutes of knocking, the door was finally opened by a man in his late twenties, with short dark hair and a frame that was only just starting to pack muscle back on after years of drug abuse.

“Gareth,” he said, glancing around the Square with hard eyes. “Unexpected pleasure.”

His tone implied it was anything but.

“Hi Coop. Sorry to bother you, mate, but we need to talk.”

He swung the door wide and let me in, giving the street a final look before shutting it and leading me down the short hallway into his flat. It was tidier than I remembered, all traces of the mould that had been eating away at the walls gone, and instead of smelling like an old sock it just smelled of cigarettes and air freshener.

“Coffee?” Coop asked, gesturing me towards the lone sofa.

“Yeah, sure.” I watched as he walked into the kitchen, more self-assured and confident by far than when I’d seen him last. John Cooper was an enigma, a man who had managed to straddle the line between drug user and copper for years before the badge finally beat the needle and he came back to the fold, albeit in secret.

He was now attached, loosely, to the force surveillance unit, but only known about by people under the rank of Chief Inspector as anything other than a code name. I was one of the very few below that rank who knew who he was and what he did, and that was only because I’d been involved in getting him onboard. I also liked him, despite his rough edges. He reminded me of my younger self in a lot of ways, not least of which was his impetuous nature and willingness to get stuck in to put things right, no matter the cost.

Coop came back in with two coffees, passing me one and then moving to lean against the wall as he sipped his.

“What can I do for you, Gareth?” He watched me over the rim of his mug, his expression almost feral. He still carried the scars from his time in Brighton’s murky underworld, but then I guessed he always would. Besides, that very quality was what made him so effective; no one would ever guess he was a copper.

“I need your help.”

“I figured. What with?”

“I need you to put out word that you have a hankering to buy some coke.”

“Coke? Not really my thing. How much are we talking?”

“At least two kilos, more if someone has it.”

Coop whistled. “That’s a lot of gear.”

“It is, but we’re looking for a specific seller.”

He sat on the sofa, pulled out a cigarette and lit it without offering me one. “I think you’d better tell me the whole story.”

I did, but quickly, a little tired of repeating it by now.

“So,” I summarised, “I need to draw him to us when he pops his head up to sell the coke.”

Coop nodded thoughtfully. “How risky is it?”

“Honestly? Pretty high risk. I don’t know who these guys are but they don’t mess about. If you see them, I’d turn the other way and run.”

“OK. Is this on the books or off?”

“On,” I said, “I don’t go off the rails nowadays.”

“Fine. I’ll make some calls, let the right people know I’m interested. That kind of weight is too much for them, so they’ll start asking around to get a cut of the action when they find a seller. If your brother is in the market, I guarantee our paths will cross soon enough.”

“Thank you, John. Can I do anything to help?”

“Yeah, you can bugger off and leave me to do my job. You know I don’t like people coming to the flat, especially people who are so well known. Next time, just call, yeah?”

“Sure.” I stood and shook his hand. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah.”

I left, moving quickly so that I wouldn’t be spotted near Coop’s flat. He had a point. Every visit to his home was a risk but what I was asking needed to be done face to face.

I walked up to Western Road, enveloping myself in the comfortable anonymity of the early morning rush. The streets thronged with buses and taxis as I walked by just-opening shops and down through Churchill Square and then North Street towards the nick.

The day promised to be hot, the sun already warm enough that I slung my jacket over one arm. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying like lost souls in search of absolution.

In the light of day, the events of the night before seemed unreal, like something out of a John Woo movie instead of something that had actually happened in sleepy Woodingdean. Brighton and its surrounds had stabbings and drug deals galore, but armed men charging around taking pot-shots at people? Not so much.

I felt the familiar excited tingle begin to build as I tried to work out who these men might be. I’ve always loved a puzzle, loved piecing together the small pieces of intel that passed through DIU, sticking them together with hunches and guesswork until you had enough of the picture to work it out. It was what I was made for, and I picked up the pace as I headed towards work, keen to get in and start poking the ants’ nest that was the Brighton underworld to see what might spill out.