Closer Than Blood. Paul Grzegorzek

busy road.

      “You went into Eddie Baker’s home and called him a liar. People have died for less!”

      “We were never in any danger.”

      “Really? It looked pretty dangerous to me.”

      “No.” I shook my head. “They wouldn’t have risked a scrap with us, not today.”

      “Why not?”

      “You saw the clear sideboard next to the kid, right?”

      “Yeah, so?”

      “Was there any other place in the entire room that wasn’t littered with crap?”

      “Not from where I was standing, no.”

      “They wouldn’t have fought us,” I assured him. “Greg is a burglar, which probably means whatever was on that sideboard when we knocked on the door was stolen property. They probably bunged it in the kitchen or upstairs while Eddie held us at the door. No way are they going to start a fight with us when they had that in the house. One touch of a button and their lounge is full of very annoyed coppers.”

      “You put our lives on the line because of an empty sideboard? God help me.” He sounded impressed in spite of himself. “You really do like living dangerously, don’t you?”

      “There’s another way to live?”

      Barry shoved me, finally giving in to a rueful laugh. “So, what now?”

      “We go and see Bobby at the hotel, see what we can hear.”

      Bobby Dixon was the hotel manager, a small, inoffensive-looking man in his early twenties with bad teeth and a habit of looking at his shoes when he spoke. He’d come to our notice when he’d been nicked for allowing prostitutes to use the hotel for their business, and we’d kept him out of custody on the understanding that he let us listen in on Simmonds whenever we wanted.

      We crossed the car park outside the hotel quickly and stepped through into the shabby reception area, the door creaking alarmingly as it swung shut.

      It was dim inside, almost dark, and a bored-looking girl in her late teens glanced up at us with disinterest from behind the counter.

      “You want a room?”

      “No, we want Bobby.”

      “He’s in his office, you know the way?”

      “Yeah.” I nodded. Before we passed her she was buried in her phone again.

      Bobby’s office was at the back of the building, directly above Simmonds’ basement one. Thanks to some holes carefully drilled in the floorboards, it was now possible to hear everything happening in the room below, which was how we’d known about the drug deal in the first place. It was low-tech, but it worked.

      I pushed the office door open without knocking, to see Bobby asleep in his chair, feet up on the desk and head back as he snored.

      “Hey, wake up. Need your office.”

      He started and scrambled to his feet, then saw who it was and immediately looked down at the floor.

      “Oh, sure, uh, sure.” He hurried out, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, then paused in the doorway. “I don’t suppose, uh, I could find out when …”

      “When I say so,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re lucky you’re not in a cell right now.”

      “But what if he finds out I’ve been letting you use the place? He’ll kill me!”

      “Then you’d better make sure your staff keep their mouths shut, because the only way he’ll find out is if someone here tells him. Now bugger off.”

      He nodded, still looking at the floor, and left, closing the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, I rolled back the stinking carpet in the far corner and after perhaps thirty seconds of listening we were rewarded with the sound of approaching voices from below.

      “… my fucking house and starts asking questions about you.” Eddie’s voice was loud enough to hear clearly, but when Simmonds responded, I had to strain to catch the words.

      “What did he ask?”

      “He wanted to know how you got in touch with that Jake bloke.”

      There was a pause. “And what did you tell him?”

      “That I didn’t know you.”

      “And what happened then?”

      “I threw the cunt out!”

      “You threw him out?”

      “Well, yeah. I told him to fuck off and he did.”

      “Did he mention that Jake is his brother?”

      “His brother? He didn’t say nothing about that.”

      “Probably would have done if you’d given him the chance. Anyway, it’s a good job we didn’t buy off him in the end. Word is he stole that coke from the Russians and they want it back, along with his head.”

      “Russians?”

      “Yeah, a gang of them from London. They’ve put feelers out for Jake, want him dead or alive as long as they get their bag back. Fifty grand, they’re offering, so you tell your brothers that the one who finds him gets a cut. Any idea where he might be hiding?”

      “No,” Eddie replied, his voice filled with greed, “but I can think of fifty thousand reasons to find out.”