Paul Gitsham - Blood Is Thicker Than Water

* * This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught. Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. He is currently spending hours in coffee shops and pubs whilst he plots the next novels in the series. Honest. You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones or Twitter @dcijoneswriter * Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said, “He’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve.” Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him. * * This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught. Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. He is currently spending hours in coffee shops and pubs whilst he plots the next novels in the series. Honest. You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones or Twitter @dcijoneswriter * This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught. This is a lie—just ask any of the students he has taught.

Acknowledgements As always, writing is a joint effort. Huge thanks to Dad and Cheryl, my beta-readers for their advice and assistance. Paul

Dedication For Cheryl.

Blood is Thicker than Water

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

The old man wakes with a start. It’s pitch black and for a moment he’s disoriented. He’s sitting upright; he must have fallen asleep in the chair in front of the TV again. So why isn’t the light on? Has the electricity gone off? A blinking green glow across the room is slowly coming into focus—the clock on the video player. 01:27. So, no power cut but it did explain why the TV was off. It had switched to power-saving mode. Had he turned the light off before snoozing? He didn’t think so.

Bloody eco light bulbs. They were supposed to last for ten years; he’d only fitted it six months ago. He didn’t give a fig about global warming, but his daughter had shown him how much money he would save on his electricity bill and that had convinced him to pay the premium. Had he recouped his investment yet? He didn’t think so.

His legs were stiff. He couldn’t sleep here all night, he decided. Besides he needed the bathroom. The room was still dark; neither the green of the video clock nor the faint glow from the streetlamps through the curtains provided enough illumination for him to make out anything but the darkest of shadows. He thought about waiting for a few more moments to see if his eyes would adjust any more, but now thoughts of the toilet had taken hold and wouldn’t be denied much longer.

Reaching forward he groped for the wheeled trolley. He still resented the contraption. It had a tray and all sorts of useful pockets, allowing him to shuffle around his house unaided, but despite what the brochure and his carers might call it, the damn thing was a Zimmer frame. His fingertips met nothing but empty air. Where was it? Had he kicked it away in his sleep? Some sort of leg spasm that sent it skittering out of his grasp?

He swept the air in front of him with his right hand, his eyes straining uselessly. Where was the bloody thing? The discomfort in his bladder was growing. He’d have to get to the bathroom soon. Time for Plan B he decided, turning in his seat for the wooden cane—he refused to call it a walking stick—that he kept hanging from the back of his armchair. His fingers brushed against the fabric of the wing-backed chair. It must have fallen on the floor he decided.

Reaching down he moved his fingers methodically across the carpet. After a few moments he gave up, his breath ragged from the pressure on his diaphragm, tiny stars sparkling at the edge of his vision. For the first time he started to doubt himself. Had he imagined hanging the cane off the back of his chair? It was something that he did every day—had he just assumed that he had done so last night? A chill ran through him. These little episodes were becoming more frequent. Was he just getting a little forgetful in his old age or was there more to it? Something more sinister? It ran in families sometimes he’d read somewhere. His mother had remained as sharp as a pin into her nineties, but his father had died too young for any of the symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease to manifest themselves. However, both of his father’s brothers had been showing at least some of the symptoms of dementia before the family curse of heart disease had taken them as well. He’d inherited the heart problems. Had he also inherited something else?

This time of year the sun made an appearance about six. Could he just sit it out until it became light enough for him to see what he’d done with his mobility aids? A rumbling in his bowels joined the pain in his bladder, answering that question. He gritted his teeth. No chance. Old and infirm he may be, but he still had his pride—too much pride, even he could admit at times—and he would not be found sitting in his own piss and shit.

Taking a deep breath, he shuffled to the end of the chair. He’d finally accepted the logic of a stairlift—it was either that or be confined to the ground floor of his own home, suffering the ignominy of bathing in the kitchen or downstairs loo and sleeping in the dining room, with a twice weekly trip to the upstairs bathroom to wash properly. He had, though, drawn the line at one of those tilting armchairs that delivered you to your feet. Not least because of the price. Eight hundred pounds for a chair! He regretted that now. Gripping the armrest with his right hand he pushed down, struggling to clamber to his feet. The chair rocked alarmingly as his full weight resting on one side threatened to topple it.

Finally he stood precariously upright, feeling a flash of pride in his accomplishment, followed immediately by a sense of shame at being proud of such a minor achievement. Maintaining a grip on the side of the chair, he shuffled his feet until he stood more firmly. His left leg was weaker than his right—not as useless as his left arm, fortunately, but it still made crossing the darkened room a time-consuming process.

The rug in front of the fire was an old, shaggy affair nearing the end of its fifth decade. It had been lying there since he’d moved into the house and had been the first piece of “luxury furnishing” his wife had bought. It had cost her a week’s wages—not that she’d earned much back then, not compared to him—but it had been important for her. Her income had been little more than pocket money really. He’d been the breadwinner but it had been important that she felt she was contributing.

He was fortunate that it was his weaker left foot that caught the fold; it left his stronger right leg to help him regain his balance. He breathed out shakily. That had been too close.

And then he was falling. Time seemed to slow and then the stars were back, an explosion of light before his eyes from the sudden contact with the mantelpiece. They were beautiful in their own way, he supposed. He felt weightless, even as he continued downwards. There was no pain; there hadn’t been time.

Then it was all over. A final crack as he met the stone hearth of the fireplace and that was it.

“Charles Michaelson, seventy-eight years old, lived alone,” the young constable greeted Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones as he stepped out of his car. He nodded in the direction of a middle-aged woman dressed in a plain skirt and woollen cardigan, talking to another uniformed officer. “That’s his daughter over there. She discovered the body this morning when she came by to help the deceased get ready for the day.”

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