My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (10 page)

“Pull up round the corner, Lauren,” said Striker, as they passed Lucy Striker’s semi-detached council house. The streets in this part of town were narrow, almost claustrophobic. The houses were a mixture of housing association, council and privately owned – beige brick and box-like.

When the Astra eased to a halt, Striker got out and leaned through the window. “Give me ten minutes. I’ve not been here for a while, so I’m not sure what sort of reception I’ll get. In the meantime, Eric, could you call the garage to see if you can get in touch with this supposedly sick manager, so we can take a look at the CCTV?”

Striker paced toward sixteen Stoker Avenue, surprised at how apprehensive he felt. The last time he’d called it hadn’t gone at all well. He’d noticed the front door ajar, so let himself in, catching her with heroin paraphernalia scattered on the coffee table. He and Lucy had argued vehemently; she’d even blamed his teenage antics for contributing to their dad’s death. This had cut Striker deep.

Old emotions flooded back as he reached the somewhat rickety gate. He pictured his beautiful sister of years ago – her tousles of strawberry blonde curls flowing past her shoulders, that stunning smile and perfect facial structure, their holidays with mum and dad: North Wales, Blackpool and the Lake District…

He thought of his dad, Harry Striker, a strict but fair man who loved the police and watched all the cop shows on TV. Harry had even tried to join the police force before Striker was born. From what Striker’s mum Vera had told him, Harry had passed all the aptitude tests and the physical, only to fail on the medical because he was damn colour-blind, which seemed harsh. Predictably, when Jack Striker the teenager had become embroiled with the wrong crowd and had brought the police to Harry’s door, it was the beginning of the end of their relationship.

Young PC Vinnie Stockley had attended the Striker family home to interview Jack about the shooting of one of his mates, Lenny Powers in the multi-storey car park of Moss Range shopping precinct. Harry was understandably fuming. Once Stockley left, a row exploded and Jack stormed out. The last words Harry Striker had said to his son were: “Good bloody riddance. Now go and make something of your life!” Not long afterward, Harry Striker suffered a mild heart-attack and his health became fragile thereon.

Jack sought solace with childhood sweetheart Suzi Staunton, who’d provided an alibi for him regarding his suspected presence at the multi-storey incident. He owed a lot to Suzi – a hell of a lot. Not only had she lied to the police for him, and probably kept him out of prison, which would have obviously thwarted any chance of his current career, she’d also mothered their two beautiful children.

Once the dust had settled on the Lenny incident, their relationship had blossomed and they had bought a flat together in Eccles, where Suzi was a trainee solicitor. Despite Jack being as stubborn as his old man, in that neither would speak to each other – much to the dismay of perennial peacekeepers Vera Striker and Suzi – he was still determined to prove his worth to his dad. After numerous menial jobs – from window cleaner to shelf stacker to van driver to handyman – Jack finally applied for the police.

The day he passed the final interview, he knew that he
now
had something worthwhile to say to Harry. Though, as fate would have it, he found his dad collapsed on the kitchen floor of the family home. Jack’s attempts at resuscitation were unsuccessful and, sobbing his heart out, he hugged his dead dad while clutching the tear-soaked acceptance letter from the police.

Young Jack used to call Lucy “Little Miss Perfect”. She was certainly a daddy’s girl. Unlike Jack, Lucy couldn’t do any wrong. It was strange how things had changed. If Harry could see his “Little Princess” now, he’d turn in his grave. She was shacked up with his old mate DJ. And Striker knew
all
about him. Problem was, he knew all about Striker.

He knocked on the door, his mind flicking back again to the last time he’d seen Lucy. The shock at seeing her, the day her drug habit had graduated from suspicion on his part to confirmation, had hit him harder than a Mike Tyson punch. And now, he felt that punch again as he gazed in disbelief at the woman in the doorway before him.

Initially, he doubted it was her until the hair gave it away, despite having lost its vibrancy. To say Lucy looked gaunt would be kind. Her stunning features had been reduced to a look of near skeletal proportions. Dark bags under bloodshot eyes contrasted against a pallid complexion, scattered with pink blemishes. She must have weighed seven stone wet through. Those blue eyes they shared had lost much of their vividness.

“Jack, what do you want?”

“Charming. It’s nice to see you too, Lucy.”

“Nah… it’s just, I wasn’t expecting you.” Striker also noticed her voice was slower, with a monotone aloofness.

He saw a couple of youths wearing dark hoodies stroll past, giving him the eye. “Can I come in for a chat?”

“Er… yeah, gimme a minute.” With that, she closed the door on him and it didn’t take a detective to ascertain what she was doing.

The ‘minute’ was more like five when Lucy eventually returned and ‘welcomed’ her brother inside. In the hallway, Striker immediately caught the unmistakable whiff of cannabis but ignored it. He was here for more pressing matters.

The décor was basically laminate flooring and beige walls, but what caught his eye was the enormous plasma telly in the far corner of the living room.

“Take a seat, Jack.” He did, on a brown leather sofa that had seen better days. “Do you wanna brew?”

After a quick scan, he clocked the general mess, consisting of damp running down a wall, dirty clothes strewn across a chair, an ashtray full of cigarette butts and a floor that hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting a brush. He declined his sister’s offer, albeit with a touch of guilt. Her house reflected her priorities, and drug addiction beat cleanliness every time.

She went into the small kitchen to the rear, clinking crockery. She was still half in view through the open door.

“Nice telly.”

“Oh yeah, DJ’s made a few quid recently…” The sentence tailed off, as if she regretted telling her brother even that much.

He leaned back on the sofa to see her. “Is DJ not in?”

She was making herself a brew, not looking his way. “No, he’s… just nipped out. Anyway, what brings you round here?”

“Wanted to see how my big sis was.”

“That’s not why you came, but I’m fine. Yeah… am fine. Why are you really here?”

“Well, there’s no point in lying. I was hoping to speak with Deano.”

“What about?” She rather noisily stirred her beverage and plonked the spoon into the sink and finally entered the living room, sitting to his right on a cream leather chair that didn’t match the sofa.

“Just wanted an off the record chat, to see if he’d heard anything on the street about recent events.” The lack of eye contact perturbed him, Lucy preferring to stare at what smelled like coffee in the mug she clutched with both hands.

“Events?”

“Is he in?”

“What events?” She finally looked up at him.

“You must’ve seen the news, Lucy.” The local media had reported the two attacks, but were purely speculating, since GMP hadn’t put out an official press release yet.

“Nah, I don’t watch the telly much.”

Striker glanced at the huge TV, but he actually believed her, as she obviously had other things on her mind. “There seems to be a dispute between the gangs that’s getting out of hand and I—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” She scowled and held up a spindly forefinger. “That’s my bleedin’ son, and even if he did know summat, I don’t want my windows put through, or worse.”

Striker sighed. “Where is Deano?”

“He’s out.” Her interest in the coffee resumed.

“Where?”

“Dunno.”

“Come on, Lucy. There’s two dead lads and, to be honest, we’re struggling a bit. No one needs to know. It’s off the record. Where is he?”

“Look, he’s gone out with a few of the lads. I don’t know where though, I swear.”

“Who’s he with?”

“Dodger and them lot.”

Great.
Roger Pennington, aka Roger the Dodger, had a reputation of dodging not only bullets, but also the cops. He was suspected of being part of the Moss Range Crew and had been linked to several shootings and serious assaults on their Bullsmead rivals. None of which had yet been proven.

“Okay, thanks. If I leave my number, will you ask him to give me a bell?” He passed her his card.

She didn’t take it, eyeing him instead. “I really don’t know if I can do that.”

“If you can help, I’ll be discreet I promise. You may be saving someone’s life.” He placed the card on a grubby-looking coffee table and bid Lucy farewell, glad the subject of their dad hadn’t cropped up this time.

***

Having had no joy engaging any more gang members, nor with speaking to his nephew, Striker had reluctantly told Collinge to head back to the nick. He faced a midday meeting with Det Supt Brennan, DCI Cunningham and DI Stockley.

Brennan was the senior investigating officer, or SIO, to both inquiries. Normally, Detective Chief Superintendent Halt – the man who had asked Striker to apply for MIT – would be the SIO, but he was sunning himself on a Mediterranean cruise. Stockley would have the nugget of that Johnno character, from the second murder in Moss Range Park, as a positive lead, which would undoubtedly impress Brennan, whereas Striker had virtually nothing positive to contribute.

Bardsley had repeatedly called the petrol station, but getting hold of the manager was proving just as hard as newsagent Khalid Khan.

“You two may as well get some refs,” said Striker resignedly, when they entered the hubbub of the canteen, where he grabbed a quick coffee from the vending machine. “Then chase up that CCTV. We really do need to view it, even if it means picking up the sick manager from his home and taking him to the petrol station.”

After the meeting, he’d try again to track down Deano to see what he’d heard on the street, if anything.

He gave the details of the Bolands murder to the Operational Policing Unit so they could put it on the electronic briefing site, where it would be viewed by the afternoon shift onward. Then he nipped out to the back of the station for a quick fag, searching his mind frantically for something poignant to offer the brass. He stubbed out the cigarette, still having thought of nothing.

DI Vinnie Stockley was sitting outside Brennan’s office, looking suave in his shiny grey Armani suit. Striker caught an unmistakable whiff of Brylcreem and saw that Stockley had flattened the usual quiff on his high fringe. Stockley was always messing about with the wispy quiff and Striker wondered why he just didn’t accept his baldness and get rid. He smiled inwardly, recalling something Bardsley had said about fringes at the back of the head coming back into fashion. He sat beside his colleague on the basic tweed two-seater, while mirroring the half-hearted nod Stockley had offered.

“Vinnie.”

“Jack.” Stockley avoided eye contact, preferring to look at a portrait of the Queen on the wall opposite, while thoughtfully rubbing a finger on the side of his pointed nose.

“What’s your gut feeling on the park case now? Any links with mine?” asked Striker.

“I’ll tell you more when Brennan’s ready, but suffice to say, there’s definitely a link, of sorts.”

Good.
“You reckon?”

“Yes and it’s probably the gangs.”

Ah.

The door opened and Det Supt Brennan peered round – silvery hair, craggy features, expressionless, abrupt. “In you come then, chaps.”

Striker felt uneasy. Granted, it was early days in the investigation, but as he entered Brennan’s office, his gut told him this was going to be a tough case. As if to confirm this, Cunningham’s face of stone greeted him – thick red lipstick, like graffiti on a wall. She was sat to the right side of Brennan’s veneered desk. The room was stuffy and Striker wondered why a vertical fan in the corner wasn’t on.

The super gestured at the two chairs across the desk from him and Striker took the one furthest from Cunningham. He briefly pulled at his collar, which suddenly felt tighter, loosening his tie a tad.

“Okay. The press are hovering like vultures, so who’s first?” asked Brennan.

Striker was about to speak, but Stockley blurted, “Well, sir, may I just inform you we’ve already established that our murder certainly appears to be a revenge attack as a result of the first murder.”

Rather than being annoyed at Stockley’s over-enthusiastic brown-nosing, Striker was glad of more thinking time and was intrigued as to why Stockley thought this.

Brennan leaned forward from his leather swivel chair, much comfier than the two DIs’ hardback seats.

“Oh? Please elaborate, Vinnie.”

“There was fresh graffiti at the scene that hadn’t yet dried, and I’ve recovered a paint canister nearby that on first impressions seems to marry up.”

“Seems?”

“Yes, it’s the same yellow colour.”

“Okay, that narrows it down a little, I suppose.” Brennan glanced at Cunningham. “I take it the canister is now with the FSS being analysed?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Along with samples from the graffiti?”

Striker clocked Stockley’s hesitation and belated nod.

“What else have you got, Vinnie?”

Stockley told him about the freshly sprayed graffiti saying ‘MRC’ on the wooden climbing frame beside the body. He skimmed a hand smoothly through his thinning hair before continuing. “And we’ve also seized, and sent off, the rope used to hang the deceased. I’ve DCs checking on the knot used too, because I’ve seen it predominantly used in one area before.”

“Oh?”

Now Cunningham leaned forward.

“The surgeon’s loop.”

The super and DCI frowned in unison.

“Fishing, sir. As a keen fishermen myself, I can confirm it’s a strong knot used for the end of your line.”

Oh please.

Brennan again exchanged glances with Cunningham.

“Are you saying that one of the Moss Range Crew is a keen fisherman, Vinnie?”

“It certainly looks that way.”

Striker couldn’t resist. “Either that, or he’s a surgeon.”

Cunningham scoffed, Stockley looked unimpressed and Brennan eyed Striker, who dipped his head, wishing he hadn’t spoken. Years of working with Bardsley had rubbed off on him. Clearly there was no place for dark humour here. Lesson learned.

Stockley went on, “I’m just saying it’s a possibility, and my DCs are currently checking this out as we speak.”

Brennan looked pensive, then said, “Isn’t it possible the killer, or killers, has internet access?”

Stockley shuffled in his seat. “Well of course, but it’s a line” – he hesitated realising his unintended pun – “of enquiry, sir.”

“Okay, but not one that’ll win the case, Vinnie. Anything else?”

“Obviously the body is being given the once over too, and line” – again he hesitated – “searches are being conducted.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Apart from Johnson, who was under the influence of drugs and was knocked unconscious from behind, there are no other witnesses yet, sir. There are no houses overlooking that part of the park either.”

“Okay, thanks, Vinnie.” He turned to Striker. “Jack, what have you got?”

Cunningham answered on his behalf and Striker threw her a look.

“Jack, tell us about the two youths who were sat on the wall on police arrival.”

“I didn’t arrest them because I didn’t suspect them of murder. Plus, alienating them like that could have been counter-productive if we needed them as witnesses later.”

“I do understand your sentiments, Jack, but I agree with Maria. I think you should have arrested them, especially with the media snooping for a story. That’s why we’ve just sent Team Three to bring them in.”

Striker was pretty stunned.
Was I so wrong on that call?
“If they were guilty of anything, surely they’d have done a runner, sir.”

“Maybe, yet even so, we need to eliminate them and also ascertain exactly who they were with. You don’t appear to have done either.”

Striker hid a sigh.

Cunningham piped, “Have you established the IDs of
any
of the gang members who were present, Jack, like I asked?”

“We visited the Moss and I spoke to one, but didn’t get much from him. I’ll obviously keep trying.” Striker purposely held back what Jerome Jackson had said about the two gangs meeting up to join forces, knowing this would go against the consensus of those present. That info wasn’t reliable enough and he wanted something more solid to back up his vigilante theory. “I’ve also got a list here” – he reached into his jacket pocket – “of Bolands’ associates.”

“How many are there?” asked Cunningham.

“Forty-six.”

“So that’s forty-six possible youths who may have been with Bolands when he was murdered. That narrows it down, Jack.” Her voice was almost patronising. “Now, do you see why we’re arresting those two at the scene?”

“I have shortened it to twenty-five, but…” He noticed Brennan’s stern expression. “But I do take your point.”

Brennan blinked slowly, nodded. Striker continued, “I do have other leads to pursue though. Bolands’ dad has agreed to drop off his son’s mobile phone for the techies to analyse. The CCTV from the garage is usually of decent quality and still needs a good trawl. Bardsley and Collinge are onto that as we speak. Also, there’s the shopkeeper witness, Mr Khan.” He omitted the part about him having gone to Pakistan.

“The one you haven’t spoken to yet?” It was Cunningham again.

Right. Time to speak my mind.
“Bardsley briefly took a first account off him, which is why we have the description of that ‘tall burly man’. Anyone could have sprayed ‘MRC’ on that climbing frame to make it look like the Crew were involved and throw us off the scent. How many gang members use a baton or a rope with a fancy knot, for God’s sake? That’s unheard of. It’s always guns, knives and baseball bats. So I’m not convinced it’s gang-on-gang. I still think the ‘burly guy’ could be our man and that both investigations should be linked.”

“That’s quite an assumption, Jack,” said Brennan, “considering your lack of evidence.”

“Both deceased males have ASBOs too. You are aware of that, aren’t you, sir?”

“Coincidence… and to be fair, not much of one at that because it’s odds on around here, don’t you think? Look, Jack, we simply can’t jump to conclusions and get carried off on a tangent.” Cunningham and Stockley nodded. “So, we’re
not
linking the murders. They’ll remain as separate investigations. You find your ‘burly man’, and quick. I’ve got to face the press at sixteen hundred hours. Okay?”

Striker gave an imperceptible nod, then said, “Vinnie, that lad Johnson, who was with Chisel and then taken to hospital. Was he arrested?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’s Chisel’s best mate. A witness.”

“Well, that’s just like those two Bullsmead Boys, Mozerelli and Grinley at my scene. They were there and didn’t flee the scene, like Johnson, even though they had the chance to. Witnesses. And could Johnson’s head injury be conducive to a baton being used?”

“Come on, Striker, give it a rest,” said Cunningham impatiently.

Stockley still answered, his voice raised. “He had a small laceration and a few inches of swelling, so it could have been any of number of weapons or objects that struck him. And anyway, I’ll…”

“Enough!” Brennan said abruptly.

“With respect, sir, may I ask if Steven Bowker was already dead when he was hanged?”

“What are you on about now?” Cunningham shook her head.

“Sidney Mortham said that, as yet, it’s inconclusive,” said Stockley.

“I saw the marks on Bowker’s face and he’d certainly been in a fight because they weren’t like any injuries I’ve seen before in any hangings I’ve dealt with.”

Brennan remained quiet, pondering, but Cunningham asked, “What are you saying, that the killer beat him to death and then risked being caught by hanging him?”

“It’s possible… if he’s making a statement.”

“Right, I said, enough.” For a moment, Brennan held up both palms. “Jack, concentrate on your own case. I won’t tell you again. Those two youths will be arrested and interviewed when we get them, which will hopefully be today. You carry on following your leads and establish which gang members were at your scene. Hopefully, the two Bullsmead Boys can shed some light on this too. You’ll obviously be informed by Team Three when those arrests are made, okay?”

Not much of welcome for the new boy here. Pity Mr Halt wasn’t due back yet.
“Okay, sir,” said Striker, feeling his growing frustration turning into anger.

***

“You okay, Jack?”

Striker looked up from his mesmeric gaze at the blank wall and realised Bardsley had entered his office. His vacant stare continued, now aimed at his colleague.

Once the door was shut, Bardsley’s voice softened a little. “You’re not, are you, Jack?”

“That prick, Stockley, and Cunningham, trying to make me look inept in front of Brennan, and not a fuckin’ lead to go on… Fancy a beer when we knock off, Eric?”

Bardsley grinned. “You’re a mind reader. The Crown?”

“Now
you’re
the mind reader. How did you get on with the CCTV? Please tell me something positive.”

“Oh, it’s positive alright. Positively positive! Should cheer you up.” He waved a CD in the air and then inserted it into Striker’s computer. He pulled up a seat beside Striker as it whirred into action.

There was a knock at the door.

“That’ll be Lauren, she’d nipped to the ladies. I was gonna follow her in, but thought better of it.”

“Behave, Eric.” Shaking his head, Striker turned to the door. “Come in, Lauren.”

Collinge opened the door and popped her head round before entering, as the CD played on the screen.

“Oh goody, just in time.”

Striker beamed at Collinge, wondering what all the fuss was about. She pulled up a chair and Striker got a pleasant waft of her perfume.

He watched intently, while Bardsley leaned across the desk to take control of the mouse. He fast-forwarded, studying the clock on the screen before pushing play at 22:27.

“This is it. Watch the top of the screen.”

Striker could see a fairly clear picture of the petrol station’s layout: four red-and-white pumps, two random cars, their drivers topping up. There was a slight haze as the artificial lights countered the night, but it was a lot better quality than some he’d seen. The backdrop, away from the forecourt’s lights, was darkness. A group of lads appeared at the top of the screen. They walked across the forecourt toward the serving hatch, and became increasingly visible with each step. Eight of them, all in dark clothes and most wearing hoodies.

“This is where the manager switched cameras for us,” said Bardsley. “They shut the main door at twenty-two hundred hours because of previous robbery attempts and the likes of this lot hanging about.”

The picture flickered when the viewpoint changed to a window outside the counter area where the cashier served people, using a drawer facility for safety. Some of faces of the throng were clear to see, especially those with their hoods down.