My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (11 page)

“That’s Grinley,” said Striker. “And there’s Mozo.”

“Yeah, some of them bought crisps, fags and cans of coke and water, before moving on. There’s nearly five minutes of footage here, Jack.”

“Pause it.” The screen quivered. “Is that Bolands?”

“That’s what we reckon, Boss,” said Collinge.

Striker glanced at the DCs, who were looking pleased with themselves.

“Good. So we know he was still alive at twenty-two twenty-nine. That’s if that clock’s right.”

“Oh it is. I’ve checked and the manager said they’d fitted a state of the art system because his bosses were sick of the trouble, so the digital clock is always accurate.” Bardsley pushed play.

“Strange that he’s with the Bullsmead Boys though. They seem friendly enough with him too. Maybe Jerome was right about them meeting up to discuss a merger against the Salford lot.”

“Yeah, we struggled understanding that one as well, Boss,” said Collinge.

For the next three minutes Striker made notes and they discussed the possible identities of each of the youths. By the time this section of the footage ended, they had four definitely identified and another four possible names. The latter could be put on the electronic briefing for all officers to view, so confirmation would only be a matter of a few hours away, hopefully.

Striker was feeling much better about things as he watched the last of the youths disappear from view. Bardsley fast forwarded the screen again.

“Good stuff, guys.”

“It gets better, Jack. Now watch the bottom of the screen.”

Bardsley clicked play again and Striker edged forward in his seat. The digital clock was at 22:42 when a couple of figures ran across the forecourt.

“Not sure who they are, but we could work it out from the clothing or by closer analysis at Bradford Park, maybe later. Keep watching.” Striker glanced at his colleagues in turn, curiosity strewn across his face.

A dark figure appeared, jogging. He was only just in view. Though this person wasn’t a kid, it was a man – a tall burly man.

“That’s our guy, Eric, it’s got to be.”

Bardsley nodded, grinned. “I told you it would cheer you up.”

“You got stills?”

“Yeah, but not from this camera angle. Keep watching.”

The mystery man jogged out of view.

“Where’s he heading?”

“Looks like north, up Moss Range Road,” said Collinge.

Striker made a mental note to check with council for any CCTV beyond the petrol station. The screen changed viewpoint again and revealed a much closer shot of the man running alongside the forecourt. Striker shuffled nearer, leaning in, as the man grew bigger. He was clearly wearing a balaclava and was dressed in a long black coat.

Bardsley paused the image at its optimal point. “Voilà,” he said, producing three stills from his jacket pocket and handing them to Striker. He studied the photos. Two were close ups of the youths and one a copy of the shot now visible on the screen.

Striker stood up, turned to Bardsley. “You beauty!” He grabbed both sides of the DC’s head and pulled him in for a smacker of a kiss on the lips.

Bardsley laughed out loud, saying, “Errgh.”

Striker turned to Collinge, who was smiling. He leaned in a few inches, hesitating as their eyes met, before quickly looking back at the screen, fleetingly feeling warmth flush his cheeks.

Composing himself, he said, “Right. I know we can’t easily ID him, but this changes everything. In some ways, it’s okay that he’s concealing his ID. I mean, why would a man wearing a face mask flee a murder scene?”

“Exactly,” said Bardsley. “You were right, Jack, about it not being the gangs.”

“And we’ve got continuity from Khan’s account. We really need to speak with him now… Oh no, what time is it?” Striker looked up at the clock on his wall. It was five to four. “Brennan’s speaking to the media in five minutes. Get a coffee, I’ll be back in ten.”

With that, Striker ran from his office, clutching the stills.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Striker was soon running down the corridor to the front-desk office. He burst into the room and Joanne, the frumpy-looking front-desk clerk, physically jumped, nearly dropping the plate of pasta she was eating.

“Sorry, Joanne, but has Mr Brennan started with the press yet?”

She swallowed what she was eating and tentatively shook her head. “No, but he’s on his way down apparently.”

Striker scanned the multiple cameras high on the office wall, showing all angles of the front counter waiting area and the outside of the nick. The media were there waiting in the car park, like a herd of scavenging hyenas.

He heard footsteps in the corridor, then a door opening. He saw Brennan appear on one of the screens, and on the adjacent one the media surged forward for the kill.

Striker sprinted out of the office and released a catch on the inner wall of the corridor beside the door. He entered the empty public waiting area – purposely vacated – and saw the back of Brennan heading toward a plethora of flashing cameras.

“Mr Brennan!”

The detective superintendent spun round, a look of incredulity across his face. “What?” he asked curtly, his arms open, gesturing at the multitude of reporters outside.

“Please, sir.” Striker beckoned him over using his hand.

Brennan backtracked, saying, “This better be good, Striker.”

Striker noticed an ITV film crew and a female reporter approaching the door, camera pointing directly at them, the reporter speaking excitedly into her microphone. He ensured the photos were out of the camera’s view, hiding them behind his back.

He said in a hushed voice, “Sir, we’ve got some footage of the bloke that the newsagent Khan described. Plus, great shots of gang members, including” – Still mindful of the cameraman, Striker flicked through the photos for Brennan’s benefit – “Bolands, Mozerelli and Grinley.”

Deadpan, Brennan thought for a moment, glanced at the media. “Good work, Striker.”

“We have DCs Bardsley and Collinge to thank.”

“Well good for them, but I’ve got a script in my head of what to say and we’re sticking with the gang angle for now.”

“With respect, sir, this man” – He held up the still – “is fleeing a murder scene while wearing a balaclava.”

“Yes, but he could still be a gang member, Jack.”

“What, dressed like that?” He pointed at the long trench coat.

“Look, leave the CD and the stills on my desk. I’ll take look afterwards. Now let me deal with this rabble, will you?”

“Don’t you even want to show the photo to them and appeal for him to come forward, or see if anyone knows him?”

“No. Not yet. Now, do as I’ve requested, Inspector.”

Exasperated, Striker’s thoughts drifted to John Smith’s bitter and the Crown.

***

Striker sent Bardsley a quick text, then went around the back of the nick for a cigarette. He purposely avoided the group of regulars gathered under the smoking shelter across the rear car park. Instead, he opted for a little alcove under the metal fire escape beneath his office.

He was soon joined by Bardsley and offered him a Silk Cut.

“Nah, can’t get a drag out of them. It’s like trying to suck treacle through a straw. I’ll stick with my Bensons, thanks. Anyway, what happened with Brennan? Why have you still got the photos?”

“Don’t ask.” Striker took a drag of his cigarette. “He did say well done to you and Lauren, but he’s sticking with the gang-on-gang theory.”

“You’re joking.”

“I jest not.”

“You know why he’s in denial, don’t you, Jack?”

“I can hazard an educated guess.”

“He’s shit scared of the media and, more importantly, the public thinking we have a serial killer on our hands.” Bardsley blasted a double drag, the smoke caressing and intermingling with his beard before dispersing upward in the breeze.

“Sounds about right that. The tit-for-tit gang warfare would be no surprise, almost like old news. He won’t admit it until it’s absolutely necessary. Especially on his watch, while Mr Halt’s still on his cruise.” Striker drew on his cigarette, feeling the niggling guilt and disappointment at starting smoking again.

“Agreed. He’s bottled it. He could’ve shown that photo there and then to speed things up. Anyway, I’ve just been to the OPU and they’ll scan those stills onto the briefing site and hopefully that’ll help confirm the IDs of the other four kids at the petrol station.”

“Nice one. Thanks, Eric. We’d best hold back on the still of our man, until Brennan gives us the nod.”

“Fair enough. When’s he on telly?”

“I’m pretty certain it was a live feed, but I guess it’ll be on the local bulletins later.” Striker took one last drag. “Pub?”

Bardsley nodded enthusiastically. “Pub.” They both stubbed out their cigarettes and headed back upstairs to finish off for the day.

After Bardsley had nipped back into the OPU with the stills for the briefing site, and Striker had placed the CD and photos of the suspect on Brennan’s desk on the top floor, they were back in Striker’s office.

Collinge had followed them in. “Boss, just thought you’d like to know, I’ve just checked the custody system to see if Mozerelli and Grinley have been arrested yet and it’s a negative.”

“Hey, cheers Lauren. I was just about to do that myself. Brennan’s got the disc of the footage for the interviews, if they do get them in.”

“Right then, I think that’s us done for the day, guys. We’re just going to the Crown for a quick pint, Lauren. Wanna join us?”

“Er… thanks, Boss, but I’ve got a date.” She looked at them both staring at her, Bardsley raising his eyebrows. “It’s only a meal after work, nothing special.”

Striker surprised himself with a panicky twinge of jealousy and immediately suppressed it. “Who’s the lucky fella?”

Collinge briefly looked away and ran a hand through her locks, saying, almost too nonchalantly, “Oh, er, nobody you know. But thanks for the offer. Okay if I get off?”

Bardsley was just about to say something, so Striker cut in. “Of course, Lauren. You have a good night and I’ll see you nice and refreshed at the morning meeting?”

“Refreshed? What, like you two will be? I’ve heard about your ‘quick pints’,” she said cheekily, throwing in the smile.

***

The Crown was on the southern edge of Manchester city centre and whenever they’d attended there in the past, the session had been a lengthy one. The alcoves were perfect, eavesdropper proof, and the music always light, usually swing, which suited them both. Black-and-white pictures of swing singers, old and new, covered the walls: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Harry Connick Jr,
to name a few.

The Crown was only ten minutes from the nick, up the A56. The predominantly wooden design, including beams, trim and flooring, along with the pastel orange wall lights, provided a relaxing look and warm feeling. Only being half full, it made serving fairly routine. They chose their alcove and sat across a mahogany table from each other, Bardsley making light work of the soothing fizz of Becks, while Striker felt the cool tang of John Smith’s Extra Smooth running merrily down his throat.

“Stockley’s always been up his own arse, Jack, so what would you expect from him anyway?”

“I know. And I know Cunningham will always bear a grudge, after what happened between us. But it was Brennan who surprised me today. I used to think he was okay, but even he was doing my head in. So I just needed a beer – with a friendly face.”

“You call this friendly?” Bardsley pointed at his rugged, hairy mug, while contorting for effect and widening his eyes. “Enough to scare a bleedin’ gorilla this. Just ask the missus.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“That’s another reason.” Striker shook his head, smiling. “Your self-deprecating humour.”

“And there’s me thinking you were gonna put pen to paper ’cause you thought I wasn’t politically correct.”

“If I was gonna do that, Eric, I’d have done it years ago. Probably within the first few days of meeting you.”

They both took a mouthful of their pints, then Bardsley asked, “Can you remember that far back, old timer?”

“Cheeky git. I’m only thirty-five.” They exchanged grins. “Anyway, how are you and Maggie getting on these days, now all the kids have fled the nest?”

Fleetingly, Bardsley’s expression became forlorn and he took another gulp of his lager. Mischief soon refilled his eyes. “At least she actually touched me the other night. So things are looking up.”

“Really?” Striker played along, with mock surprise.

“Yeah, well, I bumped into her on the stairs on my way to work. It’s the closest I’ve been to sex for years. Can’t speak for her though.”

Striker nearly spurted his last swig of bitter across the table. “I’m the same, mate. No action for a good old while.”

There was a slight awkward silence and Striker wondered whether Bardsley wanted to confide in him, which would be a rare occurrence. Instead, he opted for the safer bet. “Fancy another, Eric?”

“Does it rain in Manchester?”

As Striker strolled the ten metres to the bar, a student-aged brunette with eye-catching curves smiled at him. She was collecting glasses and brazenly looked him up and down, just as Robbie Williams’ version of ‘Mack the Knife’ kicked in on the sound system. Striker found himself smiling back. Playing it cool, he quickly got the barman’s attention.

“Same again, please, mate.”

The clink of glasses beside him on the bar caught his attention and the girl was up so close he could smell her perfume. A new fragrance, not one he’d encountered before, but he liked it.

“Just finished?” she asked confidently.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, about half an hour ago. What about you?”

“Here all night. And you?”

“Will probably have a couple more.”

“Good.” She smirked, rolling her tongue in her cheek.

Striker was torn between doing the right thing and doing the wrong thing. So he did neither and turned back to the barman, who placed the pints before him. Once he’d paid, the girl was gone, cleaning a nearby table, and he half regretted not continuing the chat.

Bardsley’s dirty smirk greeted him back in the alcove.

“Inspector Striker into paedophilia now? What will Mr Halt think when he gets back?”

“Sod off, Eric. I just said hello.”

Bardsley took the head off his pint, wiped the froth from his top lip with the back of his left hand. “Oh really? You were drooling and I don’t blame you. Those tits looked proper angry under that blouse. I clocked her as soon as we came in.”

“Give over, Eric. You could be her granddad, you perv.”

“And you could be her big brother. Worth a nibble though.”

“You’re a married man.”

“And you’re not, so why not?” Bardsley winked.

“Nah, it’s not worth it. Anyway, I am technically still married. We never did divorce, you know. But since Suzi left, I just can’t be arsed with women. Much better on my own, for now.”

“All blokes need some relief.”

“What are you calling me here, Eric?”

“I was referring to myself. I’m getting really adept at this DIY lark.”

Striker shook his head again. “So things aren’t right with you two then?”

“Very perceptive. You should be a detective.”

He laughed, but Bardsley just stared into his pint.

A moment passed.

“I think she’s been knobbing the window cleaner, Jack.”

“Shit, Eric.” His friend’s face grimaced. “Fancy a smoke?”

“Good idea.”

Taking their pints out to the rear beer garden, the chill of night soon hit them.

Striker pushed a button and the outside heater flared reddish orange, bringing near instant warmth. Bardsley lit two Bensons and passed one to Striker, knowing the DI’s ten pack of Silk Cut had long gone.

Striker checked over both shoulders and saw that no one else was present. “How do you know, Eric – about Maggie and the window cleaner?”

“I caught him looking – no, staring – at her a few weeks ago, so I challenged him. He seems to have an answer for everything. You know, a cocky smart-arse type, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Is that it?”

“No. I came home from work and he was in the kitchen having a beer. One of
my
bleedin’ beers, and they were giggling as I walked in.”

“Right. Still not proof though.”

“But Maggie looked different. Sort of glowing, like when we first met. And he supped up and left a bit too sharpish if you ask me.”

“Have you confronted her?”

He shook his head. “You know me. It all just comes out as me being even more grumpy toward her. Instead of actually just having a heart-to-heart, you know?” He took a long drag and Striker thought he looked a little tearful when he exhaled, but it may have been the artificial lighting. “Anyhow, won’t Brennan be on the repeat news bulletin soon?”