My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (18 page)

“I’ve been trawling the internet, looking for anyone or anything that may help, and I think I’ve stumbled across something.” Striker sipped his coffee, leaned forward a little, checking over both shoulders. He was a tad disappointed that the lively group of women and children had decided to eat in, though thankful they’d settled on the far side near the entrance.

“What, exactly?” asked Collinge, also leaning closer.

“Well, I was trying to think what would motivate someone to start murdering the local scumbags and I re-read the letter over and over. Then, on a whim, or a hunch if you like, I searched the net for local support groups for victims.”

“So you believe our man’s been wronged in some way. Makes perfect sense.”

“Yeah, and I found a few action groups scattered around the north, a couple in the northwest, but only one based near here, on the outskirts of Greater Manchester.”

“Where?”

“Wilmslow.”

“That’s where I live.” Collinge looked anxious, her eyes tightening, brows scrunching. “What’s the group called?”

“VOICES.”

“What does that stand for?”

“Victims of Injustice Can Ease Suffering.”

“Seems reasonable. And?”

“That’s what I thought, initially. They meet up monthly at an old Masonic temple off the A34.”

“Think I know it.”

“Okay. But they’ve also got a chat forum and this is where it gets interesting. They were talking about the Hoodie Hunter on it, defending him.”

“Oh.” She seemed nonplussed. “But
everyone’s
talking about him. And isn’t that understandable, with it being for victims of crime, who are probably bitter about what’s happened to them or their loved ones? He does seem to have the public, and some parts of the media, split doesn’t he?”

“True, but one guy was a little
too
pro-Hoodie Hunter for my liking, virtually singing his praises.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “Did you join in the chat, Boss?”

“Please, Lauren, call me Jack. We’re in a café and I’m on gardening leave, or so it seems.”

She blinked, nodded. “They’ll have you back soon enough.”

“Perhaps not ‘soon enough’, eh? And, no, I just lurked a while. But I will join in the chat tonight and if I get the same vibes, I may need you to go into one of their meetings as a victim.”

She sat upright, eyes widening. “What, you mean off the record?”

He opened his arms. “Can’t get authorisation from here can I?”

Collinge stroked a hand across her creasing brow. “With respect, Jack, why can’t you go into the meeting yourself?”

Striker shook his head, his turn to look thoughtful. “I can’t because I think my old mate Wozza was on the forum. If so, he’d obviously recognise me. He was chatting on there about a friend of ours who was shot in the head years ago.”

***

Striker plopped some bloodworms into the tropical fish tank, watching the crimson mass disperse and wiggle in unison down toward certain death. The vigilant neons, as always, were first to go in for the kill, the less alert mollies last to join the feeding frenzy. A few of the bloodworms nestled in shells, skulking in the shadows, but it was only a matter of time until the inevitable onslaught reached them too. No stone, or in this case shell, would be left unturned.

Mr Plec and Sliver the loach showed no interest in the wriggling bloodworms, instead they continued focussing on their mopping-up process, aimed at the scum in the lower echelons of the tank.

He poured himself a vodka and Diet Coke, and sat at his computer. Turning it on, the whirring noise as it powered up was followed by the universal chimes of Windows opening. Waiting for the screen to upload, he gazed out of the second-floor apartment at the huge Beetham Tower, seeing little movements in the myriad of windows from miniature people going about their business, the rare winter sun shimmering off the impressive Tetra-style building.

He considered Collinge’s reaction to his suggestion of her possibly infiltrating the action group. Initially, she’d looked a little uneasy, but he reassured her that both he and Bardsley would be nearby as backup, if at any point she wanted out. Sometime soon, he’d have to give Lucy a call and check in on Deano again. Though, as bad as he felt about that, it would have to wait for the moment.

A couple of clicks later, he was on the VOICES website. He joined the site choosing the random name ‘Davey’, for no other reason than it was the first name that popped into his head. He’d made up a Hotmail address incorporating Davey, but wasn’t too bothered about leaving any technical footprints that could be traced back to him via his IP address. If anything positive arose from this, then the computer analysis would just be used as evidence in court, and the judge and jury could decide on its legitimacy.

He knew he was akin to a hippo crossing an iced lake, but what did the brass expect him to do: forget the whole thing and sleep like a baby? Nothing would probably come of this anyway, yet something told Striker it was worth a shot.

On the forum, Wozza had used his real nickname in the early hours when Striker had last logged on, but trawling through the various threads now, he didn’t appear to be on there. Nonetheless, Striker read through the thread titles, his eyes resting on one in particular: ‘My son was killed and the bastards got off’.

‘Edith’ had started this thread and was understandably irate. Striker saw a green tick beside her name, signalling her online status. Time to make contact. He began typing.

Having read about her son being jumped by a gang as he returned from football practice in the tough Manchester suburb of Wythenshawe, and how the police arrested eight youths but charged no one, Striker typed a short message:
So sorry to hear of your loss, Edith. I do hope your son’s attackers are brought to justice.

Within seconds Edith responded:
Thank you, Davey. So do I. Not seen you on here before – welcome. Have you lost someone close as well?

Time for calculated bullshit. It felt slightly immoral duping an innocent victim, but the moral high ground was with Striker, in that his motive was for the greater good.

Davey:
Well, this is the first time I’ve ‘spoken’ about it. My nephew was attacked and pretty much left for dead too. He’s never really recovered. I’m still coming to terms with it. I know it can’t be compared to your loss, but it’s still devastating seeing him struggle through life.

Edith:
Oh, Davey. We all feel the same pain and it’s crucial that you don’t carry that pain with you – you must share it to lighten the load on yourself and it’s good you’ve taken that first step. If you’re in the area, why don’t you come to one of our meetings? You’d get so much out of it. I don’t know how I’d have coped without them.

Davey:
Thanks for those kind words, Edith. It’s nice of you to offer, but I’m a fair few miles away.

Edith:
Oh, these meetings are open to all and are very therapeutic.

Davey:
How many attend them?

Edith:
Usually a dozen or so, and sometimes it can be as many as twenty.

Davey:
I dunno about talking about this in public though.

Danny Boy:
Hey, mate. We’re a friendly bunch n you don’t have to say anything.

Davey:
Hi, Danny Boy. That’s reassuring. Thanks, but still not 100% sure.

Edith:
It’s entirely up to you, Davey. Just an option that’s open to you. Think about it – we don’t bite!

Davey:
LOL.

Wozza:
Davey, welcome. You can just use this forum to get things off your chest, fella. Many people do that, especially those scattered around the country.

Davey:
Thanks – all of you. You really are decent and I’m feeling better already.

Edith:
I told you!!!

Davey:
So who runs the meetings – if I was gonna turn up?

Wozza:
Usually Vic, but if he’s got other commitments, then Danny fills in.

Davey:
Right. Vic? Is that a woman?

Danny Boy:
It doesn’t really matter who runs it cos all the meetings have the same format n serve their purpose.

Davey:
Okay, thanks again. Gotta go now, but nice chatting to you all and hopefully speak again soon.

Striker didn’t want to push his luck, but why did this ‘Danny Boy’ character seemingly jump in about the names of the organizers? And why weren’t they on the website in the ‘About’ section? It simply stated that ‘VOICES is a place where like-minded people meet up for a cathartic fortnightly session.’ No names given: maybe this was simply to protect the victims’ identities, or could there be another reason?

Suddenly a comment from Danny Boy flashed up –
He’s still online
–
and disappeared within a blink.

Striker scrutinised the screen, noticing a ‘whisper’ icon at the top right of each comment made, plus ‘delete’, and a ‘report post’ facility. He tested the whisper option out with a message to Edith. He clicked on her last comment:
I told you!!!
The new comment box opened with ‘Whisper to Edith’ at the top. He wrote,
Sorry for doubting you. I appreciate your welcome.

Twenty seconds later.

Edith to Davey:
No worries. We love new members. Hope to see you at a meeting soon. X

Davey to Edith:
I’m sure you will.

So it appears that Danny Boy may have been whispering to someone, maybe Wozza, about Davey. Could have been innocently chatting about the ‘newbie’, but Striker wasn’t so sure.

After checking the list of dates for their next meeting, Striker logged off VOICES, deciding to check out another forum he’d found, one he had a vested interest in. He typed in the Google search bar: ‘BDSM forums.’

Striker fired up the hired Vauxhall Vectra and flicked the wipers to intermittent to clear the light drizzle. He hadn’t wanted to use his own car for this particular excursion.

Leaning a hand out of the driver’s window, he key fobbed the private car park barrier up and headed off. On Liverpool Street he passed a group of schoolchildren, obviously heading for the Museum of Science and Industry, thirty or so excited voices drifting into the Vectra. The teachers, or helpful volunteer parents, dressed in luminous green jackets, were guiding the kids away from the city centre traffic.

The Beetham Tower soared above him as he turned into the inevitable queue on Deansgate, an immaculate burgundy-bodied Harley Davidson fleetingly catching his attention outside Manchester Motors. After a few impatient minutes, he left most of the congestion in his wake and sped beneath the bridge beside Deansgate railway station, a noisy tram thundering the bridge’s girders above. Not wanting to think of his dad at this moment, he ignored the swing CDs in his glove compartment, opting for an eighties music collection instead. Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ began to belt out.

He headed south along the A56, on his right the futuristic and predominantly glass design of the Salford Quays towers proudly piercing the skyline. Because of its close proximity to the city centre, ‘The Quays’, as the locals called it, was a haven for city centre high-fliers, actors and the like. This list included a few from popular local soap opera Coronation Street. Both the BBC and ITV had their studios there, giving the place a distinctly prosperous feel. The Quays was set at the end of the Manchester Ship Canal, overlooking a picturesque and expansive basin where huge cargo ships used to dock and turn in years gone by. But typical of Manchester, looming behind was the tough Ordsall Estate in the neighbouring city of Salford.

Chester House, Greater Manchester Police’s old HQ, flashed by to his left, making Striker picture the much swankier new HQ at Central Park in Newton Heath, where no doubt numerous media vehicles would be camped outside with reporters hoping for a word with the chief constable.

A cloak of bitter memories engulfed him as Old Trafford, Man United’s ground, came into view to his right. Indelible recollections of too many Man City defeats there flicked through his mind; the tangible excitement of derby day within the city never seemed to live up to its billing for the blue side of Manchester, until recently thankfully.

Striker cursed under his breath and put his foot down to escape the shadow of the huge stadium. Known by football purists as the ‘Theatre of Dreams’, it faded into the distance. To him and his fellow blues, it was cynically nicknamed the ‘Swamp’, due to its old muddy pitch, and City fans also teased their red counterparts regarding its location in Trafford, not Manchester. However, City’s state-of-the-art stadium was built for the Commonwealth Games held in Manchester in 2002 and was much easier on the eye than the sprawl of ugly scaffolding-like supports on the roof of their rivals’ stadium. There was always a flipside to intense rivalry, and with City still renting their home from Manchester City Council, the reds cheekily retaliated by referring to it as the ‘Council House’.

Old Trafford slipped into the distance as Spaudau Ballet’s ‘True’ kept Striker company, and he recalled smooching to it with Wendy Wilkinson at the school disco. As he drove, he fleetingly wondered what life would have been like if he’d stayed with his first love, but after a flashback of him fumbling for his clothes on hearing her dad’s footsteps nearing her bedroom, he smiled and began to concentrate on the now.

The now that had seen five boys murdered and his nephew hospitalised. The now that had seen him unceremoniously dumped off the case. The now that saw him embarking on a private investigation, with the real possibility of Striker himself winding up in prison, and not the killer. Thoughts of football and his first love faded as Striker firmly focussed on the now.

Before long, he was on the M60 – a vast motorway which ringed Manchester – where the drizzle transformed to heavy droplets, pounding his windscreen and roof, his wipers now on full pelt accompanied by an annoying squeak. Such was the downpour’s distortion of his vision, he had to lean forward and squint to view the motorway turn-off sign for the A34 to Wilmslow. Just as Queen’s ‘I Want to Break Free’ began to boom, he noticed the Vectra’s digital clock was on the hour. He flicked the CD out and the radio automatically reverted to the BBC GMR news headlines. His resolve intensified when the bulletin was all about the Hoodie Hunter.

The Sun had apparently run with the letter headline that Halt had warned them about two days ago, despite, as Bardsley had informed him, GMP’s desperate attempts at gaining an injunction to block the revelation. According to the radio, no one from GMP was available for comment, though a press conference was due this afternoon. Striker was honest enough to admit he was glad that he wasn’t the one facing the cameras, and he felt sorry for whoever got landed with the job. The unfortunate person with the responsibility would probably be the chief constable, such was the enormity of the escalating circumstances.

Striker pulled the Vectra onto the A34, still a couple of miles to his rendezvous point with Bardsley. He listened to the female broadcaster sensationalising the story with “Hoodie Hunter” this and “Hoodie Hunter” that, scaremongering the general public in true media fashion. He knew that now the story was out in the public domain, the proverbial brown stuff would hit the fan big time, and cause quite a mess to say the least. This, along with the knowledge his colleagues were chasing the wrong man, made Striker put his foot down, despite the incessant rain. The sooner he could find out more about this VOICES group, the better.

***

Striker saw Bardsley’s green Job Astra parked beside some trees, a second before its headlights flashed him on his approach. Bardsley indicated and slowly turned down a pot-holed country lane.

Striker followed, instantly feeling the random bumps testing the Vectra’s suspension. They drove slowly through a canopy of sycamores, poplars and oaks, and soon passed the impressive-looking Masonic temple that loomed somewhat eerily to his left. Striker recognised it from the photo on VOICES website. The Astra slowed to a crawl, Bardsley’s protruding right arm waving Striker forward.

They drove further down the lane, which split dense woods to the left from vast farmer’s fields to the right, and they came to a halt at a closed wooden gate. Striker pulled alongside Bardsley and they both opened their windows. A strong smell of manure wafted in from the fields, where cows were dotted here and there.

“Remote isn’t it, Eric?” A cow mooed in the distance as if to reinforce his point.

“And smelly too.”

“Wonder what they are trying to hide.”

Bardsley raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“Hmm… maybe nothing.” Striker quickly scanned the area. “But, then again, this may just be a bit
too
dodgy for Lauren.”

“You having second thoughts, Jack?” No one else around and the ‘Boss’ tag was dropped like clockwork.

“There’s a lot on the line for all three of us if we mess this up, Eric. I don’t wanna bring you two down with me.”

Bardsley looked concerned. “We’re a team. And, anyhow, we can have a quick nosey and if nothing comes of it then no one need know.”

“True. I still believe we need to do this, and we don’t have enough suspicion to do it lawfully so…”

“Ways and Means Act 1984.” Bardsley winked then grinned devilishly.

“Exactly. ‘The book’ is out of the window for me now.”

Bardsley put two cigarettes into his mouth, lit them, and leaned across, passing one to Striker. “What do you mean, ‘now’? Always bleedin’ was.”

Striker took his cigarette, drew on it, smiling. “It’s worth the gamble. How long have you been waiting?”

“Long enough to guess that no one’s knocking about if you wanna take a closer look. No cars in the car park and no CCTV cameras, as far as I can see. Looks like they have motion-sensor lights around the front car park. Probably need ’em too, could see it being quite dark here at night.”

Striker gazed through the woods to their left, seeing the backdrop of the temple, peering through the trees. Its varying shades of beige nineteenth-century brickwork looked rather mossy and weather beaten. “Yeah, it’s a bit creepy looking, even in the daylight.”

“Shall we have a closer look?”

Striker considered Bardsley’s initial observations for a moment. There were no obvious signs of anyone else being present. Of course it was possible that someone could still be there, but Striker doubted it and nodded. They both got out of their cars and headed on foot toward the temple, the gravel underfoot crunching as they approached.

The building itself had a gothic look, probably a few hundred years old, the masonry a mix of browns, greens and greys, uneven, yet still picturesque.

Striker carefully checked the black metal handles on the huge, oak double doors. They were cold to touch and a quick twist of them told him the doors were locked. They headed around the back, passing numerous stained-glass windows, until they reached one with a transparent piece which enabled them to see through. Striker looked first and saw a large hall with a high ceiling. There were about twenty upholstered burgundy chairs in a spacious circle, including three chairs behind an old wooden desk, obviously where the people running the meeting sat.

“Anything interesting?” asked Bardsley, his tones hushed but still coarse.

Striker’s left index finger shot up to pursed lips. “At least
try
to whisper, Eric. There’s a hall, some seats and a few doors. One that obviously leads to the main entrance, plus one that could be a fire exit and another marked ‘Toilets’. There’s what looks like a” – Striker craned to look – “small stage at the far end, with the curtains closed. There’s a small drinks bar too. Nothing untoward. Here, have a nosey and see if I’ve missed anything.” He moved aside.

Bardsley peeked inside, then looked to his right and walked gingerly a few paces before pointing at another door. Striker nodded, turned and gestured for Bardsley to follow him back to the cars.

Once they were thirty metres or so clear of the temple, they talked as they walked. Bardsley regarded the vast fields to their right, cows mooing intermittently. “I know there’s only the country road leading here, but the actual access to and from the temple is pretty good, isn’t it?”

“Agreed, Eric. At least three doors in and out of the hall, plus two more exits from the building itself. Lauren should be fine.”

“Remind me why it has to be Lauren. Wouldn’t it be better if I did it?”

Striker thought for a moment, then said, “Nah, Eric, I’ve something else planned for you. Anyway, one of my old mates might be there.”

“Eh?” Bardsley looked surprised.

“I’m sure it was him, chatting on the VOICES forum I told you about.”

“Who?”

“Wozza.”

“Oh… right. Chris Worsall. Gotcha.” Bardsley’s voice was loaded with inquisition. “Wasn’t he there when your mate got shot way back? When Stockley was a spotty probationer and gave you a hard time?”

Striker had only told one officer about this and that was Bardsley, until recently hinting at it to Lauren out of necessity. “Yes, Eric, way back. Wozza never really got over it.” Striker stared blankly for a moment before continuing. “That’s why I think he’s involved in the VOICES group. They never did catch the bastards who shot Lenny, you see, and it’s been pretty hard to bear… for us all…” Again, Striker gazed into space.

“Okay, Jack.” Bardsley patted him on the shoulder as they reached the cars. “When we gonna do this thing then?” asked Bardsley as they opened their car doors.

“The meeting’s tonight at eight.”

“Bleedin’ell, Jack, that’s in five hours.”

“Exactly. No time like the present.” Striker winked at him. “Keep your phone charged. I’ll be in touch.”

The Vectra and the Astra crawled past the Masonic temple with the continuous scrunch of gravel under tyres, until they disappeared up the bumpy country lane.

***

A solitary magpie was perched on the sill of the lone window within the body of the temple’s spire. Once the two suspicious cars were out of sight, the dark figure peering through the window faded back into the room, returning to his work with renewed vigour.