My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (21 page)

Striker switched the binoculars from Collinge to the three men at the temple’s entrance. Thankfully, their expressions had softened somewhat, one even smiling as Collinge took the first of the three steps to the entrance. Another proffered a hand and she appeared to glance Striker’s way before tentatively shaking it.

Striker tensed up a little, briefly looked to his left to see Bardsley watching events through the binoculars he’d given the DC earlier. Striker again observed the playing scene, compunction prodding him as one of the men in dark trench coats opened the huge wooden doors, ushering Collinge inside, out of sight.

He zoomed in on the face of one of the other two men who remained outside. He twisted the focus dial and froze for a second, recognising the face. It was his old pal Wozza. Moving his view slightly to the left, he had vague recollections of the other man, but couldn’t quite place him. He briefly considered whether he knew the one who’d taken Collinge inside and regretted not having zoomed in on his face to check.

The scrunch and drone of two more cars on the gravel alerted him and he watched more people arrive. They received similar greetings to Collinge, although perhaps not as warm and friendly. Or was he being paranoid?

He heard a low vibrating sound, turned and saw Bardsley placing his binoculars on a sycamore branch. Bardsley reached into his pocket, his face lighting up from the glow of the phone.

“It’s Becky. I’d best answer it, Jack,” whispered the DC, huskily.

Striker nodded, himself wanting to know why she’d called.

“Go on, Becky… right… okay… bleedin’ell… I’m on my way.”

“What’s so important?”

“Can I take the hire car, Jack? They need all available resources. Looks like our man’s been on a killing spree. Three more dead.”

“Shit.” He dipped his head, leaned on a branch of tree. Knowing he had no choice, Striker threw a look at the temple and then reluctantly tossed Bardsley the keys.

***

Having discreetly parked the hire car in a side street near the nick, Bardsley had picked up his Astra and now surveyed the scene before him, barely believing his eyes. Vivid blue lights flashed intermittently around the cordoned-off street as lighting was being erected in the blackness of the alleyway, the resting place of three young men. Five spent cartridges had already been located by Armed Response, swiftly being identified as from a Glock 17 pistol.

Late-shift CID officers were conducting house-to-house enquiries while clutching their turquoise daybooks. From what he’d gathered, Maria Cunningham was already trying to prepare a press release with GMP’s Press Office, after being inundated with calls. Syndicate Three had joined Vinnie Stockley’s team, having been pulled off a knife murder in Salford, as the enormity of this escalating situation reverberated to the chief constable at HQ. SIO Halt had no doubt been called at home and been in touch with the chief, who’d ordered the callout of every available detective, bar those who’d been drinking, the latter invariably amounting to quite a few. Bardsley knew more Mutual Aid assistance from surrounding forces would also be required, now the media machine was on full throttle.

Then, to Bardsley’s amazement, the police radio in his inside pocket announced another scene in the Grosvenor Apartments and two more bodies, both shot.

Jesus. This was unprecedented, even for round here.

And Jack Striker had missed it all. Was the temple really connected to all this? Bardsley doubted it. As much as it must have been frustrating for Striker to not be involved in the case anymore, Bardsley had only gone along with the Striker’s – somewhat rushed – op out of misguided loyalty and to give his pal a sense of involvement. How could they be involved anyway, if these killings had occurred when Bardsley and Striker had been watching those bouncers at the temple? Clearly the killer was nothing to do with this VOICES group.

Bardsley saw Vinnie Stockley heading his way, the DI speaking brusquely into his mobile. He held a finger up, suggesting he wanted Bardsley to remain there while he finished his call.

“… So you’ll sort the second scene out and let Mr Brennan know? … Okay, Maria, yes, yes, I’ll see you later…” He glanced at Bardsley. “You too.” He dropped the phone into the inside pocket of his slate grey suit. “Bardsley, I need you to assist with the CCTV checks at the shops along the main road.”

Bardsley looked up at the DI.
What again? Twenty years in the Job and all I seem to do is trawl bleedin’ CCTV.
He couldn’t be arsed arguing. After all, he had enough on his plate wondering whether his missus was shagging the window cleaner. Here was yet another night he’d be late home, and it was supposed to be a rest day.

“Sure, Boss. I’m onto it,” said Bardsley with fake enthusiasm.

“Get onto the council too. There are street cameras along Moss Range Road.”

“I know. I’ve worked around here for nineteen years.”

“Less of the backchat. We’re trying to catch a serial killer here. You got a problem with that, Bardsley?”

“Nah, sorry, Boss. Just a few domestic issues on my mind, that’s all.”

“Haven’t we all? At least you’ve got a future in the Job. Unlike your mate, Striker, who’s probably in the casino drinking vodka, drowning his sorrows.” Stockley leered.

If only you knew.
“What do you mean by that?”

“Been chatting to his drug addict sister and dodgy brother-in-law about the attack on their son Deano and Striker’s shady past,” he replied smugly.

“Oh, that’s very nice of you. Stitching up a colleague by abusing his family’s trust, while prying into Jack’s background. What a nice bloke you are, Vincent.” Bardsley’s anger bubbled, and watching Stockley’s face stiffening up any thoughts of rank evaporated. “So how do you feel about all these murders on your watch then?”

“Be very careful, Detective. I can do some digging on you too. Just go and get those damn CCTV checks done.”

Bleedin’ tosser
, thought Bardsley, heading to his Astra and reaching for his mobile.

***

Alone in the dark woods, Striker watched the third bouncer exit the temple to resume his greeting pose with the other two. After missing the chance of getting a closer look earlier, Striker instantly zoomed in the binocs and was taken aback at whom he saw.

What the hell was Ged the Giant doing here?

He instantly recalled their exchange in the casino and remembered thinking at the time that Ged was a little
too
pro-Hoodie Hunter. He thought back to having caught Wozza whispering on the forum to that Danny Boy character. Could that have been Ged? Or even the killer himself? After all, Striker was also on the forum in a different guise, but for obvious reasons. Nah, surely not. His old mates wouldn’t be into something this heavy, would they?

Yet another car arrived accompanied again by the crunch of the tiny stones within the car park, which was becoming surprisingly full. He ducked momentarily when headlights shined his way through the trees. Two big blokes in long dark coats got out of a BMW. One went to the front passenger door to help an elderly lady out by extending a strong arm, which she held onto before leveraging herself out. What was it with all these black trench coats? Was it a bouncers’ convention?

He watched the lady being linked by the two men. She was clearly important to them. Then it struck him. She was probably Edith off the forum, had to be. Once she was led inside, the bouncers on the door followed and the huge wooden doors slammed shut.

Striker was just about to edge through the woods into the thicket in front, in order to head for the rear and hopefully get a closer look, when he remembered where he’d seen the third, unidentified man on the door. It was one of Lenny’s older brothers.

Haunting memories flashed back, merging with the new thoughts of this investigation, in a mishmash of speculations he could barely keep up with. Nonetheless, one thing seemed perfectly clear: his mates were here because deep down they, like him, still felt that gnawing guilt at being powerless to stop that bullet impacting Lenny’s skull all those years ago.

The craving for a cigarette was strong, but he soon quashed it.

The trees rustled above him as a chilly breeze wafted through the woods, the sycamore’s branches creaking slightly. A shiver shot up his back. He upturned his jacket’s collar in a feeble attempt to ease the cooling night. Gazing toward the temple, dark gathering clouds seemed to be moving faster than normal above it, threatening yet more Manchester rain. The multicoloured glow of the large hall’s inner lights lit up the thin, rectangular stained-glass windows down the side of the temple.

With his friends clearly involved in this VOICES group, the nagging question was:
Were they genuinely seeking comfort and catharsis in the company of like-minded people, or was something more sinister going on?

He understood that perhaps, with vulnerable victims present, there was a need to reassure them by providing security on the venue’s door. So maybe his imagination was leading him to the wrong conclusions.

Just as he felt his mobile vibrating in his pocket, he heard shuffling behind him. He pivoted enough to see a baseball bat for a micro-second, inches from his forehead. It was followed by a painful thud so sharp that it was accompanied by a bright shockwave in his mind’s eye…

… then darkness.

Castro’s iPhone finally rattled on the dark oak coffee table in front of him and he saw Big-un’s name on the screen as the mobile slowly spun with the vibration. He paused Black Ops 2 and a dead soldier flickered on the fifty-inch LED television, then he tossed the Xbox control onto the settee beside him and answered the phone.

“About fuckin’ time, bro. Thought you’d got nicked or summat. Where’ve you been?”

“Hi, Castro,” said the deep voice.

He stood up, confused. “Who the fuck’s this? Where’s Big-un?”

“You’ll know me soon enough. As for Big-un… for a ‘big-un’, he’s a right cry baby, isn’t he?”

“Yo, dickhead. If you touch him, you’re dead meat. Do you know who you’re fuckin’ with, man?”

“It’s too late for Big-un. And, yes, I do know you,
man
, that’s why I’m coming up right now.”

The phone went dead. Castro couldn’t think straight and felt a rare surge of panic. Who the fuck would have the balls to take out his number two and diss him like that?

He withdrew his Browning and paced the flat. A quick glance out of the window revealed nothing. Shit, who was this muv—?

Suddenly, it struck him like a bullet to the head. “It’s that Hoodie Hunter guy!”

An unfamiliar fear engulfed him; even so, his rage obliterated it. “Okay, Mr Hoodeee-fuckin-Hunter. Let’s see who the man is. I’m not just some punk-arsed-muvver you can trample all over –
I’m
the man!” As he spoke, he could see the pistol shaking in his grip.

There was a bang on the door. Castro’s heart flipped. He wished he’d gone easier on the weed today. He pointed the Browning and edged toward the door.

Another bang.

He shuffled sideways to the wall, away from any line of fire. He needed to check the spyhole. He took a sharp intake, moving swiftly to take a quick look. What he saw made him jump to the wall beside the door. He registered a snapshot of a man in a balaclava, holding a handgun.

His options were limited and he instantly knew what he had to do. He’d have to get the boys to clear the flat of money and merchandise pronto before the cops got here. But this was self-defence right?

Bizarrely, he pictured Laticia’s Babylons, wishing he could nestle into them now. But he knew he had no choice.

“Fuck it!”

Castro cracked out six shots, splintering the door, each bullet piercing through. There was a faint smell of burning wood, the gun hot in his shaking hand. Adrenaline pumped and he felt sickly. Silence, except his own heartbeat. Cautiously, still pointing the pistol, he peeped, but saw nothing. He slowly unlocked the latch and jolted the door open.

Relief.

“Woo-yeah, man.” Castro eyed the prostrate body. No movement, definitely smoked. A black trench coat with blood seeping out. He jumped onto the body and began to dance. “Who’s the man now, Mr Hoodeee Hunter?”

As he danced, he noticed the floor was wet and got a whiff of something. He crouched and touched the carpet, then smelled his finger. He laughed manically, his gold front teeth glowing, and he resumed his celebrations with even more vigour.

“I was right about you, man… the Hoodeee Hunter’s pissed himself… what a fuckin’ pussy!”

***

He watched the halfwit dancing over the corpse and rolled down the dual-hat balaclava, then readied the Glock 17. He stepped out from the doorway into the corridor.

“Look at you. You’re all the same,” he hissed in disgust, causing Castro to pivot like an owl on speed. Silencer still fixed, he popped a slug into the gang leader’s gun hand, the Browning bouncing a few feet away. Castro shrieked, clutched his hand, his eyes wide with shock. A woman’s petrified face appeared in a doorway down the hall.

“Get back in and you’ll be safe,” he yelled, and her door slammed forthwith.

A man’s muffled voice: “It’s okay, Beryl, I’ve called the police.”

The handgun was still trained on the squealing Castro. “Pull back the face mask,” he said, gesturing with the Glock’s barrel.

Like a good boy, Castro peeled the balaclava back, revealing a duct-taped mouth. He lifted it further and Big-un’s vacant eyes looked up at him.

“Now pass me my other Glock.”

Castro had tears in his eyes. “Look… Fuck you, man. Who the hell do you—?”

“Okay, I’ll get it myself.” He blasted Castro in the midriff and strolled forward. “That’s from our Josh…”

Castro buckled, gasped for air, his expression a grimace with a dash of disbelief, both hands clutching his blood-spewing gut. He staggered back against the corridor wall.

“… And this one’s from me.” The second shot hit the top of Castro’s brow and he collapsed in slow motion.

He stepped over the bodies, resisting the strong urge to spit on them, and retrieved the empty Glock he’d forced Big-un to hold. Still no DNA for Jack Striker’s lot. As he heard faint sirens, he gazed down the corridor at the wall.

It’s always surprising how far brain and skull fragments fly from the back of your head when shot at close range. An odd mix, like cheap ketchup and mushy peas, spattering a white-washed wall, is never a pretty sight, but it can be perversely satisfying to see in this relentless process of mopping up.

He headed along the corridor to the fire exit, the face of his next targets already clearly formed in his mind.