My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (27 page)

Bardsley followed Halt and Grant up the spiralling metal staircase to the highest point of the temple. They entered the room at the top, which had old decaying stone walls. The heavy wooden door had evidently been forced by the searching officers.

And there she was.

Lauren Collinge was sat on a shabby burgundy Victorian-style chair. Not quite Queen Victoria – her hair dishevelled, face grubby and solemn. The firearms officers were frantically undoing ropes attached to her ankles.

“Thank God,” said Halt. “Lauren, you okay?”

Collinge looked up, half smiled nervously, tears in her eyes, her pride preventing their descent. Voice croaky, she said, “I am… now, sir.”

“We found DC Collinge in there, sir,” said one of the armed officers pointing at a cubbyhole, the small door hanging in pieces having been forced open.

Becky Grant was on her knees, placing an arm around Collinge’s shoulder while whispering tender encouragement.

Bardsley made eye contact with Collinge, winked and then patted her gently on the back as he passed. He stooped to peer inside the cubbyhole, seeing it was cramped and dingy. There was an empty chocolate bar wrapper beside a cushion that matched the chair Collinge was currently sat on.

He turned back to her. “So that’s where you were hiding, Lauren. The things people will do to avoid a bit of overtime.”

Halt glared at him. “Bardsley, please!”

Collinge laughed and one or two of the armed officers joined in with chuckles, forcing Halt to mellow and just shake his head.

The firearms sergeant rushed in, carrying a bottle of water. “The ambulance is on its way and so are SOCO,” he said, handing the bottle to Collinge, who began gulping it like she’d spent a day in the Sahara.

Bardsley studied a map on the wall, noticing red plastic markers pinned at various intervals. He looked closer, soon recognising a few street names in South Manchester. He rubbed his beard, studied it a little longer.

Halt cleared his throat. “Thanks gentlemen, could you please leave us for a few minutes?” The armed officers looked up, hesitated then filed out. Bardsley and Grant stayed.

Halt asked one of the exiting officers for sterile gloves and he reached into a pouch on his belt. Halt took the gloves and put them on. He began checking the drawers of an antiquated oak desk to the left as he asked, “Lauren, are you up to answering a couple of questions?”

She looked anxiously at Bardsley, wondering how much he’d told them. Bardsley nodded discreetly.

Halt clocked the look between them. “It’s okay, Lauren, I know all about Striker’s unofficial operation. It looks like the stubborn bugger was right with his hunch. However, I can’t condone the way he went about it. Just hope we find him soon. Now tell me about this meeting.”

Taking a sip of water, Collinge almost spurted it out. “What? Is Jack missing too?”

“Oh, sorry, Lauren. I didn’t want to unduly worry you so soon. But unfortunately, yes he is.”

She dipped her head, looking stunned. “Oh my God, I hope he’s okay.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s made of sturdy stuff is Jack,” said Bardsley, hoping he was right.

Halt shoved a drawer shut and slid open another. “Now, about this meeting.”

“Well, there were about twenty people there and they just went around the room introducing themselves by first name only, then saying why they were there. It was held in the temple’s hall.”

“Who was in charge?”

Bardsley studied the map while Halt continued checking the drawers as Collinge spoke, Grant wearing a sympathetic expression beside her.

“A guy called ‘Danny’ seemed to co-ordinate things, but there were a couple more bouncer types, whose names I don’t know, who seemed to be involved. It was mainly men, some new and some who seemed to know the organisers. During the midway break, some of the men had a sort of sub-meeting while the bulk of those in attendance went to the bar or for a cigarette.”

“Sub-meeting?”

“Yes, they appeared to be huddled together in a room at the back, sort of whispering. It may’ve been something and nothing, who knows?”

“How did you end up being kidnapped?”

She took another swig from the bottle. “As everyone was leaving, Danny asked me to come into that room at the back to sign the visitors’ book and pick up some ‘welcome literature’. I had no reason to think anything untoward was happening and I was going to tell DI Striker just that, when I was grabbed from the rear on entering the room. I felt a wet cloth across my mouth and nose then I awoke feeling very groggy in the darkness.” She indicated the cubbyhole.

“Okay. Can you describe this ‘Danny’ character?”

“Sure. IC one, over six foot, stocky, dark wavy hair, pale complexion and he was definitely Mancunian. Had a bit of a beer gut, too.”

“Don’t suppose you recognised him?”

“Unfortunately not.”

Bardsley’s radio emanated from his jacket pocket: “Ambulance in attendance.”

“Thanks, Lauren,” said Halt. “You best get checked over. Can you walk or do you want them to come up?”

“I’ll walk, sir,” she said, getting up and looking instantly unsteady on her feet.

“Let me help you, Lauren,” said Grant, placing her arm around Collinge’s back.

Bardsley also assisted, hooking an arm under Collinge’s armpit. “Sit down, Lauren. I’ll get them sent up.” Reading Halt’s mind he said, “I know there’s already been too many people on this crime scene, but it’s best we get Lauren sorted, agreed?”

Halt nodded. “Sure.”

They eased Collinge back onto the chair. Bardsley strolled over to the spire’s window and looked out, seeing the ambulance and a firearms officer he recognised. He ‘point-to-pointed’ the officer via the radio facility to speak one-to-one, and requested that the paramedics come up. The car park lights had lit up the area and Bardsley tracked the bushes to the point where he was standing with Striker yesterday evening.

The crafty twat had been watching them.

Halt pulled out a black book from one of the six drawers and started carefully thumbing through it.

Bardsley turned to study the map on the wall again. “Sir, these red markers, they’re the murder scenes.”

Halt’s gaze was fixed on the book. “I know. Look at this.” He showed Bardsley two pages listing the names of known criminals. Bardsley scrutinised the list: some had ‘ASBO’ next to their names, others the name ‘Josh’, the rest ‘Lenny’.

“Bloody ’ell, there’s twenty-five on that list, sir.”

“I know, and he’s certainly done his homework. The first few are dead and then he seems to have made a leap to five of the six at the end of the list.”

“He knew we were onto him,” suggested Bardsley.

Then, it suddenly hit Bardsley like a smack across the face. He’d been the only one of the three detectives involved in Striker’s little op who hadn’t been ‘shut up’. The killer must have been the one who’d broken into his home. Obviously looking for him, the cheeky bugger. But how did he know where he lived? Had he followed him home? Was he connected in some way? He thought about Striker’s friends at the temple, his past and his friend who’d been shot years ago…
Lenny!

“Kingston’s the last one on the list,” said Halt.

Bardsley pointed at a green marker on Kingston’s address on the map. He swapped looks with Halt, saying in unison, “He’s next!”

Halt took out his mobile. “I’ll phone Cunningham and tell her to get a team together.”

Bardsley took out his own mobile. “I’m checking on the missus.”

Striker heard muted voices, familiar yet distant.

The haze in his mind began to gradually clear and he became aware of the discomfort. His left shoulder and chest ached, his wrists, arms and ankles were sore. He had a biting headache and his nose throbbed. He’d felt better. He could smell antiseptic, or something similar, and had an odd medicinal taste in his mouth. A strong hunger pang rumbled in his belly. He struggled to open his eyes, though managed after a few moments.

“Jack, thank the Lord.” Vera Striker looked heavenward and leaned in to hug her son.

“Mum,” he croaked. “It’s really good to see you.” He felt a rare moment of warmth engulf him.

Vera pulled away, removing her glasses to wipe away tears with a handful of her lilac sweater, probably knitted by her own hands.

A nurse in a light green uniform who was easy on the eye smiled at him. “Mr Striker, do you mind if I do a few checks?”

“No, check away. And, please, call me Jack.”

The nurse began, popping a thermometer in his mouth and rolling up the sleeve of his blue hospital gown. He wondered briefly if the nurse had changed him. His eyes were still somewhat hazy, his mind foggy. A myriad of thoughts began to cascade.

Still tearful, Vera said, “Suzi’s been, Jack. She didn’t bring the kids, but she sends her best wishes. She left those flowers.”

Pleasantly surprised, Striker looked on the window sill and saw a bunch of red, yellow and white carnations in a vase. “Very nice of her.” He turned back to his mum, realising he had a cannula in his left hand. “I’m sorry for not seeing you as much as I should have done. I promise I’ll—”

The nurse looked at him and smiled as she checked his blood pressure.

“Oh, give over, Jack. You’re a busy, man. I know that. Your dad would have been proud of you, you know.”

Striker felt emotion rising, but controlled it. “How long have I been in here?”

“Oh, a few hours, that’s all.”

“Am I at the MRI?”

“Yes, dear.”

He saw Bardsley waving a bunch of grapes at the window outside the room, a daft grin on his face. The DC then raised a banana and his eyes widened, clearly eyeing the nurse’s pert bottom.

Vera looked round and Bardsley instantly changed to sensible. “Do you want me to leave you to it?” she asked.

He felt awkward, though he did need to speak with Bardsley as soon as possible. “If you don’t mind, Mum. I really appreciate you coming. It means a helluva lot to me. How will you get home?”

“Oh, erm, Albert brought me,” she said sheepishly.

“Albert?”

“From the church… he’s just a friend,” she said, a little too hastily.

The nurse pretended not to listen, but Striker saw her hesitate while she filled in a chart that had been clipped to the bottom of the bed.

“Mum, it’s okay with me, honestly. Dad’s long gone.”

“It’s not like that, he’s just a friend. Really.”

He smiled.

“Oh, and Lucy sends her love.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How’s Deano?”

“Oh, of course, you don’t know. He’s come round now.”

He felt a surge of relief. “That’s great news.”

“The doctor said he should make a full recovery. Your friend’s been talking to him I think.”

Striker looked at Bardsley, who was now exaggeratedly eating the grapes.

Vera got up and gave Striker a peck on the cheek. “It’s great to have you back, Jack. Now, you just look after yourself and get well, okay?”

“I will, Mum. Thanks for coming. I’ll take to you Mario’s café for a meal soon. Promise.”

“Now that would be nice.” Vera Striker nodded, turned and waved once she reached the door. She left, being replaced by Bardsley, who was blatantly ogling the nurse.

“I’ll leave you to it, Mr Striker. Could you please take these?” She passed him two white tablets and pointed at the bedside table where there was a jug of water and a glass.

“Sure.” He felt the bandages on his head. “So I take it I’m good to go soon?”

“Not yet, Mr Striker. I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake.” She smiled sympathetically as she left with Bardsley’s eyes burning into her bottom.

“Okay, cheers.”

“You look like shit, Jack.”

“Thanks, Eric. I love you too.”

Bardsley tossed the grapes and banana onto the bed. “Fame at last, eh, DI Jack Striker?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been all over the news, mate.”

“Have I? Great. Now every bloody scrote in the country knows I’m a cop.” His mind was slowly clearing and just seeing his sidekick had started the investigative cogs turning again. Still, his time incarcerated was, so far, only coming back to him in brief flashes. He recalled the overwhelming, panicky feeling of being trapped… snippets of conversation with the kidnapper… his deep, matter-of-fact voice… being shot at… the rats… the dreams and reminisces…

“Before you ask, we’ve found Lauren and she’s fine.”

“Thank God for that.” More relief flooded him. “Where?”

“In a cubbyhole, up in the temple’s spire.”

He thought for a moment. “Was I in the temple’s basement then?”

“No, Jack. You were in the cellar of the Wagon and Horses in Bullsmead. Let me fill you in…”

Striker just stared and listened intently, still trying to gather his thoughts, piece things together.

“… I’ll be honest, Jack. Initially I just assumed you were getting your end away with Lauren.”

Striker raised his eyebrows, shook his head. “What do you take me for, Eric?”

“A red-blooded male? Anyway, I was wrong. Here, I’ve got you a suit for when you’re good to go.” He tossed a bin liner onto the bed.

Striker opened it and saw a familiar charcoal grey Armani suit, light blue shirt, matching tie and black slip-ons. “You’ve been in my apartment, Eric?”

“Yeah, sorry, we had to force your door, mate. Stockley got a buzz out of that by the way.”

“Bet he did.”

“Watch your back with him, Jack. Especially now, he’ll be jealous of you being proven right and stealing his thunder.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I can handle him… and Cunningham.”

“Anyway, we still haven’t a clue as to who the hell brought you here. Care to enlighten me?”

“Huh? Wasn’t it you lot?”

“No, Jack.”

“You were dumped next to an ambulance at the side of the hospital. The ambulance crew heard a continuous beep of a horn and got out. They found you on the pavement.”

Striker was flabbergasted. He suddenly got a flashback of being bundled into a car, but the image evaporated before he could grab hold of it.

“Any ideas?”

“No.”

“By the way, Syndicate Four caught up with Copeland. He was drinking with the tramps under Bullsmead arches. He protested his innocence, of course, and with the latest developments Halt authorised his release. He’s threatening to sue us for harassment.”

“I’m not surprised. What ‘developments’?”

“I was at the temple with Halt and Becky Grant when the firearms search teams found Lauren in the spire. There was a map in the little office up there, detailing all the crime scenes and a black book listing the hits. So it looks like you were right about our man, Jack.”

Striker sat up, pulling the tubes leading to the medicinal trolley with him. “I bloody knew it.” He felt vindicated, although still wondered about repercussions from the brass. “But I guess Halt’s gonna be pissed at me?”

“Not at all, Jack. Well, that’s not the impression I got. I think he’s looking at the bigger picture, and rightly so.”

Striker nodded slowly, relieved. He’d have to fall asleep in hospital again soon, if all this good news was what he’d wake up to.

“Get this... there were twenty-five names on the list, so already you’ve saved a fair few lives. But do you know that one-eyed Kingston guy who’s an independent advisor to the police?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, he’s the last name on the list and Halt’s got a team sat on his home address as we speak, just in case.”

“Just in case?”

“Yeah, it’s just precautionary to cover all bases. Can’t see the point really.”

“Oh, and why’s that?”

He grinned. “Because we’ve got the bastard who kidnapped you both.”

“You have?”
This is getting better and better.

“Oh, yes. Danny Powers, the landlord of the Wagon and Horses. Lauren’s identified him as the leader of the VOICES group from the temple.”

“Brilliant. Makes perfect sense.” He didn’t mention that the man was Lenny’s brother, but he guessed Bardsley knew of the connection. “And he has a military background right?”

“Well, actually, no, from what we can tell. Info has been scant on him so far and he’s not talking at all.”

Striker became momentarily quiet before saying, “So he’s not in custody then, he’s in hospital right? I recall shoving a bottle into his face.”

“He’s still in hospital under armed guard. What’s made it more awkward is that the doctors are being a bit arsy because his face is such a mess. It’s full of glass shards, apparently. You really did a job on him, Jack.”

“He didn’t do too badly with me either. Please tell me he’s in
this
hospital, Eric.”

“Yeah, but it’s a fair walk from here. Right on the other side of the hospital. Why you asking?”

“I need to see him. Like you say, ‘just in case’,” said Striker, pulling the cannula from his wrist, clambering out of bed and starting to get dressed.

Within two minutes, after ignoring Bardsley’s pleas, Striker was heading for the door. A Pakistani doctor donning a surprised expression said, “Detective Inspector, I need to check—”

“Sorry, doctor, I’m self-discharging. Thanks a lot for your assistance.”

Bardsley shrugged at the doctor and followed Striker out of the ward.

“Which way, Eric?”

“Follow the signs for A ’n’ E, if you must.”

“I must.”

Despite the plethora of aches, Striker started jogging. Three minutes later, they were approaching the Accident and Emergency Department.

“Now where?”

“Take a left then a right and you’ll see them,” said Bardsley, struggling to keep up.

Striker saw two firearms officers standing outside the entrance to a ward, clutching their Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns.

“Morning lads, DI Jack Striker, MIT.” Realising he didn’t have his warrant card, he waited for Bardsley. “He’ll vouch for me.”

“It’s okay, sir. I recognize you,” said one of the officers, opening the ward door. “Third door on the right.”

“Thanks.” Striker was halfway down the corridor.

“Jack! Wait, will you?”

He let Bardsley catch up and they both entered the room, where two more firearms officers were sitting, one reading a newspaper, no MP5s, just Glock 17s strapped to their legs.

A man in bandages sat in the bed, looking like a mummy.

“Hi, Danny. Sorry about the face. Did your brother put you up to this?”

He didn’t reply.

“Lads?” Striker gestured with his head for the officers to leave.

“We’re under strict instructions from Mr Halt not to take our eyes of him.”

“Well, you were just reading the paper. Two minutes. It’s important to the investigation.”

They looked at each other and both nodded. “We’ll be outside the door. Two minutes, right, sir?”

“Cheers, lads. But I may only need one.”

Once they’d shut the door, Striker went in close. “Danny, I know you’re no killer, but you’re up to your neck in it, fella. Was it your older brother who kidnapped me?”

Still nothing.

“Jack, it’s him. He was caught red-handed.”

“Eric, Shut it!” He leaned right up to the arrestee’s face. “Talk to me, Danny. Look, you’ll get a fifteen stretch for kidnap and attempted murder and you’ll only serve half that – unless, of course, you take the rap. In which case, you’ll never see the light of day again. Was it your brother?”

He turned his head away.

Striker yanked at the bandages and pushed his fingers into Danny Powers’s wounded face. “Talk to me, Danny.”

“Aaargh! You fuckin’ lunatic!”

The two firearms officers rushed in. “Sir, this is out of order!”

Striker probed again into Powers’s face.

“Aaaaargh! I caaan’t. He’ll fuckin’ kill me. He’s outta control.” Blood oozed through the bandages.

“Do you want me to do it again?”

“One of the armed officers pulled out his Glock and pointed it at Striker. “Sir, I strongly recommend you stop this, now!”

“Aaaaargh! Yeah, it was our Vic, now fuck off, you headcase.”

Striker released his blood-soaked hand. “Thank you.”