My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (29 page)

An office worker arriving for the day said, “Morning, Vic.”

When he ignored her, she gave him an odd look which transformed to shock on seeing Rhys speeding toward them. She cowered and stooped in fear, holding her hands out as Rhys shot past her. Breathless, Powers virtually jumped inside the Golf and slammed the door, a split second before the dog thudded into it.

Five seconds later, the Golf was zooming toward the exit gate. He slammed on the brakes, opened the driver’s window, punched in a code and waited impatiently for the metal gate to open. He heard raised voices behind him and Rhys barking. Checking his rear-view, he saw Striker and a few others frantically running toward their vehicles. But the wide gate was now half open and he sped off to finish his mission.

Jamo Kingston eagerly opened the shop he’d converted, via a government grant and lottery money, into his offices. He was expecting a busy day ahead, having half a dozen appointments booked with local youths regarding his – and hopefully his clients’ – journey of atonement. Then, this afternoon, he was expecting a journo from the Manchester Evening News to do another interview, further publicising his award-winning project.

Today is gonna be another good day, the Lord willing.
Kingston adjusted his eyepatch and looked up, his gold incisor gleaming in the rare Manchester sun.

He opened the shutters at the front of the building and, as he did with glowing pride every day, held a prolonged gaze at the colourful wording on the sign above: ‘The Moss Range Community Project’.
The flag pole above the sign proudly displayed the green and black, split by the yellowy gold saltire, of the Jamaican flag, flapping in the breeze. He also had a Union Jack below it, so as not to alienate potential clients.

The police had been outside Kingston’s house for most of the night. They’d informed him this Hoodie Hunter madman had his name on some hit list. They said they were duty bound to inform him, but when he’d asked them if the killer had been caught, they surprised him by saying that he had. They asked him to keep it to himself and he called DCS Ronald Halt to insist they use their resources elsewhere.

He knew the police presence outside his family home last night was not only to reassure him, but also to sweeten him and keep him onside. The position of being an independent advisor to the cops brought the perk of being buddies with their main men and privy to many of their secrets. That’s how desperate the law was to get the local community onside. And with his past, he knew they needed him more than he needed them.

Back inside the project’s main office, he sat proudly at his desk, a photo of himself and his four smiling children staring back at him. The mothers weren’t present in the photo as they were all different and it would’ve been impossible to co-ordinate
that
snapshot! Anyhow, they’d have been at each other’s throats, another reminder of his wayward past; a past he’d protected his children from as best he could. He wanted them to grow up with their father as the right kind of role model, the backdrop of the Christian church in the photo and what they called “Daddy’s Project” both testaments to that philosophy.

He flicked open the diary on his desk and saw the name Lee McPherson, hoping that he wouldn’t be a no-show. At fifteen, McPherson had certainly showed signs of hanging out with the wrong crowd, already having a rap sheet containing three street robberies to his name. McPherson’s mum had booked the appointment, which always increased the probability of a no-show because the client hadn’t booked it themselves. Even so, Kingston was making headway with these young pretenders and he wouldn’t stop in his relentless search for redemption.

The sound of screeching tyres outside the office made him look up from his desk.

***

Striker saw Bardsley’s disdainful expression mirroring his own, after Powers had screeched out of the police car park. He cursed himself as he and the DC jumped into the Astra. Striker wondered if the recent bangs on his head had clouded his judgement. He knew he’d been the one to finally identify the killer, but letting him escape was unforgiveable. He was already in enough trouble as it was, what with his unofficial continuance of the investigation while off duty, and then bringing in officers who’d been told to take a day off.

“Bleedin’ell, he’s out of sight already,” said Bardsley, heading for the exit gate that had automatically closed. Bardsley reached out of the driver’s window and punched in the code, seeing Davison and the Bob the Dog in the liveried dog van behind, blue lights flashing impatiently.

“Come on, come on!” The DC banged the steering wheel as the gate sluggishly opened. He turned to Striker. “Kingston’s, Jack?”

“Yeah, but not his home address. He’ll be at his office by now.”

“Okay,” he said, squeezing the Astra through the tight gap of the half-opened gate.

Realising his plan had gone to rat shit, Striker withdrew his police radio. “DI Striker, control.”

“Er… go ahead, sir.” The male comms operator sounded surprised to hear from him.

“The suspect in the recent spate of murders is heading to the Moss Range Community Project on Moss Range Road. I urgently need ARVs to make that address, and let Mr Halt know, would you? I also want response officers to attend Kingston’s home address as a precaution. Any non-armed officers attending the Community Project should RV at a safe distance. We’ll say Moss Range Park gates, okay?”

“Okay, sir. I’m onto it.”

“DI Stockley, urgent.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Talk-through with DI Striker.”

“I’m listening.”

“You sure about this, Striker? We have the offender under guard at the hospital, haven’t we?”

“He may be involved, Vinnie, but he’s not our man.”

“Comms, update the log to show myself and DCI Cunningham en route.”

“Done, sir. DI Striker, does the suspect have a name?”

“Yes, it’s Vic Powers. And, yes, it’s our very own custody clerk.”

Radio silence.

***

The window of the office door smashed through, such was the force of the sturdy boot. Kingston vaguely recognised the twisted face of the huge man who’d stormed in. From his gang days, he also recognised the handgun that was pointing directly at his forehead, forcing him to cower in his chair. It was a Glock 17. Himself, he’d always preferred the Browning 9mm.

“The door has a bell, you know,” said Kingston. It wasn’t the first time he’d stared down the barrel of a gun.

“Up the fuckin’ stairs now, you prick.”

“Okay, okay, go easy, man.” He glimpsed the photo of his smiling children as he was yanked up by the throat.

Stumbling up the stairs, they reached the landing that had three doors leading off. He was pushed to the door at the front above the offices.

“Keys?” asked the madman.

“This isn’t ma flat. The master keys are on ma desk downstairs.”

A gunshot fired, the door splintered ajar and Kingston was shoved through it. He saw the man reach inside a bag hooked over his shoulder. He whipped out a thick rope. Kingston was pushed onto a bed and felt the rope land on him.

“Put it around your neck.”

“What? No way, man. What’s all dis about, anyway?”

He pointed the gun and blasted Kingston in the leg, his kneecap exploding beyond pain. Kingston screamed and writhed on the bed, blood pissing out of his knee. He saw the man looking out of the front window before lifting it open. Kingston tried to crawl off the blood-soaked bed, but felt his legs being grabbed, pulling him back. The man gripped the rope and stooped to tie it round the bed posts.

“Pleeease… Who are you, man? Why are you doing this?” asked Kingston as the noose was hooked over his head to his neck then yanked tight.

“Remember Lenny Powers? Remember Josh Powers, and you supporting your gangster wannabes at his court case?”

Kingston recalled both boys with deep regret. “I’ve changed,” he said, desperately pulling at the rope. “I’ve stopped all dat.” He felt himself being lifted off the bed. “I’ve got… kids now… pleeease!” He was above the psycho’s head now.

“They’ll be better off without you.”

“No…” he spluttered. “Please… I’ll pay you…”

“Fuck you and your dirty cash.”

“Oh, ma fuckin’… Gorrrrrrrd!” yelled Kingston as he was flung out of the window, just as his ten o’clock appointment arrived below.

“Holy shit!” said Striker, as Bardsley pulled the Astra up thirty metres short of the Community Project. Kingston was swinging between a Union Jack and a Jamaican flag, his legs bizarrely riding an invisible bike, hands pawing helplessly at the rope around his neck.

“Get closer, Eric.”

“He might be armed, Jack. Shouldn’t we wait for Firearms?”

“Just get bloody closer!”

Bardsley accelerated and pulled up outside the Project and Striker jumped out. The dog van screeched to a halt behind and Davison got out with Bob the Dog. Rhys was soon leashed up, panting excitedly following Striker and Davison into the shop.

Kingston was clearly too high for them to reach, so Bardsley radioed for more patrols, an ambulance and the fire service. He also asked for an ETA for Armed Response and was told five minutes. He got out of the Astra and jogged to the door.

Before entering, he glanced up at Kingston whose wriggling had lessened, eyes bulging, tongue protruding. Onlookers began gathering, drivers rubbernecking, some stopping and getting out, an occasional scream here and there. A teenage boy stared silently in horror by the door.

Helplessly watching Kingston, Bardsley nearly said, ‘Hang on in there, fella,’ but stopped himself. He told the lad to “leave, pronto” as it wasn’t safe. Unfortunately, there was no way they could save Kingston in time, so he rushed inside.

Striker took the stairs three at a time. Behind, Davison withdrew his CS gas canister and baton. Barking enthusiastically, Rhys almost pulled Bob upstairs.

On the landing, a metal step ladder led to an open loft door above.

Striker climbed halfway up then looked down. “Ben, quick, pass me your torch… and that baton… in fact, just give me your utility belt.”

Without hesitation, Davison whipped his belt off and passed it up to Striker. “Now, go and see if you can help Kingston.” He pointed along the hallway leading to the front of the building.

Bob the Dog said, “The ladder might be a decoy, I’ll check the rest of the rooms with Rhys.”

Striker stood on his toes at the top of the ladder and peered into the loft. He flicked the torch around at shapes that shifted and threatened. There was a skylight, wide open. A figure appeared and pointed a handgun. Striker winced, no time to jump out of view.

Bardsley rushed up the stairs, seeing Striker’s legs dangling from the loft. Hearing a gunshot, he froze. The bullet powered through the ceiling and hit the wall, creating two small clouds of plaster dust.

“Bleedin’ell, Jack. Get down, leave it to Firearms!” He saw the DI’s legs disappear up into the loft. “Jeee-sus, Striker.”

Bardsley mentally derided his borderline obesity, knowing he wasn’t agile enough to pull himself up into the loft to help his mate. Frustrated, his thoughts reverted back to Kingston. A metaphorical light-bulb lit above his head. He grabbed the step ladder and ran, albeit awkwardly, back downstairs.

Seeing more people gathering, he yelled at them to leave. Some did, others didn’t. He had no time to argue.

He leaned the step ladder below Kingston who was virtually motionless. Davison donned a panicky expression above, leaning out of the window, trying to pull the rope up. The young lad, who Bardsley had told to leave, was halfway up a drainpipe, tears in his eyes, struggling to reach across to Kingston.

“Hey, get down now. I need your help,” the DC shouted to the youth.

Bardsley ran to the Astra, started the engine and pulled it onto the pavement directly below Kingston. Hearing multiple sirens approaching, he got back out and scrambled onto the bonnet, which audibly sagged. He clambered onto Astra’s roof and it buckled noisily under his weight. The teenage boy was now waiting on the pavement and had twigged Bardsley’s idea, passing the step ladder up.

Police vehicles skidded in unison to a halt, including ARV Range Rovers. Bardsley focussed on his balance as he climbed the wobbling ladder on the car roof. He reached up and grabbed Kingston’s dangling legs, pushing them upwards in a bid to ease the tension on his neck.

But the reformed gangster felt dead.

***

Striker jumped up in the loft and gripped both hands on the rim of the gaping skylight. He pulled himself up and quickly scanned. The grey slate tiled roof was steep, a chimney stack located up the slope from him. The buildings were adjoined, creating a long block. He frantically shot looks both ways. To his left, he saw nothing. To his right, he saw Powers, stooped, edging away, clutching the handgun.

Striker reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the radio. “DI Striker, comms. I’m on the roof of Kingston’s offices and Powers is approximately forty feet away, moving north and armed with a handgun. Received?”

“All received.”

“Detective Chief Superintendent Halt, interrupting.”

“Go ahead, sir,” said the communicator.

“Jack, considering the suspect is armed, I want you down from there.”

Striker thought for a moment. “I’ll just track him from a safe distance, sir.”

“Safe? You’re unarmed on a bloody roof chasing a man with a gun!”

“Sir, but he’s getting away.”

“Air support should be there by now and ARV supervision can take it from here.”

He heard the force helicopter overhead. Picturing Armed Response, discussing tactics and risk assessing on the street below, he said, “Sorry, sir, you’re breaking up…”

“Striker, come down now, and that’s an order!”

Striker sidled crab-like, leaning into the roof to maintain his balance. He felt gusts of wind testing him, and was thankful the tiles were dry, providing essential grip. Powers was about fifty feet away and had worked his way to the ridge, where he seemed to move quicker. Striker copied this technique himself. From his vantage point he could see numerous police vehicles below and officers dotted about. Some were creating a cordon, while others moved pedestrians away and redirected the growing queues of traffic.

He heard the cackle of a gun and dropped onto the roof. The bullet cut viciously through the air beside him, ricocheting off the chimney stack behind. He looked up and saw Powers disappear downwards. Had he gone into another skylight or just onto a lower roof?

Striker stood up, continued forward. Glancing upward at the force helicopter, he hoped it had the bastard in its sights.