My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (6 page)

“Gasbo’s got an ASBO?” guessed Collinge, meaning an anti-social behaviour order. ASBOs were issued by the civil courts to people who’d repeatedly acted anti-socially, and a breach of their stringent behavioural conditions carried a power of arrest. However, they’d backfired on the government somewhat for two reasons. Firstly, breaches were so common that the UK’s overcrowded prisons couldn’t possibly house the offenders. And, secondly, many of their recipients wore the ASBO tag as a bad boy badge of honour, consequently enhancing their notoriety.

“Yes, he’s a wrong-un… or was one. Keep this to yourself until we have forensic proof or a positive ID. Print results have been fast-tracked and should be back tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to check to see if he’s been reported missing from home?”

“No, Eric’s still out and about, I’ll get him to do it. Good work, Lauren. You’ve done your bit for today. I’ll sort your overtime sheet. Now get yourself off home and get in for the briefing at eight-thirty tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “This morning.”

“No debrief tonight then?”

“No. I’ll assess what we’ve got and we’ll all get stuck in tomorrow.”

He forced a smile, which Collinge returned, only better, before leaving. The waft from the closing door blew the remaining scent of her agreeable perfume toward Striker. Definitely Burberry Touch; he’d bought the same for Suzi the Christmas before their split.

An hour after Lauren left, Striker was still collating all the initial info gleaned, when his mobile sounded ‘Blue Moon’. The anthem to his beloved Manchester City never failed to produce a sarcastic response from the many United fans in the vicinity.

“Change that bloody ringtone,” emanated from the CID office across the corridor. A lone detective – aka the ‘night DO’ – took care of any serious jobs overnight.

Striker was fleetingly pleased to have wound up another Red. ‘Eric’ appeared on the HTC’s screen, hopefully responding to the call Striker had made after Collinge left, about missing persons.

Eric Bardsley was old school and hated political correctness, even more than Striker, if that was possible. Bardsley was as down-to-earth a man as you would care to meet. Despite his fifty years – half of which was in the Job – a long-suffering wife and three grown-up kids, he was first in the queue when it came to ogling the likes of Lauren Collinge. However, unlike Striker, Bardsley didn’t hide his wantonness. Regardless, he was a damn decent detective and had been in MIT for years, proving himself time after time. They went back a long way, being on the same shift when Striker had all ‘the trouble’ with Cunningham. Bardsley hadn’t proved to be a bad lad at all… for a Scouser.

“Eric, did you manage to get anything from the Chinese chippy?”

“Yeah, a number twenty-one.”

“Very droll. I suppose I asked for that. I meant did they see anything?”

Bardsley answered in a very poor Chinese accent. “We see nuffink. We wery, wery busy. No look outside.”

Part of Striker was smiling within, since he knew Bardsley only too well. He was glad his dreary mood had been briefly lightened, but as a DI he felt obliged to say, “Eric, get a grip, fella. There’s a dead boy, remember?”

“Sorry, Jack. That’s why I phoned. A lad fitting the description’s been reported missing. I’m just gonna check it out and go to his home address at seven Claythorne Street in Moss Range.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gareth Bolands.”

“I’m on my way.” No rest for the wicked, thought Striker, knowing his bed was now a good few hours away.

Pivoting toward the source of the growl, with his baton at the ready, PC Ben Davison’s heart rate doubled. He shone his torch into the blackness of the park and a fearsome set of sharp, salivating teeth greeted him. He jumped back and stumbled over onto the wet footpath, his bottom now damp, his baton clattering out of reach.

A bright light blinded him momentarily. He tried to scramble to his feet, but was prevented by a wriggling weight on his midriff, frantic leathery wetness all over his face and manic, smelly panting. Helpless, he fumbled for the emergency backup button on top of his radio to alert all officers on this channel. Nonetheless, he struggled to reach the elusive button. With a mouthful of fur, he managed to glance up and saw someone shining a light upward from below their chin to illuminate their face.

Davison was both annoyed and relieved at the sight of the wide-eyed divisional dogman Bob the Dog donning his daft Billy Connolly grin and accompanying goatee.

“Woo-hooo!”

Hysterical laughter ensued.

Davison clambered up, wiped his face with his jacket’s sleeve and began stroking the police dog, Rhys. “You baaa-stard, Bob,” he cried, in between chuckles. Then reluctantly, “I’ll give you that one.”

The last time he’d seen the veteran cop, Davison had been on the loo in ‘trap three’ at Bullsmead nick, when the pitter-patter of excitable footsteps had been followed by a bucket of water, drenching him as he squatted at his most vulnerable.

“Bloody priceless that, Ben. Wait till I tell the lads.” Bob the Dog also sounded much like the famous Scottish comic, having been brought up in Glasgow before his transfer from Strathclyde police many years ago to be closer to his Mancunian wife.

Davison was still bent over, stroking and attempting to calm Rhys. “But I thought I’d already had my initiation, Bob.”

“You have, but when I heard this job come in I just couldn’t resist it, mate.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. The park’s too big for me to search on my own. Rhys and that dragon lamp will come in handy.” He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to eliminate the dazzling effects of the powerful lamp.

Bob the Dog spoke into his radio and Davison smiled, knowing what was coming. “Four …” Bob tweaked his voice to impersonate Sean Connery, “…double-O sheven… show me shtate shix at the park with Ben.”

Mo tittered. “Received, Bob. Thanks for backing up. I was a little worried about him.”

“Think she’s fancies you, lad.”

“Give over.” Davison picked himself up, dusted himself down. “Come on then.”

“You still got that action plan for searching hanging over you?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, pal… Let’s see what we can do.”

With Rhys back on the leash, Davison held the somewhat heavy dragon lamp, its beam lighting up the park brilliantly compared to his meagre torch.

“Go on, Rhysy-boy,” said Bob the Dog in his crisp Glaswegian tones, encouraging Rhys toward the open field to the right. Then a whisper, “Who’s there, Rhysy-boy? Who’s there?” Rhys pulled on the leash, making it taut, and the officers followed. A few small lit rectangles in people’s homes grew larger as they did a sweep of the vast field. So far, there were no signs of anyone.

The damp grass and soil squished as they made their way across the field, the cold wetness seeping into Davison’s right Magnum boot, reminding him he needed a new pair.

“Are you still seeing Louise then, Ben?”

“Yeah…” He paused for a moment. He’d not told anyone about his proposal plans. However, despite his practical jokes, Bob was a damn good mate, one who’d helped him immeasurably throughout the extremely steep learning curve of his probation. He was so excited, he just had to share the news. “Gonna pop the question tomorrow, mate.”

Bob the Dog tugged Rhys to a stop. “Really? Good on ya, pal… Aye, good on ya. She’s a bonnie wee lass.”

“Cheers, mate. Just hope she says yes.”

The lamp saved a lot of time and shortened the search significantly, with its beam reaching the far corners from the middle of the field beyond the just discernible white football posts.

“Ach, course she will, pal. You’re a good lad.” Bob the Dog guided Rhys around the field, then back toward the children’s play area. “Best be thorough here. ‘Shouting and screaming’ could be something an’ nothing. But in this job, ya never know, pal.”

Davison knew his colleague was right, but with so many call-outs ending as ‘no trace’ jobs, it was easy to become blasé. “How are you and ‘Mrs the Dog’ doing?”

“We’re fine and dandy, thanks. Think she’s giving me my oats nowadays ’cause she knows my pension pay-off’s coming soon. When the cash dries up, so will she. Woo-hoo!”

Davison laughed, shining the mighty beam at the play area. It was then that he saw an illuminated figure, with blood seeping from his head, staggering toward them like a stoned zombie.

“Jesus…” said Davison, agog, as Rhys began barking uncontrollably.

***

Striker eased the unmarked silver Vauxhall Astra to a halt behind Bardsley’s older, dark green version of the same model. Claythorne Street was yet another terraced street, north of Bullsmead, in Moss Range. It was about three miles from the city centre, which was marked, as ever, by the huge Beetham Tower. Striker could see the hundreds of oblong windows high in the distance, probably half of them lit up, including Manchester’s only ‘sky bar’ half way up, where Friday-night revellers would be having a good old shindig.

Meanwhile, Striker had to tell a mother and father that their son was dead.

He exited the Astra, as did Bardsley, faces solemn. They were outside number thirty-five, a good thirty metres from the Bolands’ home at number seven. After a quick look over both shoulders, Striker asked in a hushed voice, “You got the missing report, Eric?”

“Yeah, it’s in here.” Equally tactful in tone, Bardsley opened his turquoise daybook and took out the report taken earlier by a uniformed Bobby.

“Where, when and by whom was he last seen?”

Bardsley studied the report, straining to see under the orange haze of the nearby streetlamp. “Er… Reported missing at just after midnight and… last seen at ten this morning by his mum, who also reported it.”

“Okay.” Striker thought for a moment. “What I don’t get is why they’d report him missing? It’s not like he’s a little kid and I bet a bad boy like him normally rolls in at all hours.”

“According to the notes, apparently he was supposed to meet his girlfriend at twenty-one thirty hours… It’s her birthday and, well, he promised.”

Striker raised his eyebrows, wondering how much weight Gareth Bolands’ word actually carried, having earlier scrutinised his escapades on their database.

“How sure are you that he’s our victim, Jack?”

“Ninety per cent, but we’ll need an ID off the next of kin. You ready?”

“Always.”

The night chill starting to bite, they paced down the street, dimly cast in an orange haze by the streetlamps, passing the line of flat-fronted, gardenless houses, and they were soon outside the Bolands’ residence.

All the lights on show inside were switched on. Shouting emanated from within. Striker knocked on the dark wooden door and glanced at Bardsley, who was frowning.

More raised voices, then the door opened. A scruffy-looking, mixed-race man with a pot-holed face and ample beer belly greeted them, along with a waft of stale booze.

“You cops?” His voice was gruff, weary.

Striker flashed his warrant card, as did Bardsley. “DI Striker and this is DC Bardsley. May we come in?”

“Where’s my son?”

“Are you Mr Bolands?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we talk inside?”

“Who-da-fuck-is-it-Dougie?” yelled a woman from inside, clearly Irish.

“It’s the police, so shut yer big gob will yer, woman?” Bolands senior nodded resignedly, turned and walked inside.

The detectives followed.

Davison recognised the staggering youth as Jamie Johnson, aka ‘Johnno’, one of the local Bad Bastard Bullsmead Boys, the four letter Bs on his knuckles confirming this. Johnson had blood oozing from a head wound and, for the first time since Davison had known this character, he actually looked relieved to see the police, rather than him making off in the opposite direction, as per usual.

Rhys added intermittent growling to his frantic barking.

Johnson held both hands up to his eyes. “Stop shining… that thing… in me face…will yer, man?”

Davison dipped the powerful dragon lamp.

Bob the Dog pulled Rhys in close and gave the German Shepherd a reassuring pat on the back to appease him. “What happened to you then, lad?”

“The swings…” Johnson collapsed on a graffiti-stained park bench, just pointing, his eyes empty.

“He’s in shock, Ben.”

“And on something too, by the looks of it.”

Davison took a closer look at the head wound, using his Maglite this time. The laceration was surprisingly small, considering the blood loss and matted hair, but there was also clearly some swelling.

“Have your attackers gone, fella?”

Johnson just shrugged and stared at the floor. The two cops exchanged looks and headed for the play area, led by Rhys again.

Bob the Dog turned to Johnson briefly. “Stay on that bench, lad. We’ll sort you an ambulance.”

Davison was already onto it, depressing the transmission button on his radio and dipping his head slightly to the left toward the police radio clipped to his body armour. “Mo, one male, eighteen years, conscious and breathing, with a head wound. Ambulance to the park gates, please.”

“Okay. You alright there?”

“Yeah, but something’s clearly gone on and we’re still searching. Standby.”

Over the airwaves, brusquely: “DC Smith, comms. Talk-through with the officer in the park please.”

“Go ahead.”

Bob the Dog rolled his eyes at Davison.

“Update on those injuries. Are they serious?” It was the night DO.

Davison deeply inhaled the cold night air. “Negative. Small cut and slight swelling to head, and he’s upright and talking to us.”

“Okay. Keep me updated. Thanks, comms.”

“They never trust us, do they Ben? Had it all my career. As soon as they ditch the uniform they become arrogant, interfering buggers, teaching us to suck eggs.”

“S’alright. He’s just doing his job, mate. I’m not arsed, really. Come on.” Davison’s cynicism hadn’t yet reached the levels of ‘old sweats’ like Bob, though he knew that time would come eventually. His tutor constable warned him that years as a cop changed you irrevocably.

Reverting to the dragon lamp, they headed toward the play area. Rhys was sniffing the floor as though following a track. Davison shined the lamp, the shapes of the roundabout, climbing frame and see-saw, shadowing and shifting as they closed in. He could just about see the swings at the far end beyond the climbing frame. Five of them dangled from the horizontal bar above, swaying slightly in the wind. Woodchip crunched and squelched underfoot, some pieces dry, some wet, as they moved through the open metal gate into the play area.

Davison soon realised only four swings dangled and the lamp’s beam lit up the fifth shape, twenty metres away. Rhys’s barking intensified. Davison’s heart nearly stopped at the sight before them.

A body hung there in the night, swaying and twisting ever so slightly, between the swings. Bulging eyes stared blankly at them, a bloated half-beaten face, pallid in the moonlight. The dead youth’s tongue was protruding, as if to mock them.

The two officers gazed, momentarily mesmerised, Rhys straining on the leash, going berserk.

Davison hadn’t seen anybody hanged before and obviously felt deeply saddened by the sight of the swinging youth.
But, hey
, he thought, both bizarrely and selfishly, and with more than a tinge of guilt,
at least my action plan for searching could be signed up and supervision would be off my back
.

He heard a noise behind him, glanced round and shone the torch to check on Johnson.

Shit – Johnson! He was now a potential murder suspect!

The park bench was empty.

***

Striker glanced at Bardsley as they entered the living room and wasn’t surprised to see the DC rubbing his nose. They were greeted by an unpleasant concoction of sweat, stale alcohol and cannabis, topped with a hint of piss. Three bedraggled-looking blokes with flushed faces and baggy eyes, and donning sheepish looks, were squashed onto an equally scruffy sofa that Bullsmead tip wouldn’t even accept.

Dougie Bolands stood to Striker’s left and the loud drunken woman, who took size zero to another level, was belatedly clearing up the empty cans from the coffee table, popping them into a black bin liner. Striker noticed spliff-ends in an overflowing ashtray, but he ignored them, concentrating on the matter at hand.

“So-what-er-yer-here-for-officers?” The woman’s voice was like runaway train, strong Irish lilt, in all likelihood a gypsy or, as the Job insisted you call them, ‘a traveller’.

“Are you Gareth Bolands’ mother?”

“Yeah-dat’s-me-alright. Daisy O’Reilly. You-found-ma-Gareth -yet?”

Striker glanced at the three stooges on the settee, all avoiding eye contact.

“Can we speak in private?”

“Nah. We-speak-ere. A-don’t-hide-anytin-from-ma-bruvvers.”

“What’s goin’ on, Inspector?” Dougie Bolands sounded rightly concerned.

There was only one way to do this: straight to the point. “There’s been a serious incident on Bullsmead Road, near the shops. A young man, fitting the description of Gareth…”

“What-da-fuck’s-happened-to-ma-Gareth? Don’t-ya-come-in-ma-home-an…”

Bardsley interjected. “Miss O’Reilly, please. Let the inspector finish.” She picked up the ashtray and emptied it into the bin liner, a puff of ash drifting onto her wrinkly, flowery dress, the waft of stale cigarettes invading the detectives’ noses further.

Striker continued, “Bad news. There’s a young man at the MRI morgue, who I need one of you to identify. I’m really sorry, but we think it might be Gareth.”

“Oh-no-be-Jesus!” Daisy O’Reilly collapsed and the ashtray clattered onto the laminate flooring. Her brothers assisted and comforted her in a cacophony of Irish slang, Daisy’s wailing deafening.

Striker turned to the most sober of a drunken bunch. “Mr Bolands, would you kindly accompany us to the hospital?”

Bolands brushed a chubby hand through his short, greying afro, nodded and grabbed his coat from a hook in the hall as they left. Once outside, Striker checked his muted mobile and saw that he’d missed three calls from DCI Maria Cunningham.

“Eric, could you take Mr Bolands? I’ve just gotta make a call. I’ll follow you up.” He took his work mobile from his jacket pocket.

Striker left the haunting screams of Daisy O’Reilly, so loud that the lights of neighbouring houses came on, and he dialled as he walked back to his car.

“Maria, you want me for something?”

“Yes I do. Where’ve you been?”

“Just been telling Bolands’ parents their son might be dead… that’s all.”

“The attack at McDonald’s isn’t connected.”

“I know.”

“But it still looks like a gangland feud. There’s another body. This time in Bullsmead Park.”

Shit.
“I’m just off to the morgue, but I’ll be straight there when…”

“No you won’t. I’ve made the decision to call out Syndicate Two for this one. That’s why I’ve been trying to phone you, so you didn’t go when you heard.
We’ll
speak tomorrow.”

It just had to be DI Vinnie Stockley’s lot.
“But why? I can handle it.”

“Cross contamination, of course, Inspector. You’ve been to the other scene and so have your team. Anyway, we’ll speak tomorrow.”

“Don’t give me that, Maria. We both know there are ways round that. I don’t have to enter the scene. I can even shower and change at the nick before Stockley rounds his troops together. Come on. If it’s linked, I wanna know now. Like you said earlier, ‘it’s my case’. So why call out Stockley and his team?”

“I’ve just told you, and plus, it will give us a fresh perspective. Anyway, you’ve been on all day and you’ve enough on your plate with the first murder. The decision’s been made, Striker. Like I said, we’ll speak tomorrow.” Cunningham ended the call.

He’d heard Stockley was in MIT and knew it was inevitable their paths would cross again… since…

He pictured Stockley years ago, before Striker had joined the force. The tall, bespectacled constable who’d called at his house when Striker’s teenage antics had gone a little too far. But he tried not to think about
that
too much. He’d seen Stockley again, several years later, when they’d both been sitting their sergeant’s exam at Sedgley Park, and there had been a moment’s recognition. Striker had caught Stockley staring a few times throughout that day and they both knew where they’d last seen each other, all those years ago. There had been minimal encounters since, but Striker always felt Stockley harboured a grudge against him, stemming from that very first time when Striker had somehow wriggled from his grasp.

He’d known this time would come and felt rather vulnerable, that his past could finally catch up with him. He didn’t like the feeling one bit. He also knew that Stockley was close to Maria Cunningham, enhancing his wariness of them both.

As Bardsley was just about to get into his Astra with Bolands senior, Striker shouted, “Eric, give me a cig, will you?”