Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) (8 page)

“Well, no, she wasn't as it happens. I checked out her story with the local plod and it turns out it's true. Martin did report being abducted and tied to the front of his truck by a couple of guys. The desk sergeant noted it, and a constable took a statement, but there was nothing more they could do. Martin had no idea where it happened and he never got a look at the two guys because they were wearing werewolf masks. The Sergeant actually thought he might have been making the whole thing up. He put it down to some kind of nightmare that seemed real or overindulging in home-brew.”

Katz drew him a distinctly disapproving look.

“And you were intending on telling me this when, sir?”

“Yeah, ok, I'm sorry, Katz. I would've told you, it's just that, with everything that's been going on, I forgot, and right now it just became highly relevant,” he replied slightly sheepishly.

His partner shook her head slightly and waved him off to speak to Callahan. Sometimes, Katz liked to act as if she was the senior officer. This would help her once that became a reality, in the meantime, he felt like a naughty schoolboy being dismissed by the headmistress. He summoned all his willpower in trying not to imagine Katz as the archetypal teacher in a porno movie, but he failed.

Back on the platform, Stark took Callahan by the elbow, leading him over to a pillar, out of the way of other cops and the rubberneckers being held behind the police cordon.

“Floyd, how did you find out about this?”

The big man tapped his nose again.

“Look, don't fuck about, Floyd. This is deadly serious. I don't have the time or the energy for games. How did you find out about this?”

Callahan actually looked wounded by Stark's curtness.

“Ok, Adam, sorry man, I was only pulling your dick. No need to be so bad-lieutenant about it. Sheesh!”

He pulled out his notebook and flipped to a page about three quarters of the way through it.

“I got a call at about seven this morning from a guy. Well, I say a guy, it sounded more like a computer. You know, like that scientist dude in the wheelchair - Stephen Hawkins or whatever his name is.”

Stark nodded.

“Well, it just said to go to the station and ask the police how the guy on the tracks died. They guaranteed it wasn't suicide and he wasn't the first example they'd set.”

Stark raised his eyes to the ceiling, waiting for the punchline.

“So, what's going on, Adam? We got ourselves a serial killer on the loose?”

And there it was.

“Floyd, we've known each other quite a while and you know I always help you when I can, right?”

“Yeah, and I'm always very grateful...so?”

“Well, this is a bit of a strange one. We're still at a very early stage and as you're all too aware, when we start linking crimes, the serial killer stuff can become a runaway train - if you'll pardon the pun.”

They both smiled.

“Ok, Adam, but you know that the public have a right to know if they're in danger. So, what've you got and what way would you like me to play it?”

***

Stark was sure the arse-kicking for being a few minutes late had stopped but he was wrong. Off on the wrong foot again with his superior officer. A bad habit; must try harder.

“And another thing, I don't know how you used to do things in the land of haggis and neeps, but when you're working on a case from
my
station, I expect to be kept informed! Do you understand what that means, Stark?” shouted DCI Hargreaves.

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry, I'll make more effort from now on to involve you.”

You racist twat
, was the unspoken flourish Stark longed to add to the end of his reply. How his tongue remained in one piece while biting it so hard mystified him.

A huge emission of air rushed from DCI Hargreaves lungs, discharged via his nostrils. Stark felt under-prepared for the meeting, thinking perhaps he should have brought a three cornered hat and a red cape.

“Right, with luck, you've got that into your thick, Scottish skull. Now start talking!”

“Well, sir, so far, this is what we have. A young black guy called Dwayne Clements was abducted and mutilated about three weeks ago. The attacker left a note on Clements' person explaining their motivation as some sort of social crusade to improve respect and good manners. A drastic over-reaction to him spitting out his gum in the wrong place, apparently. Pulled out all his teeth and sewed up his mouth.”

The DCI frowned deeply without interrupting, so Stark continued with his summary.

“Then, last week, we had a lorry driver called Ernie Martin, from the Tower Estate, squashed between his truck and his van for the crime of tailgating. Looks like the same offender because they left a very similar note. They sign themselves off as a concerned citizen taking action.”

“Well, they better be concerned when we finally catch up with them!” spat the DCI bitterly. “Go on, Stark. What else do you have?”

“The odd thing about this one is that the dead man's widow claims he was abducted and scared witless by
two
men a week before this fatal attack. Same idea, but like a warning of some sort, without the finality of murdering him. The local cops had nothing to go on and didn't take it very seriously. Looks like, with hindsight, they should have. However, we can't be sure how accurate the story is and all three notes are signed off in the singular, not the plural.”

“Three notes? You've only mentioned two so far.”

“Yes, sir, I was getting to that. This morning, we found victim number three; Calvin Jacobs. He's a city banker and was shoved in front of a Tube at rush hour. This time, the crime that riled our friend was Jacobs shoving people out the way on the Tube and being rude and aggressive.”

“Him and ten million others!” quipped the Chief in a rare moment of levity.

The DCI got up from his chair and walked over to the window. The office sat many floors up, with an impressive view across their portion of the Capital. Hargreaves spoke with his back to Stark, hands clasped behind him; as if at ease on the parade ground.

“Are there any links between the victims or any forensics to work with?”

“No, sir, not yet I'm afraid. We're continuing to investigate whether the victims had any links, however tenuous, but so far we've not had any luck.”

His boss slowly turned round to face him, folded his arms across his chest and fixed him with a look of utter contempt.

“Stark, police work has nothing to do with luck! It's about hard graft and putting in the hours. Somewhere there's a piece of evidence you've missed,” a jabbing finger came out from the fold, “and I expect you to find it. I really don't need some sort of vigilante running around the city pretending to be the moral arbiter for us all. We decide who needs punished - not this guy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that it?” barked Hargreaves, hands now thrust into his pockets.

“So far, sir. I'll let you know as soon as anything else develops.”

“Yes, you will. That's all, Stark. You're dismissed.”

16. The Magic Word

I already told you I hate trains. There are lots of reasons why but most of them are related to my fellow passengers' behaviour. I particularly hate the way people seem to forget they're sharing a small space with others: others who don't necessarily share their taste in music. Headphones are supposed to direct the sound into
your
ears, so
you
can listen to
your
music. They were not designed to be used on a one in and one out basis. The one in letting you enjoy whatever cacophony floats your boat, while the one out annoys the living crap out of everybody else within a ten mile radius.

This boy was about sixteen or seventeen maybe and the latest in a long line of annoying little faecal sacs I'd been forced to endure while taking train journeys. I suppose you might call him unlucky but, then again, you make your own luck in life don't they say? If he'd had the good sense to use his headphones in the way Mr Sony intended, he would have avoided my wrath, but he didn't.

This boy exuded a say-something-if-you-dare-old-man attitude. Dressed from head-to-toe in expensive sportswear, despite the minimal likelihood he'd recently darkened the door of any sports club or arena. Baseball cap worn with peak facing the rear: natch. This base-layer augmented with an array of tasteless, oversized jewellery and a face so acne-ridden it was hard to see any of his actual facial skin. His particular dose of this most distressing of teenage afflictions was so severe, it looked more like third degree burns than spots.

The choice of music player was a mobile phone, which blasted forth some god-awful racket by a rapper (one with a silent c as far as I could ascertain). He exacerbated this din by accompanying it with robust language, directed toward a video game contained within the same device. Apparently, he wasn't all that good at this particular game. The whole package was too irritating to let go. I decided to christen him Sports-boy.

I spent a good amount of time thinking about ways to get even with such anti-social scumbags on a number of recent trips. The plan I eventually devised depended on a certain set of factors to allow it to work. Those factors all came together on this journey, and I took my chance.

First, I needed to get close to the little turd in question, which I achieved easily enough. The aural pollution he cast into the atmosphere created an exclusion zone of at least two seats all around him. Sports-boy looked momentarily perturbed by the sudden proximity of a proper adult. Ordinarily, he would have no problem driving them away. After this initial disquiet, he soon re-assumed his arrogant 'screw-you-all' persona and returned to cussing vehemently in response to his gaming ineptitude.

The second element required for the success of my plan, depended on him being one of the aforementioned scumbags who preferred to leave one earpiece swinging free. Sports-boy duly obliged.

I stood up, snatched the phone from his grasp and made off down the carriage. He was too shocked at first to react. However, the round of applause and the whooping cheers of my fellow passengers soon shook him out of his torpor.

“Hey, you thieving motherfucker, give me my phone or I'll fuck you up real bad!”

If I didn't have something more pressing to attend to I might well have spent the next twenty minutes laughing. His voice was so high-pitched it sounded like he borrowed it from a member of the audience at a Justin Bieber concert. Even if I didn't hold as many physical advantages over him as I did, that pre-pubescent outburst would not have induced any sense of foreboding in me.

As the carriage swayed and bucked, I carefully did what I had to do, then turned to face my accuser.

“Ask nicely and you can have it back.”

“Fuck you, dickhead! I don't need to do anything you want - it's my phone. Now, give it back, before I call the cops.”

“How will you call them, son? With your  phone? Oh dear, that might be a little tricky,” I replied, blatantly mocking him.

Poor little Sports-boy became very agitated but, now I was standing right in front of him, he realised he had no chance of intimidating me. The humiliation of being confronted and now taunted, burned like concentrated acid. However, even a retard like him could recognise conciliation was his only chance of getting his precious electronic friend back.

“Come on, man. Just give it to me!” he said as calmly as he could.

I shook my head and, as he made to grab, pushed him forcefully back.

“What's the magic word, sonny?”

This provoked a hilarious and totally unexpected response from the onlookers. A chant of “What's the magic word, sonny?” rose up, with every person on board joining in the chorus; all of them keen to encourage the boy to show some manners.

Sports-boy looked around in a fury that threatened to burst every zit on his face and shower us all with rancid, teenage pus. The impotence of his rage became clear to him as I effortlessly thwarted another attempted grab. The chant grew in volume and finally he acquiesced.

“Can I have my phone back...please?”

The final word whispered so as to be barely audible.

“I'm sorry, I don't think I caught that.”

This time he screamed like a little girl.

“Can I have my phone back, PLEASE?”

The cheering, foot stamping and clapping was thunderous; a collective outpouring of relief, gratitude and schadenfreude. Finally, one of the unbearable few who made the lives of the many a misery had received their comeuppance. I don't mind admitting it made me feel good. This was not quite the end of it though.

“As you asked so nicely, yes, you can have it back. However, there is one condition.”

He avoided my eyes and responded sullenly.

“What?”

“I want you to put both ear pieces in and turn down the volume. If you don't, I'll do more than just take it off you. Do you understand me?”

Again, he looked at the floor and mumbled, “Ok.”

“I don't think I heard that.”

“YES, OK!”

I handed the phone over but, as I did, I made sure he stuck to his promise and pushed the ear pieces into both ears for him. With a final, venomous glower, he took off up the carriage.

Almost immediately, we entered a station. The doors slid open, he alighted, and I returned to my seat. Much back-slapping and plaudits came my way but I kept my eyes on Sports-boy. Standing on the platform, he pulled at his ear pieces but they refused to budge. I saw him frantically looking back toward me as the train started to draw out of the station. He'd been left with no option but to stick to his promise - thanks to the super glue. I waved and gave him a salute.

 Only now did I afford myself the luxury of laughing heartily. To be fair, I was laughing a lot less heartily than Garry, who was getting dangerously close to requiring oxygen or treatment for a hernia.

17. Night-time

It's not always easy to relocate them, however, with a bit of effort, I usually succeed. This time it was the hospital helped me track him down. Although, to be fair on them, they were unaware of the aid they'd given me. Nonetheless, they had helped.