Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1)

by Peter Carroll

  “Now, now, Adam, you know a good journalist never reveals his sources!”

  “Well, you can tell me then coz you're not a good journalist!” quipped Stark in response.

  “Touché, Starky, touché! How the devil are you anyway my friend?”

  They shook hands warmly, tapping each other on the right elbow with their left hands. A sort of slightly more professional, manly version of a hug.

  “Well, I would be a lot better if I was still in my bed instead of dealing with this kind of crap at seven-thirty in the morning!”

  Stark scanned around and spotted Katz; squatting down track-side, deep in conversation with one of the forensics guys. She'd beaten him to the punch again. Every crime scene they'd covered recently, she seemed to have the jump on him. It elicited a stab of paranoia. Was she out to show him up? Ridiculous. She merely tried harder than the average trainee to impress him and his superiors. It annoyed Stark but she provoked diaphanous unease in him. Despite working together for a few weeks, she'd told him nothing of her private life and made no enquiries about his. A kind of cold detachment, bordering on aloof. If she wasn't so damned hot, he'd find it easier to dislike her for it.

  “Sorry, Floyd, I'll catch up with you in a bit. Need to go and talk to my partner, see what the lie of the land is.”

  “Ok, Starkmeister. No problem. Once you know some more, you can come and tell me all about it,” said Callahan, winking as he did so.

  Stark smiled, shook his head, lowered himself off the platform onto the track and made his way over to Katz.

  His inscrutable workmate looked over her shoulder as he approached and stood up.

  “Hi, sir. Meet Calvin Jacobs: victim number three of our vigilantes.”

  “What? Really? What is it this time - train was late so they offed the driver?”

  Katz didn't even crack a hint of a smile.

  “Nope, he's an investment banker in the city. They shoved him out in front of the train as it pulled into the station. Hundreds of witnesses and no-one saw anything.”

  “How do we know he was shoved? Maybe it was suicide? These places are a zoo at rush hour. It could have been an accident. Jeezo, it's always amazed me it doesn't happen more often.”

  “Yeah, I agree that would be a likely scenario, but there's another note. This time in the pocket of the victim. Brazen sonofabitches must have stuffed it in before shoving him off the platform.”

  “Holy shit! This is escalating. What the hell are they going to pull next?”

  Katz put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, I can give you a clue. How do you think your lanky friend got here? He's not likely to turn up for a bog-standard suicide now is he, sir?”

  Stark pushed out his bottom lip and looked back toward Callahan. Heat flushed through his cheeks. Of course - the bad guys decided they needed more publicity for their cause. Callahan and the Daily News were perfect for them. They'd chosen the most popular hack, working for the nation's most popular paper: a paper renowned for championing the common man, bemoaning the decline of civilisation and generally stirring it for the authorities whenever they got the chance. Damn! Now the fun and games really would begin.

  “Ah, shite. I better go see what he has to say for himself.”

  “Yeah, right you are, sir. I'm going to keep examining the scene if that's ok with you?”

  Stark nodded and made to move away before realising his befuddled neurones were not linking up as they should.

  “Wait, before I go over there...what does the note say this time?”

  Katz handed over the evidence bag.

  To whom it may concern,

  I don't think my message is getting through.

  Calvin here liked to shove little old ladies and pregnant women out of his way. Well, I gave him a push in the right direction. He learned a hard lesson in manners and what's right and wrong. I want them all to learn it. It's time to stand up against this tide of inconsideration and selfishness. It's time to reclaim the city for our decent, hard-working citizens. It's time to show respect.

  Dwayne, Ernie and Calvin will help light the way.

  Yours,

  A concerned citizen taking action

  There was something curious about this note. Instead of using a plain piece of paper like the others, it was printed on the back of what appeared to be a luggage tag bearing Calvin Jacob's personal details.

  “What's with the luggage tag?”

  Katz shrugged.

  “No idea, sir. Strange huh?”

  “Yeah, very,” said Stark, handing the bag back to his partner. “Whoa! Wait a minute. Why is it all in the first person? There's no we or us in that statement - it's all I did this and I think that and it's signed off as A concerned citizen.”

  “Actually, yes, you're right, sir. So, what the hell was going on with Martin? Looks like his lush of a wife was talking through the bottom of her vodka bottle after all.”

  Stark pulled down on his jaw thoughtfully.

  “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 dan
ger. 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 humilia
tion 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.