by Col Bury
Stockley looked heavenward. “Look, stop interfering will you? This could be suicide for all we know. Let us begin our investigation and we’ll liaise tomorrow.”
“Suicide? I doubt that very much,” said Striker, rolling his eyes. With both Bardsley’s and Barron’s torches lighting up the dead lad’s bloated face, it was clear from his blooded nose and bruised eye that he’d been in some kind of fight recently.
“Boss, you might want to come here,” said Barron. “He’s got four Bs tattooed on his knuckles.”
“Okay Striker,” said Stockley, “since you’re here, make yourself useful and go to the hospital to interview the witness, so we can get a quick ID on this lad.”
“No need, Boss, I know him.”
Stockley turned to Bardsley. “Who is he?”
I dealt with his case a few years ago, when he stabbed a schoolboy with a chisel. It’s Steven Bowker, aka Chisel. And he has plenty of enemies.”
“Right. Could you put that ID in writing before you go home?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “So, did you get your body ID’d then?”
Striker answered, “Yeah, it was Gareth Bolands and obviously his dad took it real bad. Do you know him? Nicknamed Gasbo.”
Stockley shook his head.
Barron said, “Yeah, I know him. He’s got an ASBO, hasn’t he?”
Striker nodded. “That’s right, Steve.”
“And so has Chisel…” said Bardsley.
There was an audible silence, Striker wondering about the connection, albeit tenuous, as no doubt the other detectives were.
Stockley broke the lull. “I suggest you disappear now. Cunningham and Brennan won’t be at all happy you’ve attended here.”
“Even though our local knowledge has just given you a swift ID? I think the word you’re looking for is ‘thanks’.”
The four detectives pivoted on hearing a kerfuffle at the play area’s entrance. Striker and Bardsley headed toward the raised voices.
Davison, awkwardly clutching the scene log, was struggling to prevent a group of irate-looking men from entering the scene.
“Where’s my fuckin’ son? I want to see him, now!” shouted a stocky, middle-aged man, pushing Davison, who was now frantically speaking into his radio.
“It’s Chisel’s dad, Dessie Bowker. He’s a right handful, Jack.” Bardsley ran over, and grabbed Bowker’s arms, managing to swing him to the floor. Two beefy lads about twenty headed for Bardsley, but Striker blocked them off, a palm in each chest. One swung for Striker, so he dipped his head and stung the lad with a left uppercut to the chin. He instantly hit the deck.
“Now calm down, all of you.” Scowling, Striker faced the others, in case they wanted some of the same.
Bardsley helped up Dessie Bowker from the floor and held aloft a placating hand; the semi-retired gangster wore a face of thunder. “Dessie, we’ll talk, but please control yourself first.”
“What, like you two just fuckin’ did?”
More uniforms streamed into the park, their footfalls audible on the stone path, like a burst of amateur tap dancing. They soon surrounded the six irate men, who looked around warily when a couple of batons clicked open.
The lad Striker had punched got up, rubbing his chin, still somewhat stunned and having second thoughts now. He mumbled expletives under his breath.
“Entering a crime scene is a criminal offence. Now walk with us, away from the scene, and we can talk… calmly,” said Striker curtly.
En masse, the mixture of cops and civilians strolled out of the park, leaving Davison wondering whether he’d ever get off duty, while Chisel’s body swayed in the distance.
***
Outside the park gates, in between a long row of semis – some with occupants outside or peering through their windows – Bardsley tried to place an arm around Dessie Bowker’s shoulders, but was pushed aside.
The line of uniforms across the park gates would suffice for now. Striker had asked two of them to cover the entrance on the other side of the park, even though it was Stockley’s crime scene. The ambulance had taken the lad, Johnson, who Ben Davison had told Striker about, to the hospital. Once these characters before him had gone, maybe Striker could catch a couple of hours of shut-eye.
The five young men accompanying Bowker were leaning on a short metal fence on the kerb of the pavement, facing the line of cops, who they eyed cockily.
Striker made eye contact with Dessie Bowker, then beckoned him over with a nod of the head. Bowker returned the gesture with a dirty look, though still followed the DI a few paces up the road, out of earshot of the others. The nearby streetlamp lit them up enough for Striker to see Bowker’s craggy face and forlorn expression.
“Mr Bowker, how did you know about this?”
“Steven’s mate Johnno phoned me. Sounded stressed.”
“Right. What did he say?”
“That some maniac must’ve attacked them and that he’d been knocked out. And when he woke up, he saw my…” The big man started to sob, then punched a nearby garden fence, but didn’t even flinch, despite it being metal.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, Mr Bowker. Please, just go home now and let us try to catch the bastard who’s done this to your son. Someone will be in touch soon about a formal ID.”
He hesitated, glaring at nothing, pain contorting his face. “Well, you’d better catch him before I fuckin’ do,” he growled, before storming off. His troops filed in behind him, jeering at the line of uniforms, then they all clambered into a white transit van and sped off.
Striker didn’t think for one minute that he’d seen the last of them. Someone out there clearly had gigantic balls to have killed Bowker’s lad. Either that or whoever it may be was just plain bloody crazy.
After updating Stockley by mobile on what Bowker had told him, Striker’s last job was a gesture for the officers on the scene. He’d been there, done that and it was no fun standing in the cold dying for a piss, feeling forgotten and unappreciated. He radioed the late shift sergeant, Paul Roache to let him know Ben Davison and the others would need relieving by the night shift at some point soon. As it happened, Roache, being a decent bloke, was already onto it.
He shouted for Bardsley, who was chatting to the uniforms, and they headed for Striker’s Astra. Bardsley had dropped his older Astra off at the nick after the morgue trip, when they’d both managed to pick up a quick coffee to keep them going.
“I don’t think that’s the last we’ve heard from Dessie Bowker and his cronies,” said the detective.
“My feelings exactly.”
“What do you reckon then, Jack? Gang related or something else?”
“They’ve both got ASBOs, Eric, which could be just a coincidence, but…” Striker tailed off in thought, knowing anti-social behaviour orders were common around these parts, weakening his premature theory regarding gangs somewhat. Striker opened the Astra’s central locking and they both climbed in.
“So you don’t think it is gang related?” asked Bardsley, lighting two Bensons, passing one to Striker.
Striker took the cigarette and opened the electric windows on both front doors to allow the smoke to escape. “Unfortunately not. The MOs just don’t fit with gangs do they?”
Bardsley shook his head. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“I mean, a knife and a gun, yeah, but using a metal bar or something similar on Bolands. Then going to the trouble of messing about with a rope and hanging the kid Chisel… That’s gotta be some kind of statement, don’t you reckon?”
“Symbolism?”
Striker shrugged, glanced at his colleague. “Could well be. If it were the gangs, then a few bullets would’ve been discharged and they’d be outta there pronto. They wouldn’t start hanging someone up like that. Somebody’s given this a lot of thought, Eric.”
“You think we’re looking for a serial killer?”
“It’s too early to suggest this to the others, as that’s the last thing the brass would want to hear
before we have conclusive proof. But it’s highly likely the murders are linked and we’ve got some sort of vigilante ASBO killer on the rampage.”
Bardsley drew hard on the Benson, blew a couple of smoke rings, then looked intently at Striker. “There are hundreds of these knobheads with ASBOs, Jack.”
“I know, mate, and I do hope I’m wrong.” Striker fired up the Astra. “But something is telling me our man is just getting warmed up.”
Chapter Ten
After four hours of broken sleep, Striker was back in his office on his umpteenth phone call of the morning.
“What do you mean, you can’t bloody make it? It’s Beth’s school play remember? You promised, Jack.”
Striker cursed himself for forgetting about the play. “Something really important has come up, Suzi. You know if I could—”
He could hear the emotion in her voice as she interrupted. “That’s the problem with you, isn’t it, Jack? Something’s always coming up – something more important than your children’s upbringing?”
“Look, Suzi, there’s this case and it’s—”
Suzi jumped in again. “Oh, there’s always this case or that case! You’re gonna lose them, Jack.”
Her words cut Striker real deep and for once words failed him.
She continued, “Well, if it’s more important than your own flesh and blood, then so be it. If you wanna see your kids again, you can go through the damn courts.”
And with that, the phone went dead.
“Suzi… Suzi? Shit.”
He was just about to conduct the morning briefing with Cunningham and this was the last thing he needed. It would have to go into the box at the back of his brain. The only problem was that the box was getting rather full and he was struggling to shut the lid, what with this escalating case, the smoking relapse and his non-existent sex and social lives. At least the curse of being a Man City fan over the years had been diluted immeasurably since the Arab oil men’s takeover of his beloved football club. The tag, ‘the same old City’ had waned. Nonetheless, finding the time to go to the odd game would be nice. Typical that he’d supported the sky blues through thin and thinner and now they were half-decent he was missing out.
However, more importantly, he knew his kids were slipping from his grasp when they should have been his highest priority.
Elbows on the desk, he dipped his head in hands, tapped his temples. He promised himself he’d make it up to them and consciously shut the box lid in his mind, for now. Compartmentalising was the only way he could manage the extremes of his life.
What was crucial to the over-worked office’s flagging morale was for him to present a positive image, in order to motivate his team sufficiently enough to achieve a successful start, and hopefully a swift conclusion, to the inquiry.
He’d tried the newsagent Khan’s mobile three times this morning, in the hope of having something positive to rouse the troops during the briefing, but frustratingly it kept going straight to answerphone. Khan didn’t live in the rented flat above the shop, his home address was unknown, as yet, and typically the mobile phone database had it registered as an unnamed pay-as-you-go.
Striker needed to know more about this “burly man” Khan had seen running off. The sooner that guy was interviewed and eliminated, the easier it would be to focus fully on the gangs and who they’d pissed off so much. Why hadn’t the man come forward voluntarily? Was he scared of repercussions? Or was there a more sinister reason?
His mind awhirl, Striker headed into the adjacent major incident room.
The MIT office was a good forty feet by twenty, and desks were positioned in clusters for the various teams. Filing cabinets ran virtually the length of one wall, along with a fax machine, a photocopier and a printer. A couple of wide one-way windows offered the not-so-stunning view of Bullsmead in all its ‘glory’: basically a mass of terraced rooftops, broken only by the odd tree or commercial premises.
Mugshots of numerous bad guys filled the bland, pale blue wall opposite. Some of the photos had vertical bars crudely drawn on in black felt tip, to signify the offender’s incarceration, the odd sarcastic comment underneath: “See you in twenty years”, “Don’t wait up, luv”, “Let me out”, “Missing from home”, “I want me mummy” and “Crime pays… the penalty!” amongst Striker’s favourites. On each desk were a phone and a double-screened computer terminal, some accompanied by pictures of partners and children. All the desks had three-tiered trays containing fat, fawn-coloured pending files and multiple black-trimmed box files.
The air was filled with conversations from the dozen or so detectives dotted about the room – some sitting on desks and chairs, others standing, most drinking coffee.
Striker had formerly introduced himself to his new team just four days earlier, most of whom he already knew from his various stints and roles on the B Division. He briefly chatted with Eric Bardsley and Lauren Collinge before the buzz of conversations diminished and the DCI strolled in.
“Okay, okay, people,” hollered Maria Cunningham, with two sharp attention-grabbing claps. She wore her usual charcoal grey, pin-striped pencil skirt and matching jacket, her shirt’s two top buttons undone revealing the start of a considerable cleavage.
The room was instantly silent, but Bardsley continued whispering an incomplete story about the new barmaid at the Rock Inn and how he’d kept ordering stuff from the bottom shelf of the fridges in order to get a better view of her arse. Striker raised his eyebrows and nodded purposely toward Cunningham.
As if waiting for Bardsley to turn her way, the DCI, now standing at the head of the room, threw a glare that silenced Bardsley. Then she began.
“I’m sure you are all aware of the first murder last night – a particularly brutal one, I know you’ll agree. On the face of it, it appears to be gang related.”
Striker wore a puzzled look. On the phone earlier, he’d told the DCI about the man Khan had seen running off and they’d briefly discussed the subsequent murder.
“As for the second murder scene, the hanging in Bullsmead Park, DI Stockley and his team have already taken charge of that one, so a separate meeting will take place later. For now, we’re not linking it to the one on Bullsmead Road, which we’ll be focussing on in this briefing.”
A few whispers could be heard, though soon diminished.
“And, as the other syndicates are stretched with the recent spate of shootings, this one will be run by DI Striker, who most of you in Syndicate One have already met. Team Two are also assisting today, to help get the ball rolling.”
A few detectives glanced his way, so Striker nodded with a half-smile, before Cunningham continued.
“Getting back to the Bullsmead killing, DI Striker has informed me that the deceased’s body was ID’d last night by the father, and by all accounts, Gareth Bolands is – was – as most of you will already know, a particularly nasty piece of work himself, being a member of the Moss Range Crew. But before we start viewing things the wrong way, this boy was still a human being and has a family, and he didn’t deserve such a fate.”
Bardsley whispered, “Well that’s open to question,” and Striker gave him a nudge with his elbow.
Cunningham went on, “The press are already onto this, so I want your heads fully focussed on the inquiry. Any questions from pushy journalists should not be answered by you, but should be referred to the Press Office. It’s going to be a busy day, people. Now, over to DI Striker for an update on the Bolands investigation and your actions.”
Striker stepped forward, turned a page on an SRA2 flip chart to reveal a crudely drawn bird’s-eye view of the crime scene. It was another sign of the budget cuts the force had no choice but to make. He’d tried the overhead projector earlier and it was playing up; plus, the colour printer in his office was broken, preventing him running off the Google Maps image. The more professional photos were yet to be taken by air support, so this would have to suffice for now. He saw Cunningham frown and clocked a few suppressed smirks
around the room.
“Morning everyone and thanks to Syndicate Two for turning out early and dropping whatever you’re working on. Initially, we thought this was another gang-on-gang fight, and it may well still be the case.” His glance bounced back hard from Cunningham. “However, experience tells us to always keep an open mind and we potentially have a witness who saw a tall, burly man dressed in black fleeing the scene, then running down” – Striker pointed at the map – “Spinney Lane, which leads to Bradburn Street. We don’t know if he turned left or right, nor whether he’d parked a getaway vehicle nearby—”
Cunningham interrupted. “Getaway vehicle? Are you saying he’s our murderer, Jack? Witnesses don’t drive getaway vehicles, do they?”
Striker couldn’t hide his sigh. “I’m just imparting the info we’ve collated so far. This man may or may not be local, so perhaps he had a car” – he tossed a glance at Cunningham – “parked around the corner. He was wearing a long black trench coat and is aged twenty-five to forty. Sorry, that’s the best we’ve got. The problem is, we don’t know his ethnicity or if he’s involved at all, and up to now no one else has seen this guy. However, I’m hoping to speak with the key witness after this briefing. I’ll let you all know of any developments.”
A few mumbles were exchanged among the detectives.
“Look, I know this isn’t ideal and that this man may well have just been fleeing the scene because he was scared, but we really need to know who he is. It also appears that not only were members of the Bullsmead Boys present, but also possibly half a dozen or so of the Moss Range Crew. Why? We’re not sure yet. There’s been a mention they were meeting up to do ‘business’, which seems unlikely, since they’re bitter rivals. If that’s the case, then it may have been the old classic ‘drug deal gone wrong’ scenario. The more probable line is they were meeting up for a fight, although at this early stage it’s hard to say. But we also need to find this out.
