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

by Col Bury

  Khan nodded, still looking worried. “Of course. But sorry about mess out there, Inspector. We only use it for rubbish.”

  “That’s okay.” Striker took out his mobile as he exited the back door and entered Khan’s dingy back yard. He saw a rat staring up at him and he shuddered. It was gnawing through a bin bag. Striker froze, instantly recalling the time he was bitten by one of the vermin while messing about in a disused building as a kid. The rat scurried through a gap under the yard door and into the alleyway behind.

  Striker realised he’d not only held his breath, but had also broken out in a cold sweat, feeling the sheen on his brow with equally clammy hands. He even recalled torturing himself by reading James Herbert’s rat trilogy as a spotty teen, in a bid to fight the phobia he’d had since the bite. Clearly it hadn’t worked. He lit a cigarette, recomposed himself and his mind soon shifted back to the now.

  He knew that the latest pieces of the jigsaw weren’t exactly a breakthrough, although every little piece helped. At least it was clear-cut now, what they were actually dealing with. However, Striker sensed the killer had only just begun.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next two days had been like pissing in a tornado, trying to ascertain which gang members had been present at the Bolands murder, among other things.

  DS Grant had informed Striker that results on the cigarette stubs from the first scene had come back as either negative, or to “no one of interest”. Basically, it was just a couple of kids off the estate, both of whom were twelve and had been arrested once for shoplifting.

  DNA on the lager bottle was that of Luke Grinley, but they already knew he was there, sat on the wall with Mozerelli. Striker had liaised with Brennan to inform him what Khan had told him – then reiterated in the video interview yesterday – regarding the improved description of the killer, and that Mozerelli and Grinley were in fact just scared witnesses. Brennan hadn’t apologised to Striker, but had called off the attempts to arrest the pair. The point that they’d evaded arrest, anyhow, had been rather embarrassing and was indicative of the area, in that even the low-level criminals around here had the know-how to dodge the cops. This begged the question: What chance did they have of catching a professional killer if they couldn’t find a couple of scrotes?

  Jerome Jackson, the gang member with the swelling to his right cheekbone who they picked up from the streets of Moss Range a few days back, had been interviewed again. He’d been identified by numerous officers who’d viewed the footage and stills from the petrol station. This time the interview with Jackson was official, at the station in the presence of his solicitor. He admitted being present at the Bolands murder and also to being assaulted himself, when trying to save his friend from the onslaught. Yet he was adamant at not wanting to press charges, or assisting the police any further. He did, however, corroborate reports, albeit off the record, that the weapon used was indeed a baton. A couple more names that had popped up were interviewed by Stockley’s team, but they had apparently come up with solid alibis.

  All this, added to the fact that Roger Pennington – or Roger the Dodger – had only loose affiliations to some of the Moss Range Crew, confirmed that the gang theory had lost all mileage completely. Dodger had an ASBO – or in this case a CRASBO, for it was made on the back of a criminal conviction but amounted to pretty much the same thing – so that initial hunch, relating to the possible criteria of each victim’s selection, still hadn’t been quashed. The powers that be had come up with a new version of the ASBO called a CRIMBO, which Striker thought ridiculous.

  Having hit a brick wall regarding the rest of the gang members at the first scene, the original list, compiled by DC Collinge and the field intelligence officers, had been modified accordingly. Consequently, they had established a top ten to interview about their movements at the time of each murder.

  Along with Brennan’s guidance, they had co-ordinated the interviews under caution. Nine of the ten had been spoken to and had provided decent enough alibis, all of which had checked out. Not that alibis around here were concrete, since invariably the family and friends of those under suspicion wouldn’t think twice about lying to the police.

  Brennan and Cunningham had also been keeping a close eye on Striker, to see if the Deano situation was affecting him, even saying that they had a ‘duty of care’ to offer Striker some compassionate leave. Yeah, right. He knew Cunningham just wanted him out of the way. With Deano still not having regained consciousness, leave was the last thing Striker wanted and he informed them of this as tactfully as he could without exploding. He had to admit though, his short fuse had shortened further with the added worry of Deano.

  With Brennan having a rare rest day, annoyingly Cunningham was now calling the shots. She and Stockley had gone to track down the last of the top ten, who’d been spotted out and about in the city centre. Meanwhile, Striker had been delegated to attend a community meeting this afternoon, called by the notorious – but now supposedly reformed – former Moss Range Crew leader Jamo Kingston.

  Kingston was a member of the Independent Advisory Group: ‘Community members from the local area who provide advice and make recommendations to the Constabulary in order to assist them in creating non-discriminatory services’, apparently. The consensus of wisdom from the brass was that Kingston’s involvement could bridge the gap between the predominantly white male police force and the multiracial community. Nonetheless, Striker had massive reservations regarding this decision, especially since he knew, as well as anyone, all about Kingston’s shady past.

  At least Bardsley would be by his side at the meeting, scheduled to start in three hours. He looked across his paper-strewn desk at the DC, who was chomping on a sizeable pork pie as if it was his last ever meal, and Striker wondered whether Bardsley’s presence would actually be a good thing.

  Bardsley looked at him, still chomping. “Why do we get the shitty little meeting, when there’s proper police work to be done?”

  “Don’t ask,” Striker said resignedly. “Cunningham can be very persuasive.”

  Hearing the kettle click off, Bardsley got up and headed over to the small fridge in the corner, which doubled as a brewing surface. They’d spent the morning assessing what they had so far, ensuring they’d not missed anything crucial or obvious.

  “He’s been quiet, Eric. Too quiet.”

  Bardsley stirred the coffee, splashing it round with the subtlety of a sumo wrestler doing a pirouette. He rolled his eyes, his Scouse tones as bullish as ever. “Now you’ve gone and said it, Jack. Jinxing us with the Q word.”

  “Well, nothing for two days. You don’t suddenly stop what he’s started. He’s planning something.”

  “He may’ve just finished. Had enough. Completed his… er… mission.”

  “Nah, there’s more to come. I know it. He could be taking time out because of Deano. Maybe he regrets it.”

  “Interesting philosophy. A serial killer with morals?”

  “Perhaps. Either that, or he’s up to something.”

  As Bardsley finished the brews, Striker drifted off again into a web of possibilities. It was almost certain the killer knew the area, and had a decent IQ, which narrowed down the possible perps drastically. Frustratingly though, no DNA profile had been forthcoming as yet and Striker wasn’t holding his breath on the list they’d compiled coming up trumps. Or even the second list of ten that Brennan had the FIO’s working on. Striker felt they’d catch this guy as a consequence of his mistakes. Problem was, he hadn’t made one yet.

  Bardsley handed him the coffee in Striker’s precious Manchester City cup, passed to him by his long-time deceased granddad, the cup being a good thirty years old. The slapdash way it was passed to him caused a stray drop to splash onto Betty Grange’s witness statement.

  “Shit, Eric.” Striker quickly dabbed the statement with the back of his light blue silk tie. “No wonder Margaret does the brews in your house.”

  “That’s all she bleedin’ does though.”
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  “Things still not right?”

  Bardsley sat down. “I know I’m not the best hubby in the world. A bit brash, always in work… I am polite though. I always tell her when I’m coming.”

  Striker half smiled, a little confused.

  Bardsley continued, “Only problem is, I have to shout it because she’s upstairs in bed and I’m on the settee.”

  Striker grinned, shook his head.

  “And with trying to catch this psycho, I hardly ever see her, never mind make love. That’s why I reckon she might be… you know…”

  Striker felt for him, but didn’t know how he could help, so opted for the only way he knew how: humour. “Nature of the Beast, Eric. You could always go back to uniform.”

  Bardsley stroked his beard. “Sod that, I’d rather be celibate.”

  Striker chuckled, pleased to see Bardsley smiling again, and purposely steered the conversation back to work. “There’s definitely a pattern emerging. It’s simple, but this guy must know someone close enough to access criminal records, as each one of his victims have been career criminals and menaces to society. Either that or, like us, he has a built-in radar for scumbags.”

  “People from the council have access to records of anyone with an ASBO.”

  “And so do all police officers and police staff in the UK. So that’s about a couple of hundred thousand.”

  “That narrows it down then,” said Bardsley, supping his brew.

  Striker mirrored his colleague, the coffee tasting good, just the pep-up he needed to enliven him for that bloody meeting. “An audit trail would take ages.”

  “Time is one thing we don’t have.”

  “Putting the ASBO theory to one side, he’s certainly done his research and hit the bull’s-eye with the victims. Except for Deano, obviously.”

  Both detectives became quiet, perusing the files of paper evidence before them.

  The tabloids’ ‘Hoodie Hunter’ nickname had stuck like superglue, and Striker had to concede, in the few days the killer had been active, the streets had become quieter. In some ways, the area had become safer for Joe Public. Decent folk were off the killer’s radar completely and the vibes from media phone-ins, polls and news reports were, generally, favourable to this accomplished killer. Feedback from response sergeants on each shift had confirmed diminishing amounts of alcohol-fuelled youths had been hanging out on street corners, terrorising their respective neighbourhoods. Ironically, the Hoodie Hunter was achieving in a few days what GMP had struggled to do in years.

  Striker castigated himself for almost fleetingly admiring the man’s work. He swiftly reverted back to detective inspector mode.

  “Keep sifting through, Eric, before we have to go to this damn community meeting.” He’d tasked Bardsley with trying to make a connection between the victims. Striker opened a brown A4 envelope and was soon gazing down at the fanned photos of dead sons.

  The office phone interrupted them and Striker picked up the handset.

  Bardsley studied Striker’s reactions, sensing something was going on.

  A minute later, Striker hung up and stared pensively into space.

  “Well, Jack?”

  “The tenth one on our list…”

  “Yes, Bobby Copeland.”

  “Stockley’s just arrested him… for attacking a lad with a baton.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Civilian detention officer Vic Powers was deep in thought when he heard Sergeant Thompson shout his name. Bullsmead custody office was abuzz with detectives from the force’s Major Incident Team, strutting around as if they owned the bloody place. Some of them hardly gave the likes of Powers a second glance, unless they wanted something, of course. Arrogant bastards.

  “One minute, Sarge,” said Powers, getting up from his custody office desk then placing the charge sheet he’d just prepared onto one of the many lined-up clipboards relevant to each detainee. “Just gotta update the hourly checks on the system.”

  After doing so, he strolled over to the sergeant, who was chatting up an attractive blonde solicitor. Thompson was sat on a high chair in front of his computer terminal, on the police side of the long counter, which curved at both ends to the walls of the staff office behind. On the other side of the counter was a spacious area with a couple of long benches fixed to the walls. This was where the calmer arrestees sat and waited, whether it was to see the police medic, to take a mandatory drugs test or to have their fingerprints, mugshots or DNA taken. The ceiling was high, creating an acoustic effect whenever the latest offender was bustled in, invariably intoxicated, shouting and cursing.

  Thompson leaned on the counter, one arm bent to enhance his well-honed bicep; a posture Powers was familiar with, especially when a cute solicitor or interpreter was around. The sergeant turned to him.

  “You look knackered, Vic.”

  “Yeah, didn’t sleep too well, Sarge.”

  “Will you take that guy Copeland, who MIT locked up, from the holding cell to the exercise yard for a cigarette? Keep him sweet, eh? Stop him rattling the cells door again like a goddamn orang-utan.” He glanced at the solicitor, who smiled knowingly.

  “Sure, no probs. Think he’s asleep as he’s gone quiet, but I’ll wake him.” Powers walked through an archway back into the office, passing half a dozen colleagues, a mixture of cops and civilian staff, then out of the office door. The holding cell was a barred cell beside their office. It was ideal for keeping their eyes on troublesome or high-risk prisoners. There were plans to split the cell into three smaller ones, such was the demand, though the government cuts in these times of austerity had thwarted that.

  He reached in his pocket, jangled the set of chunky keys attached by a long silver chain to a clip on his belt. When he found the correct one, he opened the heavy iron door.

  Under a blue blanket on a thin plastic mattress, Copeland stirred, grunted. The blanket was flung off, revealing the detainee in standard blue sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up, and jogging bottoms, his own clothing having been seized for forensics.

  “Come on, fella. Slip your trainers on and follow me if you want that ciggie.” Powers got an unpleasant whiff from the pair of lace-less Adidas trainers parked outside the cell.

  Copeland was a big man, well over six feet tall, early forties, portly, with balding ginger hair. The prisoner stretched from his slumber, got up, then followed sluggishly.

  Powers opened another solid iron door leading to a lengthy corridor. Their footfalls echoed as they passed a long line of cells on either side, all with shoes and trainers outside them, and headed for the door to the exercise yard. The stale, sweaty stench was something Powers still hadn’t become used to, and he held his breath as they passed. After another jingle of his keys, he clicked open a heavy door and let the detainee pass into the exercise yard.

  The yard was square with brown brick walls, each approximately fifteen metres long, a large metal grill ten metres above. The prisoner took in his surroundings for a few seconds.

  He turned to Powers. “I’m not gonna escape from here, am I?” he asked resignedly.

  Powers shook his head. “No, fella. You’ve no chance, unless you’re Spiderman.”

  His grin revealed two-thirds of a set of tobacco-stained teeth. “The name’s Copeland, if you didn’t know, Bobby Copeland.”

  “I know who you are,” said Powers.

  “So, where’s me smokes, guv?”

  He handed him the tobacco and Rizla papers he’d removed from the detainee’s property bag earlier. “Roll away.”

  “You’re alright, you, guv. Not like these Columbo types, trying to pin all sorts of shit on me.”

  As he stood by the doorway, virtually filling it, Powers watched this man before him, whose addiction to nicotine was evident in the way his hands were shaking as he rolled the cigarette. He didn’t seem like one of the usual scumbags he’d become accustomed to dealing with as a detention officer. Powers was intrigued to know why this man had snapped and ended up here. Curios
ity finally got the better of him.

  “So what’s your story, Bobby?” he asked, looking at the myriad of slashes on Copeland’s arms. “And why do you self-harm?”

  Copeland briefly looked his way, as if weighing him up. “Gimme a light, guv, an’ I’ll tell yer.”

  He flicked the lighter open and cupped his hands around the flame, while Copeland sucked frantically on the roll-up.

  “Ah. Now that’s a whole lot better,” he said, exhaling smoke, before coughing. “I know it sounds stupid, but I find cutting meself is sort of comforting.”

  “I do understand that, working here, Bobby. It’s more common than people think. Helps you forget. Kinda therapeutic, eh?”

  Copeland looked surprised, nodded, as he took another drag.

  “Come on then. How did you end up here?”

  Copeland drew hard and gazed at the end of the shrinking roll-up. “Can I roll another?”

  “Sure. It gets me away from the office, those phones and cell buzzers.”

  Copeland’s nerves seemed to have settled and he rolled the second one much quicker. After Powers lit it, Copeland began his story.

  “I’m basically here because of my brother. You may’ve seen it on the news a couple of years ago.” He looked up, his voice monotone, forlorn, his posture hunched. “David Copeland, attacked for no reason, while walking home from the pub after watching a United match?” He glanced up again, looking for a reaction.

  “Yeah, it does ring a bell, that. So he was your brother?”

  “I just can’t get over it, an’ that’s why am here. I just tried to beat up that bastard Sinclair.” He hesitated, his features tightening as bad memories whirled. “Nine fuckin’ days, I was at our Dave’s bedside, while his brain swelled up in hospital. Nine fuckin’ days. An’ me mum went through hell, too. An’ then those bastards walk free from court bragging about how ‘untouchable’ they are.”