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

by Col Bury

  Powers shook his head. “Shit, Bobby. They got off with it? I didn’t realise. I’m sorry. What exactly happened?”

  He sucked on his cigarette, the drag audible, his voice rasping as smoke exuded as he spoke. “Our Dave wouldn’t harm a fly. I know I’ve had a few scrapes with the law, but Dave was different. A top bloke. Two kids, decent job, everybody’s friend. He was just walking home minding his own business when two lads came up an’ asked him for a cig. He didn’t smoke” – Copeland paused to take another inhalation – “an’ he told ’em that, but they kept hassling him, then pushing him, an’ it kicked off. In court they said he’d been the aggressor, an’ he’d chased them. An’ the youngest one, Sinclair, who was only sixteen at the time, said he was genuinely scared – of our Dave, for fuck’s sake – and that’s why he’d punched him.”

  Powers had heard so many examples of this before and he started to feel a bit wound up himself. “What happened then, Bobby?”

  “Their lawyer said our Dave had a weapon, but nowt was found, an’ they insisted they were fighting for their lives. What a loada shite. I know our kid, an’ he would’ve just wanted to get home to Donna an’ the toddlers – poor kids.” He fell silent, just staring, at nothing.

  “So how did—”

  Copeland cut him short. “Once his head hit the pavement, they basically kicked the fuck out of him on the floor. I know this ’cos the older one, Bolands, the one that got rightly fuckin’ murdered the other day, bragged about it after the case, an’ it got back to me. But what swung it in their favour in court was that Bobby regained consciousness, then staggered in front of a taxi that hit him. Their bleedin’ lawyer played on that, saying it was how he received the fatal blow to the head.”

  “Ah, reasonable doubt. Shit.”

  “You’ve got it. I’ve been suicidal ever since, ’cos those fuckers have taken away my brother, our Dave, me best friend, an’ put our family through fuckin’ hell. But I’ll tell you one thing. Before I do kill myself, I’ll kill that bastard Sinclair first. I will, you know. I used to box, you know. Manchester amateur champ, nineteen-fuckin-ninety, I was.” Copeland held his fists up and did a bizarre bout of shadow boxing.

  Powers forced a smile, watching diligently in case Copeland flipped. It wouldn’t be the first time a prisoner had, and you never truly knew which ones were prone because most of them were screwed up mentally.

  “I can empathise with your anger, Bobby, believe me. But karma will take care of them. You don’t have to mess your life up for them. They’re not worth it.”

  He suddenly stopped the shadow boxing, slumped against the wall, slid down onto his bottom. “My life’s already messed up. They’re gonna stitch me up with all those killings, you know, guv.”

  It started drizzling. Powers thought for a moment. “I know somewhere that might help you, Bobby. Mindful of the cameras, he took Copeland’s hand and eased him up, then placed an arm around his shoulder. Turning their backs to the camera in the far corner of the yard, they moved into the recess of the doorway. Knowing it was a blind spot, Powers slipped his hand into his pocket and gave Copeland a business card, as he’d done on numerous similar occasions over the last two years.

  Copeland seemed to understand Powers’s discretion and glanced down at the card. “VOICES?”

  “Yes, Bobby. Go there, mate, and I can guarantee that your voice will be heard. Now, come on, let’s get you back inside.”

  Copeland shoved the card down the front of his jogging bottoms.

  Walking up the corridor to the custody area, Copeland asked if he could use the toilet. With the holding cell not having a loo, Powers unlocked a vacant cell nearby and waited outside.

  Powers heard voices emanating from the custody area. He looked up and saw a familiar face through the small reinforced window of the metal door that separated them. The detective was in deep conversation with three others from the murder squad. His face brought back bad memories for Powers.

  The door opened and DI Stockley headed his way. “Where is he?”

  “He’s taking a dump.” Powers pointed at the closest cell.

  Stockley leaned in close and whispered, “Well, did he say anything to you?”

  “Not a word,” said Powers.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The meeting Striker and Bardsley had attended earlier at Moss Range Community Hall had gone about as smoothly as stroking a crocodile. With a mixture of Hoodie Hunter sympathisers and victims’ families and friends present, it was like a time bomb waiting to go off. And go off it did. The heated debate had escalated into a slanging match for which, as usual, the cops were to blame.

  Surprisingly, independent advisor Jamo Kingston, donning his trademark eyepatch, had actually been a peacemaker when the pushing and shoving had started. Dessie Bowker’s presence, along with his cronies, had instigated this. Then, when a chap shouted out, “But he’s only killing scumbags,” Bowker tried to attack him and had to be restrained. Uniform backup was called as mayhem ensued with Striker and Bardsley in the thick of it. Two of Bowker’s lot were arrested for public order offences. This included the one Striker had punched at the Chisel murder scene in the park. Unluckily for him, Striker had given him another crack to the same spot, under his chin.

  So the meeting, set up to supposedly ‘reassure the public’, had actually had the reverse effect.

  Striker looked down the corridor toward the cells of Bullsmead custody suite. He saw Stockley returning with Bobby Copeland and a civilian detention officer, who looked familiar. It was only when they were close up that Striker realised who it was.

  Surprised, Striker turned away to lean on the lengthy custody counter, pretending to check his work phone for messages. Once they’d passed, he studied Copeland as he was led to the holding cell, its door clanging shut. He thought back to the photo of the killer from the petrol station. Somehow, he just couldn’t put Copeland in that shot, wearing a trench coat and a ski mask. He was thankful that the detention officer returned to the back office, where the morning shift was handing over to the afternoon crew.

  “What’s up, Jack?” asked Bardsley.

  “Oh, nothing important, mate.”

  Stockley rejoined them. “Here’s a copy of the tapes from the assault interview,” he said, giving Striker two cassette tapes, along with his arrest statement. “His solicitor handed us a prepared statement, admitting to the attack on Sinclair, stating it was a one-off due to frustration. He’s not been locked up for any of the murders – yet. But with the links to the Bolands attack, we believe he’s our man. We won’t be disclosing this to his solicitor, though, until we have something more substantial to go on.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “It’s gotta be him. Both Bolands and Sinclair were found not guilty of killing his younger brother. It’s too much of a coincidence. And, at one point in the interview, he said that the idea to use the baton came from him reading about the Hoodie Hunter. He brought the subject up, not us.”

  “We’ve still gotta prove it, though, Vinnie.”

  “Well, obviously.” Stockley looked heavenwards, then at the smirking DC Steve Barron beside him.

  Striker’s glare instantly obliterated Barron’s smirk.

  Stockley scanned around, ensuring nobody was in earshot. “He also said that he could understand why the Hoodie Hunter is killing these scumbags, but his solicitor quickly advised him to shut up.”

  “Interesting,” said Striker, though he wasn’t convinced. “So what happens now, Vinnie? Where are we up to?”

  “Steve’s taking some uniforms to conduct a house search. The baton he used has been fast-tracked for forensics. You should have something back well before his twenty-four hours are up.”

  Striker waited for a constable to pass them and disappear around the corner into the custody suite. “So we’re charging him for the assault and possessing the weapon in public, right?”

  “Yeah, once the CPS give us the green light. DCI Cunningham wants you to drag i
t out a bit, to give us more time to obtain the evidence for the murders. In any case, she’s anticipating Copeland won’t make bail after charge, if we word it correctly.”

  “I take it you’ve spoken to Copeland and his solicitor about the voluntary interview, regarding his whereabouts at the time of the murders?”

  “Yes, they’ve agreed, and seemed relieved we weren’t arresting him, especially for the Bolands murder. But little does he know, eh, chaps?” said Stockley conceitedly.

  “And that, plus the court file and liaising with CPS, is down to us because you’ve got your promotion interview, right?”

  “Afraid so. If I pass ‘the board’ I could end up being your boss, Striker.” Stockley wore a smug smile.

  Like fuck. He looked at Bardsley and could tell he, too, was just as peeved. “Well, we wish you the best of luck with that, don’t we, Eric?”

  “Sure,” said Bardsley, with a smile of his own as insincere as a crap door-to-door salesman’s.

  ***

  An hour later, having done the necessary spadework, Copeland was charged with actual bodily harm and possession of an offensive weapon. There had been a problem with Copeland’s criminal record. It was surprisingly sparse of convictions, just a few minor drink-related offences and an assault over twenty years ago, so the CPS lawyer had been reluctant to remand him in custody. Striker had purposely not argued too vociferously to keep Copeland in, since he had a better plan. Subsequently, the decision was made to bail him to court next week with stringent conditions, including not contacting the victim, Sinclair or any other prosecution witnesses in any way.

  Along with Bardsley, Copeland and his solicitor, Henry Guilfoyle, a suave-looking chap in his late twenties, they entered one of the interview rooms.

  Once seated, opposite Copeland and Guilfoyle, Striker could smell the remnants of stale alcohol. He was fairly certain the odour was emanating from the dishevelled-looking Copeland, and not from Guilfoyle.

  “Okay, Bobby, thanks for giving us the opportunity to speak with you. I must remind you that you are still under caution, as we will be asking you some questions relating to our ongoing investigation. This means your answers may be used as evidence in court. Do you understand?”

  “I’ve already explained the situation to Bobby,” said Guilfoyle.

  “Just to let you know, this interview is not being tape recorded and you’re free to leave at any time. Okay?”

  Copeland nodded.

  “Could you tell me your whereabouts last Friday night between nine p.m. and three a.m.?”

  “That’s easy. I was with Dorothy.”

  “Dorothy?”

  “Yeah, Dorothy Lafferty, me lady friend.”

  “At her house?”

  “It’s a flat.”

  “Where?”

  “Flat two, Bullsmead Court.”

  “Do you have Dorothy’s phone number?”

  “Yeah.” He wrote it down, passed to Striker, who gave it to Bardsley.

  “What about last Saturday night?”

  “Dorothy’s.”

  “All night?”

  “All night.”

  “Okay. So if we speak with Dorothy, she’ll vouch for you?”

  “Of course.”

  Striker arranged them a coffee each, then led them to a secure consultation room down the corridor. Meanwhile, he and Bardsley found a quiet room of their own and got to work on the phone calls. Striker called the Forensic Science Lab to check on any results from the baton. Thankfully, the results were in. Two sets of DNA: one from Copeland, the other Sinclair. No surprise, just as Striker had anticipated. He made two more calls, while Bardsley had a very loud and deliberate conversation with Dorothy, constantly repeating himself as if he was talking to a five-year-old.

  After a few minutes, Bardsley motioned to throw his mobile phone in exasperation, but didn’t.

  “That sounded like hard work, Eric.”

  “Just a bit. It would’ve been easier talking to a bleedin’ stoned gorilla.”

  “Well, what did she say?”

  “He was there with her on both nights. They ‘got pissed up together’, as she so romantically put it.”

  “Okay, so we let him go.”

  Bardsley stared incredulously. “What, based on his drunken bird’s say-so? He could’ve slipped out on the sly and she wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “What, and committed three murders and an assault whilst drunk, without leaving us a shred of evidence? Come on, Eric. And, anyway, the baton he used only shows his DNA and Sinclair’s, so we’ve actually got nothing on him.”

  “What about the house search?”

  “I’ve just phoned Barron, and it’s a negative.”

  Bardsley caressed his beard, deep in thought. “Even so, letting him go is a big call, Jack. Don’t you think you should at least speak with Cunningham?”

  “No, because she won’t agree to what I have planned.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I’ve just been onto Pete Murchy, the boss over at the Dedicated Surveillance Unit. We’ll tail Copeland, just in case I’m wrong about him.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “The subject is taking a left, left, onto Grosvenor Street… temporary loss…” said veteran DC Philip Lowe, his pace quickening.

  On the opposite side of the road, also in plain clothes, the diminutive PC Gill O’Brien crossed the busy junction. A horn beeped angrily as O’Brien dodged the crawling cars in the traffic jam. “Got eyeball again… He’s heading toward Oxford Road… and the damn carnival.”

  Lowe discreetly adjusted the skin-coloured earpiece in an attempt to stop it crackling in his ear. “Did you say straight on, Gill? The transmission was poor.”

  Twenty metres behind, lanky PC Daniel Freeman tapped the covert microphone under his green sports jacket. “Think she said he’s heading for the carnival, Phil.”

  “Received, Danny. Just. The comms are crap.” Lowe jogged around the corner onto Grosvenor Street. He cursed on seeing carnival-goers clogging the footpaths on both sides of the street. He heard drums in the distance, saw flashes of the procession’s bright colours at the top of the street. Another crackle in his ear was followed by the sound of O’Brien’s broken voice.

  “Didn’t get that at all, Gill,” said Lowe. “Repeat…” More static. “Gerry, comms are down… Where are you?”

  Sergeant Gerry Marland was co-ordinating matters from the surveillance car, a black Ford Mondeo with an aerial on its roof, supposedly providing their signal to each other. Marland was with two other plain-clothes officers, there as replacements in case the subject saw any of those following him. One had a creased map of Manchester on his lap, plus an iPad, while the other drove.

  “We’re stuck in traffic, Phil,” said Marland, “and the trams and these high buildings aren’t helping comms.”

  The sound of the interference was becoming annoying, so Lowe removed his earpiece and quickly zigzagged through the growing crowd to the end of Grosvenor Street. The beat of the conga drums intensified. He scanned the myriad of colourful people in the carnival procession, heading along Oxford Street toward Moss Range Park. He spotted O’Brien, whose eyes were darting left and right, clearly having lost Copeland.

  “Shit,” shouted Lowe, just as a child dressed in a plethora of red, yellow and Caribbean blue feathers passed, her mother frowning at Lowe and pulling the girl in close.

  ***

  “Where the fuck’s my money, you piece of shit?” growled Dane ‘Woody’ Woodthorpe through clenched teeth.

  “Er, please, I can explain, Woody. What with the credit crunch and—”

  A big right hook knocked sixty-year-old grocer Arnold Spinley off his feet. Spinley staggered backward into assorted vegetables. Carrots, tomatoes and potatoes fell on top of him as he hit the floor.

  Woody strolled round the counter. “There is no credit crunch in my world, Arnold. And who the fuck you calling Woody?” he asked, kicking Spinley in the stomach. “It’s Mr W
oodthorpe to you.” Woody popped the till open and plucked out all the available notes. Eyeing his snatched bundle, he said with a smirk, “That should do for now.” His parting shot was a kick in Spinley’s balls, adding almost casually, “Next week I want the money ready, okay?”

  Spinley’s reply was a barely inaudible “Ye-sss” as he was left to nurse his bruised vegetables.

  Woody got into his black Subaru Impreza and revved it noisily, before wheel- spinning off to continue his rounds. His next stop was the Wagon and Horses pub.

  A couple of minutes up the busy A56 leading north, a mile or so toward town, he glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw a car that he’d seen behind him earlier. He always checked his rear-view, usually for cops, since you never knew in his line of work. Was this cheeky bastard tailing him? Didn’t look like a cop. Okay, let’s test him.

  Woody took a sharp left, checked his rear-view again. The car had gone straight on. Woody smiled, shook his head. Getting paranoid, too much coke and weed maybe. After a couple of swift left and rights through the outskirts of the Bullsmead estate, he was back on the A56. Two minutes later, he pulled into the Wagon and Horses rear car park and got out, knowing this one could be trickier than the old grocer.

  This was a new customer and the seeds were planted only last week, when he’d dropped a few hints in the guise of smashing the pool room up with the boys. The landlord looked nothing special – although one of the boys had said he had a few brothers – and when Woody had told him he’d be back, the look on his face showed fear. Woody fed on fear, and feared no one.

  He knew the boys were only a quick call away if things got tasty, but he’d not required backup in a long time. The going rate for a pub around here was a ton a week, so a little bit of resistance, or a couple of irate brothers, weren’t going to stop him.

  He lifted his athletic frame out of the Subaru, grabbed a smallish baseball bat from the compartment at the base of the driver’s door. As he walked toward the entrance, he was surprised to see the car from earlier parked at the front of the pub. He studied the empty vehicle; it was definitely the one that he’d thought was tailing him. The very same black VW Golf GTI.