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

by Col Bury

  The security guard introduced him to a tall, hard-faced chap wearing a slightly creased blue shirt and dark blue tie, who reminded Bardsley of a poor man’s Vinnie Jones, facial scars and all.

  “Hiya, fella. Barry Stone.” He held out a chunky hand, which Bardsley shook, feeling the man’s strength as he squeezed a little too hard.

  Was Stone a wannabe cop? “DC Bardsley, MIT. What have you got, Barry?”

  “I followed this incident from the start ’cause I saw a bloke wearing a face mask, hanging about near the subway.” His voice was as common as the types Bardsley nicked. Rightly or wrongly, he speculated that Stone had a record in years gone by – probably assault – but had sufficiently cleaned up his act to snag this job.

  “Did you phone it through?”

  “Nah, not initially.”

  That’s why you’re a security guard.

  “But I think we might have summat for yer.”

  “Good. What?”

  Stone pressed a series buttons, rewinding the picture. A few of the operators to Bardsley’s left began talking excitedly, huddling around a screen as it kicked off yet again between drunks in the city centre. Bardsley glanced up; it looked like a tasty fight, but his gaze soon returned to the screen directly in front of him.

  Stone pressed play and a large-framed man wearing a long black coat strolled from a side street, with some sort of man bag across his shoulders. Or was it wrapped around his waist? It was hard to tell because of the distance.

  “That’s him, I reckon.”

  “Who?”

  “That Hoodie Hunter fella.”

  “And you still didn’t call it in?”

  “Well, I didn’t know at this stage.”

  “And how did you know it was the Hoodie Hunter we were after tonight?”

  “It’s all over the news, man.”

  Jeez, already? Bardsley watched as the man on the screen walked down the subway steps and stopped in an alcove before peering into the tunnel. “So you didn’t zoom in?”

  “Not yet, but in a minute I do when he takes out a pair of binocs and puts on his face mask. I actually think they’re probably NVGs ’cause I do a bit in the TA, like.”

  Inwardly cursing at potentially missing a chance to get a close-up of the guy, Bardsley’s blank expression told Stone that he wasn’t interested in his pastimes. To be fair though, Stone wasn’t to know and at least they had some footage to analyse.

  “There you go.” The camera zoomed in as the man stood, legs apart at the subway’s entrance, appearing to shout something. He suddenly turned and quickly took the steps before heading back the way he came and turning into a side street out of view.

  Bardsley leaned in as the group of lads stormed out of the subway, gesticulating and shouting something. The system didn’t have sound, of course, and he couldn’t see clearly enough to recognise any of them. The camera followed them until they turned into the same side street a few seconds later.

  Never to return. “Hang on. Rewind it to those lads.”

  Stone did.

  “There’s five.”

  “Yeah, and…?”

  But he only killed three, so we have two witnesses. “Can you enhance footage here?” Bardsley suspected they couldn’t, but thought he’d ask, such was the speed of technology these days.

  “Nah, fella, but we wish we could, like.”

  “Did you get any footage of anyone exiting the side street later?”

  “Nah, I only kept the camera pointing that way till the coppers arrived.”

  His work done here, Bardsley got a CD of the footage from Stone and filled out a yellow exhibit label, getting the security man to sign it. He took his contact details, thanked him and was escorted out.

  Outside, he felt the night’s chill and lit a cigarette. So now, who gets this info first, Stockley or Striker?

  It was a no-brainer. He dialled the number, hoping this time he’d get through.

  ***

  Striker drifted in and out of consciousness in the musty gloom. His fuzzy mind flashed back and forth, deep into the past then back to the present. A hodgepodge of random thoughts, snippets of conversations, interspersed and fused together.

  “… Good bloody riddance!” yelled his dad from the front door, as young Jack fled the Striker family home, his mum sobbing in the background…

  “… Let’s go, Jack… for God’s sake!” pleaded Lenny from the rear of the Escort that Jack was struggling to control…

  … The life support bleeped intermittently. Lenny lay prostrate in the hospital bed, his brothers’ blurred faces glaring at Jack, fingers pointing accusingly…

  … Or was it his nephew Deano in the bed? Lucy was there now. DJ suddenly appeared grabbing at her arm, forcing a syringe of heroin into it. Mouth agape, Lucy fell onto the bed, clutching her pregnant belly…

  … Jack sat against the park wall with the rest of Sunnyside Boys. It was after the Lenny shooting. Ged’s face was up close, pale in the moonlight, contorting as he spoke. “And when my cousins find out, the shit will hit the fan big time…”

  … In slow motion, the leather football soared through the rain toward Striker… he jumped majestically, ignoring the kidney punch as he rose. Adeptly craning his neck, the ball slapped his forehead then diverted to the top corner of the goal, rippling the net. Falling back into the quagmire with a splat, the mad eyes of the huge defender atop of him seemed vaguely familiar, burning into his psyche. The weight of the man’s impact winded him and he tried to squirm free, like wrestling with a crocodile…

  … Back in the hospital now… He peered closer at the body in the bed… Was it Lenny again or Deano? The life support machine sounded one long continuous bleep… He felt panicky, unable to see who it was… Frantically pulling the oxygen mask and bandages from the face… It was him… Jack Striker…

  “… Daaddeeeee,” screamed Beth and Harry…”

  Striker stirred from his stupor, momentarily, just as something furry brushed past his nose and began clawing at his cheek.

  Then darkness fell again.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Striker felt something pressing on his chest and his wrists. He was frozen, powerless to move. The internal throbbing of his forehead was the only noise. He’d had migraines before, but this was something else. He could murder a drink, his mouth virtually saliva free. His senses began to kick in. Awareness, signs of clarity and then ensuing panic swept him. He was face down, a cold concrete floor beneath him.

  He could smell stale food, its mustiness irritating his nose. His face felt sticky, the skin tight, sore; he guessed it was dried blood. His throat was parched and his hair matted with more blood from the blow to his head. His forehead was throbbing and he tried to raise his right hand to gently check the lump he knew was there. However, his hands and feet were bound and aching. He remembered the dreamlike flashbacks, but shoved them to one side as realisation of what had happened to him kicked in.

  The pressure on his chest was his own body weight because he was face down. Smelling mustiness, he sneezed, coughed. Recalling being hit in the woods outside the temple, he frantically struggled to pull himself free, but it was no use. All he could do was force himself up to a sitting position, that alone feeling like a mammoth effort.

  “Lauren… Shit.” He heard his own croaky words, hardly recognising them, and was momentarily surprised he hadn’t been gagged. If he’d been taken, then surely Collinge had too… or worse. Please, no…

  Despite his grogginess, he forced himself to think and tried to look around. A thin vertical beam of light emanated from what looked like a door several metres in front. It was difficult to tell exactly how far, but at a guess maybe six or seven metres. He bent his right hand and managed to touch his left wrist, feeling the taut rope that had disabled him. After a deep breath, he used all the strength he could muster to pull at the rope.

  A minute of trying elapsed and he cursed in exasperation. It was no use. His eyes slowly began to adjust t
o the darkness and he saw something move. A small shape accompanied by a hollow scurrying. He saw another shape and heard rustling. Mice? A shudder ran up his back. Please no… Rats, heading his way!

  Since being bitten by one as a kid, then reading the trilogy from his favourite author growing up, James Herbert, in an attempt to dispel the fear, he’d developed a distinct dislike of the rodents bordering on phobia. He felt a cold sheen of sweat forming on his brow and could hear his heartbeat quickening.

  Their clawed feet tapped away, growing louder. Somehow, he exerted himself enough to rock into a sitting position and quickly kicked out with both legs, which seemed to divert the creatures away. Where the hell was he, in some kind of old food store? Or the temple’s basement, maybe? He could be anywhere.

  Thankfully, the scurrying eased as if the rats were wary of him, too. His eyes continued to adjust to the gloom, improving visibility slightly. What looked like boxes were piled up to his left and shelves to his right. And, yes, that was definitely a door facing him. An inner rage fizzed. Who’d have the balls to kidnap a cop? How long had he been in here? And what the hell had happened to Lauren? Emotion gripped him.

  He’d messed up big time. He’d let Lauren down. He’d failed her and the force with his half-cocked plan. He wondered if the serial killer he’d failed to catch was the one who’d attacked him and dumped him here. If so, what would happen next? Had he been put here simply because he was close to catching the killer? Or was Striker next? If so, why was he still alive?

  He heard the rats again, edging closer, gaining confidence. Panic swamped him, an unfamiliar sense of helplessness. It was then that he thought of little Beth and Harry, and two things happened that hadn’t since Lenny was shot sixteen years ago.

  A solitary tear rolled down Striker’s cheek…

  … and he began to pray.

  ***

  FOCUS!

  Striker inwardly castigated himself for being a wimp. Even though nobody had witnessed it, he knew it had happened. He’d cried, not much, but it still counted and qualified him as a soft-arse. He’d cried for his children, for Lauren and for being such a damn failure. He’d blown his marriage and now his career, and in all likelihood his life. Unless, that is, Bardsley had become suspicious and was on the case.

  But what if he hadn’t? He was the only other one who knew what they’d been up to. Striker dipped his head for a minute or so. As well as his throbbing head, his shoulders and biceps ached at being stuck in this position.

  He shook the pitiful thoughts away then began pulling and jerking with every fibre of energy he had at the ligatures disabling his wrists and feet.

  Nothing, except for pain in his joints. But one thing he’d never been was a quitter – probably why the gambling got out of hand years ago. Striker hated losing, and if this was to be it then he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  He shuffled over on his backside toward the door, each movement producing a shudder that his headache didn’t appreciate one iota. He heard the rats scurrying away. The little bastards would grow more confident and inquisitive soon. As he lumbered along, he felt around for anything that he could use to prise or cut the ropes incapacitating him, but found nothing.

  After a few minutes of forward movement, he leaned onto the door and caught his breath. The crack where the door met the frame was just wide enough for him to partially see into the next room, which appeared empty. A few chairs around a rickety-looking table with three empty bottles of Stella on top. He strained his eyes to see to the sides of the outer room and spotted an old tweed-style sofa and what looked like the tips of a pair of black Magnum boots on the floor.

  One of the boots moved. He winced, realising someone was wearing them. And whoever it was, started to head his way.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Bardsley was beginning to feel somewhat concerned. Not only were both Striker and Collinge not answering their mobiles, they were now switched off. He’d put the Margaret issue to one side for now and reluctantly reported back to Stockley regarding the CCTV footage. Stockley seemed to be fretting and appeared out of his depth. Bardsley had heard the rumours about his nickname on the division – ‘Feathers’ because he was always flapping – but this was the first time he’d really witnessed confirmation.

  All available officers had been kept on duty until further notice, to assist with the two new scenes. The media were hovering like vultures and more officers from surrounding divisions had been drafted in to assist with the manhunt for Bobby Copeland.

  He’d been assigned to ensure that uniform had thoroughly checked the shops for CCTV and to co-ordinate house-to-house, which he’d done, albeit in haste. He knew he was supposed to report back to Stockley again, but he was now driving at double the speed limit deep into South Manchester, back toward the temple in Cheshire.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled the Astra into the gloomy lane leading to the temple and soon crunched into the empty car park. The lights activated at his presence, bringing welcome brightness. By the look of the place no one was present, all inside lights being off. He quickly jumped out and checked the large wooden doors, but they were firmly locked.

  Back in the Astra, he drove around the much darker rear and, again, no signs of anyone present.

  “Where the hell are they?” he muttered.

  Taking a torch from the Astra’s glovebox, he meandered through the wooded area to where he’d last been with Striker, the damp foliage slushy underfoot. Shining the beam around, he saw nothing untoward and returned to the Astra.

  A notion struck him. He’d seen them flirting for a while and if nothing had come from Striker’s little mission then maybe, just maybe, they’d hooked up for a few drinks. He remembered that country pub around the corner, where Collinge had been prior to her entering the meeting, and checked his watch. Gone midnight – it’ll be shut now.

  However, if an impromptu date had been the case, then why hadn’t they answered their mobiles?

  Doh! Of course. Bardsley shook his head knowingly. They’d be having dessert. You lucky bugger, Striker!

  He prayed he was right, but something still nagged and he didn’t like the feel of it. Why hadn’t Striker called to update him or to even ask him about the latest on the case? Sure, if he was having a ‘special moment’ with Collinge then he wouldn’t want Bardsley to know, but…

  He studied the eerie Masonic temple, the trees swaying and rustling above him, and he wondered if this place did have something to do with the case after all. But what could he possibly do now? He certainly couldn’t tell the brass about Striker’s op.

  His mobile rang and he saw that it was Stockley’s work number. “Shit.” He ignored the call and jogged back to the car, reassuring himself that Striker was a top notch detective, who could handle himself.

  Heading back to the B Division, his mind slowly returned to how he could persuade Stockley to stand him down from duty, so he could get back to Margaret and try and sort out his godforsaken marriage.

  ***

  Striker shuffled awkwardly in his sitting position, away from the door, his urgency enhanced as a key rattled in the keyhole behind him. He felt naturally apprehensive, but all the earlier wimpy thoughts had been vanquished, replaced by a gritty determination to survive. He was still perplexed as to why he’d been taken, by whom and what involvement his so-called friends Wozza and Ged had in this surreal situation.

  He managed to reach his original location. Still sitting, he leaned against something with a cool, hard surface, possibly a metal barrel or drum of some kind. He tried to stifle his breathlessness.

  The dark musty room became awash with light as the door opened. Striker dipped his head to shield his temporarily blinded eyes.

  The deep voice was local, cool as you like and almost apologetic. “I had no choice.”

  Striker raised his head slightly to view the large silhouette of the man whose head was turned away. Striker’s eyes still struggled to adjust to the sudden light, though he
was certain of one thing. He knew that this man wasn’t Bobby Copeland.

  He cleared his throat. “No choice?” he managed, somewhat croakily, mouth as dry as a lizard’s arse in a sandstorm.

  The voice raised an octave, though still guttural. “You know what I mean, DI Striker.”

  Ah, so he knows I’m a cop. “No choice but to assault and kidnap a police officer?” What did this headcase want? Striker raised his head, squinted and achieved better focus. The man was about three metres from him and it was no surprise to Striker that he was wearing a balaclava. The guy had to have gigantic balls to be doing what he was doing.

  “Met our little friends yet?”

  “Huh?”

  “The rats. They’re wild buggers. Feed ’em on meat, you know. Surprised you’ve still got a face, Inspector.”

  Jesus! He tried to remain cool.

  “So how did you know, Striker?”

  “Know what, er... sorry, we haven’t been introduced.”

  The kidnapper sniggered. “I admire your sense of humour in the circumstances.”

  “Comes with dealing with shit, day in, day out. Mopping up the streets.”

  He hesitated, dark eyes opening further into a brief glare. “Tell me about it. I know the feeling very well.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s that then?”

  “Doesn’t matter… and I’ll ask the questions. So, how did you know?”

  “Any chance of a cool beer?”

  “No. Answer the question. You sound like a Tory MP.”

  Striker smiled, falsely. “Know what exactly?”