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

by Col Bury

  “That’s a result then, of sorts, eh Eric?” said Davison, taking a sip of the brew Maggie had obviously made him, in Bardsley’s favourite Liverpool FC mug. He’d let Davison off, knowing the lad wasn’t into football.

  It just didn’t feel right. Twenty-five years of marriage and he still couldn’t tell if his own missus was lying or not. Some bloody detective I am!

  “Suppose so. As long as you’re okay, Mags,” was all he could muster.

  “Can I finish the statement, Eric?”

  “Yes, of course, Ben. I’ll do a fresh brew. Coffee okay?”

  “Please.”

  Davison turned to Maggie. “So you were in bed asleep when you heard this noise…”

  In bed asleep? The paranoia started again. Why didn’t she answer her mobile earlier? Was she in bed with him?

  Bardsley flicked the kettle on and then went upstairs. Entering their room, he could see the bed covers were a little ruffled. He checked underneath the bed and pulled back the duvet – nothing untoward. He studied the carpet and saw that the beige had turned slightly pink as if something had been spilt and rubbed dry. He bent down and sniffed the stain. Initially, all he could smell was a slight mustiness, but he kept sniffing. There was a hint of the familiar metallic scent that all cops knew.

  Back in the kitchen, he finished making three coffees and plonked two on the pine table, Davison still writing away, not noticing Bardsley had switched his cup to a plain old brown one. Despite nothing being taken, there was always paperwork to do.

  “Did he come into the bedroom, Maggie?”

  She looked startled. “Who?”

  “Who? The burglar, of course. Who else?”

  Avoiding eye contact, she said, “No, no. I stayed there till PC Davison arrived.”

  “Well, what’s that reddish stain upstairs beside the bed?”

  “Oh, that?”

  “Yes, that.”

  “That’s just some red wine I spilt.”

  “Since when have you been drinking red wine alone in bed?”

  “Not often. Just now and then.”

  Was she blushing? “And, why didn’t you answer the phone earlier?”

  She sipped her coffee, then said, “It was on charge.”

  “Was the landline on charge too?” No response. Bardsley turned to Davison. “Take it you’re calling SOCO out?”

  “Erm, there’s nothing specific for them, except the glass samples I suppose, but I could take them.”

  “Call them out, Ben. They can take a sample from the carpet while they’re here.”

  “Why? No one came into the bedroom,” insisted Maggie.

  Bardsley’s eyes fixed on his wife. “Why? Because I don’t believe it’s red wine. I think it’s blood.”

  ***

  Bardsley watched through the living room window as Davison pulled away in his panda. Feeling deflated, he turned to Maggie, who was sat on the sofa, looking like a naughty schoolgirl outside the head teacher’s office.

  Bardsley glanced above the mantelpiece at the photo of them both on their wedding day. He turned to his wife, cursing his heart for still loving her, despite his growing suspicions.

  “You worried about the results of that carpet stain once it’s been analysed?”

  She looked up, her face harder than usual. “Not at all. It’s just wine, Eric.” Maybe he was being irrational, his suspicious mind, honed at work, now bleeding into his marriage more than ever. It had always been there, although perhaps now he was going over the top with this wonderful woman with whom he’d shared a quarter of a century. Together they’d reared three children, who’d blossomed into responsible adults any parent would be proud of.

  “I’m going to bed, Eric. I feel drained with all this. You coming up?”

  He looked at her, unable to think straight. “No. Think I’ll stop on the settee for now, love.”

  ***

  Bardsley stirred as his mobile’s tune persisted. He felt as though he’d only had an hour’s sleep and, realising he was on the settee, his first thoughts were of Maggie.

  He reluctantly reached out to the coffee table and answered the phone, grumbling a croaky, “Hello.”

  “Bardsley, it’s DI Stockley. We need you back at the nick. We have a serious problem. How soon can you make it?”

  “Huh? Why, what’s up?”

  “Lauren Collinge has been reported missing.”

  “What?”

  “When did you last see her?”

  Wake up! He couldn’t tell him because it would compromise Jack and his unofficial investigation. “Er… Let me just get a brew and I’ll be down.”

  “Scrub the brew. Get down here, and quick.”

  “Who’s reported her missing?”

  “Brad Sterling. Now, hurry up.” The DI terminated the call.

  Brad Sterling? What’s going on?

  After a quick rinse of his face and a gargle in the kitchen sink, Bardsley fired up his Fabia and was on his way.

  He lit a Benson and opened the driver’s window, the cool night air waking him fully. As he drove through the virtually deserted streets, except for the odd taxi dropping off revellers from town, he tried to make sense of Stockley’s revelation. How could Lauren be missing? He’d left her and Jack at the temple. Had something gone wrong there? Had he completely misjudged the importance of Jack’s secret op? Maybe there was more to that place and that VOICES group than he’d initially thought. Or had Lauren and Jack finished up there and gone home, and then something had happened to her? How did Brad Sterling know she was missing? He was CID cover for the night, so would have been at work.

  He tapped in the code into the keypad that lifted the barrier. Pulling into the nick, he felt rather foolish that he’d assumed Lauren and Jack had finally ‘got it on’. So where the hell was she?

  He parked up, jogged to the rear door nearest to their part of the building before typing in another code. Once inside, he went through another security door and took the stairs two at a time. Out of breath, he entered the MIT office. Surprisingly, for such a late hour, there were numerous officers bustling about – some on phones, others in deep conversation. He saw Stockley talking to Cunningham and Brennan at the far end of the room and made his way over.

  Slightly out of breath, Bardsley asked, “Sir, what’s happened?”

  Brennan turned to him. “Thanks for turning out, Eric. DC Collinge hasn’t been seen since nineteen hundred hours last night.”

  She has. Just get a feel for things first. “Isn’t she at home asleep?”

  “Clearly not, Bardsley. That’s why we’ve all turned out.” Cunningham, true to form, making him feel like a dick.

  “When did you last see or hear from her?” asked Brennan.

  Bardsley hesitated, smoothed a hand across his beard. “Can I just ask why Brad Sterling reported her missing? How would he know?”

  “Why are you stalling? Tell us!” Brennan sounded impatient.

  “I need to know, then I’ll tell you.”

  “I don’t like your attitude here, Bardsley. We haven’t got time for games.” Brennan eyed him. They all did.

  “Please, it’s important.”

  Brennan sighed. “Look, in brief, Sterling had arranged to call at Collinge’s home before his night shift this evening, so went for a quick coffee and she’s not been seen since.”

  Bardsley saw that Cunningham’s face looked stonier than usual, if that was possible, and noticed Stockley watching her too.

  “Okay, sir, but how do you know she’s definitely missing?” asked the DC.

  “Dennis, you don’t have to explain yourself to him,” said Cunningham sharply.

  The detective superintendent exhaled audibly, looking vexed. “Being honest with us, Sterling told us he’d arranged for them to meet up if things got quiet at work, and Collinge said that she’d definitely call him in any case. But she didn’t, so when Sterling went round, she wasn’t there. And her family have no clue either. So, tell us what you know, Eric
. NOW!”

  She simply has to be with Striker. Perhaps they did hook up after all. “It’s awkward, sir.”

  All three glared at him, eyes widening. “Bardsley, what are you hiding?” asked Cunningham.

  Maybe something had happened at the temple. “With respect, sir, I just don’t wanna drop anyone in it… but I think she’s with Jack Striker.”

  ***

  Bardsley drove Stockley, the sulky-looking Sterling and a uniformed officer from the night shift, toward Striker’s city centre apartment. He was cursing himself for having to actually do this, despite being left with no option.

  He pulled into the street of the Striker’s home and, on seeing the sign post, he felt fleeting warmth at the sight of his birthplace’s name: Liverpool Street.

  Knowing it was a private car park with a key fob system, Bardsley parked on the street at the front of the trendy apartment block. The Beetham Tower loomed large at the top of the street, much bigger than Bardsley had remembered, most of its lights now off due to the early hour.

  “Right, bring the wham-ram,” said Stockley to the constable in the rear as they all got out of the Astra.

  “What do you need that for?” asked Bardsley, pointing at the heavy steel implement used for forcing entry.

  “I’d have thought that would be obvious.”

  “You can’t go smashing Jack’s door in.”

  “If he doesn’t answer, then I’ll do it with—”

  “Pleasure?” Bardsley finished the DI’s sentence for him, but Stockley didn’t respond. Bardsley shook his head. “He’ll be in… with Lauren,” Bardsley said, hopefully. He glanced at Sterling, who looked away, clearly worried about what they might discover.

  Having had time to think and come to his senses more, he’d recalled that neither Lauren, nor Jack, had answered their calls. This, along with the dubious op at the temple, then Lauren being reported missing, made him doubt whether they’d now be in bed together. Perhaps he’d been naive, missed something crucial, like he had done with Maggie. Maybe he was losing his sharpness or, God forbid, just getting old.

  Either way, he’d dropped his mate in it. Striker could be caught sleeping with someone from his team, which wasn’t exactly the crime of the century, yet even so it may be construed as unprofessional and at the very least would be fuel for the gossipers. Or, Jack’s secret op could become common knowledge, which would be a whole lot worse for all three of them. It was a lose-lose situation. Bardsley prayed Jack would just answer his door.

  After they’d climbed the six outer steps to the apartment’s communal entrance, Stockley asked, “What number?”

  “He lives at flat twelve on the second floor.”

  Stockley pressed number twelve repeatedly on the keypad, creating a low buzzing sound. A minute of pressing passed and he started trying the other buzzers. After a few minutes, the voice of a woman, clearly half asleep, answered.

  “It’s the police. Can you let us in please?”

  “Oh, erm… hang on a minute…”

  Bardsley saw a room light up on the first floor above them and the curtain was pulled aside discreetly, a woman’s face peering briefly. A moment passed, then the communal door released with a buzz. Stockley opened it and they followed him in; the officer carrying the wham-ram, rather awkwardly because of its weight, entered last.

  Inside it was plush, a spotless cream carpet and matching walls. They passed sixteen pigeon holes to the left and a notice board to the right, sparse but for a couple of posters about city centre events. They were soon up the carpeted stairs and standing outside number twelve. Stockley banged on the door three times.

  Nothing.

  He knocked another three times, throwing looks at the others. Normally they’d opt for the letter box next, but there wasn’t one. Bardsley had seen that each resident was designated a pigeon hole down in the communal hall for post.

  “Right, Constable. Wham-ram it.”

  “Steady on. Give him time to answer.”

  “We need to find DC Collinge,” Stockley snapped, before moving aside as the officer holding the wham-ram edged into position and began checking the door for the appropriate point of impact. Sterling donned a look of concern a few paces back.

  Bardsley banged on the door a further six times. There was still no answer. “Can’t we try the neighbours first?”

  “No. Now move,” ordered Stockley, with a poorly disguised glint in his eye.

  Bardsley stepped aside as the uniform moved in, carrying ‘the Enforcer’. There were several types of wham-ram, including the dual device, but this was the easiest to carry and was most officers’ preferred option. The constable pointed at his chosen spot, two thirds up the door beside the keyhole. His face a picture of concentration, he gritted his teeth as he lined it up and did a mock run, slowly swinging the Enforcer back and forth to the desired point.

  Bardsley rubbed his beard, watching the officer, who glanced at him saying, “They don’t call me ‘One Arrow Aaron’ for nothing, you know.” Aaron impacted the door with everything he could muster and, after the loud crash of splintering wood, Aaron nearly followed the Enforcer into Striker’s apartment, a satisfied look on his face. The door had almost split in two and hung at an angle on one hinge.

  “If they weren’t awake, then they will be now,” said Stockley as the officers poured in.

  Bardsley headed down a corridor full of framed police commendations and certificates, as well as a collage of Striker’s kids, Beth and Harry, while the others took a room each. He knew, from previous visits, where Striker’s bedroom was. He heard Stockley shouting, ‘clear’ intermittently, on checking rooms. Bardsley tentatively opened the bedroom door, aware of Sterling peering from behind him.

  He viewed Striker’s bedroom, turned to see Sterling’s face showing a glimmer of relief that soon transformed to panic. The empty double bed was far too neat to have been slept in. Bardsley instantly thought back to the temple.

  Now he would have to tell them everything.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  PC Ben Davison was peeved that he hadn’t been allowed to go to the Lakes today to propose to Louise. It was symptomatic of the Job that all rest days had been cancelled because of this serial killer on the loose, which was understandable considering the latest unprecedented development. Two officers were officially missing, sending shockwaves through GMP. Most of the night shift were being utilised for an op run by Mr Halt. That was as far as Davison’s knowledge of it reached, for it had been classified as restricted info.

  Everyone at the nick was growing increasingly concerned about the officers, the attractive DC Lauren Collinge and her decent boss, Jack Striker. Davison liked the DI, who obviously hadn’t forgotten his roots like some, having been true to his word about telling Sergeant Roach about Davison’s good work at the scene of the park murder. Subsequently, Roach had promised to submit a report to Mr Halt to consider Davison for a divisional commander’s award. Hopefully that would impress Louise!

  However, on the downside, Davison had been asked – or told – to do a night shift and he expected a late finish. Okay, so the overtime would come in handy, especially if Louise said yes, but he was running short of leave and wondered when would he actually get a chance to have a social life. Because of the shifts, his erratic sleeping patterns and the drain of being a cop, he’d hardly seen Louise at all recently. He was starting to understand why so many cops separated from their partners.

  He envisaged himself proposing, down on one knee, top deck of a boat on a Lake Windermere that was glistening in the Cumbrian sun amid the backdrop of stunning mountains. Nervous at messing it up, and the outcome, he’d played it in his mind a hundred times.

  “Louise, we’ve been together for two years now… We’ve had some wonderful times together… I’m not one for sharing my feelings, but when it comes to you… well, I… want to share the rest of my life with you… Will you marry me?”

  One of the boat’s crew looked on from the cabin
, his finger poised on a CD player waiting to unleash ‘Congratulations’, while another furtively lit the sparklers on a cake. The many tourists on the upper deck looked his way, cameras at the ready, secretly clutching party poppers, some smiling, staring agog…

  Louise flicked a hand through her sunlit blonde hair, a stunned look on her face that flickered with a hint of confusion. “I’m very flattered, but just remind me who you are again…”

  A lone vehicle shook him from his musings, suddenly appearing with a squeak of tyres from a side street, the driver clearly in a rush. He accelerated the panda and saw that despite him doing 40 mph, the black hatchback was still pulling away, probably twenty above the speed limit.

  Davison cranked up the revs to sixty, flicking on his blues ’n’ twos, a rush running through his body. He closed in on the car, trying to identify its make and model, squinting in a fruitless attempt to see the registration mark.

  Mindful of the force’s policy on pursuits, he assessed his surroundings and then pushed the hands-free button on the panda’s gearstick to alert comms via his vehicle’s radio set.

  He shouted over the klaxons, “One treble-eight six, control.”

  “Go on, Ben,” said civilian Maureen Banks, his favourite comms operator.

  “Vehicle making off at speed… Moss Range Road… heading north… toward the city… it’s a black hatchback… no further description… standby…” He gripped the steering wheel and eased the accelerator pedal down.

  “What’s your speed, Ben?”

  “Oh, er, sorry, Mo. It’s sixty-five. The limit’s fifty here. Dual carriageway.”

  “Repeat, Ben, all I got was your two-tones.”

  “Sixty-five… six, five… received?”

  “Gotcha. Road conditions?”

  “Slightly wet, but it’s stopped raining. Traffic’s very light, no pedestrians.”

  “What’s it done, Ben?” It was Bob the Dog, interrupting.

  “It’s just made off on seeing me.”

  “Mo, I’m en route from Bullsmead Road.”

  “Received, Bob. Any VRM yet, Ben?”