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

by Col Bury

“Go ahead, Dave.”

  “Sir, the main building has now been checked. We’ve just an outside hatch to force, so we can check the cellar. There are officers on the inside too, but it seems the basement has several rooms. Then we’ll check the spire and the area will be sterile.”

  “All received, thanks for the update,” said Halt, his brow creasing. He turned to Bardsley. “Let’s just pray Striker and Collinge are in that cellar.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Striker headed toward the source of the footsteps, hastily clambering up the wooden beer barrel delivery fixture. However, halfway up he slid back down, his trainers still wet from the bitter. Redoubling his efforts, despite the aches from the beatings, he tried again, this time moving to the edge where he could partially grip the lip at the far right side of the fixture.

  He heard muffled voices. The wood splintered in his hand and he stifled the sharp pain. He gripped tighter, pulling harder in order to reach the ledge at the top. There was a handle. He looked heavenward briefly before pushing upward on the hatch. It rattled, but didn’t open.

  Bastard! It was locked from the outside. He heard the voices, less stifled now as if passing the outside of the hatch, the odd word becoming intelligible. Quickly considering his options, he realised what he must to do.

  It was risky, but he began rattling the hatch.

  He just hoped his kidnapper didn’t hear.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, their radios boomed into life. “All clear. All clear. Area safe.”

  Bardsley fired up the Mondeo’s engine and sped forward, took a quick left and parked outside the front of the temple, amid the familiar crunch of stones under tyres. They all got out, seeing Sergeant Rhodes from Armed Response exiting the temple, holding his arms out and shrugging.

  “Nothing, Dave?” asked Halt.

  “No, sir. The cellar’s empty. But there’s still the spire to check.”

  “So the all clear was called early, then?”

  “Well, the spire’s window is out of view from here, so I thought it would be safe for you to come closer, sir.”

  “Okay, I’ll have that.”

  Bardsley heard a firearms officer shout up on the radio for Halt. He passed the chief his radio.

  “Halt speaking, go ahead.”

  “I think you’d best come up here, sir…”

  ***

  After desperately clattering the hatch up and down, Striker soon realised the source of the voices and footsteps were intoxicated people returning home, possibly leaving the establishment itself. Their drunken ramblings faded into the distance.

  He heard the key turn in the cellar door and punched the hatch three times in panic, banging it up and down about an inch each time. Then he lay flat, hoping he was out of view, but knowing he’d surely be found by his captor, regardless.

  He heard the low repetitive thud of his heart. With his face flush to the narrow ledge beneath the hatch, every intake of breath drew in particles of dust, increasing the dryness of his mouth, dirt sticking to his blood-curdled face.

  “What the fuck?” erupted from the shadows of the cellar.

  Striker flinched. Think, think, think…

  “There’s no way out, Striker!” The voice was muffled, the tone clearly very pissed off. And its owner had a very good point.

  He heard the sound of boxes being thrown around. He knew he had seconds to come up with something resembling a plan of action in order to survive. Carefully reaching for two bottles from the crate beside him, he clutched them in either hand, before lying face down again.

  Impulsively, he placed one of the bottles of lager in his mouth and started to bite the aluminium top. The metallic grinding caused a shooting pain through his gums. He stopped for a second of respite before persevering, this time angling the bottle to gain more leverage. His head jerked back and lager spewed from the neck with a minimal hiss. He placed a thumb over the top and gave the bottle a rigorous shake until he felt the pressure build up against his thumb.

  He sat up, carefully lifting the hatch the inch it would permit. The oozing light, possibly from a streetlamp, teased him. Another quick shake, then he jammed the neck into the inch gap, allowing the lager to spurt outside. He hoped this wasn’t the temple as he prayed for more passers-by.

  A circular beam of light flashed erratically on his side of the supporting wall, near the opening he’d used. Shuffling feet, clanging objects and crunching boxes echoed throughout the cellar.

  Striker reached for more bottles and managed to get three out of the crate. The fourth one clinked and the torch beam shot across his eyes.

  Footsteps approached, the growing voice louder. “There’s a pig in ’ere. I can smell it.”

  Striker braced himself, clutched a bottle in either hand. The torch beam flashed around, randomly illuminating the room like a helicopter over a war zone; no doubt the artillery was to follow.

  He saw the brief shape of the man as the torch darted round. A dozen feet way, edging closer. Was he carrying a weapon? It was hard to say, though Striker had to assume as much.

  He sounded no more than few feet away now, close to the bottom of the wooden fixture. Striker could hear him panting like a wild dog. The torch beam pointed toward Striker, who instantly lowered himself flatter, hands over his head.

  Striker cowered, feeling the air whoosh close to his ear. He’s swinging some kind of weapon. Glimpsing the man’s position beside the glare of the torch, Striker sat up and launched a bottle.

  Surprisingly, it seemed to strike its target on the head.

  A low groan was followed by a crash on the wooden fixture below Striker. Something clattered onto the floor.

  Striker fleetingly considered rushing him and taking his chances. Not yet. He threw a second bottle and it smashed against the supporting wall. He threw a third that hit the shadowy figure as he got up, causing the torch to dance in the air, the bottle fizzing on the floor. The torch was directed for the floor. He was looking for the weapon, meaning he didn’t have the gun.

  Now!

  A desperate madness gripped Striker as he grabbed bottle after bottle from the crate, blindly lobbing them into the darkness, the odd yelp on impact. He heard footsteps scrambling up the wooden fixture, bringing him to his senses. He jumped up, smashing a bottle onto the man’s head. The judder of impact shot up Striker’s arm and the neck of the bottle remained in his hand. The man crashed backward like a human skittle.

  The torch shined directly into Striker’s face and another whoosh zoomed toward him. He felt a vicious pain shoot across his left temple, accompanied by a flash of light in his eyes and suddenly felt nauseous and dizzy.

  His attacker clambered back up the fixture. Striker desperately jabbed him in the face with the remains of the bottle, hearing a squelch and shriek. Then he lunged with his right foot and kicked the bastard back down.

  Hearing banging from above, Striker was astonished to see the hatch suddenly jerk open, light flooding in, making him squint.

  “Jesus Christ, Jack! Come on, mate.”

  A welcome hand reached out and Striker clasped onto it, clambering up through the opening and onto the pavement. Totally disorientated, he was pulled to his feet and guided to the open rear door of a car.

  He didn’t look behind him as he was bundled into the rear seats lengthways. A thrown object pinged off the car’s bodywork. The car did a wheel spin and sped off.

  Striker realised his top was dripping in blood from his head wound and just about managed to summon the energy to say, “Thanks, lads,” before passing out.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Bardsley followed Halt and Grant up the spiralling metal staircase to the highest point of the temple. They entered the room at the top, which had old decaying stone walls. The heavy wooden door had evidently been forced by the searching officers.

  And there she was.

  Lauren Collinge was sat on a shabby burgundy Victorian-style chair. Not quite Queen Victoria – her hair
dishevelled, face grubby and solemn. The firearms officers were frantically undoing ropes attached to her ankles.

  “Thank God,” said Halt. “Lauren, you okay?”

  Collinge looked up, half smiled nervously, tears in her eyes, her pride preventing their descent. Voice croaky, she said, “I am… now, sir.”

  “We found DC Collinge in there, sir,” said one of the armed officers pointing at a cubbyhole, the small door hanging in pieces having been forced open.

  Becky Grant was on her knees, placing an arm around Collinge’s shoulder while whispering tender encouragement.

  Bardsley made eye contact with Collinge, winked and then patted her gently on the back as he passed. He stooped to peer inside the cubbyhole, seeing it was cramped and dingy. There was an empty chocolate bar wrapper beside a cushion that matched the chair Collinge was currently sat on.

  He turned back to her. “So that’s where you were hiding, Lauren. The things people will do to avoid a bit of overtime.”

  Halt glared at him. “Bardsley, please!”

  Collinge laughed and one or two of the armed officers joined in with chuckles, forcing Halt to mellow and just shake his head.

  The firearms sergeant rushed in, carrying a bottle of water. “The ambulance is on its way and so are SOCO,” he said, handing the bottle to Collinge, who began gulping it like she’d spent a day in the Sahara.

  Bardsley studied a map on the wall, noticing red plastic markers pinned at various intervals. He looked closer, soon recognising a few street names in South Manchester. He rubbed his beard, studied it a little longer.

  Halt cleared his throat. “Thanks gentlemen, could you please leave us for a few minutes?” The armed officers looked up, hesitated then filed out. Bardsley and Grant stayed.

  Halt asked one of the exiting officers for sterile gloves and he reached into a pouch on his belt. Halt took the gloves and put them on. He began checking the drawers of an antiquated oak desk to the left as he asked, “Lauren, are you up to answering a couple of questions?”

  She looked anxiously at Bardsley, wondering how much he’d told them. Bardsley nodded discreetly.

  Halt clocked the look between them. “It’s okay, Lauren, I know all about Striker’s unofficial operation. It looks like the stubborn bugger was right with his hunch. However, I can’t condone the way he went about it. Just hope we find him soon. Now tell me about this meeting.”

  Taking a sip of water, Collinge almost spurted it out. “What? Is Jack missing too?”

  “Oh, sorry, Lauren. I didn’t want to unduly worry you so soon. But unfortunately, yes he is.”

  She dipped her head, looking stunned. “Oh my God, I hope he’s okay.”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s made of sturdy stuff is Jack,” said Bardsley, hoping he was right.

  Halt shoved a drawer shut and slid open another. “Now, about this meeting.”

  “Well, there were about twenty people there and they just went around the room introducing themselves by first name only, then saying why they were there. It was held in the temple’s hall.”

  “Who was in charge?”

  Bardsley studied the map while Halt continued checking the drawers as Collinge spoke, Grant wearing a sympathetic expression beside her.

  “A guy called ‘Danny’ seemed to co-ordinate things, but there were a couple more bouncer types, whose names I don’t know, who seemed to be involved. It was mainly men, some new and some who seemed to know the organisers. During the midway break, some of the men had a sort of sub-meeting while the bulk of those in attendance went to the bar or for a cigarette.”

  “Sub-meeting?”

  “Yes, they appeared to be huddled together in a room at the back, sort of whispering. It may’ve been something and nothing, who knows?”

  “How did you end up being kidnapped?”

  She took another swig from the bottle. “As everyone was leaving, Danny asked me to come into that room at the back to sign the visitors’ book and pick up some ‘welcome literature’. I had no reason to think anything untoward was happening and I was going to tell DI Striker just that, when I was grabbed from the rear on entering the room. I felt a wet cloth across my mouth and nose then I awoke feeling very groggy in the darkness.” She indicated the cubbyhole.

  “Okay. Can you describe this ‘Danny’ character?”

  “Sure. IC one, over six foot, stocky, dark wavy hair, pale complexion and he was definitely Mancunian. Had a bit of a beer gut, too.”

  “Don’t suppose you recognised him?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  Bardsley’s radio emanated from his jacket pocket: “Ambulance in attendance.”

  “Thanks, Lauren,” said Halt. “You best get checked over. Can you walk or do you want them to come up?”

  “I’ll walk, sir,” she said, getting up and looking instantly unsteady on her feet.

  “Let me help you, Lauren,” said Grant, placing her arm around Collinge’s back.

  Bardsley also assisted, hooking an arm under Collinge’s armpit. “Sit down, Lauren. I’ll get them sent up.” Reading Halt’s mind he said, “I know there’s already been too many people on this crime scene, but it’s best we get Lauren sorted, agreed?”

  Halt nodded. “Sure.”

  They eased Collinge back onto the chair. Bardsley strolled over to the spire’s window and looked out, seeing the ambulance and a firearms officer he recognised. He ‘point-to-pointed’ the officer via the radio facility to speak one-to-one, and requested that the paramedics come up. The car park lights had lit up the area and Bardsley tracked the bushes to the point where he was standing with Striker yesterday evening.

  The crafty twat had been watching them.

  Halt pulled out a black book from one of the six drawers and started carefully thumbing through it.

  Bardsley turned to study the map on the wall again. “Sir, these red markers, they’re the murder scenes.”

  Halt’s gaze was fixed on the book. “I know. Look at this.” He showed Bardsley two pages listing the names of known criminals. Bardsley scrutinised the list: some had ‘ASBO’ next to their names, others the name ‘Josh’, the rest ‘Lenny’.

  “Bloody ’ell, there’s twenty-five on that list, sir.”

  “I know, and he’s certainly done his homework. The first few are dead and then he seems to have made a leap to five of the six at the end of the list.”

  “He knew we were onto him,” suggested Bardsley.

  Then, it suddenly hit Bardsley like a smack across the face. He’d been the only one of the three detectives involved in Striker’s little op who hadn’t been ‘shut up’. The killer must have been the one who’d broken into his home. Obviously looking for him, the cheeky bugger. But how did he know where he lived? Had he followed him home? Was he connected in some way? He thought about Striker’s friends at the temple, his past and his friend who’d been shot years ago… Lenny!

  “Kingston’s the last one on the list,” said Halt.

  Bardsley pointed at a green marker on Kingston’s address on the map. He swapped looks with Halt, saying in unison, “He’s next!”

  Halt took out his mobile. “I’ll phone Cunningham and tell her to get a team together.”

  Bardsley took out his own mobile. “I’m checking on the missus.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Striker heard muted voices, familiar yet distant.

  The haze in his mind began to gradually clear and he became aware of the discomfort. His left shoulder and chest ached, his wrists, arms and ankles were sore. He had a biting headache and his nose throbbed. He’d felt better. He could smell antiseptic, or something similar, and had an odd medicinal taste in his mouth. A strong hunger pang rumbled in his belly. He struggled to open his eyes, though managed after a few moments.

  “Jack, thank the Lord.” Vera Striker looked heavenward and leaned in to hug her son.

  “Mum,” he croaked. “It’s really good to see you.” He felt a rare moment of warmth engulf him.
>
  Vera pulled away, removing her glasses to wipe away tears with a handful of her lilac sweater, probably knitted by her own hands.

  A nurse in a light green uniform who was easy on the eye smiled at him. “Mr Striker, do you mind if I do a few checks?”

  “No, check away. And, please, call me Jack.”

  The nurse began, popping a thermometer in his mouth and rolling up the sleeve of his blue hospital gown. He wondered briefly if the nurse had changed him. His eyes were still somewhat hazy, his mind foggy. A myriad of thoughts began to cascade.

  Still tearful, Vera said, “Suzi’s been, Jack. She didn’t bring the kids, but she sends her best wishes. She left those flowers.”

  Pleasantly surprised, Striker looked on the window sill and saw a bunch of red, yellow and white carnations in a vase. “Very nice of her.” He turned back to his mum, realising he had a cannula in his left hand. “I’m sorry for not seeing you as much as I should have done. I promise I’ll—”

  The nurse looked at him and smiled as she checked his blood pressure.

  “Oh, give over, Jack. You’re a busy, man. I know that. Your dad would have been proud of you, you know.”

  Striker felt emotion rising, but controlled it. “How long have I been in here?”

  “Oh, a few hours, that’s all.”

  “Am I at the MRI?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  He saw Bardsley waving a bunch of grapes at the window outside the room, a daft grin on his face. The DC then raised a banana and his eyes widened, clearly eyeing the nurse’s pert bottom.

  Vera looked round and Bardsley instantly changed to sensible. “Do you want me to leave you to it?” she asked.

  He felt awkward, though he did need to speak with Bardsley as soon as possible. “If you don’t mind, Mum. I really appreciate you coming. It means a helluva lot to me. How will you get home?”

  “Oh, erm, Albert brought me,” she said sheepishly.

  “Albert?”

  “From the church… he’s just a friend,” she said, a little too hastily.