The guy was indeed 'shot up real bad'. An impressive slick of blood pooled out from the stall, congealing on the floor. Shards of wood from the shattered door were strewn here and there. Excessive force was the phrase that sprung to mind. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, mixing with faeces. Not the kind of eau de toilette you'd be thanked for giving to anyone as a Christmas present.
I looked at the guy's face. Interestingly, all the bullets which hit him, did so in the torso and legs; a couple clearly missed altogether and were embedded in the wall behind the cistern. Whoever our assassin was, he was no marksman. It was odd. I knew this dead guy, I was sure I knew him, but just couldn't place him.
“Garry, do you know this guy?”
“Nah, don't think so. Why? Do you?”
“No, probably just one of those things, you know, reminds me of someone I do know; their unknown double. What's that called again?”
“Doppelgänger.”
“Yeah, that's it. Doppelgänger.”
But it wasn't that. An icy knife of realisation ran me through as my memory connected the dots. This was the dude that came into the toilets after I'd made that boy Dwayne Clements swallow his gum.
Killers were black kids.
Shit!
This whole thing was getting more worrying by the minute. Why the fuck would Clements blow this guy away? He didn't do anything other than walk in at the climax of our little disagreement. Was I next? The little bastard had a gun and, manifestly, enough bottle to use it. My stomach fluttered, I felt adrenaline stream through my system.
It was important to stay cool. I couldn't give Jackson Hodge the impression I knew the victim, and giving any hint of knowing who was behind the shooting, would surely lead to the unravelling of my life. Keeping schtum was my only available option. There was no way to tell Hargreaves or Stark about my suspicions without incriminating myself in relation to the original assault on Clements. That, in turn, would inevitably lead to accusations of being the vigilante. A quick mental audit revealed to me that I had no cover story, no alibi if that happened. I needed some head space.
“Garry, call it in, mate. MIT will need to deal with this now.”
We walked back to the foyer outside the toilets and Garry duly reported in. It took about twenty minutes for the uniforms, detectives and SOCO to arrive. Once they were all briefed and reassured the area was safe, we escaped to a bar. A beer and a game of football on the TV sounded like just the distractions I required.
Sitting on a bar stool, allowing the alcohol to unwind the tension in my temples, I pondered the events of the day. It occurred to me it was more than likely Dwayne Clements would be caught quickly. CCTV cameras festooned the shopping centre, at least a dozen witnesses would identify him and his partner, and he'd been sloppy and careless to such a degree that his arrest was guaranteed without my intervention. I wouldn't need to get involved, I was certain of that.
I thought about the poor bastard who'd been shot and it made me feel awful. He'd probably used that toilet many times before. It was such bad luck he arrived in time for Clements to see him and assume he was in cahoots with me, which he wasn't of course. I wondered about his family and other unhelpful things which multiplied my feelings of guilt and complicity. I needed to stop drinking now or I was heading for a very dark and discouraging place.
I finished the beer, made my apologies to Garry, and headed home. Normality and love were calling loudly to me from my house.
20. Can You Hear Me Now?
There it was, the beginning of the shit storm. As he walked past the news stand outside the Tube station, Stark noticed the Daily News headline blaring out across London and the rest of the world.
CITIZEN V!
Vengeance With Impeccable Manners
He reluctantly bought a copy - he really didn't want people thinking he was a regular reader or in any way sympathetic to the politics of this toilet paper with print on it. He felt like shouting out very loudly, “Don't worry, I'm a police officer and I'm buying this for purely professional reasons only! Nothing to see here, nothing to see here. Move along now, please!” Instead, he folded it so the logo would be obscured.
Callahan's report was predictably salacious and exaggerated. The approach of the editorial team at the paper was obvious: of course it didn't condone violence and murder, but all of us must have a secret admiration for the way this anti-hero was standing up for decent, hard-working folks who were sick of the spongers blah, blah, blah. The usual right-wing agenda they shoe-horned into any major story they covered. Knowing Callahan quite well, Stark found the politics of this rag at odds with the giant reporter's easy going, rather liberal, attitudes to life. Then again, a crust needs to be earned; no doubt, a front page story like this one would keep Callahan kitted out with garish trainers for quite some time to come.
He did have to hand it to Callahan though. The name he'd given the vigilante was very good. It would provide endless hours of radio phone in fodder, chat show discussions and, for the more entrepreneurial out there, he could already see the clothing and other merchandising opportunities such a snappy moniker would present. Stark got on the Tube and made his way across town to convene with Katz and the Chief Inspector.
DCI Hargreaves was a seething mass of frustration and anger. He slammed the paper down on the desk in front of Stark and Katz.
“That is the worst of all possible worlds! A vigilante and a serial killer combined into one neat package, with the implicit backing of the most-read newspaper in the country. What I want to know, Stark, is how they got so much detail, so quickly? You assured me you'd had a word with your pal, Callahan. Well, I'd hate to think what he'd have written if you hadn't bloody bothered!”
His voice was raised but not at full volume. Hargreaves may only have been a small man in stature but he had a big impact on others.
“Well? What have you got to say for yourself, Stark?”
It was one of those can't win situations subordinates in any of the services often found themselves facing. They both knew nothing Stark said would earn him a reprieve but, by the same token, to actually say nothing and just take the bollocking would not suffice either. He could fight fire with fire and go down all guns blazing or he could acquiesce and slink away licking his metaphorical wounds. In truth, he couldn't be arsed fighting so acquiescence it was.
“Sorry, sir. I thought I'd...'
“Thought? You know what thought bloody well did, don't you, son?”
It was a phrase that made no actual sense but was clearly understood by both parties to imply a lack of foresight on Stark's part. The DCI pressed his fingers together as if in prayer and tapped his chin, the skin on his face flushed, his blood pressure shooting skyward.
“Right, the cat's well and truly out of the bag on this now. The most important thing is to catch this idiot before he can cause any more problems for us. Do you think you're up to that, Stark?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, well, you better hope you are, son, because if this gets any worse, I'll be sending you back to Glasgow to hand out parking tickets. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. Crystal.”
It didn't take long for things to go from bad to worse.
“Ok, I'll let him know. We're on our way.”
Katz put down the phone and gave Stark a look that he'd become very familiar with.
“Let me guess, another body, courtesy of our friend, Citizen V?”
“Not exactly, sir, but close. Something more like Dwayne by the sounds of it. Another mutilated youngster in hospital with no idea what happened to them.”
“Great, the DCI's going to be so happy.”
When they reached the hospital it quickly became apparent the press had been tipped off. A scrum of reporters, TV crews and radio journos, jostled and jockeyed for position outside the main entrance.
“Fuck! Drive around the block Katz and find somewhere to park away from the bloody vultures. I don't want to deal with them right n
ow.”
They parked the unmarked Mondeo a couple of streets away in a metered bay. Stark couldn't help thinking he might well be in charge of a few of those north of the border very soon.
“Do the honours will you, Katz. I've not got a scrap of change on me.”
“You're like the sodding Queen you are, sir. Never seem to have any money on you. Scottish tightwad!” grumbled Katz.
“Watch it you or I'll have you cited for racial discrimination!”
Katz looked at him disdainfully and flicked him the bird before sticking enough money in the meter for a couple of hours parking.
Stark took out his mobile and made a call.
They walked into a yard at the back of the hospital where John Constance met them.
“Hi there, DI Stark, Detective Katz. Follow me.”
The orderly was fit to bursting at being asked to aid Stark in his investigations. He led them to a door controlled by a swipe card and opened it with his accredited pass.
“Open says me!” he beamed, thinking his little joke to be highly amusing. No one else was particularly impressed. Certainly not Katz, whose skin crawled in the presence of Constance. He reminded her of a rodent with his furtive, darting eyes and pointed features. His horrible excuse for a moustache even looked like whiskers. She shuddered as she inadvertently brushed against him on her way through the door.
Stark shook the orderly’s proffered hand.
“Thanks, John. Really appreciate that, mate. Now, away back to work before someone notices you've gone. Don't want to get you into any bother.”
“No worries, DI Stark. Always a pleasure to help you out, never a bother. Good luck - it's another weird one and no mistake.”
Stark gave him another hand shake.
All Katz could muster was a cursory nod as she accelerated away up the corridor. Stark half jogged after her and drew level as they turned a corner.
“Jings, Katz, you not so keen on my wee pal then?”
“He's a horrible, slimy, little rat. He gives me the bloody creeps!” she said with surprising vehemence.
“Aw, that's a bit harsh - he's just a lonely, wee, sad case that wants to feel important by helping the polis now an again.”
“I don't give a shit, he creeps me out and, by the way, Jock, the word is police!”
He could have sworn she smiled as she said this.
“There you go again with that racialism. I'm going to HR to tell them I'm being oppressed!” He feigned a huff and they turned the next corner straight into Floyd Callahan.
“Starky! Imagine meeting you here!”
The beanpole reporter beamed his winning smile.
“Don't you Starky me you lanky git! I take it your pal Captain V sent you a message? Shone a spotlight into the night sky - the V signal was it? Well here's a V signal from me you prick!” and with that, Stark delivered a two-fingered salute.
“Detective Inspector Stark, that's very hurtful, as well as being more than a tad rude. It just so happens that Citizen V did indeed tip me off about his latest exploits. Not been able to get into the room though, thanks to a half pitbull, half ward sister guarding the door,” came the jovial reply.
Katz snorted.
“If you two are quite finished, perhaps we could go and check on the victim...sir?”
“You see that, Callahan? That's what the modern police force is like nowadays. No bloody respect any more!”
Katz had walked ten yards, showed her warrant card to the guard dog/sister and stepped into the room before Stark had even finished his sarcastic riposte. He just shrugged, smiled at Callahan and followed after her.
As Stark closed the door behind him, he took in the scene. A young, uniformed, female constable was handing over an evidence bag to Katz, bringing his partner up to speed in hushed tones. A boy of about seventeen lay in the bed, head swaddled like an Egyptian Mummy, awake but looking very sorry for himself. He was hooked up to a couple of pieces of equipment that whirred and beeped intermittently. A frumpy-looking, middle-aged woman, who Stark assumed was the boy's mother, sat on a chair, stroking his forearm tenderly. A lump of sodden paper tissue protruded from the sleeve of her blouse and she pulled it out and dabbed at her nose as she sniffed.
Katz dismissed the young cop and she and Stark both turned their attention to the mother.
“Hello, Ma'am. I'm Detective Inspector Adam Stark and this is Detective Constable Lara Katz. I'm sorry to intrude but we really need to speak to your son about what happened to him.”
She struggled to control her emotions, her lip quivered and tears and snot began to slip down her face.
“Please catch the animal that did this. My poor, beautiful boy...”
She tailed off as sobs prevented her actually speaking coherently, the paper tissue saturated beyond helping to remove any of the additional moisture she was producing. Luckily, Stark always attended such situations with a packet of disposable handkerchiefs in his pocket. Experience taught him this was helpful on a number of levels - not least of which was winning the trust of victims and letting them know he actually gave a crap about their trauma. He passed her the packet and she nodded gratefully as she took them; emitting a surprisingly powerful noise as she blew her nose.
“Sir, this is Mrs Pritchard and that's her son, Luke. He was attacked on his way home from a party at one of his friend's houses. He didn't see the attacker and has no recollection of anything that happened after he left the party. Whoever attacked him,” Katz surreptitiously made a V with her fingers in order to confirm to Stark that this act belonged to their man, without alarming or alerting Mrs Pritchard, “cut off his ears, then dumped him a couple of streets away from here, where a passerby found him and called an ambulance. The constable said the doc told her he'd been sedated but also had alcohol in his bloodstream as well as traces of cannabis.”
Mrs Pritchard's face suddenly hardened and she gave her son a stare that needed no augmenting with words.
“Ok, let's just forget about lectures and so on as far as his social life is concerned for now,” said Stark. “We'll leave all that to you for later, Mrs Pritchard. What I want to know, Luke, is what you remember. Just start at the beginning and give me everything you can.”
The boy looked broken - physically and emotionally - struggling to come to terms with what happened to him. A sudden thought occurred to Stark.
“Sorry, can you actually hear me ok, Luke?”
Luke nodded slightly.
“Good, sorry, it's just...you know...”
Stark felt a bit foolish at this outburst.
“Go on, Luke. Tell us what you can,” interjected Katz.
“I don't really remember anything,” came the whispered reply.
“Start with the party. Who was there? When did you leave? That sort of thing. Sometimes a tiny thing can really help us,” Katz suggested softly.
Stark really liked this modulation. There was a hint of a foreign accent in Katz's voice that served to make it sexy; despite the serious nature of the words being spoken.
It didn't have that effect on Luke, if anything, it seemed to increase his nervousness and unease.
“It was my friend Ryan's party.”
“Do you have a phone number and address for Ryan?” Stark asked.
“Yeah, he lives on the next estate to us, 10 Pheasant Avenue. You can find his number in my phone.”
Katz picked up the phone and scrolled through the contacts until she reached an entry called Ryan. Luke confirmed the number belonged to his friend and she scribbled the number on her notepad, then placed the phone back on the bedside table.
“Go on,” prompted Stark.
“His Mum was away so he had the house to himself. There was a whole bunch of people there but I didn't know that many of them. I got bored and left about midnight. I was walking home coz I can't afford taxis and it wasn't that far...”
He drifted away and his eyelids began to droop.
“I think that's enough for now, Detective Insp
ector. He's very tired and full of painkillers. He already told the policewoman who was here earlier all that he knows, which seems to be very little,” said Mrs Pritchard, springing to her son's aid despite her disapproval of his flirtations with illegal herbs.
Katz and Stark exchanged glances. She was right. There was little to be gained by pushing hard right now.
“That's fine, Luke. You need to rest and get better as quickly as you can,” Stark said sympathetically.
“Bye for now, Mrs Pritchard. We'll come back when he's feeling stronger.”
21. Lion Hunting
I was sitting in the spare room noodling on my guitar. The room's a half-hearted attempt at a home-studio. A musician since my early teens, I played in a succession of bands that never really got anywhere. These days, I express my muse through Cubase, composing little ditties via the computer that no-one other than my son's goldfish would be interested in. And, let's be honest, the fish only tolerated them because it couldn't remember how shit they were between each listening. I also filled some time posting video tutorials on YouTube for kids to learn how to play their favourite rock tracks. It's important to put something back. Actually, more like a pathetic attempt to try and prove to the world that I still had it, which I never did. Still, at least I could recognise my own shortcomings - even if I couldn't avoid them.
Browsing YouTube as I doodled on the fretboard, I looked for stuff on this Citizen V character, trying to find out who this fucker was. Why was he following me, upping my ante and 'finishing off' what I started?
When I stumbled upon the video, the blood in my veins seemed to thicken and solidify as I watched. A disturbing, grinding noise turned out to be coming from my teeth and my eyes widened to the saucer proportions of a cartoon character.
I should have bloody-well known better. Stupid, arrogant, dick. I'd gotten away with my exploits so often that I became blasé, undercooked my preparations and failed to think through scenarios.
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