by Col Bury
A light came on in the rear downstairs room of the house and the concerned face of a woman peered through the window, a hand raised above her eyes as if to aid her vision.
Johnno shouted, “Fuck off, you nosy cow,” alerting the others, who all joined in the abuse, accompanied by V-signs and middle fingers.
A startled look zoomed across the woman’s face. She disappeared behind the curtain and was soon replaced by a man of about forty.
“Come on then, dickhead,” yelled Chisel, his palms face up, repeatedly curling his fingers inwardly. The others also edged forward, bouncing on their feet, a couple doing the universal wanker gesture, goading the occupant.
The man’s face wore a mixture of confusion, anger and fear. A few seconds later, the house’s rear door opened and the man peeped out, the yard wall obscuring him except for his head.
“I’ve got kids asleep, lads. Could you please keep the noise down?”
“Get fucked, knobhead.”
“There’s no need for that. I’ve already called the police.”
“Well that gives us another fuckin’ hour then dunnit, you grassing twat,” shouted Chisel, who thundered toward his prey. He clambered onto the top of the wall, spitting threats close up to the man, who stepped back wincing. On cue, artiste extraordinaire Johnno sprayed ‘GRASS’ in fancy yellow letters on the wall. Another threw a beer bottle, which smashed on the brickwork above the rear door, the shards falling close to the retreating occupant. Two cans clattered off the closing door as the man hastily slammed it shut.
When a brick shattered the window of what was probably the kitchen, the gang ran off, nearly pissing themselves with laughter.
Parked across the street, the engine of the black, tinted-windowed VW Golf GTI fired up, growled and followed them…
Chapter Three
DCI Maria Cunningham was a climber, and in Striker’s estimation was welcome to the job. He felt anything above DI became too political, and he hated politics. Nor was he willing to shag his way to the top like she had. Admittedly, the way she’d overtaken him in the promotion stakes, despite having less service than him, did grate somewhat. They’d both served as constables together and, boy, were there fireworks back then, particularly when he became her sergeant. Soon enough, Cunningham’s Manchester University qualifications – assisted ably by her sexual exploits – had given her an unfair advantage, providing an upward route via the force’s ‘High-Potential Scheme’.
However, that route didn’t necessarily make you a good cop. Striker had a degree in being streetwise, which beat a sociology certificate every time in his book. His main disgruntlement stemmed from the super’s unprofessionalism in allowing a good blow-job to influence his judgement. The paradox being that an officer could unintentionally make a Freudian slip or casual remark and the weight of GMP would squash them like an ant underfoot. But things like the super’s and Cunningham’s dalliance went unchallenged. He used to think they were all on the same team, though not now. The ground above him was way too political and, like some politicians, just as sleazy.
Cunningham had done nothing notable investigation-wise, yet she strutted her stuff like an old pro. She tried her best to look in her twenties, but Striker knew that with her being quite a late joiner, she was pushing forty. He recalled their ‘little encounter’ when Striker was in uniform on Response, though he tried not to dwell on that too much, which was easier said than done when it was the catalyst that changed his life.
It was fair to say, Cunningham wasn’t on his Christmas card list.
He shook his head as the admittedly good-looking and fake tanned DC Brad Sterling got out of the driver’s side, then rushed round the Mondeo to open the DCI’s door. Give me a bucket, thought Striker. Rumours were rife about these two, and Striker had seen jealousy in the super’s eyes more than once, knowing the old boy couldn’t possibly compete with Sterling. Bardsley had cruelly dubbed Sterling ‘Brad Shit’, and the nickname had spread around the station.
Cunningham was dressed in a figure-hugging, slate-grey, pin-striped pencil skirt and jacket, her peroxide blonde hair in a bun, more than a hint of make-up – all business. Mutton and lamb sprang to mind.
“What have we got then, Striker?” Her voice was as hollow and emotionless as ever.
Striker pointed at the SOCO tent. “Mixed-race male, mid-to-late teens, clubbed to death. Maybe with a baseball bat, judging by the marks on his head and body.”
“Witnesses?”
Striker nodded in the direction of Grinley and Mozo on the wall, being quizzed by Collinge and Davison. “Those two possibly, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Meaning?” She exchanged looks with Sterling.
“They’re ‘not grasses’, apparently.”
“Take them back to the station and get statements.”
“They’re juveniles and they’re unwilling.”
The DCI’s eyes hardened, voice notching up a decibel. “Then arrest them and make them willing. What else?”
“The pathologist is just finishing an autopsy and he’ll be down in half an hour.”
“Get him down now. The body he’s working on isn’t going anywhere, is it?”
She had a point. “I’ll have him called again.” Striker glanced at Sterling.
“You do it, Inspector Striker,” said the DCI. “It’s your scene. What else?”
Cold inside, he appraised Cunningham of the ongoing enquiries, expressing his optimism about CCTV checks at the petrol station and the newsagent Khalid Khan seeing the man fleeing the scene. The robust Tactical Aid Unit – commonly known as TAG before ‘group’ was changed to ‘unit’ – were to undergo a line search; however, he was still awaiting adequate lighting to arrive from police stores at Openshaw on the other side of the city.
“Think about what you need and get it. I want this sorted. Mr Brennan is watching us.”
Watching you more like, you insatiable cow.
Cunningham and her ‘bitch’ Sterling strolled off to inspect the body as the inevitable Manchester rain began to fall. Striker looked heavenward and cursed. He radioed a request for air support to take aerial shots of the scene at dawn. He also chased up Sidney Mortham, the forensic pathologist, who it turned out was already en route.
Striker had a bad feeling about this one, and not all of it to do with the DCI.
Not one of your everyday beatings, this. Someone had gone over the top. If the victim was from Moss Range then what was he doing around here in rival territory? Was it just another gangland feud or something else? Part of him hoped it was the former, as he’d had several successes as a DS in the gang unit. The alternative was what frightened him most.
“Boss.”
Lauren Collinge’s soft voice made him turn. She and Bardsley approached, with DCI Cunningham and DC Sterling just behind, dipping under the police tape from the crime scene.
“Bad news,” said Collinge. “Both lads say they were in Khan’s newsagents when the attack happened.”
Striker clocked the DCI’s stony expression.
Bardsley passed Striker an orange GMP memo. “Here’s Mr Khan’s number. At least we can check with him.”
Cunningham’s lips pinched. Striker dialled Khan’s number. It went straight to answerphone. Cunningham exhaled loudly before walking away. She passed the officer who Striker had tasked earlier with checking the CCTV at the petrol station, now on his return.
“Sir, the man in the garage only speaks broken English and he can’t work the CCTV system.”
Typical. Striker checked to see if Cunningham was listening and saw her standing by the Mondeo within earshot. “So, who can work it?”
“The manager’s not back in until ten-thirty tomorrow morning.”
Cunningham shook her head. “I need a result with this one, Striker.”
It was then that her phone rang – nothing fancy, just a boring Nokia tone. Striker watched intently as she answered it, seeing her stern face become granite in the moonlight.
/> Chapter Four
Chisel, Bezzer and Johnno scaled the locked gates of Bullsmead Park. The council locked them every evening to stop youths causing problems late at night. Yeah right, as if a locked five-foot gate would stop them.
The rest of the boys had scattered on seeing a lone panda car bumbling toward them along Bullsmead Road. It was probably a probationer, unsure of this patch. Chisel hadn’t panicked like some of the others, since he knew how few patrol cops there actually were from his many encounters with them. He’d overheard and mentally noted snippets of conversations each time he’d been nicked. He’d gathered quite a bit of what they call ‘intelligence’ on them, because of their loose banter and blatant complacency.
Most of the filth would be tied up with the crime scene he’d adeptly created in McDonald’s: a student with a face like an embarrassed Mr Potato Head. Now that was art, sod Johnno’s shitty graffiti. Yeah, Chisel knew only too well just who actually ruled the roost around here and it certainly wasn’t the cops.
Out of breath, they cut through the dense blackness of the park, lit meagrely by the moon’s intermittent appearances behind pewter clouds. Just as the Manchester rain began to spit, they plonked themselves down on the woodchip beneath a large wooden, graffiti-stained climbing frame that offered shelter from the rain.
“Good buzz that,” said Chisel. “We’ll meet back up with those shit-bags later, and I’ll have a word about sticking together. Fuckin’ lightweights.”
“If the cop had got out, we could’ve done him anyway,” said Bezzer confidently. “It would’ve made me birthday that… kicking a pig’s head in.” He grinned. “Got any weed left, Johnno?”
“Hang on.” Aided by Chisel’s torch beam, Johnno reached into the inside pocket of his black hoodie and pulled out a ready-made reefer. “Ta-daah!”
“Nice one, mate.”
The spliff passed between them and the conversation soon turned to the opposite sex.
“Hey, Chis, you still shagging that milf?” asked Bezzer, somewhat croakily as he exhaled smoke.
“Her name’s Dorothy. And, yeah, now an’ then I get the odd blow-job.”
“Jammy bastard. Leanne wouldn’t suck me cock if I paid her. Says it stinks of cheese.” Bezzer’s mobile phone did a burst of Eminem’s Slim Shady and he checked the message. “Talk of the devil.”
Chisel exchanged looks with Johnno, who smirked, obviously thinking the same thing.
“The devil? More like the angel. Anyway, she’d have to find your smelly cock first, wouldn’t she?”
“Fuck you, Johnno. At least I’ve got a bird.” Bezzer’s fingers bleeped the keypad repeatedly in reply to Leanne’s text.
“Look at yer, all loved up, kissy, kissy… aw…” Johnno retaliated.
“She swallows, too,” boasted Chisel.
“Who, Leanne? How do you know, Chis?” Johnno laughed at his own joke and Chisel joined in, the marijuana taking effect.
“Hey. I mean it, you…”
Still giggling, Chisel thrust an arm across the lunging Bezzer. “Bez, chill man. We’re just having a laugh. I was on about Dorothy. There’s no hesitation what-so-fuckin-ever with the older birds.” He snatched Bezzer’s phone and opened the text inbox.
“Hey, what’re doing, Chis? C’mon mate.” Bezzer sounded worried and reached for his phone. Chisel shoved his protests away, and read what Bezzer had typed – soppy crap. The faint light from the phone illuminated mischief in Chisel’s features when he replaced the text message with his own version, while Bezzer’s head dipped into his hands.
Chisel held the phone up. “SEND.”
“Aw, what have you sent, man?”
Chisel tossed him the phone and Bezzer frantically tapped away, until he reached the last outgoing message. He stared agape, his pale face lit up by the screen’s light.
Johnno leaned forward, chuckling. “Read it out then, lover boy.”
“Chis, you twat.”
“What’s he put… What’s he put?” Johnno was getting giddy.
“Tell him, Bez.”
“Well it’s too fuckin’ late now innit? He sent… ‘How’s about a birthday blow-job?’”
Chisel and Johnno fed off each other in a five-minute burst of uncontrollable laughter. After his initial curses, Bezzer joined in, such was the potency of the Moroccan Black.
The laughter was halted by Eminem.
“Oh shit. She’s replied.”
They eyed Bezzer, who grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.
Chisel exchanged bemused looks with Johnno.
“What did she say, man?” asked Johnno excitedly.
Bezzer’s voice went up a note. “She said, ‘Okay… but only if you shower.’”
“Now who’s the jammy bastard?” Chisel grinned.
Bezzer got up. “Cheers, Chis.” Their fists tapped each other’s.
“Fuck me, Bez… You got a semi on already?” asked Johnno.
“Not quite, but soz, lads, am offski.” He stood up, clutching the stolen game. “And thanks, Chis.”
“You can always rely on Chisel to come up trumps. Don’t blame yer, mate. Go get yer birthday blow-job.”
Bezzer winked, then jogged off across the kids’ play area and into the darkness.
Johnno shouted, “Don’t forget to clean yer cock!” When Bezzer was out of sight, Johnno said, “Sucker,” as he withdrew another joint from his pocket and lit it.
Chisel smiled. “You sly twat.”
The glow of the spliff passed between them until it was spent and Chisel flicked it like a mini-meteor into the night, the drizzle soon extinguishing it.
“I’m gonna take a leak.” Chisel stood up, his legs leaden momentarily, before walking a few paces into the gloom. Mid-piss, he heard a crunch of foliage behind him. He glanced toward the bushes that ran alongside the play area, separating the park from the high fence of Bullsmead Primary School.
“D’yer hear that, Johnno?”
“What, man? I’m cabbaged.”
Chisel shook the dribbles off and slapped his cock away. “Sharpen up. That fuckin’ noise. Someone’s here.”
Johnno sat up from his slouched position and Chisel could see that he was out of the game. “S’not the pigs, is it?”
Chisel took out his torch, shined it at the bushes. “Who the fuck’s there?”
“I’m here, man… am…” droned Johnno.
Useless prick. Chisel flicked his knife out, stepped slowly toward the bushes. They rustled in the wind, the torchlight misshaping them into a hundred dark figures, the fine rain hindering visibility. Fuck, I’ve had too much weed.
“You’re getting para… noid, Chis. It’s just… this Moroccan, man. It always does…” A whooshing sound and dull thud ended Johnno’s sentence.
Chisel shot his torch beam under the climbing frame and saw his mate sprawled face down in the woodchip.
“Shit.” Feeling a rage and fear cocktail erupt from deep within, he zigzagged the blade in front of him, cutting though the darkness. “Do yer know who you’re fuckin’ with? Do yer? Fuckin’ want some?”
“Yes of course I do, Chisel. That’s why I’m here.”
The calm, deep voice made him physically jump and pivot. Oddly, the casual tone and use of his name scared him more than seeing his mate out cold. He felt a sudden jolt of pain to his knife hand and dropped the blade. Then the same swift blow to his torch hand.
“Aaargh, you fuck…” Another whoosh of air was followed in an instant by something hard impacting Chisel’s temple area, a sharp flare of light in his mind’s eye as he fell onto the damp woodchip.
Hearing crunching footsteps, he shook his head fast, trying to regain his senses. He felt another whack across his back, the shooting pain sparking him into life. He rolled under the climbing frame, managed to clamber to his feet.
He could see the silhouette of his attacker about three metres away, legs slightly apart, with a backdrop of the full moon. The man wore a balaclava. “Who the fuck are yer
? What do yer want?”
“You, Chisel… I want you,” the voice replied evenly. The figure motionless, clutching a long thin weapon.
“Drop that metal pole and let’s do it then.”
No answer, still no movement, just a solid stance, weapon in hand. He was a big fucker, but so was Chisel.
Chisel glanced behind him at the gloomy expanse that was the football fields. For no more than a micro-second, he considered running. This angered him even more. The ‘zone’ feeling began to take over, building his rage.
“Fancy yer chances then, Mr Big Shot, eh? Want some… eh? Fuckin’ eh?” Chisel ran forward and launched himself into the guy’s midriff. It was like hitting a brick wall. He felt winded, but his fifteen stone managed to shift the man backward. They landed on the woodchip, Chisel on top, and he began pummelling the masked face. The first punch connected, a couple more missed as the target shifted from side to side. The next punch was caught. Chisel felt his right fist being squeezed, then twisted, and he let out a yelp. His enemy’s ice-cool eyes glared menacingly from behind the balaclava.
Chisel felt a heavy punch to his left cheek. Recovering from the stinging blow, he realised that both his hands were now gripped. He used all his strength to force a head-butt, but the target moved, Chisel ending up with a mouth full of wet woodchip. They grappled and swiftly Chisel felt the man’s strength roll him onto his back.
Shit. Roles reversed, the manoeuvre instant, the man was now on top. Chisel felt drained. Sturdy gloved thumbs pushed into Chisel’s eyes sockets, his hands automatically shooting up to his face.
“Aaargh.” The pain was excruciating. He could hardly see, aches all over, his fight ebbing away. The weight and strength of the mystery man pinned him down and Chisel felt both his wrists had been gripped tightly again. “What’s your… problem… man?” he asked breathlessly.
“You… You are my problem.” The tone was still surprisingly measured.