by Col Bury
Chisel got a whiff of garlic from the guy’s breath. “Why? What the… fuck… have I… done… to you?”
“It’s what you’ve done to all your victims I’m interested in.”
“What are yer… on about, man?”
“Citizens you’ve burgled, innocent people you’ve beaten up for no reason than for your own pleasure, that school kid you stabbed with a fucking chisel… Chisel. You and your fuckwit friends causing fear in the neighbourhood… Need I say more? Because there’s much more, isn’t there?”
“How do yer know… all this shit? And what… the fuck’s… it gotta do with you anyway?”
“Where do you see yourself in five years, Chisel?”
“Eh? Dunno. What the… What are yer goin’ on about, man?”
“Exactly.”
“Fuck this.” Chisel jolted a hand free and grabbed at the balaclava, yanking it up. On seeing the face, Chisel was gobsmacked and his mind drowned in mishmash of memories. “YOU?”
The smile on the familiar face was soon a grimace. A ferocious punch later and the lights in Chisel’s world were switched off.
Chapter Five
Rookie PC Ben Davison had drawn a blank with his area search for the youths who’d smashed Mr and Mrs Wilkinson’s kitchen window. He’d caught a glimpse of them running off, but once they’d hit the alleyways and backstreets he’d stood no chance whatsoever. He was the only free response patrol, since everyone else was tied up with the crime scene over on Bullsmead Road.
Sergeant Roache had freed Davison up from talking to the two hoodies on the wall with that sexy DC Lauren Collinge. “Go keep the wheel on,” Roache had said. But Davison’s radio was hot due to the flood of Friday-night calls. There simply weren’t enough cops available, full stop.
Instead of catching the criminals who were blighting the local community with mindless acts of aggression, he was slowly realising that he just was a crime-recording machine. He’d dutifully taken a statement, their baby crying throughout, giving him a stinker of a headache. He’d tried to reassure the Wilkinsons that the police were “doing all we can”. Just as he’d said that, another job boomed over his radio detailing “shouting and screaming on Bullsmead Park”, which made him look like a bit of a tit, to say the least. Tumbleweed had passed over the airwaves and Davison thought, I’m it, as the last free cop standing would always say.
Having gleaned enough details to input a crime report of criminal damage later, he’d gulped half his lukewarm coffee, excused himself and headed out of the front door to his panda.
Thirty seconds later. “One treble-eight six en route,” said Davison into his radio as he turned onto Moss Range Road, one-handed, blue lights flashing. No sirens though, stealth mode, because he wanted to actually catch criminals, not scare them off.
He was rather disgruntled that he’d yet again failed in the ‘search’ aspect of his job, with another negative area search now to his name. He’d recently been signed as competent by his tutor constable, after hitting the mandatory target of eighty per cent of competencies in his ‘personal development profile’. The PDP, as it was known, was the bane of all student officers. Despite reaching the necessary percentage, he knew his searching of persons and property left a lot to be desired. And his supervisors had made him aware of this, in their inimitable way.
It hadn’t helped when he’d done a short stint at Bullsmead custody suite as part of his training. Davison had searched an arrestee, fingerprinted him, then escorted him to his cell. Ten minutes later, one of the detention officers had been doing the hourly checks and had seen the detainee that Davison had supposedly searched. He was in his cell on his mobile phone, smoking a spliff! Oops. Davison hadn’t used the hand-held metal detector which would’ve alerted him to the stash up this regular’s arse. A schoolboy error on Davison’s part, and word travelled fast of his poor performance, bringing the many piss takers on the division out of the woodwork.
Both the custody sergeant and Roache had told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to sharpen up, search-wise. He still had an ongoing ‘action plan’ that he was desperate to complete. Some of his peers had bragged about finding shell casings at shootings, screwdrivers and knives on offenders after a stop and search, as well as the more common snap-bags of cannabis. His discovery of the wet, porous brick on the Wilkinsons’ kitchen table was useless in comparison. Maybe this job on the park would be his opportunity to shine.
He pushed the transmit button on the side of his police radio clipped to the top right of his body armour. “Where’s the call come from, Mo?” he asked Maureen Banks, his shift’s regular over at comms in Clayton Brook.
“Diane at number twenty-seven Park Road, but she doesn’t want a visit.”
“Any description?”
“Unfortunately not, Ben… just ‘shouting and screaming’… I’ll call her back.”
“Cheers, Mo.”
The thrill of speeding in a marked police car was still relatively new to him, having not long since passed his standard police driving test, and he milked it at every opportunity. He’d only been out of company from his tutor constable for three months, so even dressing up as a cop was still a novelty. The power of carrying a warrant card could easily go to your head, if you let it. He’d like to think he hadn’t, although some of his non-cop mates had said he’d changed. Inevitable really, since they now saw him differently and, like many people, they probably had stuff to hide. Be it no car tax or a house full of knocked-off gear that “fell off the back of a lorry” or was “bought from a bloke in the pub”. He couldn’t blame them though; Davison himself was still partial to the odd bargain, even now, credit crunch and all.
A couple of pedestrians looked up startled as he took a sharp right onto Park Road. He soon eased on the footbrake, anticipating the first of ten sleeping policemen he knew existed up to the park gates – a bid by the council to temper speeding motorists, with Bullsmead Primary School being adjacent to the park.
On his approach the park gates emerged between a long line of terraced houses. He clocked number twenty-seven to his left, the source of the call, but didn’t stop. He switched off the emergency lights. His anxiety grew on envisaging the vast eeriness of the park at this time of night and he sought reassurance by fumbling for his flashlight on his utility belt. He clicked it out of its holder, while easing the panda to a halt outside the park gates.
Pressing the transmission button on his radio, he said, “One treble-eight six, state six, single-manned – sorry – crewed.” He cringed knowing how politically correct some of his supervisors were. You never really knew just who was on air in the police from day to day. He’d simply wanted to let anyone listening know that he was alone, but deep down he knew no one was available to back him up anyway.
Checking his flashlight was working, he got out of the panda and clambered over the shoulder-high park gates. “Entering the park now,” he informed comms, trying not to sound nervous.
The park’s eeriness swamped him. With his torch beam sweeping from side to side, the bushes seemed to move on their own. He thought he saw the shape of a dark figure and flicked the beam back.
Nothing. He inhaled deeply, edging forward. Silence, except for his own footsteps and breathing.
He wondered whether this job had anything to do with those youths at the Wilkinsons’. He felt rather edgy and unclipped his retractable baton, before clicking it open. He briefly pictured his beautiful fiancée Louise, who he was taking to the Lake District tomorrow on his rest day. He planned on proposing to her on a boat trip on Lake Windermere. He’d got it all sussed: a cake with sparklers and everyone on the boat joining in with that old ‘Congratulations’ song, hopefully. The celebratory meal was booked at a swanky restaurant overlooking the lake.
His torch beam followed the narrow path to its end, where the park opened up to a vast darkness. He shined it to his right across the expansive field, then to his left toward the children’s play area. The outline of a climbing fra
me and swings in the distance shifted bizarrely. In front of him was the start of another long path, leading to the exit near Bullsmead Primary School.
Now then… Which way?
The low growl behind him made up his mind.
Chapter Six
In his office, feeling somewhat fatigued, Striker ran his left hand through his hair and stretched his arms upward in front of the computer screen. Not long now until a good night’s sleep to fully recharge him for tomorrow.
The office was modest with predominantly beige décor. There was the faint tick of a round white clock on the wall beside a map of the B Division. Through the window the bright city centre lights glowed five miles away.
Cunningham had shot off from the crime scene with her chauffeur-cum-lover boy Brad Sterling. Her last words: “There’s been another attack… on the border with the A Division. I just hope it’s not linked.” Sterling had then done the obligatory wheel-spin and they were gone.
Like Cunningham, initially worried there may be a link with his case, Striker had kept one ear on the radio. He’d returned to the office and checked the computer log regarding the incident Cunningham had rushed off to. Reading it, his heart sank at the callous details. From a selfish viewpoint, he was both relieved and satisfied it was a random attack on a student and it fell into the jurisdiction of the A Division. Stories had been doing the rounds for years of hard-nosed detectives finding a floating corpse on their side of the canal. Such was the mindset of the over-worked Manchester cops, the body was supposedly shoved from their side to the other, making it the responsibility of the other division. He’d never believed such tales, until over a pint on yet another cop’s leaving do an old Traffic sergeant insisted, vociferously, that it really did happen.
According to the computer log, the A Division’s respective CID was currently going through some apparently decent footage of the incident, so the perpetrator would hopefully soon be caught. And, although the victim was in a bad way and had been rushed to Manchester Royal Infirmary, he had thankfully regained consciousness.
Reverting back to his own case, the cogs weren’t exactly turning freely, more like creaking round. The oil he needed was more evidence, and sometimes that wasn’t necessarily new evidence, but it could actually be gleaned by analysing what you already had.
It was too early to rule out the possibility that it could have been a racially motivated attack, though something told Striker this wasn’t the case. Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. So who the hell was this dead kid? And who had he annoyed so badly? Some parent, somewhere out there, would be fraught with worry.
He momentarily gazed at the photo of his own kids, Harry and Beth, before him on his mahogany desk. He should’ve texted Suzi to tell her there was no chance of him picking them up from school tomorrow, as agreed. He’d been too preoccupied and it was now probably too late because she’d be in bed. He’d not seen them for nearly two weeks, due to the conclusion of a recent rape case he’d led before his recent switch from CID. He’d have to sort the matter with Suzi in the morning.
His children’s cheeky little faces gazed back at him from the photo, longing for their daddy. With a picturesque backdrop of the North Yorkshire moors, sheep and horses dotted about in the distance, Harry was proudly sporting his Manchester City kit with a raised thumb, resting his right foot on a Spiderman ball. Lucy was sitting on a picnic blanket listening to her MP3 player – probably Beyoncé or One Direction – while smiling as the sun reflected off her wavy, strawberry-blonde hair. Their piercing blue eyes, not too dissimilar to Striker’s, were staring deep into his soul.
A pang of guilt began to bubble inside him and he had strong urge for a cigarette, the urge beaten only by his desire to hug his beautiful children there and then. Gazing into space momentarily, he was truly sorry he’d let his family down. He tapped his temples to refocus his brain.
A glance at the clock told him it was gone midnight and he plonked his cup of coffee onto the table, causing the dregs to plop upward and splash onto the desk. He reached across the desk for a tissue, while pondering what he had so far.
The dead lad must have been targeted because checks with the Manchester Royal Infirmary and surrounding hospitals had been negative regarding other youths being admitted with similar injuries. Not for the first time, or the last for that matter, he’d been frustrated by CCTV enquiries. On the surface, they seemed straightforward enough; however, there was always the matter of untrained staff and poor picture quality. If both those aspects were actually positive, then there was the manpower issue of trawling through the footage for anything relevant. A thankless yet vital job.
He dabbed the spilt coffee with the tissue, still reflecting, analysing.
It was typical of the bloody B Division that, despite all those people milling around, there still wasn’t a decent witness in sight. What was he to expect though? After all, most people in Bullsmead had criminal records themselves.
He briefly wondered what the DIs in the plusher areas of GMP were currently dealing with, in the likes of Altrincham, Hazel Grove and Ramsbottom. He guessed it wouldn’t be this shit. Nonetheless, this was the kind of work for which he’d joined up in the first place and he was more determined than ever to keep proving himself as a decent detective, and now a leader.
With Cunningham and the rest of the brass breathing down his neck, he knew he’d have to put the hours in on this one. It had already been a long day and he decided he would have a chat with newsagent Khalid Khan first thing in the morning. That was one of numerous outstanding actions they’d set up on HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiries System. The database offered greater inter-force co-operation, since the likes of the notorious Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, and Soham child murderer Ian Huntley had slipped through the net.
The results of the fingerprint CSI had lifted from items scattered around the crime scene would be back late tomorrow at the earliest. The DNA from cigarette stubs and the discarded lager bottle, maybe the day after. But Striker was impatient and needed to know now so he could look for links, motives, and begin piecing the jigsaw together.
Home Office pathologist Sidney Mortham’s initial examination had established the boy, as strongly suspected, had only just died, at approximately 22:15 hours. The deceased had been struck by a “long thin-ish weapon” at least a dozen times, about the head, face and upper body. This had caused extensive swelling to the brain and more fractures and breaks than Mortham as yet could count. In addition, there had also been repeated strikes to the kneecaps, shattering both.
Someone was seriously miffed, thought Striker, as he dropped the coffee-drenched tissue into the bin beside his desk. Cunningham, or Mr Brennan, would arrange a vague press release in conjunction with the Press Office, a necessity to prevent the media from speculating and possibly hindering the investigation.
Tapping away on his keyboard, he pensively concluded a laborious initial write-up on the crime of murder, when he heard a tentative knock on his office door.
“Come in.”
Striker was pleased to see DC Lauren Collinge enter, clutching her turquoise A4 daybook.
Collinge had already proven herself as a thorough and competent investigator in her relatively short stint in the CID office with Striker. It was just over a year ago that she’d left the uniform behind after five years on the streets. Being the newest detective in the MIT office – Striker apart – he knew Collinge was probably as apprehensive as he was regarding this current case. After all, he’d only just filled his desk himself three days ago and didn’t quite feel at home yet. A few eyebrows were raised when Collinge had been the one to follow him into the office to replace a retiree, considering her inexperience.
Throughout his career he’d always had faith in his team to produce and hoped this would be the same with the team he’d inherited. He knew a few of them well and was confident in their abilities.
Collinge’s confidence had grown, under Strike
r’s guidance, during their time in CID. Once she’d played integral roles in sending down several violent offenders, she’d blossomed as a detective and been quickly accepted by her colleagues. This was an achievement in itself, considering some of the hard-nosed characters in the office. She’d never once whinged at getting the shitty end of the stick when initially performing the more menial tasks. This had freed others up to do ‘proper police work’ and had enhanced her standing considerably.
Collinge was a single twenty-five-year-old and had her own apartment in prosperous Wilmslow, Cheshire. From what Striker had gathered, she ticked all the boxes any red-blooded male would require. She’d certainly turned a few heads when she first entered the CID office. On the occasional post-work do, Striker had seen her presence reduce his predominantly male workforce to a bunch of buffoons, stumbling over themselves to make drink-induced advances toward her. Of course, he’d remained the consummate professional, suppressing his own alcohol-fuelled urges, albeit only just.
They’d still not had a chance to catch-up since he’d sent Collinge to glean first accounts from Grinley and Mozo at their respective parents’ homes because of their ages. He’d opted not to arrest them, despite DCI Cunningham’s insistence. They’d agreed with him that they didn’t mind him sending someone to their home addresses later as long as it was in an unmarked car. Still unconvinced about their accounts, but not enough to arrest them, he thought that Collinge may well get something notable from them.
Striker turned from the computer and the bright office lighting highlighted the DC’s gentle tan. “Welcome back. How was your leave?”
“Oh, fine thanks, Boss. Glad to be back, really. Gives me a break from those Spanish waiters.”
Striker raised his eyebrows.
“No. I mean they can ogle for England… well, Spain…”
“Ah, I know the type. Back to reality then. Talking of which, anything significant, Lauren?” He suspected from her look that the answer was a resounding “No”.