by Col Bury
“That Grinley’s a right arsehole,” she said in exasperation, placing her daybook onto the adjacent desk, her auburn tousles highlighted somewhat by the Spanish sun, swaying as she shook her head.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Striker.
“We can’t prove that he saw something, can we? Even if we suspect he did.”
“Try telling that to Cunningham.”
Collinge rolled her eyes. “No thanks, I’ll leave that to you.” She smiled.
Cunningham had tried to block Collinge’s advancement into MIT, but was overruled by Detective Superintendent Brennan after Striker had made a strong case for the DC.
“We’ll work on him, soften him up a bit.” Striker took a sip of his coffee. “What about that Mozo character? Thought you may have gotten around him.”
“Meaning?”
“You know, your charm and winning smile.” Lauren’s grin, revealing the cute gap in her front teeth again, pleased Striker and he instantly pictured Mozo melting. “See.”
“Well, he was the more talkative of the two, granted.” She leaned slightly over the adjacent desk, placing a palm to the side of her daybook as she opened it and flicked a couple of pages, seeming to skim-read her notes.
Striker chided himself when he unintentionally caught a glimpse of her lacy black bra as she leaned forward, and he instantly averted his eyes. She was undoubtedly a bright girl, though he couldn’t help wondering if she realised how much of herself she was presently revealing. It was a good job Bardsley wasn’t in the room; he’d be dribbling by now. She soon appeared to locate what she was searching for.
“Ah yes. Mozo – or Nathan Mozerelli to us – said he’d popped into the newsagents for some fags, leaving his five or six mates outside.”
Striker scratched his head. “Five or six? The newsagent Khan told Eric there were a dozen.”
“Well, that’s what Mozo said. Then he exited the shop because he heard a lot of shouting and saw everyone running in different directions. Some headed down the side street at the back of the petrol station. Then he spotted the boy lying in the road.”
“So he doesn’t know the lad?”
“Said he was from another gang who they were meeting up with to do ‘some business’, but he wouldn’t elaborate.”
“Ah, another gang. That explains Khan saying there were more. Did Mozo give you a name?”
“He only knew of him by his nickname… Wait for it… ‘Gasbo’.”
Striker hastily pulled his keyboard closer and typed in a person search for ‘Gasbo’. He drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for OPUS, the frustratingly slow local system, to produce a result of the search. It had been harshly referred to as “Hopeless” more than once, and plans were afoot to replace it.
Gazing at a blank screen, he turned to Collinge. “So, he didn’t see the attack?”
“He said not.”
“Well it’s a start, of sorts. We’ll speak with him again, see if we can squeeze a bit more out of him. I’ll get the night Response lot to do preliminary house-to-house down the side street. I take it that’s Spinney Lane?”
“Correct.”
Striker stared impatiently at the screen.
“Boss, if you don’t mind me saying, you look tired. Do you want me do the searches?”
Striker was touched, but just smiled and shook his head. “Lauren, you can call me Jack, you know,” he said, eyes fixed on the screen, which had finally sprung to life.
“Okay. You found him… Jack?”
For a moment Striker remained quiet, checking the descriptions and records of the possible hits. “Well, there’s six come up, but only four are teenagers and three of them are known on this division. Gareth Bolands is the only mixed-race one, so looks favourite… Jeez, five pages of crimes. He must have pissed a few people off.” Striker hastily scrolled through forty plus pages of intelligence. “And guess what…” Collinge moved closer, leaning in, and Striker got a pleasant waft of her perfume. Burberry Touch?
“Gasbo’s got an ASBO?” guessed Collinge, meaning an anti-social behaviour order. ASBOs were issued by the civil courts to people who’d repeatedly acted anti-socially, and a breach of their stringent behavioural conditions carried a power of arrest. However, they’d backfired on the government somewhat for two reasons. Firstly, breaches were so common that the UK’s overcrowded prisons couldn’t possibly house the offenders. And, secondly, many of their recipients wore the ASBO tag as a bad boy badge of honour, consequently enhancing their notoriety.
“Yes, he’s a wrong-un… or was one. Keep this to yourself until we have forensic proof or a positive ID. Print results have been fast-tracked and should be back tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to check to see if he’s been reported missing from home?”
“No, Eric’s still out and about, I’ll get him to do it. Good work, Lauren. You’ve done your bit for today. I’ll sort your overtime sheet. Now get yourself off home and get in for the briefing at eight-thirty tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “This morning.”
“No debrief tonight then?”
“No. I’ll assess what we’ve got and we’ll all get stuck in tomorrow.”
He forced a smile, which Collinge returned, only better, before leaving. The waft from the closing door blew the remaining scent of her agreeable perfume toward Striker. Definitely Burberry Touch; he’d bought the same for Suzi the Christmas before their split.
An hour after Lauren left, Striker was still collating all the initial info gleaned, when his mobile sounded ‘Blue Moon’. The anthem to his beloved Manchester City never failed to produce a sarcastic response from the many United fans in the vicinity.
“Change that bloody ringtone,” emanated from the CID office across the corridor. A lone detective – aka the ‘night DO’ – took care of any serious jobs overnight.
Striker was fleetingly pleased to have wound up another Red. ‘Eric’ appeared on the HTC’s screen, hopefully responding to the call Striker had made after Collinge left, about missing persons.
Eric Bardsley was old school and hated political correctness, even more than Striker, if that was possible. Bardsley was as down-to-earth a man as you would care to meet. Despite his fifty years – half of which was in the Job – a long-suffering wife and three grown-up kids, he was first in the queue when it came to ogling the likes of Lauren Collinge. However, unlike Striker, Bardsley didn’t hide his wantonness. Regardless, he was a damn decent detective and had been in MIT for years, proving himself time after time. They went back a long way, being on the same shift when Striker had all ‘the trouble’ with Cunningham. Bardsley hadn’t proved to be a bad lad at all… for a Scouser.
“Eric, did you manage to get anything from the Chinese chippy?”
“Yeah, a number twenty-one.”
“Very droll. I suppose I asked for that. I meant did they see anything?”
Bardsley answered in a very poor Chinese accent. “We see nuffink. We wery, wery busy. No look outside.”
Part of Striker was smiling within, since he knew Bardsley only too well. He was glad his dreary mood had been briefly lightened, but as a DI he felt obliged to say, “Eric, get a grip, fella. There’s a dead boy, remember?”
“Sorry, Jack. That’s why I phoned. A lad fitting the description’s been reported missing. I’m just gonna check it out and go to his home address at seven Claythorne Street in Moss Range.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gareth Bolands.”
“I’m on my way.” No rest for the wicked, thought Striker, knowing his bed was now a good few hours away.
Chapter Seven
Pivoting toward the source of the growl, with his baton at the ready, PC Ben Davison’s heart rate doubled. He shone his torch into the blackness of the park and a fearsome set of sharp, salivating teeth greeted him. He jumped back and stumbled over onto the wet footpath, his bottom now damp, his baton clattering out of reach.
A bright light blinded h
im momentarily. He tried to scramble to his feet, but was prevented by a wriggling weight on his midriff, frantic leathery wetness all over his face and manic, smelly panting. Helpless, he fumbled for the emergency backup button on top of his radio to alert all officers on this channel. Nonetheless, he struggled to reach the elusive button. With a mouthful of fur, he managed to glance up and saw someone shining a light upward from below their chin to illuminate their face.
Davison was both annoyed and relieved at the sight of the wide-eyed divisional dogman Bob the Dog donning his daft Billy Connolly grin and accompanying goatee.
“Woo-hooo!”
Hysterical laughter ensued.
Davison clambered up, wiped his face with his jacket’s sleeve and began stroking the police dog, Rhys. “You baaa-stard, Bob,” he cried, in between chuckles. Then reluctantly, “I’ll give you that one.”
The last time he’d seen the veteran cop, Davison had been on the loo in ‘trap three’ at Bullsmead nick, when the pitter-patter of excitable footsteps had been followed by a bucket of water, drenching him as he squatted at his most vulnerable.
“Bloody priceless that, Ben. Wait till I tell the lads.” Bob the Dog also sounded much like the famous Scottish comic, having been brought up in Glasgow before his transfer from Strathclyde police many years ago to be closer to his Mancunian wife.
Davison was still bent over, stroking and attempting to calm Rhys. “But I thought I’d already had my initiation, Bob.”
“You have, but when I heard this job come in I just couldn’t resist it, mate.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. The park’s too big for me to search on my own. Rhys and that dragon lamp will come in handy.” He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to eliminate the dazzling effects of the powerful lamp.
Bob the Dog spoke into his radio and Davison smiled, knowing what was coming. “Four …” Bob tweaked his voice to impersonate Sean Connery, “…double-O sheven… show me shtate shix at the park with Ben.”
Mo tittered. “Received, Bob. Thanks for backing up. I was a little worried about him.”
“Think she’s fancies you, lad.”
“Give over.” Davison picked himself up, dusted himself down. “Come on then.”
“You still got that action plan for searching hanging over you?”
“Yeah.”
“Right, pal… Let’s see what we can do.”
With Rhys back on the leash, Davison held the somewhat heavy dragon lamp, its beam lighting up the park brilliantly compared to his meagre torch.
“Go on, Rhysy-boy,” said Bob the Dog in his crisp Glaswegian tones, encouraging Rhys toward the open field to the right. Then a whisper, “Who’s there, Rhysy-boy? Who’s there?” Rhys pulled on the leash, making it taut, and the officers followed. A few small lit rectangles in people’s homes grew larger as they did a sweep of the vast field. So far, there were no signs of anyone.
The damp grass and soil squished as they made their way across the field, the cold wetness seeping into Davison’s right Magnum boot, reminding him he needed a new pair.
“Are you still seeing Louise then, Ben?”
“Yeah…” He paused for a moment. He’d not told anyone about his proposal plans. However, despite his practical jokes, Bob was a damn good mate, one who’d helped him immeasurably throughout the extremely steep learning curve of his probation. He was so excited, he just had to share the news. “Gonna pop the question tomorrow, mate.”
Bob the Dog tugged Rhys to a stop. “Really? Good on ya, pal… Aye, good on ya. She’s a bonnie wee lass.”
“Cheers, mate. Just hope she says yes.”
The lamp saved a lot of time and shortened the search significantly, with its beam reaching the far corners from the middle of the field beyond the just discernible white football posts.
“Ach, course she will, pal. You’re a good lad.” Bob the Dog guided Rhys around the field, then back toward the children’s play area. “Best be thorough here. ‘Shouting and screaming’ could be something an’ nothing. But in this job, ya never know, pal.”
Davison knew his colleague was right, but with so many call-outs ending as ‘no trace’ jobs, it was easy to become blasé. “How are you and ‘Mrs the Dog’ doing?”
“We’re fine and dandy, thanks. Think she’s giving me my oats nowadays ’cause she knows my pension pay-off’s coming soon. When the cash dries up, so will she. Woo-hoo!”
Davison laughed, shining the mighty beam at the play area. It was then that he saw an illuminated figure, with blood seeping from his head, staggering toward them like a stoned zombie.
“Jesus…” said Davison, agog, as Rhys began barking uncontrollably.
***
Striker eased the unmarked silver Vauxhall Astra to a halt behind Bardsley’s older, dark green version of the same model. Claythorne Street was yet another terraced street, north of Bullsmead, in Moss Range. It was about three miles from the city centre, which was marked, as ever, by the huge Beetham Tower. Striker could see the hundreds of oblong windows high in the distance, probably half of them lit up, including Manchester’s only ‘sky bar’ half way up, where Friday-night revellers would be having a good old shindig.
Meanwhile, Striker had to tell a mother and father that their son was dead.
He exited the Astra, as did Bardsley, faces solemn. They were outside number thirty-five, a good thirty metres from the Bolands’ home at number seven. After a quick look over both shoulders, Striker asked in a hushed voice, “You got the missing report, Eric?”
“Yeah, it’s in here.” Equally tactful in tone, Bardsley opened his turquoise daybook and took out the report taken earlier by a uniformed Bobby.
“Where, when and by whom was he last seen?”
Bardsley studied the report, straining to see under the orange haze of the nearby streetlamp. “Er… Reported missing at just after midnight and… last seen at ten this morning by his mum, who also reported it.”
“Okay.” Striker thought for a moment. “What I don’t get is why they’d report him missing? It’s not like he’s a little kid and I bet a bad boy like him normally rolls in at all hours.”
“According to the notes, apparently he was supposed to meet his girlfriend at twenty-one thirty hours… It’s her birthday and, well, he promised.”
Striker raised his eyebrows, wondering how much weight Gareth Bolands’ word actually carried, having earlier scrutinised his escapades on their database.
“How sure are you that he’s our victim, Jack?”
“Ninety per cent, but we’ll need an ID off the next of kin. You ready?”
“Always.”
The night chill starting to bite, they paced down the street, dimly cast in an orange haze by the streetlamps, passing the line of flat-fronted, gardenless houses, and they were soon outside the Bolands’ residence.
All the lights on show inside were switched on. Shouting emanated from within. Striker knocked on the dark wooden door and glanced at Bardsley, who was frowning.
More raised voices, then the door opened. A scruffy-looking, mixed-race man with a pot-holed face and ample beer belly greeted them, along with a waft of stale booze.
“You cops?” His voice was gruff, weary.
Striker flashed his warrant card, as did Bardsley. “DI Striker and this is DC Bardsley. May we come in?”
“Where’s my son?”
“Are you Mr Bolands?”
“Yeah.”
“Can we talk inside?”
“Who-da-fuck-is-it-Dougie?” yelled a woman from inside, clearly Irish.
“It’s the police, so shut yer big gob will yer, woman?” Bolands senior nodded resignedly, turned and walked inside.
The detectives followed.
Chapter Eight
Davison recognised the staggering youth as Jamie Johnson, aka ‘Johnno’, one of the local Bad Bastard Bullsmead Boys, the four letter Bs on his knuckles confirming this. Johnson had blood oozing from a head wound and, for the first time since Dav
ison had known this character, he actually looked relieved to see the police, rather than him making off in the opposite direction, as per usual.
Rhys added intermittent growling to his frantic barking.
Johnson held both hands up to his eyes. “Stop shining… that thing… in me face…will yer, man?”
Davison dipped the powerful dragon lamp.
Bob the Dog pulled Rhys in close and gave the German Shepherd a reassuring pat on the back to appease him. “What happened to you then, lad?”
“The swings…” Johnson collapsed on a graffiti-stained park bench, just pointing, his eyes empty.
“He’s in shock, Ben.”
“And on something too, by the looks of it.”
Davison took a closer look at the head wound, using his Maglite this time. The laceration was surprisingly small, considering the blood loss and matted hair, but there was also clearly some swelling.
“Have your attackers gone, fella?”
Johnson just shrugged and stared at the floor. The two cops exchanged looks and headed for the play area, led by Rhys again.
Bob the Dog turned to Johnson briefly. “Stay on that bench, lad. We’ll sort you an ambulance.”
Davison was already onto it, depressing the transmission button on his radio and dipping his head slightly to the left toward the police radio clipped to his body armour. “Mo, one male, eighteen years, conscious and breathing, with a head wound. Ambulance to the park gates, please.”
“Okay. You alright there?”
“Yeah, but something’s clearly gone on and we’re still searching. Standby.”
Over the airwaves, brusquely: “DC Smith, comms. Talk-through with the officer in the park please.”
“Go ahead.”
Bob the Dog rolled his eyes at Davison.
“Update on those injuries. Are they serious?” It was the night DO.
Davison deeply inhaled the cold night air. “Negative. Small cut and slight swelling to head, and he’s upright and talking to us.”