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

by Col Bury

  “Okay. Keep me updated. Thanks, comms.”

  “They never trust us, do they Ben? Had it all my career. As soon as they ditch the uniform they become arrogant, interfering buggers, teaching us to suck eggs.”

  “S’alright. He’s just doing his job, mate. I’m not arsed, really. Come on.” Davison’s cynicism hadn’t yet reached the levels of ‘old sweats’ like Bob, though he knew that time would come eventually. His tutor constable warned him that years as a cop changed you irrevocably.

  Reverting to the dragon lamp, they headed toward the play area. Rhys was sniffing the floor as though following a track. Davison shined the lamp, the shapes of the roundabout, climbing frame and see-saw, shadowing and shifting as they closed in. He could just about see the swings at the far end beyond the climbing frame. Five of them dangled from the horizontal bar above, swaying slightly in the wind. Woodchip crunched and squelched underfoot, some pieces dry, some wet, as they moved through the open metal gate into the play area.

  Davison soon realised only four swings dangled and the lamp’s beam lit up the fifth shape, twenty metres away. Rhys’s barking intensified. Davison’s heart nearly stopped at the sight before them.

  A body hung there in the night, swaying and twisting ever so slightly, between the swings. Bulging eyes stared blankly at them, a bloated half-beaten face, pallid in the moonlight. The dead youth’s tongue was protruding, as if to mock them.

  The two officers gazed, momentarily mesmerised, Rhys straining on the leash, going berserk.

  Davison hadn’t seen anybody hanged before and obviously felt deeply saddened by the sight of the swinging youth. But, hey, he thought, both bizarrely and selfishly, and with more than a tinge of guilt, at least my action plan for searching could be signed up and supervision would be off my back.

  He heard a noise behind him, glanced round and shone the torch to check on Johnson.

  Shit – Johnson! He was now a potential murder suspect!

  The park bench was empty.

  ***

  Striker glanced at Bardsley as they entered the living room and wasn’t surprised to see the DC rubbing his nose. They were greeted by an unpleasant concoction of sweat, stale alcohol and cannabis, topped with a hint of piss. Three bedraggled-looking blokes with flushed faces and baggy eyes, and donning sheepish looks, were squashed onto an equally scruffy sofa that Bullsmead tip wouldn’t even accept.

  Dougie Bolands stood to Striker’s left and the loud drunken woman, who took size zero to another level, was belatedly clearing up the empty cans from the coffee table, popping them into a black bin liner. Striker noticed spliff-ends in an overflowing ashtray, but he ignored them, concentrating on the matter at hand.

  “So-what-er-yer-here-for-officers?” The woman’s voice was like runaway train, strong Irish lilt, in all likelihood a gypsy or, as the Job insisted you call them, ‘a traveller’.

  “Are you Gareth Bolands’ mother?”

  “Yeah-dat’s-me-alright. Daisy O’Reilly. You-found-ma-Gareth -yet?”

  Striker glanced at the three stooges on the settee, all avoiding eye contact.

  “Can we speak in private?”

  “Nah. We-speak-ere. A-don’t-hide-anytin-from-ma-bruvvers.”

  “What’s goin’ on, Inspector?” Dougie Bolands sounded rightly concerned.

  There was only one way to do this: straight to the point. “There’s been a serious incident on Bullsmead Road, near the shops. A young man, fitting the description of Gareth…”

  “What-da-fuck’s-happened-to-ma-Gareth? Don’t-ya-come-in-ma-home-an…”

  Bardsley interjected. “Miss O’Reilly, please. Let the inspector finish.” She picked up the ashtray and emptied it into the bin liner, a puff of ash drifting onto her wrinkly, flowery dress, the waft of stale cigarettes invading the detectives’ noses further.

  Striker continued, “Bad news. There’s a young man at the MRI morgue, who I need one of you to identify. I’m really sorry, but we think it might be Gareth.”

  “Oh-no-be-Jesus!” Daisy O’Reilly collapsed and the ashtray clattered onto the laminate flooring. Her brothers assisted and comforted her in a cacophony of Irish slang, Daisy’s wailing deafening.

  Striker turned to the most sober of a drunken bunch. “Mr Bolands, would you kindly accompany us to the hospital?”

  Bolands brushed a chubby hand through his short, greying afro, nodded and grabbed his coat from a hook in the hall as they left. Once outside, Striker checked his muted mobile and saw that he’d missed three calls from DCI Maria Cunningham.

  “Eric, could you take Mr Bolands? I’ve just gotta make a call. I’ll follow you up.” He took his work mobile from his jacket pocket.

  Striker left the haunting screams of Daisy O’Reilly, so loud that the lights of neighbouring houses came on, and he dialled as he walked back to his car.

  “Maria, you want me for something?”

  “Yes I do. Where’ve you been?”

  “Just been telling Bolands’ parents their son might be dead… that’s all.”

  “The attack at McDonald’s isn’t connected.”

  “I know.”

  “But it still looks like a gangland feud. There’s another body. This time in Bullsmead Park.”

  Shit. “I’m just off to the morgue, but I’ll be straight there when…”

  “No you won’t. I’ve made the decision to call out Syndicate Two for this one. That’s why I’ve been trying to phone you, so you didn’t go when you heard. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  It just had to be DI Vinnie Stockley’s lot. “But why? I can handle it.”

  “Cross contamination, of course, Inspector. You’ve been to the other scene and so have your team. Anyway, we’ll speak tomorrow.”

  “Don’t give me that, Maria. We both know there are ways round that. I don’t have to enter the scene. I can even shower and change at the nick before Stockley rounds his troops together. Come on. If it’s linked, I wanna know now. Like you said earlier, ‘it’s my case’. So why call out Stockley and his team?”

  “I’ve just told you, and plus, it will give us a fresh perspective. Anyway, you’ve been on all day and you’ve enough on your plate with the first murder. The decision’s been made, Striker. Like I said, we’ll speak tomorrow.” Cunningham ended the call.

  He’d heard Stockley was in MIT and knew it was inevitable their paths would cross again… since…

  He pictured Stockley years ago, before Striker had joined the force. The tall, bespectacled constable who’d called at his house when Striker’s teenage antics had gone a little too far. But he tried not to think about that too much. He’d seen Stockley again, several years later, when they’d both been sitting their sergeant’s exam at Sedgley Park, and there had been a moment’s recognition. Striker had caught Stockley staring a few times throughout that day and they both knew where they’d last seen each other, all those years ago. There had been minimal encounters since, but Striker always felt Stockley harboured a grudge against him, stemming from that very first time when Striker had somehow wriggled from his grasp.

  He’d known this time would come and felt rather vulnerable, that his past could finally catch up with him. He didn’t like the feeling one bit. He also knew that Stockley was close to Maria Cunningham, enhancing his wariness of them both.

  As Bardsley was just about to get into his Astra with Bolands senior, Striker shouted, “Eric, give me a cig, will you?”

  Chapter Nine

  PC Ben Davison’s shock at seeing the hanging body was diluted somewhat because the park bench was empty. He ran past it in search of Johnson, knowing he’d definitely be late off now and the Lakes trip with Louise tomorrow would most probably have to be cancelled. There was a perverse relief in that he’d finally buried the nagging searching issue which had blighted his probationary period. However, if anything had happened to the injured witness he’d have some serious explaining to do. Found one, lost one, back to square one.

  Having left Bob the Dog
and Rhys preserving the crime scene, he’d called for back-up. He headed for the park gates, his Maglite frantically scanning the gloom of the park. Aided by the dropping temperature, a shiver crawled up his spine to prickle his neck and scalp, as the image of the hanging lad’s bloated features pervaded.

  He soon spotted the bright lights of the ambulance at the park’s entrance, ricocheting off the house windows beyond, and relief flooded him when he saw a paramedic tending to Johnson at the rear of the vehicle. The medic was about to start wiping away the blood from Johnson’s head.

  Acting on instinct, Davison began sprinting and shouted, “Hang on… a minute… please.”

  The medic, in his green uniform, froze, looked up.

  Davison stopped at the park gates to catch his breath. “We’ll be needing… swabs… before you treat him. Give me… a minute.”

  He’d already alerted Mo at comms and asked for CID, SOCO and supervision to be made aware, but he’d not informed them he’d nearly lost the witness. Or was Johnson the murderer? He knew all eyes would be reading the computerised log over the coming days and once an entry was put on the log, it was basically cast in stone, hence his reticence over the air.

  He made a radio transmission. “One treble-eight six, comms…”

  “Go ahead, Ben.”

  “Mo, any ETA for SOCO?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Received, thanks.” He turned to the medic and Johnson. “Obviously if you feel it’s imperative to treat him now, I can’t stop you, but I’d prefer it if you just sat him down and waited, so we can take swabs and maybe even photos first. And we’ll probably need those surgical gloves you’re wearing too.”

  The medic nodded and led the still groggy-looking Johnson inside the rear of the ambulance.

  Davison was pleased to see a police van turn up as requested, and two sombre-faced officers he didn’t recognize exited. One was a plain-looking white woman about thirty, with her blonde hair up in a bun and no hat on. The other was a much younger, slightly overweight Chinese bloke with an acne problem. They were reinforcements from the neighbouring A Division and their presence was clearly of a begrudging nature.

  “Okay, so where do you want us?” asked the female cop, now holding a scene log and a roll of police scene tape, face like a smacked arse.

  “If you could follow me and your colleague stays with this… er, witness.” Davison paced toward them, away from the ambulance, his voice hushed. “He still could be a potential murder suspect, but I doubt it as he’s made no attempt to escape.”

  The Chinese cop suddenly looked a little more interested and he unconsciously dropped a hand to caress his cuffs on the right of his utility belt.

  The sulkier cop said in a hollow Geordie accent, “Okay, let’s go then.” She glanced down at her wristwatch. “Am supposed to be off duty in half an hour, like.”

  And I was supposed to be proposing to my girlfriend tomorrow, but we’ve a job to do so show some interest, will you?

  Five minutes later and the play area of the park was cordoned off with long strands of police tape, juddering spasmodically in the wind. Davison was protecting the scene at the entrance to the play area, while the female A Division officer was virtually out of sight on the far side, nearer to the hanging body. It was her choice, since she wanted a “sly ciggie”, the red end lighting up intermittently in the distance. Bob the Dog and Rhys were still patrolling the scene, protecting the perimeter, even though no one else was around at this late hour.

  Davison’s radio burst into life as a female CSI arrived, and he knew she’d be doing her bit regarding Johnson before the medic tended to the wound. Surprisingly, the young Chinese officer emerged behind a torch beam. He still donned a half-hearted look, his voice abrupt.

  “Right then, where do you want me now?”

  Davison was speechless and saw Bob the Dog passing, on yet another circuit of the scene.

  “We want you with the bloody murder suspect, lad! The SOCO girl can’t be expected to restrain him ya idiot,” said Bob incredulously.

  The light bulb above the officer’s head was virtually visible, and he promptly swivelled and jogged back to the ambulance.

  Bob shook his head, disappearing into the night, on another wander around the scene. Davison had sporadic chats with the dogman each time he passed, informing him of the A Division officers’ reluctance to be there, as well as resignedly whinging about cancelling his Lake District trip.

  Davison noticed a couple of approaching suits. He strained his eyes, trying to recognise them. As they got closer, he saw they were wearing the customary white over-shoes and the smaller of the two carried a torch, its beam haphazardly cutting through the gloom like a lightsabre.

  “Right, what have we got?” asked an important-looking bespectacled chap with a pointy nose. Davison vaguely recognised him, but wasn’t sure who he was.

  “Er… Could you clarify who you are, please?” For the first time tonight, Davison noticed his breath was visible as he spoke and wished he’d put his GMP-issue fleece on underneath his jacket.

  The man bounced looks with an almost cardboard cut-out of himself beside him, albeit a younger version with rounded glasses. Throwing Davison an icy glare, the older one fumbled in his pocket, then flashed a warrant card for a split second. “DI Stockley, MIT, and this is DC Barron. Now, you gonna tell me what we’ve got here, or what?”

  “Oh, er, sorry, sir. It’s a dead lad… a hanging.” He shined his torch at the dangling body twenty metres away.

  “Yes, I know that, constable. That’s why I’m here. I do have a radio, you know. Evidence-wise, I meant.” He rolled his eyes at DC Barron, who smirked.

  Davison always felt a little uneasy when speaking with suits, especially bosses, but this guy was a knob. “Oh, right, there’s a potential witness being treated in the ambulance, you probably just passed him, sir.”

  “We’ll need a statement off him then. Anything else found? Scene preserved? Incident log started?”

  “No weapons or anything’s been found. And, yes, we’ve cordoned the area off and a scene log has…”

  Stockley brushed past Davison, cutting his sentence short, and lifted the taped cordon before heading into the scene saying, “Don’t go off duty till I say so, and make sure you’ve done a statement. Now, put your hat on, Constable, there’s a good lad.”

  Davison cursed to himself and did as he was told, despite no members of the public being present and it not really mattering. He raised his jacket collars around his neck to ward off the night chill, then heard footsteps and the hum of voices as someone else approached. He recognized these two suits from the other crime scene earlier. He’d briefly interacted with them on various works dos and these two seemed decent enough blokes. It was DI Jack Striker and that old Scouser whose name escaped him.

  “Hi Ben. You okay, fella?”

  Davison fleetingly considered telling the DI that he had been until that power junkie Stockley had arrived, though decided against it.

  “Fine thanks, sir. DI Stockley’s over there, with the deceased.” Davison again shined his Maglite toward the scene and Striker’s face stiffened.

  “Looks like you’ve done a good job, finding and preserving this scene in quick time. Believe you’ve got a witness too. I’m impressed, Ben. I’ll be speaking to Paul Roache about this.”

  Davison felt uplifted. “Thank you, sir.”

  Striker regarded the PC, then the crime scene. “What time you supposed to be off duty?”

  Davison withdrew his smartphone and checked the time, the screen lighting up his face momentarily. “Er, about two hours ago.”

  “I’ll see if I can get you relieved by the night shift, when I get a minute.” Striker gave a subtle nod and headed along the left side of the flapping police tape.

  “Cheers, sir.”

  “Well done, fella,” said Bardsley, as he passed the probationer and followed Striker parallel to the low perimeter fence of the play area, both mindful
that they’d entered the previous scene on Bullsmead Road earlier.

  Ten seconds later, about five metres from the swings, Bardsley withdrew a small torch, alerting Stockley to their presence by shining it his way, the beam briefly reflecting off his and Barron’s glasses as the detectives turned.

  “What are you doing here, Striker?” Stockley pinched his lips and glared from the other side of the low fence separating the field and the children’s play area.

  Striker took a deep inhalation on seeing the silhouette of the hanging body shifting slightly in the wind. He swiftly composed himself. “Just back from the morgue and wanted to see if this was linked to my case.”

  “Don’t enter this scene or you’ll mess up my enquiry before it’s begun.”

  “For God’s sake, Vinnie, I know that.” He considered asking why his colleagues were only wearing overshoes and not full protective suits, but decided against it.

  “Anyway, it’s too early to tell if there’s a link, though I doubt it. Yours was beaten and, as you can see by the rope around his neck, Striker, this lad has been hanged.”

  “Cut the sarcasm. We’re supposed to be on the same team, aren’t we?” Striker spotted a female constable on the far side of the cordon, and within earshot, so lowered his voice. “You need a hand with anything, Vinnie, like cutting the body down? You’ll need a ladder by the looks of it.”

  “I know! There’s one on the way with CSI. And no – you’re not supposed to be here. Maria’s already told you that.”

  “Oh, been having a nice little chat with her have we? Surprise, surprise.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You know there’s a school behind you, don’t you? Wouldn’t want the local infants seeing this, would we?”

  “Of course, I know that. He’ll be down before dawn, once we get a stepladder and Mortham arrives. And if he’s not, we’ll just close the school, okay?”

  Bardsley coughed for attention, shining his torch at the hanging body and then the nearby climbing frame. “With respect, Boss, we just wanted to see if it was linked to ours and backed up the gangland theory. I see the Moss Range Crew have been here.” Bardsley’s torch lit up ‘MRC’ in yellow on the side of the climbing frame. “Is that still wet?”