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

by Col Bury

  “There were potentially about twelve people who saw the attack, and that’s excluding door-to-door results that, apart from the aforementioned witness, have so far proved negative. So today we need to vigorously go about our business and discover exactly who was present at the scene and what transpired.

  “The murder weapon appears to be a long thin object. TAG did conduct a negative search for it last night, but will be conducting a more comprehensive search in daylight this morning. Air support will be taking aerial shots of the scene so” – he turned to gesture at the drawing on the flip chart – “hopefully next time we’ll have a decent photo. And no, my six-year-old lad didn’t do this one. He’d have done a better job.”

  There was awkward laughter and grins all round, except for Cunningham, who looked like a headmistress with a grudge.

  “Back to business. All but two of the eight shops overlooking the incident were shut, so we still need to check to see if any had cameras left running overnight. There’s a pod set up at the scene that will obviously remain open, and leaflets appealing for witnesses are being printed as I speak. SOCO seized a few cigarette stubs and a beer bottle from the scene, but we’ve nothing back on them as yet. Any questions before I issue the initial actions?”

  The athletic-looking, short-haired DS Rebecca Grant raised a forefinger. Striker had worked in the gang unit a few years ago with the Jamaican, before she’d left for MIT. Many regarded Grant as an extremely competent officer, including Striker himself.

  “Becky?”

  “You mentioned a ‘tall burly man’ was seen fleeing the scene, so have we considered trawling Bolands’ crime queue for victims, in case it was a revenge attack?”

  “Good question, Becky. I have browsed through Bolands’ list of crimes and there are twenty-eight victims, another nine witnesses, as well as family members of the victims. Nothing obvious jumped out at me, but as we know there are no details of the victim’s appearance.” Striker thought for a moment. “Maybe contacting the officers in each case would have some mileage.”

  Grant nodded slowly.

  Striker saw Cunningham looking ready to pounce again. “Although I certainly won’t dismiss the revenge possibility, for the moment, I’d like to focus our attention on finding more witnesses and evidence from the incident itself and establishing Gasbo’s movements, any recent arguments, et cetera. I will add, however, that in all the gangland stuff I’ve dealt with before, knives, guns and even knuckle-dusters are the weapons of choice. Not ropes, thin metal poles or batons.”

  Cunningham pounced. “Ropes, Jack? I’ve already said that there are no obvious links between the two murders.”

  “Okay, slip of the tongue, Maria, but we do need to keep an open mind on that.”

  “And you mentioned ‘batons’. Why not baseball bats? They’re common in gang fights.”

  “Yes, Maria they are sometimes used, however, I’ve spoken to the pathologist, Sidney Mortham on the phone this morning and he reckons the marks represent something thinner, like a baton.”

  Yet another interruption from the DCI: “Oh? And did it not cross your mind to let me know of this?”

  “Well, you know now, Maria.” Striker saw one or two smirks in front of him, which counteracted Cunningham’s stony glare; Bardsley’s was the pick of the bunch and bordered on a grin.

  “Anyway, it’s not absolutely clear yet and it could still have been a metal bar.” He paused, glanced at Cunningham. “Or a thin baseball bat, perhaps. So let’s all keep an open mind and get our heads on.”

  Aware that another nearby hand was up, Grant quickly asked, “Would you like me to send an email to all the officers who’ve had dealings with Bolands?”

  “If you would, Becky, thanks. In fact send out a mass email to all officers, in case we miss someone.” Striker turned to another detective with his hand up. “Go on – Wayne, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Boss. Have CCTV checks been done at the garage? The pictures are pretty decent in there I believe.”

  “The night worker couldn’t operate the system, one of those multi-formats, and the manager’s not in till ten-thirty today, but I’ll sort that later.” He saw Cunningham motioning to speak again. What now? “Maria?”

  “Jack, I noticed there was absolutely no mention of your murder on the morning electronic briefing site. Why not?”

  Shit, he knew she’d put him on the spot. The fact he’d not finished till nearly four a.m. wouldn’t wash, as this should’ve been done.

  Think, Striker, think.

  “Since we’ve had very little to go on and all we have are dark figures fleeing the scene, I thought it best to clarify this with other potential witnesses, hopefully this morning, with a view to a more comprehensive entry for the afternoon EBS.”

  Cunningham gave an imperceptible nod, her unyielding face expressionless.

  Playing hard to get are we? thought Striker impishly, satisfied with his speed of thought under pressure.

  He soon began issuing the actions, allocating two DCs to do CCTV checks at all the shops. Another four were designated to check the movements of Gasbo’s main associates and another pair to conduct house-to-house enquiries along Bullsmead Road, Spinney Lane and Bradburn Street. All painstaking jobs that needed doing and he didn’t see anyone pulling their faces, which was good.

  As the buzz in the office grew louder, he overheard Becky Grant reallocating the email job to another DC. Delegation: one of the perks of being a supervisor. Lauren Collinge and Eric Bardsley were left gazing at Striker with ‘What about us?’ looks on their faces.

  Striker turned to his left and Cunningham was suddenly there, up close. It was quite a shock. “Maria?”

  “I want you to focus on the gangs, Jack. You’re obsessed with this ‘burly man’. There’s nothing to suggest he wasn’t just another gang member. How can your key witness say he was up to forty years old from him running off in the distance when it was dark?”

  “Well, I’ve not spoken to him yet, so I’d have to—”

  “WHAT?”

  “Eric had a quick word with him and I’ve been trying the witness’s mobile ever since.”

  “Let’s get this right. Half your briefing was based on flimsy evidence from a witness you’ve not even spoken to yet?”

  The DCI had a knack of making him, and he was sure others too, feel like a schoolchild. He assumed she must get off on it.

  Bardsley coughed. Cunningham chucked a dirty look at him, before returning her icy gaze to Striker.

  “You hardly touched on the gang issue. And, come to think of it, why didn’t you arrest those two Bullsmead Boys sitting on the wall, like I asked?”

  “They’ve been spoken to twice and they insist they were in the newsagents at the time of the attack. I can check this when I speak to the shop owner, then arrest them if necessary.”

  The DCI scoffed. “After they’ve got their heads together and their stories straight? When were you going to inform me of all this?”

  “Look, if they’d been offenders, then why didn’t they run off, instead of awaiting our arrival? Just like Johnson at the park murder?”

  Cunningham ignored the questions. “Mr Brennan won’t be at all impressed with this. I want to know every single name of these gang members and I want those two boys arrested. The press are already sniffing and I want something solid for Mr Brennan. Do you hear me?”

  From what I’ve heard, Mr Brennan usually has ‘something solid’ for you, Maria. “Loud and clear, Maria… and so do I. Though getting all twelve of the names is a little unrealistic. You know all about the wall of silence within the community.”

  “I want the names, Jack.” The DCI turned abruptly, headed for the door.

  Striker noticed half the room had stopped what they were doing. Great. That’s just bloody great for morale, that is. Striker approached Bardsley and Collinge.

  Bardsley whispered, “Don’t let that tart bother you, Boss. She’s bleedin’ clueless.”

  “Get your co
ats,” said Striker tersely. “You two are coming with me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I still can’t see why I have to trawl the CCTV, Boss,” moaned Bardsley, as Collinge pulled the unmarked Vauxhall Astra onto Bullsmead Road. The traffic was heavier than normal, due to the crime scene further up the road.

  Striker turned from the front passenger seat. “Look, Eric. I want to ensure nothing is missed and I know I can rely on you to check it thoroughly.” He gave the DC a little wink with the compliment.

  “Okay, okay. You know I’m a sucker for flattery. Believe me, I don’t get much. Just ask the missus. Anyway, I still reckon if I had an arse as good as Lauren’s, I’d not only be in the front, but I’d be coming with you too.”

  Striker saw Collinge half-smiling, shaking her head, before he pivoted and said, “Now that’s unacceptable. No more. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s just banter.”

  “Be careful. I’m getting…”

  Collinge interjected, “It’s alright, Boss. I can take it.”

  Bardsley raised his eyebrows. “Really? That sounds promising.”

  Striker frowned. “You’re not in the damn pub with the lads now, Eric. Show a bit more respect or we’ll make this official.”

  “Okay, okay. Point taken.”

  “Drop him here, Lauren.”

  Collinge pulled the Astra onto the petrol station forecourt, the crime scene in view fifty metres away, and Bardsley was soon heading for the entrance.

  As the Astra pulled away, Striker said softly, “I’m sorry about that, Lauren. He’s been like that since he joined. He’s harmless, but God only knows how he’s still a cop.”

  “Really, it’s not a problem. I’ve heard it all before and I’m genuinely not offended. Like he said, ‘it’s just banter’.”

  Striker wasn’t convinced, though admired the fact she wasn’t kicking up a fuss. “Alright, before we go to Moss Range, let’s just try the newsagents.” He was mindful Mr Khan still hadn’t answered his mobile.

  En route a few minutes later, Blue Moon chimed on Striker’s mobile and before answering, he saw that it was Bardsley. He was probably calling to apologise, having thought about his comments. This was typical of the DC – speak first, think later.

  “Bad news, Jack. The manager’s phoned in sick.”

  ***

  “What do you mean he’s gone to Pakistan?” Aware of Collinge shaking her head beside him, Striker looked at Mrs Khan incredulously. His edginess, brought on by stirred-up memories from his wrestling match with an armed robber in this very shop years ago, were instantly quelled by this revelation.

  In broken English, with a strong Pakistani accent, Mrs Khan explained calmly. “We’ve had very many problems with boys around here. Breaking windows, writing in paint on walls, racist shouts…” She dipped her head. “Khalid been very, very down in his mind and he just wanted break.”

  Striker’s annoyance was tempered by concern for the woman. “Have you reported this?” he asked, wondering why a grown man had deserted his family in their hour of need. Another question arose too: Had Striker himself done the same with his own family? He quickly refocused on Mrs Khan.

  “We did report early in year, but boys saw police car outside and painted ‘grass’ on side of shop. Khalid think about shutting shop forever. We live very, very scared, Inspector.”

  Striker reassured her that they were in an unmarked car, so nobody would know they’d been, and also that he’d speak with the uniform inspector for this neighbourhood. He switched back to his agenda. “When will Khalid be home?”

  “Two weeks.”

  Great.

  Collinge asked, “Can you give us a telephone number to contact him?”

  “No, I’m sorry, but he said he will call to check on me and my sons in few days, so I will tell him then to call you.”

  Striker left her his card and stressed the importance of speaking to her husband as soon as possible. Before leaving, he bought a pack of Silk Cut and a cheap disposable lighter, and Collinge looked at him disapprovingly.

  As they returned to the car she said, “They’ll kill you, Boss.”

  “So will Cunningham when she hears about Khan.”

  Collinge fired up the Astra. “I take it we’re picking Eric up now?”

  “Yeah, then over to the Moss to see if any gang members are hanging out.”

  ***

  Striker and his two detectives had cruised around Moss Range scanning for gang members to quiz, but they’d been sparse to say the least. With it still being morning, most would be ‘chilling’ indoors, smoking a spliff or two; some were probably still in bed, as they ‘worked’ at night, preferring the shadows.

  Mugging the local students was an ongoing battle that officers in the Robbery Unit, another of Striker’s old haunts, were finding increasingly difficult to win. Regular inputs were given by well-meaning officers to each new batch of freshers who came to the trendy city of Manchester at the start of term with Daddy’s credit card in their back pockets. Despite the stark warnings, once they were into the swing of the buzzing nightlife, and a few drinks had been mixed into the equation, their inhibitions and memories, it seemed, deserted them. Many would become yet another depressing stat for the chief super’ to choke on, while scoffing his scones and supping his tea in those high-powered meetings.

  Manchester’s two universities would take ten thousand plus students at any one time and nearly fifty per cent would experience a robbery. Whether they themselves were the victim or witness was more down to chance than good judgement on their part.

  The robbers hunted in packs, many in groups on BMX or mountain bikes, dressed in black, hoods up, approaching from behind, the threat of weapons usually deterring the odd brave victim. Others would skulk in the shadows, as word spread of how easy it was to make a decent living preying on the vulnerable. They would wait to pounce on the unsuspecting and engage them in conversation with the opening gambit of, “Have you gotta light, mate?” or “Give us a cig, man,” to test the water. Before the victim knew what was going on, they’d be surrounded, having their pockets frisked. Ironically, increased stop-and-search powers had allowed cops to return the act by rooting through these dodgy characters’ pockets, sometimes retrieving stolen items. Alas, not nearly often enough.

  The rise of the smartphone had been a drain on resources, since it offered such easy pickings, whereby the robbers simply would cruise the streets on their bikes until they saw an unsuspecting student on their phone and then snatch it from their grasp. Five of these a day and you had a business, especially if you knew a dodgy techie guy who could unblock the phone. The cops secretly wished that the mobile phone owners were half as ‘smart’ as their phones.

  The odd robber would be caught; nonetheless, for every detection for the crime of robbery, both the cops and the perpetrators knew that umpteen robberies would go undetected. The prisons were full and the magistrates and judges had their metaphorical hands tied tightly behind their backs, resulting in inadequate sentencing. Often the defendant would walk free under some kind of supervision order or probation, which simply didn’t protect the public like prison did. So the bad boys knew that making a good few hundred quid before being caught, and slightly inconvenienced, was worth the risk. After all, though the stats sometimes lied, the facts didn’t. Along with these robberies, the burglaries of student houses – where laptops and iPhones aplenty were stolen – were draining the force immeasurably.

  Jobbing drug addicts apart, these perpetrators were usually small fry, the runners who’d give large cuts of their profits to the main gang members. The latter would be behind many a business robbery, which was obviously where the bigger money was. The targeting of a carefully selected residential property was also an option, yet rarely would the main men take the risk of actually committing the act themselves. They were too busy counting the proceeds from these crimes, plus their lucrative protection rackets, drugs and arms dealing.

&n
bsp; Striker’s days in the robbery and gang units had provided a few notable successes, but it had been a tough old battle. For every criminal they’d put away, such was the state of today’s society, two more would inevitably take their places.

  The Astra drifted along the heavily residential Upper Moss Road and Striker pointed a finger, prompting Collinge to take a sharp right onto Barkwood Road.

  “Seen someone, Boss?” asked Bardsley from the rear.

  “Yeah… Pull up now.” Collinge hit the brakes and the tyres squeaked on the dry tarmac created by a rare sunny day. Striker threw the front passenger door open, causing a gangly black youth in baggy clothes to wince, then raise his arms protectively.

  “Jerome, get in.”

  “Fuck that, man.” Jerome Jackson casually strolled off.

  “Get in or you’re locked up.”

  “What for, man?” He clicked his tongue on his teeth with a hiss, in what Striker knew was a gesture of disdain.

  “How about sus’ murder?”

  Jerome stopped on the spot. “Bollocks.”

  “Get in. Now.” Bardsley opened the rear door.

  Jerome looked around with shifty eyes, then climbed in through the back door. They drove for a few seconds in silence, until they reached a disused bowling green at the bottom of the road. Gravel crunched under the tyres and Collinge parked up behind the decrepit clubhouse.

  “Where were you last night?” asked Striker, spotting swelling to the youth’s right cheekbone. He wondered whether it was a result of trying to intervene in last night’s attack.

  “Rah, you’re not pinning that shit on me, man.”

  “What shit? I only asked where you were.”

  “You know, that boy being battered good style, innit.”

  “Nothing’s been on the news yet,” Striker lied, trying to catch him out, “so how the hell do you know? And where did you get that injury from on your cheek?”

  Silence.