by Col Bury
“Jerome. Time to talk, and we’ll consider not arresting you.”
“Just the word on the street, innit.”
“Specifics, Jerome.”
“Fuck that, man. I’d rather do time than give you ‘specifics’. At least I won’t get smoked.”
“So you do know something?”
“All I know, right, is that everyone’s talking about it, like gossiping, ’cos word gets about, dunnit? No one knows what happened though, honest man.”
“Who’s said what?”
“Loadsa people. Torture me if yer wanna, but am not naming names.”
Bardsley edged closer and, looking sheepish, Jerome sidled nearer the door.
Striker snickered. “You’ve been watching too much TV, Jerome. I wouldn’t do that to you, fella. But I can’t speak for my friend beside you.”
Jerome glanced at Bardsley, who eyed him and inched closer still.
Striker continued, “We’ll let you go if you tell me why members of your crew were meeting up with the Bullsmead Boys.”
Jerome looked down, then out of the window, warily. “If I tell you, I’m free to go, right?”
“Of course. I’m a man of my word.”
“Remember Meat Balls getting smoked?”
Striker nodded, recalling the shooting of the city centre bouncer earlier in the year. A power struggle over who ran the lucrative nightclub doors, he recalled.
“A few lads went up there to chat about joining forces, to take on the Salford lot.”
Striker was surprised. The two gangs on his patch had been shooting each other up for years, so this was unprecedented. “Okay. Do one.”
Bardsley looked disappointed and Jerome couldn’t believe his luck. The gang member promptly ‘did one’, with a slam of the rear door.
“Boss, he knew something. Why leave it at that?”
“It’s not enough, Eric. I just wanted to test the water. Let them know we’re sniffing. Try and ease the risk of tit-for-tat killings and buy some time. But I’ve got what I wanted from him. Anyhow, I need to speak with someone else before getting too heavy. Drive, Lauren.”
“Where to, Boss?”
“Stoker Avenue. I’m gonna pay my big sis an overdue visit.”
Collinge raised her eyebrows as she spun the Astra round, the tyres crunching again. “Why?”
Striker brushed a hand through his hair, wondering whether his only sibling Lucy would still blame him for their dad’s death. Taking a deep breath, he answered Collinge’s question, “Because my nephew Deano knows a lot of these gang pricks… unfortunately.”
Chapter Twelve
“Pull up round the corner, Lauren,” said Striker, as they passed Lucy Striker’s semi-detached council house. The streets in this part of town were narrow, almost claustrophobic. The houses were a mixture of housing association, council and privately owned – beige brick and box-like.
When the Astra eased to a halt, Striker got out and leaned through the window. “Give me ten minutes. I’ve not been here for a while, so I’m not sure what sort of reception I’ll get. In the meantime, Eric, could you call the garage to see if you can get in touch with this supposedly sick manager, so we can take a look at the CCTV?”
Striker paced toward sixteen Stoker Avenue, surprised at how apprehensive he felt. The last time he’d called it hadn’t gone at all well. He’d noticed the front door ajar, so let himself in, catching her with heroin paraphernalia scattered on the coffee table. He and Lucy had argued vehemently; she’d even blamed his teenage antics for contributing to their dad’s death. This had cut Striker deep.
Old emotions flooded back as he reached the somewhat rickety gate. He pictured his beautiful sister of years ago – her tousles of strawberry blonde curls flowing past her shoulders, that stunning smile and perfect facial structure, their holidays with mum and dad: North Wales, Blackpool and the Lake District…
He thought of his dad, Harry Striker, a strict but fair man who loved the police and watched all the cop shows on TV. Harry had even tried to join the police force before Striker was born. From what Striker’s mum Vera had told him, Harry had passed all the aptitude tests and the physical, only to fail on the medical because he was damn colour-blind, which seemed harsh. Predictably, when Jack Striker the teenager had become embroiled with the wrong crowd and had brought the police to Harry’s door, it was the beginning of the end of their relationship.
Young PC Vinnie Stockley had attended the Striker family home to interview Jack about the shooting of one of his mates, Lenny Powers in the multi-storey car park of Moss Range shopping precinct. Harry was understandably fuming. Once Stockley left, a row exploded and Jack stormed out. The last words Harry Striker had said to his son were: “Good bloody riddance. Now go and make something of your life!” Not long afterward, Harry Striker suffered a mild heart-attack and his health became fragile thereon.
Jack sought solace with childhood sweetheart Suzi Staunton, who’d provided an alibi for him regarding his suspected presence at the multi-storey incident. He owed a lot to Suzi – a hell of a lot. Not only had she lied to the police for him, and probably kept him out of prison, which would have obviously thwarted any chance of his current career, she’d also mothered their two beautiful children.
Once the dust had settled on the Lenny incident, their relationship had blossomed and they had bought a flat together in Eccles, where Suzi was a trainee solicitor. Despite Jack being as stubborn as his old man, in that neither would speak to each other – much to the dismay of perennial peacekeepers Vera Striker and Suzi – he was still determined to prove his worth to his dad. After numerous menial jobs – from window cleaner to shelf stacker to van driver to handyman – Jack finally applied for the police.
The day he passed the final interview, he knew that he now had something worthwhile to say to Harry. Though, as fate would have it, he found his dad collapsed on the kitchen floor of the family home. Jack’s attempts at resuscitation were unsuccessful and, sobbing his heart out, he hugged his dead dad while clutching the tear-soaked acceptance letter from the police.
Young Jack used to call Lucy “Little Miss Perfect”. She was certainly a daddy’s girl. Unlike Jack, Lucy couldn’t do any wrong. It was strange how things had changed. If Harry could see his “Little Princess” now, he’d turn in his grave. She was shacked up with his old mate DJ. And Striker knew all about him. Problem was, he knew all about Striker.
He knocked on the door, his mind flicking back again to the last time he’d seen Lucy. The shock at seeing her, the day her drug habit had graduated from suspicion on his part to confirmation, had hit him harder than a Mike Tyson punch. And now, he felt that punch again as he gazed in disbelief at the woman in the doorway before him.
Initially, he doubted it was her until the hair gave it away, despite having lost its vibrancy. To say Lucy looked gaunt would be kind. Her stunning features had been reduced to a look of near skeletal proportions. Dark bags under bloodshot eyes contrasted against a pallid complexion, scattered with pink blemishes. She must have weighed seven stone wet through. Those blue eyes they shared had lost much of their vividness.
“Jack, what do you want?”
“Charming. It’s nice to see you too, Lucy.”
“Nah… it’s just, I wasn’t expecting you.” Striker also noticed her voice was slower, with a monotone aloofness.
He saw a couple of youths wearing dark hoodies stroll past, giving him the eye. “Can I come in for a chat?”
“Er… yeah, gimme a minute.” With that, she closed the door on him and it didn’t take a detective to ascertain what she was doing.
The ‘minute’ was more like five when Lucy eventually returned and ‘welcomed’ her brother inside. In the hallway, Striker immediately caught the unmistakable whiff of cannabis but ignored it. He was here for more pressing matters.
The décor was basically laminate flooring and beige walls, but what caught his eye was the enormous plasma telly in the far corner of the living roo
m.
“Take a seat, Jack.” He did, on a brown leather sofa that had seen better days. “Do you wanna brew?”
After a quick scan, he clocked the general mess, consisting of damp running down a wall, dirty clothes strewn across a chair, an ashtray full of cigarette butts and a floor that hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting a brush. He declined his sister’s offer, albeit with a touch of guilt. Her house reflected her priorities, and drug addiction beat cleanliness every time.
She went into the small kitchen to the rear, clinking crockery. She was still half in view through the open door.
“Nice telly.”
“Oh yeah, DJ’s made a few quid recently…” The sentence tailed off, as if she regretted telling her brother even that much.
He leaned back on the sofa to see her. “Is DJ not in?”
She was making herself a brew, not looking his way. “No, he’s… just nipped out. Anyway, what brings you round here?”
“Wanted to see how my big sis was.”
“That’s not why you came, but I’m fine. Yeah… am fine. Why are you really here?”
“Well, there’s no point in lying. I was hoping to speak with Deano.”
“What about?” She rather noisily stirred her beverage and plonked the spoon into the sink and finally entered the living room, sitting to his right on a cream leather chair that didn’t match the sofa.
“Just wanted an off the record chat, to see if he’d heard anything on the street about recent events.” The lack of eye contact perturbed him, Lucy preferring to stare at what smelled like coffee in the mug she clutched with both hands.
“Events?”
“Is he in?”
“What events?” She finally looked up at him.
“You must’ve seen the news, Lucy.” The local media had reported the two attacks, but were purely speculating, since GMP hadn’t put out an official press release yet.
“Nah, I don’t watch the telly much.”
Striker glanced at the huge TV, but he actually believed her, as she obviously had other things on her mind. “There seems to be a dispute between the gangs that’s getting out of hand and I—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” She scowled and held up a spindly forefinger. “That’s my bleedin’ son, and even if he did know summat, I don’t want my windows put through, or worse.”
Striker sighed. “Where is Deano?”
“He’s out.” Her interest in the coffee resumed.
“Where?”
“Dunno.”
“Come on, Lucy. There’s two dead lads and, to be honest, we’re struggling a bit. No one needs to know. It’s off the record. Where is he?”
“Look, he’s gone out with a few of the lads. I don’t know where though, I swear.”
“Who’s he with?”
“Dodger and them lot.”
Great. Roger Pennington, aka Roger the Dodger, had a reputation of dodging not only bullets, but also the cops. He was suspected of being part of the Moss Range Crew and had been linked to several shootings and serious assaults on their Bullsmead rivals. None of which had yet been proven.
“Okay, thanks. If I leave my number, will you ask him to give me a bell?” He passed her his card.
She didn’t take it, eyeing him instead. “I really don’t know if I can do that.”
“If you can help, I’ll be discreet I promise. You may be saving someone’s life.” He placed the card on a grubby-looking coffee table and bid Lucy farewell, glad the subject of their dad hadn’t cropped up this time.
***
Having had no joy engaging any more gang members, nor with speaking to his nephew, Striker had reluctantly told Collinge to head back to the nick. He faced a midday meeting with Det Supt Brennan, DCI Cunningham and DI Stockley.
Brennan was the senior investigating officer, or SIO, to both inquiries. Normally, Detective Chief Superintendent Halt – the man who had asked Striker to apply for MIT – would be the SIO, but he was sunning himself on a Mediterranean cruise. Stockley would have the nugget of that Johnno character, from the second murder in Moss Range Park, as a positive lead, which would undoubtedly impress Brennan, whereas Striker had virtually nothing positive to contribute.
Bardsley had repeatedly called the petrol station, but getting hold of the manager was proving just as hard as newsagent Khalid Khan.
“You two may as well get some refs,” said Striker resignedly, when they entered the hubbub of the canteen, where he grabbed a quick coffee from the vending machine. “Then chase up that CCTV. We really do need to view it, even if it means picking up the sick manager from his home and taking him to the petrol station.”
After the meeting, he’d try again to track down Deano to see what he’d heard on the street, if anything.
He gave the details of the Bolands murder to the Operational Policing Unit so they could put it on the electronic briefing site, where it would be viewed by the afternoon shift onward. Then he nipped out to the back of the station for a quick fag, searching his mind frantically for something poignant to offer the brass. He stubbed out the cigarette, still having thought of nothing.
Chapter Thirteen
DI Vinnie Stockley was sitting outside Brennan’s office, looking suave in his shiny grey Armani suit. Striker caught an unmistakable whiff of Brylcreem and saw that Stockley had flattened the usual quiff on his high fringe. Stockley was always messing about with the wispy quiff and Striker wondered why he just didn’t accept his baldness and get rid. He smiled inwardly, recalling something Bardsley had said about fringes at the back of the head coming back into fashion. He sat beside his colleague on the basic tweed two-seater, while mirroring the half-hearted nod Stockley had offered.
“Vinnie.”
“Jack.” Stockley avoided eye contact, preferring to look at a portrait of the Queen on the wall opposite, while thoughtfully rubbing a finger on the side of his pointed nose.
“What’s your gut feeling on the park case now? Any links with mine?” asked Striker.
“I’ll tell you more when Brennan’s ready, but suffice to say, there’s definitely a link, of sorts.”
Good. “You reckon?”
“Yes and it’s probably the gangs.”
Ah.
The door opened and Det Supt Brennan peered round – silvery hair, craggy features, expressionless, abrupt. “In you come then, chaps.”
Striker felt uneasy. Granted, it was early days in the investigation, but as he entered Brennan’s office, his gut told him this was going to be a tough case. As if to confirm this, Cunningham’s face of stone greeted him – thick red lipstick, like graffiti on a wall. She was sat to the right side of Brennan’s veneered desk. The room was stuffy and Striker wondered why a vertical fan in the corner wasn’t on.
The super gestured at the two chairs across the desk from him and Striker took the one furthest from Cunningham. He briefly pulled at his collar, which suddenly felt tighter, loosening his tie a tad.
“Okay. The press are hovering like vultures, so who’s first?” asked Brennan.
Striker was about to speak, but Stockley blurted, “Well, sir, may I just inform you we’ve already established that our murder certainly appears to be a revenge attack as a result of the first murder.”
Rather than being annoyed at Stockley’s over-enthusiastic brown-nosing, Striker was glad of more thinking time and was intrigued as to why Stockley thought this.
Brennan leaned forward from his leather swivel chair, much comfier than the two DIs’ hardback seats.
“Oh? Please elaborate, Vinnie.”
“There was fresh graffiti at the scene that hadn’t yet dried, and I’ve recovered a paint canister nearby that on first impressions seems to marry up.”
“Seems?”
“Yes, it’s the same yellow colour.”
“Okay, that narrows it down a little, I suppose.” Brennan glanced at Cunningham. “I take it the canister is now with the FSS being analysed?”
“Of course, sir.”
/> “Along with samples from the graffiti?”
Striker clocked Stockley’s hesitation and belated nod.
“What else have you got, Vinnie?”
Stockley told him about the freshly sprayed graffiti saying ‘MRC’ on the wooden climbing frame beside the body. He skimmed a hand smoothly through his thinning hair before continuing. “And we’ve also seized, and sent off, the rope used to hang the deceased. I’ve DCs checking on the knot used too, because I’ve seen it predominantly used in one area before.”
“Oh?”
Now Cunningham leaned forward.
“The surgeon’s loop.”
The super and DCI frowned in unison.
“Fishing, sir. As a keen fishermen myself, I can confirm it’s a strong knot used for the end of your line.”
Oh please.
Brennan again exchanged glances with Cunningham.
“Are you saying that one of the Moss Range Crew is a keen fisherman, Vinnie?”
“It certainly looks that way.”
Striker couldn’t resist. “Either that, or he’s a surgeon.”
Cunningham scoffed, Stockley looked unimpressed and Brennan eyed Striker, who dipped his head, wishing he hadn’t spoken. Years of working with Bardsley had rubbed off on him. Clearly there was no place for dark humour here. Lesson learned.
Stockley went on, “I’m just saying it’s a possibility, and my DCs are currently checking this out as we speak.”
Brennan looked pensive, then said, “Isn’t it possible the killer, or killers, has internet access?”
Stockley shuffled in his seat. “Well of course, but it’s a line” – he hesitated realising his unintended pun – “of enquiry, sir.”
“Okay, but not one that’ll win the case, Vinnie. Anything else?”
“Obviously the body is being given the once over too, and line” – again he hesitated – “searches are being conducted.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Apart from Johnson, who was under the influence of drugs and was knocked unconscious from behind, there are no other witnesses yet, sir. There are no houses overlooking that part of the park either.”