by Col Bury
“Okay, thanks, Vinnie.” He turned to Striker. “Jack, what have you got?”
Cunningham answered on his behalf and Striker threw her a look.
“Jack, tell us about the two youths who were sat on the wall on police arrival.”
“I didn’t arrest them because I didn’t suspect them of murder. Plus, alienating them like that could have been counter-productive if we needed them as witnesses later.”
“I do understand your sentiments, Jack, but I agree with Maria. I think you should have arrested them, especially with the media snooping for a story. That’s why we’ve just sent Team Three to bring them in.”
Striker was pretty stunned. Was I so wrong on that call? “If they were guilty of anything, surely they’d have done a runner, sir.”
“Maybe, yet even so, we need to eliminate them and also ascertain exactly who they were with. You don’t appear to have done either.”
Striker hid a sigh.
Cunningham piped, “Have you established the IDs of any of the gang members who were present, Jack, like I asked?”
“We visited the Moss and I spoke to one, but didn’t get much from him. I’ll obviously keep trying.” Striker purposely held back what Jerome Jackson had said about the two gangs meeting up to join forces, knowing this would go against the consensus of those present. That info wasn’t reliable enough and he wanted something more solid to back up his vigilante theory. “I’ve also got a list here” – he reached into his jacket pocket – “of Bolands’ associates.”
“How many are there?” asked Cunningham.
“Forty-six.”
“So that’s forty-six possible youths who may have been with Bolands when he was murdered. That narrows it down, Jack.” Her voice was almost patronising. “Now, do you see why we’re arresting those two at the scene?”
“I have shortened it to twenty-five, but…” He noticed Brennan’s stern expression. “But I do take your point.”
Brennan blinked slowly, nodded. Striker continued, “I do have other leads to pursue though. Bolands’ dad has agreed to drop off his son’s mobile phone for the techies to analyse. The CCTV from the garage is usually of decent quality and still needs a good trawl. Bardsley and Collinge are onto that as we speak. Also, there’s the shopkeeper witness, Mr Khan.” He omitted the part about him having gone to Pakistan.
“The one you haven’t spoken to yet?” It was Cunningham again.
Right. Time to speak my mind. “Bardsley briefly took a first account off him, which is why we have the description of that ‘tall burly man’. Anyone could have sprayed ‘MRC’ on that climbing frame to make it look like the Crew were involved and throw us off the scent. How many gang members use a baton or a rope with a fancy knot, for God’s sake? That’s unheard of. It’s always guns, knives and baseball bats. So I’m not convinced it’s gang-on-gang. I still think the ‘burly guy’ could be our man and that both investigations should be linked.”
“That’s quite an assumption, Jack,” said Brennan, “considering your lack of evidence.”
“Both deceased males have ASBOs too. You are aware of that, aren’t you, sir?”
“Coincidence… and to be fair, not much of one at that because it’s odds on around here, don’t you think? Look, Jack, we simply can’t jump to conclusions and get carried off on a tangent.” Cunningham and Stockley nodded. “So, we’re not linking the murders. They’ll remain as separate investigations. You find your ‘burly man’, and quick. I’ve got to face the press at sixteen hundred hours. Okay?”
Striker gave an imperceptible nod, then said, “Vinnie, that lad Johnson, who was with Chisel and then taken to hospital. Was he arrested?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s Chisel’s best mate. A witness.”
“Well, that’s just like those two Bullsmead Boys, Mozerelli and Grinley at my scene. They were there and didn’t flee the scene, like Johnson, even though they had the chance to. Witnesses. And could Johnson’s head injury be conducive to a baton being used?”
“Come on, Striker, give it a rest,” said Cunningham impatiently.
Stockley still answered, his voice raised. “He had a small laceration and a few inches of swelling, so it could have been any of number of weapons or objects that struck him. And anyway, I’ll…”
“Enough!” Brennan said abruptly.
“With respect, sir, may I ask if Steven Bowker was already dead when he was hanged?”
“What are you on about now?” Cunningham shook her head.
“Sidney Mortham said that, as yet, it’s inconclusive,” said Stockley.
“I saw the marks on Bowker’s face and he’d certainly been in a fight because they weren’t like any injuries I’ve seen before in any hangings I’ve dealt with.”
Brennan remained quiet, pondering, but Cunningham asked, “What are you saying, that the killer beat him to death and then risked being caught by hanging him?”
“It’s possible… if he’s making a statement.”
“Right, I said, enough.” For a moment, Brennan held up both palms. “Jack, concentrate on your own case. I won’t tell you again. Those two youths will be arrested and interviewed when we get them, which will hopefully be today. You carry on following your leads and establish which gang members were at your scene. Hopefully, the two Bullsmead Boys can shed some light on this too. You’ll obviously be informed by Team Three when those arrests are made, okay?”
Not much of welcome for the new boy here. Pity Mr Halt wasn’t due back yet. “Okay, sir,” said Striker, feeling his growing frustration turning into anger.
***
“You okay, Jack?”
Striker looked up from his mesmeric gaze at the blank wall and realised Bardsley had entered his office. His vacant stare continued, now aimed at his colleague.
Once the door was shut, Bardsley’s voice softened a little. “You’re not, are you, Jack?”
“That prick, Stockley, and Cunningham, trying to make me look inept in front of Brennan, and not a fuckin’ lead to go on… Fancy a beer when we knock off, Eric?”
Bardsley grinned. “You’re a mind reader. The Crown?”
“Now you’re the mind reader. How did you get on with the CCTV? Please tell me something positive.”
“Oh, it’s positive alright. Positively positive! Should cheer you up.” He waved a CD in the air and then inserted it into Striker’s computer. He pulled up a seat beside Striker as it whirred into action.
There was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be Lauren, she’d nipped to the ladies. I was gonna follow her in, but thought better of it.”
“Behave, Eric.” Shaking his head, Striker turned to the door. “Come in, Lauren.”
Collinge opened the door and popped her head round before entering, as the CD played on the screen.
“Oh goody, just in time.”
Striker beamed at Collinge, wondering what all the fuss was about. She pulled up a chair and Striker got a pleasant waft of her perfume.
He watched intently, while Bardsley leaned across the desk to take control of the mouse. He fast-forwarded, studying the clock on the screen before pushing play at 22:27.
“This is it. Watch the top of the screen.”
Striker could see a fairly clear picture of the petrol station’s layout: four red-and-white pumps, two random cars, their drivers topping up. There was a slight haze as the artificial lights countered the night, but it was a lot better quality than some he’d seen. The backdrop, away from the forecourt’s lights, was darkness. A group of lads appeared at the top of the screen. They walked across the forecourt toward the serving hatch, and became increasingly visible with each step. Eight of them, all in dark clothes and most wearing hoodies.
“This is where the manager switched cameras for us,” said Bardsley. “They shut the main door at twenty-two hundred hours because of previous robbery attempts and the likes of this lot hanging about.”
The picture
flickered when the viewpoint changed to a window outside the counter area where the cashier served people, using a drawer facility for safety. Some of faces of the throng were clear to see, especially those with their hoods down.
“That’s Grinley,” said Striker. “And there’s Mozo.”
“Yeah, some of them bought crisps, fags and cans of coke and water, before moving on. There’s nearly five minutes of footage here, Jack.”
“Pause it.” The screen quivered. “Is that Bolands?”
“That’s what we reckon, Boss,” said Collinge.
Striker glanced at the DCs, who were looking pleased with themselves.
“Good. So we know he was still alive at twenty-two twenty-nine. That’s if that clock’s right.”
“Oh it is. I’ve checked and the manager said they’d fitted a state of the art system because his bosses were sick of the trouble, so the digital clock is always accurate.” Bardsley pushed play.
“Strange that he’s with the Bullsmead Boys though. They seem friendly enough with him too. Maybe Jerome was right about them meeting up to discuss a merger against the Salford lot.”
“Yeah, we struggled understanding that one as well, Boss,” said Collinge.
For the next three minutes Striker made notes and they discussed the possible identities of each of the youths. By the time this section of the footage ended, they had four definitely identified and another four possible names. The latter could be put on the electronic briefing for all officers to view, so confirmation would only be a matter of a few hours away, hopefully.
Striker was feeling much better about things as he watched the last of the youths disappear from view. Bardsley fast forwarded the screen again.
“Good stuff, guys.”
“It gets better, Jack. Now watch the bottom of the screen.”
Bardsley clicked play again and Striker edged forward in his seat. The digital clock was at 22:42 when a couple of figures ran across the forecourt.
“Not sure who they are, but we could work it out from the clothing or by closer analysis at Bradford Park, maybe later. Keep watching.” Striker glanced at his colleagues in turn, curiosity strewn across his face.
A dark figure appeared, jogging. He was only just in view. Though this person wasn’t a kid, it was a man – a tall burly man.
“That’s our guy, Eric, it’s got to be.”
Bardsley nodded, grinned. “I told you it would cheer you up.”
“You got stills?”
“Yeah, but not from this camera angle. Keep watching.”
The mystery man jogged out of view.
“Where’s he heading?”
“Looks like north, up Moss Range Road,” said Collinge.
Striker made a mental note to check with council for any CCTV beyond the petrol station. The screen changed viewpoint again and revealed a much closer shot of the man running alongside the forecourt. Striker shuffled nearer, leaning in, as the man grew bigger. He was clearly wearing a balaclava and was dressed in a long black coat.
Bardsley paused the image at its optimal point. “Voilà,” he said, producing three stills from his jacket pocket and handing them to Striker. He studied the photos. Two were close ups of the youths and one a copy of the shot now visible on the screen.
Striker stood up, turned to Bardsley. “You beauty!” He grabbed both sides of the DC’s head and pulled him in for a smacker of a kiss on the lips.
Bardsley laughed out loud, saying, “Errgh.”
Striker turned to Collinge, who was smiling. He leaned in a few inches, hesitating as their eyes met, before quickly looking back at the screen, fleetingly feeling warmth flush his cheeks.
Composing himself, he said, “Right. I know we can’t easily ID him, but this changes everything. In some ways, it’s okay that he’s concealing his ID. I mean, why would a man wearing a face mask flee a murder scene?”
“Exactly,” said Bardsley. “You were right, Jack, about it not being the gangs.”
“And we’ve got continuity from Khan’s account. We really need to speak with him now… Oh no, what time is it?” Striker looked up at the clock on his wall. It was five to four. “Brennan’s speaking to the media in five minutes. Get a coffee, I’ll be back in ten.”
With that, Striker ran from his office, clutching the stills.
Chapter Fourteen
Taking the stairs two at a time, Striker was soon running down the corridor to the front-desk office. He burst into the room and Joanne, the frumpy-looking front-desk clerk, physically jumped, nearly dropping the plate of pasta she was eating.
“Sorry, Joanne, but has Mr Brennan started with the press yet?”
She swallowed what she was eating and tentatively shook her head. “No, but he’s on his way down apparently.”
Striker scanned the multiple cameras high on the office wall, showing all angles of the front counter waiting area and the outside of the nick. The media were there waiting in the car park, like a herd of scavenging hyenas.
He heard footsteps in the corridor, then a door opening. He saw Brennan appear on one of the screens, and on the adjacent one the media surged forward for the kill.
Striker sprinted out of the office and released a catch on the inner wall of the corridor beside the door. He entered the empty public waiting area – purposely vacated – and saw the back of Brennan heading toward a plethora of flashing cameras.
“Mr Brennan!”
The detective superintendent spun round, a look of incredulity across his face. “What?” he asked curtly, his arms open, gesturing at the multitude of reporters outside.
“Please, sir.” Striker beckoned him over using his hand.
Brennan backtracked, saying, “This better be good, Striker.”
Striker noticed an ITV film crew and a female reporter approaching the door, camera pointing directly at them, the reporter speaking excitedly into her microphone. He ensured the photos were out of the camera’s view, hiding them behind his back.
He said in a hushed voice, “Sir, we’ve got some footage of the bloke that the newsagent Khan described. Plus, great shots of gang members, including” – Still mindful of the cameraman, Striker flicked through the photos for Brennan’s benefit – “Bolands, Mozerelli and Grinley.”
Deadpan, Brennan thought for a moment, glanced at the media. “Good work, Striker.”
“We have DCs Bardsley and Collinge to thank.”
“Well good for them, but I’ve got a script in my head of what to say and we’re sticking with the gang angle for now.”
“With respect, sir, this man” – He held up the still – “is fleeing a murder scene while wearing a balaclava.”
“Yes, but he could still be a gang member, Jack.”
“What, dressed like that?” He pointed at the long trench coat.
“Look, leave the CD and the stills on my desk. I’ll take look afterwards. Now let me deal with this rabble, will you?”
“Don’t you even want to show the photo to them and appeal for him to come forward, or see if anyone knows him?”
“No. Not yet. Now, do as I’ve requested, Inspector.”
Exasperated, Striker’s thoughts drifted to John Smith’s bitter and the Crown.
***
Striker sent Bardsley a quick text, then went around the back of the nick for a cigarette. He purposely avoided the group of regulars gathered under the smoking shelter across the rear car park. Instead, he opted for a little alcove under the metal fire escape beneath his office.
He was soon joined by Bardsley and offered him a Silk Cut.
“Nah, can’t get a drag out of them. It’s like trying to suck treacle through a straw. I’ll stick with my Bensons, thanks. Anyway, what happened with Brennan? Why have you still got the photos?”
“Don’t ask.” Striker took a drag of his cigarette. “He did say well done to you and Lauren, but he’s sticking with the gang-on-gang theory.”
“You’re joking.”
“I jest not.”
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“You know why he’s in denial, don’t you, Jack?”
“I can hazard an educated guess.”
“He’s shit scared of the media and, more importantly, the public thinking we have a serial killer on our hands.” Bardsley blasted a double drag, the smoke caressing and intermingling with his beard before dispersing upward in the breeze.
“Sounds about right that. The tit-for-tit gang warfare would be no surprise, almost like old news. He won’t admit it until it’s absolutely necessary. Especially on his watch, while Mr Halt’s still on his cruise.” Striker drew on his cigarette, feeling the niggling guilt and disappointment at starting smoking again.
“Agreed. He’s bottled it. He could’ve shown that photo there and then to speed things up. Anyway, I’ve just been to the OPU and they’ll scan those stills onto the briefing site and hopefully that’ll help confirm the IDs of the other four kids at the petrol station.”
“Nice one. Thanks, Eric. We’d best hold back on the still of our man, until Brennan gives us the nod.”
“Fair enough. When’s he on telly?”
“I’m pretty certain it was a live feed, but I guess it’ll be on the local bulletins later.” Striker took one last drag. “Pub?”
Bardsley nodded enthusiastically. “Pub.” They both stubbed out their cigarettes and headed back upstairs to finish off for the day.
After Bardsley had nipped back into the OPU with the stills for the briefing site, and Striker had placed the CD and photos of the suspect on Brennan’s desk on the top floor, they were back in Striker’s office.
Collinge had followed them in. “Boss, just thought you’d like to know, I’ve just checked the custody system to see if Mozerelli and Grinley have been arrested yet and it’s a negative.”
“Hey, cheers Lauren. I was just about to do that myself. Brennan’s got the disc of the footage for the interviews, if they do get them in.”
“Right then, I think that’s us done for the day, guys. We’re just going to the Crown for a quick pint, Lauren. Wanna join us?”
“Er… thanks, Boss, but I’ve got a date.” She looked at them both staring at her, Bardsley raising his eyebrows. “It’s only a meal after work, nothing special.”