by Col Bury
Striker surprised himself with a panicky twinge of jealousy and immediately suppressed it. “Who’s the lucky fella?”
Collinge briefly looked away and ran a hand through her locks, saying, almost too nonchalantly, “Oh, er, nobody you know. But thanks for the offer. Okay if I get off?”
Bardsley was just about to say something, so Striker cut in. “Of course, Lauren. You have a good night and I’ll see you nice and refreshed at the morning meeting?”
“Refreshed? What, like you two will be? I’ve heard about your ‘quick pints’,” she said cheekily, throwing in the smile.
***
The Crown was on the southern edge of Manchester city centre and whenever they’d attended there in the past, the session had been a lengthy one. The alcoves were perfect, eavesdropper proof, and the music always light, usually swing, which suited them both. Black-and-white pictures of swing singers, old and new, covered the walls: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Harry Connick Jr, to name a few.
The Crown was only ten minutes from the nick, up the A56. The predominantly wooden design, including beams, trim and flooring, along with the pastel orange wall lights, provided a relaxing look and warm feeling. Only being half full, it made serving fairly routine. They chose their alcove and sat across a mahogany table from each other, Bardsley making light work of the soothing fizz of Becks, while Striker felt the cool tang of John Smith’s Extra Smooth running merrily down his throat.
“Stockley’s always been up his own arse, Jack, so what would you expect from him anyway?”
“I know. And I know Cunningham will always bear a grudge, after what happened between us. But it was Brennan who surprised me today. I used to think he was okay, but even he was doing my head in. So I just needed a beer – with a friendly face.”
“You call this friendly?” Bardsley pointed at his rugged, hairy mug, while contorting for effect and widening his eyes. “Enough to scare a bleedin’ gorilla this. Just ask the missus.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“That’s another reason.” Striker shook his head, smiling. “Your self-deprecating humour.”
“And there’s me thinking you were gonna put pen to paper ’cause you thought I wasn’t politically correct.”
“If I was gonna do that, Eric, I’d have done it years ago. Probably within the first few days of meeting you.”
They both took a mouthful of their pints, then Bardsley asked, “Can you remember that far back, old timer?”
“Cheeky git. I’m only thirty-five.” They exchanged grins. “Anyway, how are you and Maggie getting on these days, now all the kids have fled the nest?”
Fleetingly, Bardsley’s expression became forlorn and he took another gulp of his lager. Mischief soon refilled his eyes. “At least she actually touched me the other night. So things are looking up.”
“Really?” Striker played along, with mock surprise.
“Yeah, well, I bumped into her on the stairs on my way to work. It’s the closest I’ve been to sex for years. Can’t speak for her though.”
Striker nearly spurted his last swig of bitter across the table. “I’m the same, mate. No action for a good old while.”
There was a slight awkward silence and Striker wondered whether Bardsley wanted to confide in him, which would be a rare occurrence. Instead, he opted for the safer bet. “Fancy another, Eric?”
“Does it rain in Manchester?”
As Striker strolled the ten metres to the bar, a student-aged brunette with eye-catching curves smiled at him. She was collecting glasses and brazenly looked him up and down, just as Robbie Williams’ version of ‘Mack the Knife’ kicked in on the sound system. Striker found himself smiling back. Playing it cool, he quickly got the barman’s attention.
“Same again, please, mate.”
The clink of glasses beside him on the bar caught his attention and the girl was up so close he could smell her perfume. A new fragrance, not one he’d encountered before, but he liked it.
“Just finished?” she asked confidently.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, about half an hour ago. What about you?”
“Here all night. And you?”
“Will probably have a couple more.”
“Good.” She smirked, rolling her tongue in her cheek.
Striker was torn between doing the right thing and doing the wrong thing. So he did neither and turned back to the barman, who placed the pints before him. Once he’d paid, the girl was gone, cleaning a nearby table, and he half regretted not continuing the chat.
Bardsley’s dirty smirk greeted him back in the alcove.
“Inspector Striker into paedophilia now? What will Mr Halt think when he gets back?”
“Sod off, Eric. I just said hello.”
Bardsley took the head off his pint, wiped the froth from his top lip with the back of his left hand. “Oh really? You were drooling and I don’t blame you. Those tits looked proper angry under that blouse. I clocked her as soon as we came in.”
“Give over, Eric. You could be her granddad, you perv.”
“And you could be her big brother. Worth a nibble though.”
“You’re a married man.”
“And you’re not, so why not?” Bardsley winked.
“Nah, it’s not worth it. Anyway, I am technically still married. We never did divorce, you know. But since Suzi left, I just can’t be arsed with women. Much better on my own, for now.”
“All blokes need some relief.”
“What are you calling me here, Eric?”
“I was referring to myself. I’m getting really adept at this DIY lark.”
Striker shook his head again. “So things aren’t right with you two then?”
“Very perceptive. You should be a detective.”
He laughed, but Bardsley just stared into his pint.
A moment passed.
“I think she’s been knobbing the window cleaner, Jack.”
“Shit, Eric.” His friend’s face grimaced. “Fancy a smoke?”
“Good idea.”
Taking their pints out to the rear beer garden, the chill of night soon hit them.
Striker pushed a button and the outside heater flared reddish orange, bringing near instant warmth. Bardsley lit two Bensons and passed one to Striker, knowing the DI’s ten pack of Silk Cut had long gone.
Striker checked over both shoulders and saw that no one else was present. “How do you know, Eric – about Maggie and the window cleaner?”
“I caught him looking – no, staring – at her a few weeks ago, so I challenged him. He seems to have an answer for everything. You know, a cocky smart-arse type, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Is that it?”
“No. I came home from work and he was in the kitchen having a beer. One of my bleedin’ beers, and they were giggling as I walked in.”
“Right. Still not proof though.”
“But Maggie looked different. Sort of glowing, like when we first met. And he supped up and left a bit too sharpish if you ask me.”
“Have you confronted her?”
He shook his head. “You know me. It all just comes out as me being even more grumpy toward her. Instead of actually just having a heart-to-heart, you know?” He took a long drag and Striker thought he looked a little tearful when he exhaled, but it may have been the artificial lighting. “Anyhow, won’t Brennan be on the repeat news bulletin soon?”
It was then that Striker’s mobile chimed. He answered. “Jack Striker.”
Bardsley looked up as Striker’s face became stern, his head shaking slightly.
“Give me fifteen minutes, Becky, and thanks for letting me know,” he said, before dropping the mobile into his jacket pocket.
“Jack?”
“Braeburn Road. Two more victims.”
Bardsley instantly shook off his domestic problems and jolted into cop mode.
Within seconds, they plonked their pints on the bar and headed for the door. The pretty barmaid looked surprised when Stri
ker breezed past her.
“Something I said?”
Striker briefly turned to her, but kept walking, backward. “Some other time, perhaps?”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Her smile faded and she appeared disappointed.
Though Striker knew that ‘other time’ wouldn’t be any time soon.
***
“So one survived then?” asked Striker impatiently. The strobe flashes of blue police lights, from the vehicles preserving the scene, momentarily blinded him. The scene was already marked by a white SOCO tent about thirty metres away, half on the pavement and half on the road. Braeburn Road was a fairly wide B road that ran alongside Moss Range Park, with predominantly privately owned semis running its length, many with their lights on as the curious occupants watched the show through twitching curtains.
Tonight DC Brad Sterling was the night DO, while the rest of CID worked a mixture of day and afternoon shifts. Sterling would endeavour to keep abreast of any serious stuff and update a night crime log, until reinforcements returned in the morning to assist. And this was serious as it gets. Sterling must have only just started his shift – talk about hitting the ground running.
“Yes, Boss, one survived. He’s at the hospital under armed guard. Still unconscious though.” Sterling brushed a hand through his lightly gelled blond comb-over, and Striker was mildly irritated on spotting a small Manchester United badge on the DC’s tie.
Swiftly dismissing the triviality, he asked, “Which hospital, Bullsmead General?”
Sterling shook his head. “No, he’s in Manchester Royal Infirmary.”
Shit.
“You alright, Boss?”
The MRI brought back unwanted memories for Striker and he’d not been back there for many years. He shook the memories away before they began, knowing their ability to consume him. “Huh? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Do we have a name for the deceased yet?” Striker gazed at the SOCO tent, adjacent to the railings and bushes on the periphery of the park.
“No.”
“So, what exactly happened, Brad?”
“It looks like an ambush. I’ve spoken to” – he checked his A4 daybook – “Betty Grange from number fifty-two Braeburn Road and she said she heard ‘rowdy lads’ passing and peeked from behind her bedroom blinds. Then she saw ‘a large, dark figure jump from the bushes’ and suddenly attack the two lads.”
Striker was transfixed. “So we actually have a witness and a survivor?” He glanced at Bardsley, who nodded with a determined look. “Is someone taking a statement?”
“Yes, Boss. DS Grant came back on duty and took the old dear back to the station.”
“So, from your initial account, how did she describe the attack?”
“The attacker punched the taller of the two lads, knocking him clean out. His head appeared to crack onto the pavement. He’s the one in hospital. Then he swung ‘a long black pole’ repeatedly around the other male’s head until he collapsed.”
“Was it a baton?” asked Bardsley.
“Could’ve been. Nothing’s been found and more officers from the late shift are on their way with dragon lamps for the search. Betty Grange was about forty feet away and it’s obviously dimly lit. Unfortunately, her eyesight’s not the best either and she’s in shock. But that’s not all.”
“Go on.”
“Once the second male had stopped writhing on the floor, the offender” – he checked his notes again – “coolly glanced over both shoulders, then straddled the lad, took out a large knife and eased it into his heart.”
Striker swapped looks with Bardsley.
“Looks like we’ve definitely got a serial killer, Boss.”
“A vigilante on a mission.” Feeling vindicated, Striker turned back to Sterling.
“That’s what we’re all thinking too.”
“Did he stab the other lad?”
“No, he straddled him, still holding the knife, and bent down. But he hesitated and looked around. Then, he quickly scaled the fence and ran into the park. Betty Grange said she’d heard a dog barking at that point, so…”
Striker thought for a moment, absorbing the info, processing the enormity of this escalating situation.
“Are Brennan and Cunningham aware?”
“The duty officer over at comms has been in touch with Mr Brennan, who asked me to call you. He couldn’t get hold of DCI Cunningham, nor DI Stockley for that matter.”
Hmm… “Okay. Cheers, Brad.” Striker scanned the scene, his eyes resting on Response Sergeant Paul Roache. “Eric, do you mind co-ordinating house-to-house enquiries with Paul?”
“Not at all.”
“After that, you get yourself off home, okay?” Striker was mindful they’d had a few pints and Bardsley nodded, obviously thinking the same. “I’ll not enter the scene for now because I wanna check this lad out at the hospital. What’s his name, Brad?”
Striker couldn’t imagine how things could possibly get any worse, but was at least thankful they now had an eyewitness, despite her limitations. And, perhaps, the breakthrough they desperately needed would finally be forthcoming.
After another flick through his notes, Sterling said, “Don’t forget he was unconscious, so he—”
“What’s his name?”
“Dean Salt. He’s in the ICU room three.”
Striker was stunned, his heart plummeting on hearing his nephew’s name.
This was now personal.
Chapter Fifteen
Striker thanked the nurse and tentatively entered the ICU at Manchester Royal Infirmary, the very same ward that his old pal Lenny was in all those years ago when Suzi’s alibi saved Striker’s arse. He fought hard to stem the flood of bad memories.
He’d been deliberating whether or not to phone his sister. Lucy had no way of knowing that Deano had been attacked, since he’d often staggered home in the small hours, sometimes not returning home for days. However, he prayed there had been some mistake, that the name was just a coincidence. Deep down, though, he knew. He decided on a positive ID from himself, before the harrowing task of informing Lucy.
He showed his warrant card to the two armed officers sitting outside ICU Room 3. They sat upright, nodded in acknowledgment. The bleeps of life-assisting machinery and medicinal smells greeted him as he opened the door; medical staff in green outfits, and a couple in dark blue, scurried around donning stern expressions. One, a female, saw his raised warrant card, nodded knowingly and pointed him in the right direction as there were four beds. He headed for the one on the extreme right and slowly pulled back the pale blue privacy curtain. He edged nearer, seeing that the patient wore an oxygen mask, his face bruised. The head appeared swollen under extensive bandages, and tubes and wires were connected to the body. He looked closer and his fears were confirmed.
“Deano,” he whispered. His mouth dry, he swallowed and glanced heavenwards, momentarily. Seeing a cannula in his nephew’s left hand, he walked around the bed and held his right hand, which dangled slightly from the bed. It felt cold, almost lifeless.
Fighting back emotion, he began to reminisce, recalling the day he became an uncle, cradling his newborn nephew in this very hospital. Suzi was drug free then, her happy beaming face mirroring Striker’s, the latent stirrings of his own desire to be a parent back then simmering deep inside.
The many football matches he’d watched the young Deano play in began to whiz through his mind like an old movie: his first goal, his first winner’s medal and his first injury. Striker had run on the pitch with the ‘magic sponge’ before carrying him to the side-line. The many Man City matches he’d taken him to came into focus. Not much success back then, but they’d had fun and the blues had even turned over their illustrious red rivals from across the city a couple of times, perking them up, reinforcing their faith.
A few recollections of family parties later and he returned to the now, releasing his grip on Deano’s limp hand, sorry he hadn’t been around for the last few years. The adolescent Deano had clearly got
ten in with the wrong crowd, and Striker knew all about that. Only six months ago, Striker had received a courtesy call from Paul Roache to say that Deano had been arrested on suspicion of street robbery. Striker couldn’t get involved in the case for legal reasons, but outside work he’d advised Lucy accordingly. Nonetheless, Deano was still convicted and was lucky to get away with just an official caution, which basically equated to a bollocking-cum-final warning.
The way Deano looked now reminded him again of Lenny Powers sixteen years ago. As Striker sat back in the chair, those haunting memories flooded back…
***
The door to Room 3 opened and Striker’s mind zoomed back to the present as he saw a youngish nurse enter. His head was banging and he wished he’d not had those beers earlier with Bardsley. The nurse smiled somewhat forcedly and picked up a clipboard from the bottom of Deano’s bed. She busied herself around Deano, doing her routine checks, occasionally glancing at Striker.
“I’m his uncle. Will he live?”
She hesitated, her voice soft. “He’s taken quite a knock to the head.”
“What do you reckon, though, off the record?”
“I shouldn’t speculate, but there’s a fair chance. People do come round from comas. We’ve stabilized him and got the swelling under control, so…” She became quiet, looking a little uneasy.
Striker nodded, realising he shouldn’t really have put her on the spot like that. He’d speak with the doctor later. Within seconds the nurse was gone and Striker sank back into the chair, his mind briefly drifting again.
Striker’s thoughts returned to Deano.
Despite the intensifying dread, he knew he had to make that phone call to Lucy. Either that, or go visit her in person.
The door opened and the doctor entered. Striker rose from his seat, not liking the doctor’s grave expression.
***
Live on air, the press release from GMP was read out to the mass of reporters gathered outside Bullsmead Police Station by Det Supt Brennan, amid a flurry of flash photography.