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

by Col Bury

  Ged proffered a sturdy hand, grinning. “How’s tricks, mate?”

  They shook hands. “Well, you know…” A twinge of guilt jabbed Striker for not keeping in touch. “How long’s it been… twelve years… more?”

  “About that.”

  “Married? Kids?”

  “You can tell you’re a cop, with all these questions.”

  “I’d have asked them if I weren’t a cop, mate.”

  Ged nodded. “Yeah, you were always the inquisitive one. To answer your questions, I’m not married and I’ve no kids. I heard about you and Suzi splitting. Sorry.”

  “That’s life.”

  After an awkward moment, Ged digressed. “Do you still go watching City?”

  “When I can. Chance would be a fine thing at the moment. The Hammers aren’t doing so well, are they?”

  “I try not to think about it. West Ham always seem to let me down. Bad time to be missing City games though, mate, what with all that money coming in for new players. You busy at work then? You’re an inspector now, aren’t you?”

  “Now who’s asking the questions? Yeah, we’re very busy.”

  “What, with that Hoodie Hunter fella?”

  Striker inwardly sighed. Social conversations always turned to work for a cop. If he was an electrician, he doubted Ged would be asking him about light fittings. Would a window cleaner really be quizzed about his window round on a night out? Or a bricklayer asked about walls? “Yep,” he said, purposely keeping it brief.

  “Bad shit, all that, innit? But you’ve gotta admit, Jack, the streets are a bit quieter, aren’t they?”

  “Don’t say you agree with what he’s doing.”

  “All I’m saying is that it was only a matter of time someone fought back, what with the way it’s all been going.”

  It was time to change the subject. He certainly didn’t want to fall out with Ged so soon after seeing him again. And he obviously hadn’t heard about Deano yet. “Do you still see any of the others?”

  “Er, yeah. Wozza, and DJ. He’s the one who’s kept me up to date about you.”

  “I sometimes see DJ, but I’ve only seen Wozza once since…” His voice tailed off.

  “Since our Lenny was shot?”

  “Yeah, sorry for bringing it up,” he said solemnly.

  “It’s okay. I think that night changed something in all of us didn’t it, mate?”

  “Definitely.”

  Another slight lull ensued. Striker glanced at the roulette table as a female croupier leaned over to clear the table of all the losing chips. They soon rattled and clinked down a hole out of view, much to the disappointment of the half a dozen punters.

  “Do you reckon you’ll catch this Hoodie Hunter guy then?”

  Why the fixation? “We always catch ’em in the end.”

  “Are you close though?”

  Striker ignored the question, looked at the tables again. He clicked the handful of chips together. “Fancy a flutter?”

  “Yeah, why not?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Striker’s head was still somewhat hazy from last night’s session, the feeling of regret over the £300 loss not helping his mood. He pulled his ageing Cherokee onto Barnfield Grove, a distant flutter in his heart like an ailing butterfly, not quite dead yet. On his approach, he caught the first glimpse in three months of his marital home. A myriad of memories, both joyous and painful, engulfed him.

  He eased the Cherokee to a halt outside the front garden, shocked at what he saw, having to do a double take. He struggled to suppress his bubbling anger.

  Beth was the first to see him as he opened the car door. He watched her angelic little face light up, followed by her excited shouts of “Daaddeeeee!” She ran from the front porch down the garden path. This prompted Harry to pause his game of basketball with Greg Bannatine, the two of them in vivid red Man United shirts: literally red rags to the bull that was Striker. Where the fuck was Harry’s City shirt? Striker had bought it after weeks of pleading from his son, about six months ago from City’s souvenir shop beside the Etihad Stadium, dubbed ‘the Blue Camp’ by some. Striker had even got Harry’s name on the back of the shirt and his son had been thrilled to bits – ‘had’ apparently being the operative word.

  Wearing a concerned look, Suzi appeared at the front window. Striker opened the front gate, which unsurprisingly still squeaked, reminding him of his numerous attempts to thwart the nagging sound with WD40. Within a heartbeat, Beth had jumped into his arms, a surge of warmth and emotion gripping him, momentarily dissipating his disdain.

  “Daddy, I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice was high-pitched and emanated tenderness.

  “I’ve missed you too, princess.” His words were hushed, disguising crackles of emotion.

  “I’ve missed you more.”

  “I doubt it, love.”

  “I’ve missed more than… than the whole ocean.”

  “I’ve missed you more than the whole earth.”

  “Well, I’ve missed you more than the… the whole universe.”

  “Okay, so you win.” Striker tickled her armpit, inciting a fit of giggles.

  “Beth, come here, darling.” It was Suzi at the front door, cutting short his rare loving moment. She still looked radiant, despite the stern face. Beth slowly released her grasp and headed to her mum. Striker glanced toward the lawn, where Harry avoided eye contact, opting to continue tossing the basketball back and forth with Bannatine.

  “Jack,” said Bannatine, with a nod and a smug expression.

  Striker nodded back, hoping Harry might just look his way.

  “So, for what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Suzi, with a dash of derision.

  “I just wanted to say hello to my kids, if that’s okay?”

  “I thought we agreed to specific times, Jack. Not that you remember them.”

  “I know, and I am sorry, but…”

  “Please!” Suzi held up a halting palm. “Spare us the excuses. We’ve heard them all before.”

  Striker bit his lip, turning his attention to Harry. He strolled onto the lawn, noticing a few bald patches appearing. He recalled laying it with Eric Bardsley one rain-sodden April afternoon. “Hey son, so how’s school? You on blue books yet?”

  Harry ignored him, slam dunking the ball into the portable basket, another thing Striker had bought.

  “Harry, you’re dad’s asking you a question,” said Bannatine.

  “I think he heard me, thanks, Greg,” said Striker sharply, not looking at him.

  Harry offered him a fleeting glance. “School’s school, innit? And yeah, I am on blue books now, actually. Mum and Greg have been helping me.”

  “That’s great, son. So, what’s with the United top?”

  Harry slammed the ball down hard and it bounced high off the grass, over the wood-panelled fence and into next door’s garden. In a huff, he headed toward his mum.

  Bannatine turned to Striker. “He’s doing okay at school, Jack. He just needs a bit of time to—”

  “Yeah, thanks for the update, Greg.” Striker turned, headed for Suzi.

  “In you go, kids,” she said. Harry went sulkily, while Beth appeared reluctant, glancing back at her dad, sorrow and confusion in her sparkly blue eyes.

  “Jack, did you get the letter?” asked Suzi abruptly.

  “Yeah, I got it this morning.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “I got the gist.” He lied.

  “Well, you should know by now about legalities, especially in your job. It clearly states: ‘Once a week by prior arranged appointment’.”

  “Suzi, they’re my kids too.”

  “You’ve had your chances, Jack, but you just keep on letting us – them – down.”

  “But I’m trying to catch a bloody serial killer! Don’t you understand? And I came to tell you he’s put our Deano in intensive care.”

  “Right, cool it.” Bannatine placed a hand on Striker’s shoulder, which he shrugged off with
a glare.

  “Oh… Jack… I’m…”

  Striker was gutted at the way he’d told her the news. “He’s at the MRI, if you wanna visit him.”

  Her tone softened, was almost sympathetic. “Please tell Lucy that I’m thinking about them, okay?”

  “I will.”

  A brief silence followed and Striker considered asking to see his kids, but didn’t. That was the first hint of sympathy Suzi had shown him in well over a year.

  “I do still think it’s time you spoke with your own solicitor. Now, could you please leave?”

  Back into ‘cow mode’. Didn’t take long. Striker stepped forward a pace when she turned to go inside. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Suzi.”

  “Come on now, Jack,” said Bannatine, blocking Striker’s path. “You’re not in the casino now.” Bannatine gestured at the Cherokee.

  Admittedly, Striker used to escape from the troubles the Job presented by frequenting the casino. However, he’d curbed this behaviour, realising the error of his ways. Well, apart from last night’s lapse.

  As he eyed Bannatine, he felt his fuse burn out and shaped to punch him, but he could hear Beth sobbing from behind the front door. He chided himself for swearing and nearly losing it. Instead, he shook his head and walked away.

  Bannatine followed. The gate squeaked shut and Striker pivoted, catching a glimpse of Harry’s solemn face gazing out the front bedroom window.

  He leaned toward Bannatine and whispered through clenched teeth. “Greg, I can just about handle you screwing my wife, but if I ever see my son wearing a United shirt again, I’ll fuck you up good ’n’ proper.”

  ***

  Striker gazed into his tropical fish tank as he sat on his brown leather two-seater supping a glass of John Smith’s Extra Smooth. Three empty cans lay on the glass-top coffee table before him. Dean Martin’s ‘Memories Are Made of This’ stirred memories of his own. He pictured the legendary crooner, not too dissimilar to his dad, save the tux and riches.

  Harry Striker had loved the old Rat Pack. Probably why Striker himself had a huge collection of their CDs stacked to his right beside his music system. The speakers were rigged high on the wall, either side of a pencil portrait of Beth and Harry junior, who regrettably his dad had never met. Striker had been brought up listening to Harry’s music, secretly enjoying the relaxingly sentimental tones, but not telling his mates for fear of ridicule. They were all into Oasis and their ‘Cigarettes and Alcohol’.

  Somehow, Striker felt closer to his dad now, as Martin concluded his take on memories, no doubt a whisky swaying in his hand – or was it apple juice? Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’ kicked in, Harry’s favourite, bringing him in, even closer.

  If only his dad could see him now. Gone were those days when Harry would sit steeped in worry, chain-smoking in the kitchen, waiting for his son to return home from his latest escapade. Oddly, Striker felt more of a connection with him once he’d died. Maybe this was because those macho shackles that had hindered their relationship were long gone. He wondered whether Harry would be proud of him. He wished they could chat now, as adults, about Striker’s latest exploits. Yet, if he did know, perhaps his dad wouldn’t be so proud after all.

  Sliver the loach was aptly named by Beth when he had shown his kids ‘Daddy’s new home’, and to his left Sliver played among the backdrop of shooting bubbles. He studied Sliver’s movements, the loach sliding unnoticed among the diverse community of guppies, mollies, neons, white clouds and gouramis. All were oblivious to the mopping up job Sliver was doing around them. The multi-coloured stones and scattered marbles below gleamed from Sliver’s work. The algae and scum, blighting the inner glass of the tank, had been well and truly cleaned up by the industrious loach. Sliver was relentless in his daily mission to cleanse the tank, along with Mr Plec, who Harry had named. Striker considered whether the other fish within the community appreciated Sliver’s efforts.

  Then, he thought of the Hoodie Hunter and the letter.

  Soon, his mesmeric state was interrupted by his mobile.

  “Jack Striker.” He plugged his left forefinger into his free ear to block out the music.

  “Boss, it’s Lauren,” Collinge was whispering. “Just thought you’d like to know our man’s been at it again. Last night. Can’t speak now, but will try and meet you for lunch.”

  Jeez, this guy was relentless. Striker could hear people busying themselves in the background. “Right. Twelve o’clock, at Mario’s café in Eccles, okay?”

  “Yeah, should be.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  “No probs. Gotta go, Boss.”

  “Gimme a name, Lauren… of the latest victim.”

  “Barry Gartside. See you later.”

  The phone beeped to an end in his ear. This Hoodie Hunter was certainly fearless, he’d give him that much. Gartside was an infamous amateur boxer turned bad boy. The man was seldom crossed by anyone. A notorious bouncer turned prolific burglar-cum-robber to feed his drug habit, Gartside had a long list of victims in his wake. He’d been inside a few times, but had become more elusive and adept, despite everyone at the nick knowing he was still bang at it.

  Striker leaned across the settee, switched the music off and his dad drifted from his thoughts, until the next time. Standing up, he strolled over to the open-plan kitchen behind him to get another can of bitter. He opened the fridge door, paintings stuck on it from his kids, but nothing recent. Returning to the settee, he thought hard, and after pouring the can he jotted down the names of the murdered lads, looking for links.

  Gareth Bolands aka ‘Gasbo’… Steven Bowker aka ‘Chisel’… Roger ‘the Dodger’ Pennington… Dane ‘Woody’ Woodthorpe, and now Barry Gartside. Not forgetting the injured Deano. He thought about that old drunk Copeland. Never mind the rest, but surely Gartside alone would’ve eaten Copeland alive.

  Why the change from young Hoodies? Woodthorpe was twenty-six and Gartside twenty-eight. Was the killer just ridding the streets of scumbags? The dead were certainly not chosen randomly. The victims must have been specifically targeted because the killer had hit the jackpot in each instance. He’d certainly done his homework.

  Striker took his drink back to the settee, picked up a copy of the letter from the coffee table. Turning on his flat-screen TV, he switched it to BBC News, waiting for any mention of the case.

  He didn’t wait long. Halt and Cunningham filled the screen, the murder incident number running along the bottom, a mugshot of Copeland in the upper right corner.

  “Bloody fools!” He finished the beer in one, slammed the glass on the coffee table. Trying to channel his frustration, he turned the volume down, making more notes in a bid to sort his thoughts before the meeting with Collinge.

  His scouring of the internet, since he’d been unceremoniously dumped off the case, had produced some very interesting results. He just hoped Collinge would accept his proposition, despite its obvious perils.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Eccles was the town where Striker was born thirty-five years ago, before the family uprooted and headed for Bullsmead in the mid-eighties. The council had finally offered the relocation they desired, for no other reason than that of cheaper rent.

  Looking around Eccles lately, he’d noticed its deterioration, as with many small urban towns; the boarded-up shops and derelict buildings were testament to that. Local government funding seemed to be saved for Manchester city centre, Salford Quays and the opulent areas surrounding the Trafford Centre, a huge shopping complex across the Manchester Ship Canal. “We’re off to the posh side of the wart-or,” Jack used to tell his infant school mates when they asked where he was moving. But in truth, Bullsmead was undoubtedly rougher than a tramp’s chin and made Eccles look like swanky Hale.

  Across Barton Road Swing Bridge, on the Trafford Park side of the canal, the emergence of the huge retail estate that was the Trafford Centre – a miniature town centre in its own right, attracting shoppers from all over the
country – had hit the less glamorous precincts hard – very hard. Compared to the pre-Trafford Centre and pre-credit crunch days, Eccles was a ghost town. Nonetheless, one thing it did still have was true northern character in abundance, something money couldn’t buy.

  Only established outlets had survived and, thankfully, Mario’s Café was one of those. In Eccles town centre, Striker watched the world pass by through the café’s expansive rectangular windows. A plethora of smells teased his taste buds, from fish, chips and curry to sausage, egg and beans, but Striker wasn’t here to eat. It was discreet and out of the way, which was key.

  A group of hoodies swaggered past the window, one spitting on the pavement while another grabbed one of his mates playfully around the neck as they moved out of view. Striker wondered when all these killings would stop and whether the Hoodie Hunter would branch out of South Manchester into the likes of Eccles. Then he saw Collinge scurrying past the window to the door, her face serious, yet still easy on the eye.

  He waved at a waitress, asked for another pot of coffee as Collinge walked in and headed his way. She wore no make-up, didn’t need it, her wavy brown locks up in a bun, fresh-faced from the winter chill. Looking good.

  “Hi, Lauren. Thanks for coming. Take a seat.”

  She scanned the nearly empty café, removed her coat and easily slid her trim figure along the tight double seat. “This your new office, Boss?”

  Striker grinned, purposely avoided looking at her slender legs. “You could say that. My mum used to bring us here when we were kids.”

  “You’ve got a good memory.” The smile again.

  “Cheeky sod.” He glanced around, checking that nobody was within earshot. “I’ve just ordered some coffee. Tell me about Gartside.”

  “A local chap, returning from a night out, found him hanging from a substation on the border of Moss Range and Bullsmead at about four o’clock this morning, with his guts hanging out. Wasn’t a pretty sight.”