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

by Col Bury

  He was glad he’d not ordered a late breakfast. “Doesn’t sound it.”

  “Uniform attended and preserved the scene, and the night DO got there about half an hour later.”

  “Hanged again? What’s he trying to tell us by hanging some, but not others?”

  “Not sure yet, but he’s certainly a risk taker.”

  “Yeah, but you’d think he’d wanna get in and out quickly. That substation’s quite remote, just like the park where he hanged Chisel.”

  “Where he had more time, maybe?”

  “Maybe.” Striker brushed a hand through his hair. “Must’ve been a strong rope, Gartside was a big fella. There’s no way Copeland did it.”

  Collinge dipped her head.

  “Lauren?”

  “They’re all convinced it’s him, Boss,” she said resignedly.

  “Please, it’s Jack.” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “I know they do, but do you?”

  She hesitated; he didn’t like it. “Could be. You’ve gotta admit, though, everything does point his way.”

  “Not you too, Lauren? It’s all circumstantial.”

  “Best to keep an open mind though, eh?”

  “Definitely.” He changed tack, wanting her onside. “Who was CID cover last night?”

  She hesitated again; he wondered why. “Brad Sterling.”

  “Did Cunningham turn out?”

  “Yeah, her and Stockley arrived about six apparently, an hour after SOCO.” Her tone became lighter. “I’m sorry about what happened. Me, Eric, Becky and some of the others think it’s bang out of order.”

  “Only some of the others?” He left the question floating, not expecting an answer. “Well, it won’t stop me. But I will need your help, Lauren. If you’re willing, that is.”

  “Whatever you need, Boss, just ask,” she said, almost seductively, or was that just Striker’s imagination?

  Still calling him “Boss”? A group of chattering mums entered with their children and formed an untidy queue at the counter.

  Striker lowered his voice. “Lauren, what I’m about to tell you has to remain between us until the time’s right, if at all. Okay?”

  “What about Eric?”

  “I’ll speak to him soon enough. But it’ll just be the three of us because the less people who know, the better.”

  “Okay, not a peep to anyone. Go on.”

  “Hold on. First things first. Any new leads?”

  “From what I can gather, SOCO have some fibres from the substation brickwork at the Gartside scene, and a few swabs of blood found a few metres from his body are being fast-tracked.”

  “So there may’ve been more than one person present?”

  “Possibly, but it could still Gartside’s blood, before he was strung up.”

  “And what about—” A young, flustered-looking waitress arrived with the coffee. Striker gave her a polite smile and thanked her. He poured the coffees, watching the waitress go out of earshot to deal with the noisy group. “What about the others, anything?”

  “Well, Mozo and Grinley were released without charge. All we got was the same description that Khan gave us. A tall stocky man in a black trench-style coat, but they said his face mask was dark green, not black, and that he had Magnum boots on. Grinley also said he used a baton, ‘like the police use’. They definitely didn’t know him and they reckoned it was a ‘fully grown man, not a lad’. I think that quote was from Mozo.”

  “Who interviewed?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Stockley?”

  “In one. But thankfully, Becky Grant was second jockey. That’s where I got the specifics.”

  “Fair enough. You could argue they got more than I – we – got from them, so the arrest was justified after all. Maybe I was wrong on that, but I didn’t want to alienate them as witnesses.”

  “You weren’t wrong, though, were you? You said they weren’t involved and your judgement was correct. They were witnesses, like you said.”

  Collinge had a knack of lifting his spirits, something very few people could emulate. They both sipped their coffees. The noisy throng of mums and kids at the counter were still ordering, a takeaway Striker guessed as they’d not yet sat down. The odd clang of pans and plates emanated from the kitchen area beyond the counter.

  “What about the Woodthorpe murder? Not heard much about that one.”

  “Me neither really. Team Three took that one. Believe he was found beaten to death near the railway, probably with a baton again. He was then stabbed through the heart, like Dodger. The spot was secluded, but no hanging, so…” She shrugged.

  “Hmm, okay. Heard they’d interviewed a few gang members too. What was the upshot of all that?”

  “Basically, it’s pretty much like Jerome Jackson said to us when I drove you around the Moss. The two gangs were meeting up to discuss joining forces over the doors in Manchester city centre. Both gangs have their own bouncers on certain patches, but remember that Bobby Campbell shooting a while back?”

  Campbell, aka Meat Balls. Striker nodded. Although he didn’t have any direct dealings with the case, he knew he was from the Moss and that nobody had yet been convicted of his murder.

  “Well, it seems like both South Manchester gangs from our patch were gonna take on the Salford gangs who, intel suggests, were responsible.”

  Striker was surprised Jackson’s story was true, especially since the Bullsmead Boys and the Moss Range Crew had been at war since he could remember. “And what about the rope used to hang Chisel? Anything back on that? Was the same type of rope used on Gartside?”

  “I just know it’s a popular rope and, no, he used a different one on Gartside. And before you ask, the knot was the same, but again, common enough. Anyway, come on then, what were you about to ask me? The suspense is killing me.” She gave him the smile, only it had a nervous edge to it.

  “Just between us, promise?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Please don’t say that, Lauren. You’ve not heard what I’m gonna ask you to do yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I’ve been trawling the internet, looking for anyone or anything that may help, and I think I’ve stumbled across something.” Striker sipped his coffee, leaned forward a little, checking over both shoulders. He was a tad disappointed that the lively group of women and children had decided to eat in, though thankful they’d settled on the far side near the entrance.

  “What, exactly?” asked Collinge, also leaning closer.

  “Well, I was trying to think what would motivate someone to start murdering the local scumbags and I re-read the letter over and over. Then, on a whim, or a hunch if you like, I searched the net for local support groups for victims.”

  “So you believe our man’s been wronged in some way. Makes perfect sense.”

  “Yeah, and I found a few action groups scattered around the north, a couple in the northwest, but only one based near here, on the outskirts of Greater Manchester.”

  “Where?”

  “Wilmslow.”

  “That’s where I live.” Collinge looked anxious, her eyes tightening, brows scrunching. “What’s the group called?”

  “VOICES.”

  “What does that stand for?”

  “Victims of Injustice Can Ease Suffering.”

  “Seems reasonable. And?”

  “That’s what I thought, initially. They meet up monthly at an old Masonic temple off the A34.”

  “Think I know it.”

  “Okay. But they’ve also got a chat forum and this is where it gets interesting. They were talking about the Hoodie Hunter on it, defending him.”

  “Oh.” She seemed nonplussed. “But everyone’s talking about him. And isn’t that understandable, with it being for victims of crime, who are probably bitter about what’s happened to them or their loved ones? He does seem to have the public, and some parts of the media, split doesn’t he?”

  “True, but one g
uy was a little too pro-Hoodie Hunter for my liking, virtually singing his praises.”

  She took a sip of her coffee. “Did you join in the chat, Boss?”

  “Please, Lauren, call me Jack. We’re in a café and I’m on gardening leave, or so it seems.”

  She blinked, nodded. “They’ll have you back soon enough.”

  “Perhaps not ‘soon enough’, eh? And, no, I just lurked a while. But I will join in the chat tonight and if I get the same vibes, I may need you to go into one of their meetings as a victim.”

  She sat upright, eyes widening. “What, you mean off the record?”

  He opened his arms. “Can’t get authorisation from here can I?”

  Collinge stroked a hand across her creasing brow. “With respect, Jack, why can’t you go into the meeting yourself?”

  Striker shook his head, his turn to look thoughtful. “I can’t because I think my old mate Wozza was on the forum. If so, he’d obviously recognise me. He was chatting on there about a friend of ours who was shot in the head years ago.”

  ***

  Striker plopped some bloodworms into the tropical fish tank, watching the crimson mass disperse and wiggle in unison down toward certain death. The vigilant neons, as always, were first to go in for the kill, the less alert mollies last to join the feeding frenzy. A few of the bloodworms nestled in shells, skulking in the shadows, but it was only a matter of time until the inevitable onslaught reached them too. No stone, or in this case shell, would be left unturned.

  Mr Plec and Sliver the loach showed no interest in the wriggling bloodworms, instead they continued focussing on their mopping-up process, aimed at the scum in the lower echelons of the tank.

  He poured himself a vodka and Diet Coke, and sat at his computer. Turning it on, the whirring noise as it powered up was followed by the universal chimes of Windows opening. Waiting for the screen to upload, he gazed out of the second-floor apartment at the huge Beetham Tower, seeing little movements in the myriad of windows from miniature people going about their business, the rare winter sun shimmering off the impressive Tetra-style building.

  He considered Collinge’s reaction to his suggestion of her possibly infiltrating the action group. Initially, she’d looked a little uneasy, but he reassured her that both he and Bardsley would be nearby as backup, if at any point she wanted out. Sometime soon, he’d have to give Lucy a call and check in on Deano again. Though, as bad as he felt about that, it would have to wait for the moment.

  A couple of clicks later, he was on the VOICES website. He joined the site choosing the random name ‘Davey’, for no other reason than it was the first name that popped into his head. He’d made up a Hotmail address incorporating Davey, but wasn’t too bothered about leaving any technical footprints that could be traced back to him via his IP address. If anything positive arose from this, then the computer analysis would just be used as evidence in court, and the judge and jury could decide on its legitimacy.

  He knew he was akin to a hippo crossing an iced lake, but what did the brass expect him to do: forget the whole thing and sleep like a baby? Nothing would probably come of this anyway, yet something told Striker it was worth a shot.

  On the forum, Wozza had used his real nickname in the early hours when Striker had last logged on, but trawling through the various threads now, he didn’t appear to be on there. Nonetheless, Striker read through the thread titles, his eyes resting on one in particular: ‘My son was killed and the bastards got off’.

  ‘Edith’ had started this thread and was understandably irate. Striker saw a green tick beside her name, signalling her online status. Time to make contact. He began typing.

  Having read about her son being jumped by a gang as he returned from football practice in the tough Manchester suburb of Wythenshawe, and how the police arrested eight youths but charged no one, Striker typed a short message: So sorry to hear of your loss, Edith. I do hope your son’s attackers are brought to justice.

  Within seconds Edith responded: Thank you, Davey. So do I. Not seen you on here before – welcome. Have you lost someone close as well?

  Time for calculated bullshit. It felt slightly immoral duping an innocent victim, but the moral high ground was with Striker, in that his motive was for the greater good.

  Davey: Well, this is the first time I’ve ‘spoken’ about it. My nephew was attacked and pretty much left for dead too. He’s never really recovered. I’m still coming to terms with it. I know it can’t be compared to your loss, but it’s still devastating seeing him struggle through life.

  Edith: Oh, Davey. We all feel the same pain and it’s crucial that you don’t carry that pain with you – you must share it to lighten the load on yourself and it’s good you’ve taken that first step. If you’re in the area, why don’t you come to one of our meetings? You’d get so much out of it. I don’t know how I’d have coped without them.

  Davey: Thanks for those kind words, Edith. It’s nice of you to offer, but I’m a fair few miles away.

  Edith: Oh, these meetings are open to all and are very therapeutic.

  Davey: How many attend them?

  Edith: Usually a dozen or so, and sometimes it can be as many as twenty.

  Davey: I dunno about talking about this in public though.

  Danny Boy: Hey, mate. We’re a friendly bunch n you don’t have to say anything.

  Davey: Hi, Danny Boy. That’s reassuring. Thanks, but still not 100% sure.

  Edith: It’s entirely up to you, Davey. Just an option that’s open to you. Think about it – we don’t bite!

  Davey: LOL.

  Wozza: Davey, welcome. You can just use this forum to get things off your chest, fella. Many people do that, especially those scattered around the country.

  Davey: Thanks – all of you. You really are decent and I’m feeling better already.

  Edith: I told you!!!

  Davey: So who runs the meetings – if I was gonna turn up?

  Wozza: Usually Vic, but if he’s got other commitments, then Danny fills in.

  Davey: Right. Vic? Is that a woman?

  Danny Boy: It doesn’t really matter who runs it cos all the meetings have the same format n serve their purpose.

  Davey: Okay, thanks again. Gotta go now, but nice chatting to you all and hopefully speak again soon.

  Striker didn’t want to push his luck, but why did this ‘Danny Boy’ character seemingly jump in about the names of the organizers? And why weren’t they on the website in the ‘About’ section? It simply stated that ‘VOICES is a place where like-minded people meet up for a cathartic fortnightly session.’ No names given: maybe this was simply to protect the victims’ identities, or could there be another reason?

  Suddenly a comment from Danny Boy flashed up – He’s still online – and disappeared within a blink.

  Striker scrutinised the screen, noticing a ‘whisper’ icon at the top right of each comment made, plus ‘delete’, and a ‘report post’ facility. He tested the whisper option out with a message to Edith. He clicked on her last comment: I told you!!! The new comment box opened with ‘Whisper to Edith’ at the top. He wrote, Sorry for doubting you. I appreciate your welcome.

  Twenty seconds later.

  Edith to Davey: No worries. We love new members. Hope to see you at a meeting soon. X

  Davey to Edith: I’m sure you will.

  So it appears that Danny Boy may have been whispering to someone, maybe Wozza, about Davey. Could have been innocently chatting about the ‘newbie’, but Striker wasn’t so sure.

  After checking the list of dates for their next meeting, Striker logged off VOICES, deciding to check out another forum he’d found, one he had a vested interest in. He typed in the Google search bar: ‘BDSM forums.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Striker fired up the hired Vauxhall Vectra and flicked the wipers to intermittent to clear the light drizzle. He hadn’t wanted to use his own car for this particular excursion.

  Leaning a hand out of the driver�
�s window, he key fobbed the private car park barrier up and headed off. On Liverpool Street he passed a group of schoolchildren, obviously heading for the Museum of Science and Industry, thirty or so excited voices drifting into the Vectra. The teachers, or helpful volunteer parents, dressed in luminous green jackets, were guiding the kids away from the city centre traffic.

  The Beetham Tower soared above him as he turned into the inevitable queue on Deansgate, an immaculate burgundy-bodied Harley Davidson fleetingly catching his attention outside Manchester Motors. After a few impatient minutes, he left most of the congestion in his wake and sped beneath the bridge beside Deansgate railway station, a noisy tram thundering the bridge’s girders above. Not wanting to think of his dad at this moment, he ignored the swing CDs in his glove compartment, opting for an eighties music collection instead. Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ began to belt out.

  He headed south along the A56, on his right the futuristic and predominantly glass design of the Salford Quays towers proudly piercing the skyline. Because of its close proximity to the city centre, ‘The Quays’, as the locals called it, was a haven for city centre high-fliers, actors and the like. This list included a few from popular local soap opera Coronation Street. Both the BBC and ITV had their studios there, giving the place a distinctly prosperous feel. The Quays was set at the end of the Manchester Ship Canal, overlooking a picturesque and expansive basin where huge cargo ships used to dock and turn in years gone by. But typical of Manchester, looming behind was the tough Ordsall Estate in the neighbouring city of Salford.

  Chester House, Greater Manchester Police’s old HQ, flashed by to his left, making Striker picture the much swankier new HQ at Central Park in Newton Heath, where no doubt numerous media vehicles would be camped outside with reporters hoping for a word with the chief constable.

  A cloak of bitter memories engulfed him as Old Trafford, Man United’s ground, came into view to his right. Indelible recollections of too many Man City defeats there flicked through his mind; the tangible excitement of derby day within the city never seemed to live up to its billing for the blue side of Manchester, until recently thankfully.