by Col Bury
Striker cursed under his breath and put his foot down to escape the shadow of the huge stadium. Known by football purists as the ‘Theatre of Dreams’, it faded into the distance. To him and his fellow blues, it was cynically nicknamed the ‘Swamp’, due to its old muddy pitch, and City fans also teased their red counterparts regarding its location in Trafford, not Manchester. However, City’s state-of-the-art stadium was built for the Commonwealth Games held in Manchester in 2002 and was much easier on the eye than the sprawl of ugly scaffolding-like supports on the roof of their rivals’ stadium. There was always a flipside to intense rivalry, and with City still renting their home from Manchester City Council, the reds cheekily retaliated by referring to it as the ‘Council House’.
Old Trafford slipped into the distance as Spaudau Ballet’s ‘True’ kept Striker company, and he recalled smooching to it with Wendy Wilkinson at the school disco. As he drove, he fleetingly wondered what life would have been like if he’d stayed with his first love, but after a flashback of him fumbling for his clothes on hearing her dad’s footsteps nearing her bedroom, he smiled and began to concentrate on the now.
The now that had seen five boys murdered and his nephew hospitalised. The now that had seen him unceremoniously dumped off the case. The now that saw him embarking on a private investigation, with the real possibility of Striker himself winding up in prison, and not the killer. Thoughts of football and his first love faded as Striker firmly focussed on the now.
Before long, he was on the M60 – a vast motorway which ringed Manchester – where the drizzle transformed to heavy droplets, pounding his windscreen and roof, his wipers now on full pelt accompanied by an annoying squeak. Such was the downpour’s distortion of his vision, he had to lean forward and squint to view the motorway turn-off sign for the A34 to Wilmslow. Just as Queen’s ‘I Want to Break Free’ began to boom, he noticed the Vectra’s digital clock was on the hour. He flicked the CD out and the radio automatically reverted to the BBC GMR news headlines. His resolve intensified when the bulletin was all about the Hoodie Hunter.
The Sun had apparently run with the letter headline that Halt had warned them about two days ago, despite, as Bardsley had informed him, GMP’s desperate attempts at gaining an injunction to block the revelation. According to the radio, no one from GMP was available for comment, though a press conference was due this afternoon. Striker was honest enough to admit he was glad that he wasn’t the one facing the cameras, and he felt sorry for whoever got landed with the job. The unfortunate person with the responsibility would probably be the chief constable, such was the enormity of the escalating circumstances.
Striker pulled the Vectra onto the A34, still a couple of miles to his rendezvous point with Bardsley. He listened to the female broadcaster sensationalising the story with “Hoodie Hunter” this and “Hoodie Hunter” that, scaremongering the general public in true media fashion. He knew that now the story was out in the public domain, the proverbial brown stuff would hit the fan big time, and cause quite a mess to say the least. This, along with the knowledge his colleagues were chasing the wrong man, made Striker put his foot down, despite the incessant rain. The sooner he could find out more about this VOICES group, the better.
***
Striker saw Bardsley’s green Job Astra parked beside some trees, a second before its headlights flashed him on his approach. Bardsley indicated and slowly turned down a pot-holed country lane.
Striker followed, instantly feeling the random bumps testing the Vectra’s suspension. They drove slowly through a canopy of sycamores, poplars and oaks, and soon passed the impressive-looking Masonic temple that loomed somewhat eerily to his left. Striker recognised it from the photo on VOICES website. The Astra slowed to a crawl, Bardsley’s protruding right arm waving Striker forward.
They drove further down the lane, which split dense woods to the left from vast farmer’s fields to the right, and they came to a halt at a closed wooden gate. Striker pulled alongside Bardsley and they both opened their windows. A strong smell of manure wafted in from the fields, where cows were dotted here and there.
“Remote isn’t it, Eric?” A cow mooed in the distance as if to reinforce his point.
“And smelly too.”
“Wonder what they are trying to hide.”
Bardsley raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“Hmm… maybe nothing.” Striker quickly scanned the area. “But, then again, this may just be a bit too dodgy for Lauren.”
“You having second thoughts, Jack?” No one else around and the ‘Boss’ tag was dropped like clockwork.
“There’s a lot on the line for all three of us if we mess this up, Eric. I don’t wanna bring you two down with me.”
Bardsley looked concerned. “We’re a team. And, anyhow, we can have a quick nosey and if nothing comes of it then no one need know.”
“True. I still believe we need to do this, and we don’t have enough suspicion to do it lawfully so…”
“Ways and Means Act 1984.” Bardsley winked then grinned devilishly.
“Exactly. ‘The book’ is out of the window for me now.”
Bardsley put two cigarettes into his mouth, lit them, and leaned across, passing one to Striker. “What do you mean, ‘now’? Always bleedin’ was.”
Striker took his cigarette, drew on it, smiling. “It’s worth the gamble. How long have you been waiting?”
“Long enough to guess that no one’s knocking about if you wanna take a closer look. No cars in the car park and no CCTV cameras, as far as I can see. Looks like they have motion-sensor lights around the front car park. Probably need ’em too, could see it being quite dark here at night.”
Striker gazed through the woods to their left, seeing the backdrop of the temple, peering through the trees. Its varying shades of beige nineteenth-century brickwork looked rather mossy and weather beaten. “Yeah, it’s a bit creepy looking, even in the daylight.”
“Shall we have a closer look?”
Striker considered Bardsley’s initial observations for a moment. There were no obvious signs of anyone else being present. Of course it was possible that someone could still be there, but Striker doubted it and nodded. They both got out of their cars and headed on foot toward the temple, the gravel underfoot crunching as they approached.
The building itself had a gothic look, probably a few hundred years old, the masonry a mix of browns, greens and greys, uneven, yet still picturesque.
Striker carefully checked the black metal handles on the huge, oak double doors. They were cold to touch and a quick twist of them told him the doors were locked. They headed around the back, passing numerous stained-glass windows, until they reached one with a transparent piece which enabled them to see through. Striker looked first and saw a large hall with a high ceiling. There were about twenty upholstered burgundy chairs in a spacious circle, including three chairs behind an old wooden desk, obviously where the people running the meeting sat.
“Anything interesting?” asked Bardsley, his tones hushed but still coarse.
Striker’s left index finger shot up to pursed lips. “At least try to whisper, Eric. There’s a hall, some seats and a few doors. One that obviously leads to the main entrance, plus one that could be a fire exit and another marked ‘Toilets’. There’s what looks like a” – Striker craned to look – “small stage at the far end, with the curtains closed. There’s a small drinks bar too. Nothing untoward. Here, have a nosey and see if I’ve missed anything.” He moved aside.
Bardsley peeked inside, then looked to his right and walked gingerly a few paces before pointing at another door. Striker nodded, turned and gestured for Bardsley to follow him back to the cars.
Once they were thirty metres or so clear of the temple, they talked as they walked. Bardsley regarded the vast fields to their right, cows mooing intermittently. “I know there’s only the country road leading here, but the actual access to and from the temple is pretty good, isn’t it?”
>
“Agreed, Eric. At least three doors in and out of the hall, plus two more exits from the building itself. Lauren should be fine.”
“Remind me why it has to be Lauren. Wouldn’t it be better if I did it?”
Striker thought for a moment, then said, “Nah, Eric, I’ve something else planned for you. Anyway, one of my old mates might be there.”
“Eh?” Bardsley looked surprised.
“I’m sure it was him, chatting on the VOICES forum I told you about.”
“Who?”
“Wozza.”
“Oh… right. Chris Worsall. Gotcha.” Bardsley’s voice was loaded with inquisition. “Wasn’t he there when your mate got shot way back? When Stockley was a spotty probationer and gave you a hard time?”
Striker had only told one officer about this and that was Bardsley, until recently hinting at it to Lauren out of necessity. “Yes, Eric, way back. Wozza never really got over it.” Striker stared blankly for a moment before continuing. “That’s why I think he’s involved in the VOICES group. They never did catch the bastards who shot Lenny, you see, and it’s been pretty hard to bear… for us all…” Again, Striker gazed into space.
“Okay, Jack.” Bardsley patted him on the shoulder as they reached the cars. “When we gonna do this thing then?” asked Bardsley as they opened their car doors.
“The meeting’s tonight at eight.”
“Bleedin’ell, Jack, that’s in five hours.”
“Exactly. No time like the present.” Striker winked at him. “Keep your phone charged. I’ll be in touch.”
The Vectra and the Astra crawled past the Masonic temple with the continuous scrunch of gravel under tyres, until they disappeared up the bumpy country lane.
***
A solitary magpie was perched on the sill of the lone window within the body of the temple’s spire. Once the two suspicious cars were out of sight, the dark figure peering through the window faded back into the room, returning to his work with renewed vigour.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Since his doctor gave him the news about the prostate cancer, he knew he’d have to rapidly speed things up regarding his ‘project’.
The symptoms had already begun: urinating more often, especially at night, and sometimes it stung like hell too. The chemotherapy would start in two weeks and he’d eventually lose all his bodily hair. No big deal as he’d always preferred a shaven head, ever since his time in the army.
He’d saved up a few of his days off work, specifically for this week, to start his project with a bang. And no one could doubt the fact that he’d certainly done so. However, with the vibes he was getting, he knew the cops were closing. So the least he could do was visit his mum, especially after their telephone chat earlier, when he’d sensed something was wrong. He’d not told her about the cancer though, as she’d had enough to contend with in her life.
He rang the bell twice before knocking on the bungalow’s front door three times in quick succession – an agreed code for his mum to know it was him. He heard her quaky voice, muffled behind the door.
“Okay, son. I’m coming.”
The bungalow was in a line of twelve council properties in a supposedly secure complex. He was pleased when she’d been finally accepted for this place, since she’d had problems with youths in their old family semi in Bullsmead. His mum had met his dad, Donald, by chance, or fate as some people would call it, but not surprisingly at a snooker hall in Moss Range. Donald was never out of ‘Potters’ throughout his life and had always taken the boys there at least once a week. It was his younger brother Josh who’d proved to be the gifted one, the one with raw talent.
Josh was just sixteen at the time and had never really gotten over dad’s sudden death. A heart attack while with his trusty friends at the snooker club, was quite a fitting way to go. Dad’s fellow players soon arranged an annual competition in his honour. The brothers had made a pact to always put on a brave face for mum.
He heard his mum chinking the numerous bolts and chains that he’d fitted to the door himself. The door finally opened, revealing her welcoming smile, her wavy grey hair dotted with curlers.
“I’m so glad you came, son.”
“Doing your hair again, Mum? Going somewhere nice?” He produced a bunch of red and white carnations from behind his back.
“Ooh, carnations, my favourite.” She took the flowers, immediately giving them an exaggerated sniff. “Aah, wonderful. Oh, you’re such a good boy. You always could brighten up my day. And, yes, I’m off to bingo this afternoon, then to the meeting tonight, of course. You going?”
“Not sure, got a lot on at the moment.”
She gazed at the carnations. “These are truly lovely.” He stooped and kissed her on the cheek before hugging her and receiving a peck on his own cheek.
“You need a shave, lovey – not like you. Come on in, and I’ll flick the kettle on.”
As she shuffled through the modest hallway toward the kitchen, he checked the bolts of the front door were all working correctly by yanking on the two chains, pulling them taut. When he was satisfied, he joined her in the kitchen. She was delicately putting the carnations in a sculptured glass vase. The smell of cooked fish teased his nostrils, reminding him he should pick up a takeaway on the way home, if he had time.
“Got this from Barnardo’s for a pound. Beautiful vase like that, for a pound. Would you believe it?”
“A bargain, Mum,” he said. He was impatient to know if something was wrong, noticing an unusual lack of eye contact so far. It was probably nothing. Perhaps Doris had been ignoring her at bingo again, causing mum to be paranoid that she’d done or said something to offend her. Invariably, from his experience of her dotty bingo partner, it was Doris who was the problem, her mind deteriorating faster than a druggie’s.
She placed the flowers on the window ledge above the sink. “Tea, lovey? Earl Grey okay?”
“That’ll be fine, Mum, thanks.”
The kettle boiled and she took a couple of cups from the hooks below the wall unit. She began pouring the hot water into a flowery-patterned teapot, and half turned to him.
“You sounded a bit down on the phone this morning. You okay?”
She looked away and stirred the tea. “Nothing you need to trouble yourself with.”
“Well, since you’ve said that, you know I won’t leave till you tell me.”
“Oh, where’s your big mug?” She pretended to look for it, even though it was directly in front of her on one of the hooks, which he’d also fitted, beneath the wall unit.
“Mum, come on, it’s right in front of you.”
“So it is, silly me. The Alzheimer’s is kicking in.”
He smiled, stood up. “I’ll pour them. You sit down and tell me what’s up.”
They were soon sat opposite each other across the short drop-leaf kitchen table, supping their brews.
“You seem a little preoccupied yourself, lovey. How’s the job going?”
He sipped his brew. “Fine, both me and the job. I’ve taken a fortnight off to sort a few things out.”
“Well good for you. It’s nice to have you back home and settled somewhere with a bit more normality in your life. I used to worry about you over there in, erm… Pakistan, you know.”
He shook his head. “It was Afghanistan, Mum. But I’m home now, aren’t I?”
“Yes, and I can sleep a lot easier, knowing you’re not at war anymore.”
It was his turn to drop eye contact as he pretended to look at his watch. If only you knew, Mum.
“You’re not thinking of going so soon are you?”
“Not yet. I want to know what’s up though. Now, please.”
She took an extra-long audible slurp of her tea.
“I saw one of them today, you know.”
His adrenaline rushed. “Who? Where? What did he say?” The chair scraped on the floor as he jolted to his feet.
“Steady, son. Sit down, please.”
He relu
ctantly sat down, eager to know more.
“I was walking home from Spinley’s grocers with Doris—”
“I’ve told you to get the bus. Or phone me to pick you up.”
She raised a hand. “Let me finish. I saw a group of youths approaching. Didn’t give them a second glance, till I heard one of them say, ‘I don’t fancy yours much.’ They were just being cheeky, but another said, ‘I’ve already…’.” She looked tearful.
“Already what?”
“‘I’ve already… fucked the little one.” She shook her head. “It was then I glanced up and our eyes met.”
Through grinding teeth, he asked, “Which one was it?”
“That big one, or ‘Big-un’, whatever they call him.”
He stood up again. “That cheeky piece of—”
“Calm down, son. He was obviously referring to messing my… our… lives up.”
“Yeah, Mum, I know what he meant. Was that it?”
Her voice was quivering now. “Well, he definitely recognised me. They all strolled past laughing and I…”
She broke down, head in her hands, her frail body shaking. He hugged her and as she sobbed his fury boiled inside.
At the front door ten minutes later, his mum had composed herself. “Ooh, that was another big hug, lovey.”
Agreed, it was, for he knew there was always the chance things could go horribly wrong, and he wanted to saviour every moment with his mum, in case it was his last. His plans may have to change. A whole new debate began in his mind…
Kingston or Big-un?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thankfully, after a quick call to DS Becky Grant, Striker was relieved to discover that there had been no further attacks attributed to the Hoodie Hunter reported throughout the day. There was yet another bogus 999 call, the tapes of which were being analysed, and it was being taken a little more seriously than previous ones, apparently, due to the specifics and nature of the call. However, it was probably a hoax, just like the rest.