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

by Col Bury

“Come on, Striker. Let’s not play games.” His voice was raised now.

  The first signs of a temper, best go easy. Striker played for time, to subtly take in his surroundings while the room was partially lit. “I’m not in a position to play games, fella. You’re clearly the boss here, but please, I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed have known.”

  “Okay, I’ll rephrase it. Why were you watching the temple tonight?”

  Was he one of the trench-coat doormen? I don’t recognise his voice, so it’s not Wozza or Ged. Could it be one of Lenny’s brothers? Or someone else from VOICES? Maybe the owner of the temple? Am I in the temple’s cellar now? Should I ask about Lauren?

  “Well?”

  “Just a bit suspicious of what was going on in there, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I said I’d ask the questions, Striker!”

  Temper, temper. It could be him – our man. Sod it. “I thought you could have some connections to the recent spate of murders.”

  “Murders?”

  “All these innocent young lads – you know.”

  “Innocent? They were far from innocent.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Right! No more questions, smart arse!”

  “And where’s Lauren Collinge? If you touch her, I’ll—”

  “You’ll do what exactly? Look at you. You’re a fuckin’ mess.”

  Striker’s heart jumped as he saw the dark shape of a handgun appear in the man’s right hand. He tilted his head down slightly in a submissive gesture, but still eyeballed him approaching.

  Striker felt a sturdy boot into his sternum, well and truly winding him, and he jolted back against the metal barrel, his head clunking painfully against it. Pulling at the ropes around his wrists, Striker couldn’t even rub his head, now throbbing on both sides.

  Shit, I wish I wasn’t tied up. I’d nail this bastard. “You seriously need… to book some… anger management classes, fella.”

  Towering over Striker, he waved the pistol. “Where’s that fat Scouser you were with?”

  “I’m telling you fuck all. Who do you think you are anyway?”

  “Like I said, you gave me no choice. And, stop with these questions.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  The Magnum boot flew at his head with a whoosh, impacting on his chin, jolting him back against the barrel again. He half-registered his attacker’s parting shot – “And don’t try anything stupid because I’m the one with the fuckin’ gun remember” – as, for the second time that night, Striker left consciousness behind.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  His extensive research had not only led him to his targets, but he also had an acute awareness as to who was working on the case. Striker had left him no choice, interfering before his work was done. He had to give him credit as, even though he knew that he’d been careful enough to leave very few clues, the DI was a shrewd operator to get so close so soon. But he was off the case, so there’s no way it was an authorised obs post. He was running his own private investigation. Never off duty, eh? Just like himself. Striker certainly had tenacity, but he already knew that from marking him at football.

  However, these were only complications and although, admittedly, time was running out, it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d been trained to adapt. There would be enough time to conclude matters satisfactorily; he’d make sure of that. That Stockley would be shell-shocked at what he’d just done, and up to his eyeballs in it. But they’d seen nothing yet and soon enough they wouldn’t know what hit them.

  He pulled the black GTI into the cul-de-sac of semis, struggling to see the house numbers. He spotted the house he wanted in the corner. The street was quiet. Good. A light was on upstairs, the rest of the house was in darkness.

  He slipped on his balaclava and checked his Glock 17 and silencer, purposely close to him, now the cops were closing. He took the retractable baton from the glove compartment, sliding it up his left sleeve into its adapted sheath.

  Fully armed and ready, he got out of the Golf and walked purposefully up the drive. After a swift scan behind him, he scaled the five-foot fence with ease and dropped into the back garden, the trickle of a water feature the only sound.

  He checked the back door, finding it was predictably locked. Leaning closer, he could see a key inside the door through one of half a dozen square-panelled windows. He shook his head at people’s naivety and took out the Glock. He shot the nearest glass panel to the lock, creating minimal noise due to the silencer and modest size of the chosen window, and then he reached inside.

  Within seconds, he’d opened the door and put the pistol in his deep coat pocket. He retracted the baton knowing the occupants wouldn’t be armed. He withdrew a pencil torch and flicked it on, then made his way through the kitchen, living room and into a hallway, where he could hear low groans emanating from upstairs. He crept up the stairs, mindful of any sudden creaks in the timber beneath the carpet.

  At the top of the stairs, he realised the groans were those of pleasure, repeated every second, predominantly female. The light in the front bedroom was on, so he peered through a crack in the partially open door. A big white buck arse pounded away, grinding deeper with each jolt.

  So maybe Bardsley wasn’t too concerned about Striker after all.

  ***

  Still recovering from the hefty boots, Striker was gagging for a drink and the bodily aches were really kicking in now. His migraine throbbed.

  He again recalled his dreamlike reminisces, but this time he didn’t dismiss them. The one he thought he’d long forgotten was from Ged after Lenny had been shot: When my cousins find out, the shit will hit the fan big time.

  He pondered it a while. The third bouncer outside the temple was Danny Powers, who was Ged’s cousin and Lenny’s brother. Striker recalled Lenny had two brothers, both older than Striker, so he didn’t know them that well. He’d heard one ran the Wagon and Horses in Moss Range, and knew the oldest was in the army. The army? Striker thought back to the letter sent by the killer.

  One thing he did know was that the very youngest of the four brothers got jumped by the Moss Range Crew, after going onto their patch for a money match at snooker. The kid – Josh Powers, if memory served – comprehensively beat at least three of the gang and won a few grand. Not surprising really, since he was on the verge of turning professional, having both a sponsor and a coach. The Crew didn’t like this one bit. After the beating – with his own snooker cue and several brands of training shoes – the kid was left with fractured orbits in his left eye. Once it had dawned on him that the dream of turning pro was over he’d hung himself… hung himself… and the older Powers brothers were obviously devastated, as was Ged.

  Striker remembered this so clearly because he was the one who’d dealt with the case as a DS in CID. More importantly, he’d never brought the offenders to justice due to insufficient evidence.

  The sturdy ropes were still tied tightly around his wrists and ankles, and were really getting on his nerves, to the point where he could have screamed like a madman. He’d shuffled around searching for anything to cut the ropes with, to no avail. Rubbing them on the metal barrel hadn’t worked, nor the wall and wooden beam to his rear.

  His chest ached from the Magnum boot’s impact. There was no need for that, but Striker’s goading was to test and get a feel for whom he was actually dealing with. In a way, it had partly worked.

  He was still undecided as to the identity of his kidnapper. It was more than feasible that he could be the killer, but Striker wasn’t sure. It seemed increasingly likely that there was a connection to Striker’s past too, although what bugged him most presently was Collinge’s fate.

  At least Bardsley would eventually realise they were missing, but how long would that be? A sudden thought of his mobile struck him and he awkwardly felt inside his jacket pocket with his inner right arm, unsurprisingly finding nothing. He also knew hi
s wallet containing his warrant card – and more importantly a snapshot of Beth and Harry – was gone from the back pocket of his jeans, as he couldn’t feel any bulge. If the truth be known, what with the concrete floor, he couldn’t even feel his own rear end anymore.

  No! Now he knows what my kids look like.

  He was becoming more weary and desperate than he’d felt at any point in his life. At least he’d managed to see the layout of the room a little when the door had been opened. The room was about ten metres square and there were many scattered barrels about, not just the one he was propped up against. There appeared to be an opening to his far left at the end of a decrepit-looking wall, as though there might be a further room beyond. The cardboard boxes to his right were brown with a black emblem on them, which was hard to distinguish, possibly crisps.

  He was convinced he must be in the temple’s cellar. He heard the shuffling of a rat again and shivered, yet it brought with it a eureka moment. It was absolute madness, but worth a shot given the desperate circumstances.

  He manoeuvred himself up close to what were hopefully crisp boxes, and began biting the boxes. He spat out cardboard and bit again, repeating the process over and over.

  Five minutes later, he was covered in bits of cardboard and had a bag of crisps rustling between his teeth. He carefully leaned back and let the packet fall slightly onto his upper chest. He leaned back further, feeling the muscles in his stomach tighten as he held a half-sit-up position until the crisps slid a little and balanced directly below his chin. He slowly increased the pressure between his chin and his upper chest, hearing a low popping sound, followed by a waft of beef and onion.

  He lay on his back, feeling more pain in his momentarily squashed hands, and carefully let the crisps slip from chest to the floor. He shuffled round so he could grip the packet with his fingers, and when he was sure he had a decent grip, he bent forward as much as he possibly could, until the crisps covered the rope around his wrists. He could feel the slight scrape of crisps between his wrists and hands.

  Recalling what the kidnapper had said, he then began rubbing his forearms against the wooden beam behind him. Knowing the beam had made scant headway into fraying the robust rope around his wrists, he knew it would be more successful cutting his skin. He grimaced and cursed, while scraping the skin of his forearms. But he continued, nonetheless, feeling the wood scuffing and tearing into his flesh. Wincing through grinding teeth, he stopped only when he felt the blood trickling down each arm toward the wrist ligatures.

  He took a deep breath in anticipation of facing his fears head on. The odds were firmly against success, but it was the best option he could muster in the circumstances. True, they may not be partial to beef and onion crisps, but from what his taker had said earlier about meat, just maybe, they’d come for his blood.

  He feared he was finally cracking up as a question arose that he never thought he’d ask himself.

  How do you beckon rats?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Bardsley’s pleas to Stockley had resulted in a vacant stare from the DI, the knockback about finishing for the night not quite “fuck off”, but may as well have been. He’d been designated to take a statement from the occupants of the terraced house beside the alley of the first scene, as apparently they’d “heard a kerfuffle”. Just as he was about to knock on the door, his mobile rang to the tune of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, the anthem of Liverpool FC. One of the uniforms protecting the scene threw him a dirty look, obviously a United fan.

  Bardsley answered it.

  “Hi, is that Eric Bardsley?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “It’s PC Ben Davison, the one from the scene in the park where—”

  “Yeah, I know who you are, Ben. What’s up?”

  “You need to come home. There’s been an incident at your house.”

  “What? Is Maggie okay?”

  “She’s fine, just a bit shaken.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “You’ve been burgled. Just get down here and I’ll wait for you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. What about that statement?” asked Stockley, breaking off a conversation with one of the SOCOs.

  “Gotta go, Boss. I’ve been burgled.”

  “I need that statement.”

  “I need to see my wife!” he shouted, heading up the road to his Astra.

  “Bardsley… Bardsley! BAAARSDLEY!”

  ***

  Frustratingly, and unsurprisingly, the rat idea was proving to be the long shot Striker had suspected it to be. He’d heard them shuffling about, but none had been bold enough to come his way as yet. He’d even tried to play dead, having recalled one being up close the last time he’d come round, but still no joy. The sneaky buggers were obviously cleverer than he’d given them credit for.

  In his desperate state, he obviously wasn’t thinking straight, his thoughts a jumbled mess. His head was still throbbing from all the knocks he’d taken, though somehow he was becoming accustomed to the pain.

  He heard faint footsteps. The line of light around the door’s seam shadowed slightly. A key turned in the door. He turned his head away to soften the flooding light.

  “Just checking you’ve not had any silly ideas, Striker.”

  It was him again, the same voice. Striker looked up and saw the handgun in silhouette. The man still wore a face mask, and this time Striker got a glimpse of his skin below the eye. Caucasian. Narrows it down further. Every little helps.

  He shined a torch around the room that Striker was increasingly convinced was a cellar. The ripped crisp box! The torch soon found it.

  “You should’ve said you were hungry. I’d have cooked you one of the rats. Met ’em yet?”

  Striker nodded. Surely he wouldn’t guess Striker’s desperate plan. It was too ridiculous. “Thirsty and bored shitless.”

  “And that’s how you’ll stay until I’m done.” He moved a few paces forward, still checking with the torch.

  “Done what?”

  “More questions. You can tell you’re a detective.”

  Striker wasn’t lying about being bored. He was sick of tip-tapping around this nutter’s stupid game. “Until you’ve finished killing more young men?”

  “You think I’m that killer off the news, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, why else would you kidnap me?”

  “Maybe you’ve wronged me in some way.”

  Striker didn’t like his matter-of-fact tone. He was seriously beginning to doubt whether he’d actually get out this alive. He needed this bastard up close.

  “I’ve never intentionally ‘wronged’ anybody.”

  “Maybe not intentionally.”

  More games. Come closer so I can trip you up and rip your bloody throat out with my teeth. “Don’t suppose you could slacken these ropes off a bit could you? They’re a just a touch uncomfortable.”

  “Suppose not. Not arsed about your comfort.”

  “So remind me then, about me wronging you.”

  “Let’s just say that not much has changed, has it?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, just look at the case you’re on now. You’ve not caught the offender for that either. A common theme running throughout your career.”

  “You’re talking crap. I’ve got an excellent conviction record.”

  “Talking crap, eh?”

  More anger. Come on, closer. If this guy was the killer, then Striker felt certain he wouldn’t kill a cop because from the letter he seemed to have some sort of warped moral values. Come closer…

  The alternative was to be all submissive and compliant. But Striker didn’t do submissive and compliant. “Yeah, complete crap.”

  “You cocky fucker,” he spat.

  Something clicked in Striker, a giant penny dropping. “So which of Lenny’s brothers are you then?”

  The gunman exploded. “Now you’ve really left me no choice!” he yelled, p
ointing the pistol at Striker.

  Then he fired two shots.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bardsley had quickly returned to the nick and parked up the Astra, before getting into his Fabia and speeding to the outskirts of the division in record time. He was warned by supervision against living so close to the division in which he worked, but with less travel time it compensated somewhat for the usual long hours. Anyhow, the local dicks were separated just enough from his newish estate on the border of Stockport, it being set back on a hill. With one road in and out, the only people that entered were residents or legitimate visitors, so anyone from the estate would stand out like a tramp at a black tie event.

  He passed Ben Davison’s panda and pulled onto his driveway, swinging open the driver’s door before he stopped. Within a few seconds, he’d clocked one of the small panelled windows smashed on the back door and went inside. Davison was sitting at the pine kitchen table, taking a statement from Maggie, who was opposite in her dressing gown, her head dipped.

  “You okay, love?”

  They both looked up, Davison nodded.

  Eyes bloodshot from crying, Maggie said, “Yeah, yeah am fine, Eric,” unconvincingly.

  “Did you see anyone? What’ve they taken?”

  Davison answered. “Margaret didn’t see anyone, just heard them. She’s a bit shaken. We’re just going through what might be missing, but up to now that amounts to nothing.”

  “Nothing? Did you disturb them, Maggie?”

  “I must have done, if they’ve not nicked anything,” she said half-heartedly.

  Something didn’t feel right. Maggie looked sheepish. “I’ll take a look around.”

  Five minutes later, Bardsley was back in the kitchen. He purposely watched Maggie as he spoke. “Nothing missing that I can see. Strange burglars these. Going to the trouble of breaking in, then stealing nothing.”

  “They must’ve heard me get up and call the police. That’s all I can think of.”