by Col Bury
The nurse pretended not to listen, but Striker saw her hesitate while she filled in a chart that had been clipped to the bottom of the bed.
“Mum, it’s okay with me, honestly. Dad’s long gone.”
“It’s not like that, he’s just a friend. Really.”
He smiled.
“Oh, and Lucy sends her love.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“How’s Deano?”
“Oh, of course, you don’t know. He’s come round now.”
He felt a surge of relief. “That’s great news.”
“The doctor said he should make a full recovery. Your friend’s been talking to him I think.”
Striker looked at Bardsley, who was now exaggeratedly eating the grapes.
Vera got up and gave Striker a peck on the cheek. “It’s great to have you back, Jack. Now, you just look after yourself and get well, okay?”
“I will, Mum. Thanks for coming. I’ll take to you Mario’s café for a meal soon. Promise.”
“Now that would be nice.” Vera Striker nodded, turned and waved once she reached the door. She left, being replaced by Bardsley, who was blatantly ogling the nurse.
“I’ll leave you to it, Mr Striker. Could you please take these?” She passed him two white tablets and pointed at the bedside table where there was a jug of water and a glass.
“Sure.” He felt the bandages on his head. “So I take it I’m good to go soon?”
“Not yet, Mr Striker. I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake.” She smiled sympathetically as she left with Bardsley’s eyes burning into her bottom.
“Okay, cheers.”
“You look like shit, Jack.”
“Thanks, Eric. I love you too.”
Bardsley tossed the grapes and banana onto the bed. “Fame at last, eh, DI Jack Striker?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been all over the news, mate.”
“Have I? Great. Now every bloody scrote in the country knows I’m a cop.” His mind was slowly clearing and just seeing his sidekick had started the investigative cogs turning again. Still, his time incarcerated was, so far, only coming back to him in brief flashes. He recalled the overwhelming, panicky feeling of being trapped… snippets of conversation with the kidnapper… his deep, matter-of-fact voice… being shot at… the rats… the dreams and reminisces…
“Before you ask, we’ve found Lauren and she’s fine.”
“Thank God for that.” More relief flooded him. “Where?”
“In a cubbyhole, up in the temple’s spire.”
He thought for a moment. “Was I in the temple’s basement then?”
“No, Jack. You were in the cellar of the Wagon and Horses in Bullsmead. Let me fill you in…”
Striker just stared and listened intently, still trying to gather his thoughts, piece things together.
“… I’ll be honest, Jack. Initially I just assumed you were getting your end away with Lauren.”
Striker raised his eyebrows, shook his head. “What do you take me for, Eric?”
“A red-blooded male? Anyway, I was wrong. Here, I’ve got you a suit for when you’re good to go.” He tossed a bin liner onto the bed.
Striker opened it and saw a familiar charcoal grey Armani suit, light blue shirt, matching tie and black slip-ons. “You’ve been in my apartment, Eric?”
“Yeah, sorry, we had to force your door, mate. Stockley got a buzz out of that by the way.”
“Bet he did.”
“Watch your back with him, Jack. Especially now, he’ll be jealous of you being proven right and stealing his thunder.”
“I know. Don’t worry, I can handle him… and Cunningham.”
“Anyway, we still haven’t a clue as to who the hell brought you here. Care to enlighten me?”
“Huh? Wasn’t it you lot?”
“No, Jack.”
“You were dumped next to an ambulance at the side of the hospital. The ambulance crew heard a continuous beep of a horn and got out. They found you on the pavement.”
Striker was flabbergasted. He suddenly got a flashback of being bundled into a car, but the image evaporated before he could grab hold of it.
“Any ideas?”
“No.”
“By the way, Syndicate Four caught up with Copeland. He was drinking with the tramps under Bullsmead arches. He protested his innocence, of course, and with the latest developments Halt authorised his release. He’s threatening to sue us for harassment.”
“I’m not surprised. What ‘developments’?”
“I was at the temple with Halt and Becky Grant when the firearms search teams found Lauren in the spire. There was a map in the little office up there, detailing all the crime scenes and a black book listing the hits. So it looks like you were right about our man, Jack.”
Striker sat up, pulling the tubes leading to the medicinal trolley with him. “I bloody knew it.” He felt vindicated, although still wondered about repercussions from the brass. “But I guess Halt’s gonna be pissed at me?”
“Not at all, Jack. Well, that’s not the impression I got. I think he’s looking at the bigger picture, and rightly so.”
Striker nodded slowly, relieved. He’d have to fall asleep in hospital again soon, if all this good news was what he’d wake up to.
“Get this... there were twenty-five names on the list, so already you’ve saved a fair few lives. But do you know that one-eyed Kingston guy who’s an independent advisor to the police?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, he’s the last name on the list and Halt’s got a team sat on his home address as we speak, just in case.”
“Just in case?”
“Yeah, it’s just precautionary to cover all bases. Can’t see the point really.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
He grinned. “Because we’ve got the bastard who kidnapped you both.”
“You have?” This is getting better and better.
“Oh, yes. Danny Powers, the landlord of the Wagon and Horses. Lauren’s identified him as the leader of the VOICES group from the temple.”
“Brilliant. Makes perfect sense.” He didn’t mention that the man was Lenny’s brother, but he guessed Bardsley knew of the connection. “And he has a military background right?”
“Well, actually, no, from what we can tell. Info has been scant on him so far and he’s not talking at all.”
Striker became momentarily quiet before saying, “So he’s not in custody then, he’s in hospital right? I recall shoving a bottle into his face.”
“He’s still in hospital under armed guard. What’s made it more awkward is that the doctors are being a bit arsy because his face is such a mess. It’s full of glass shards, apparently. You really did a job on him, Jack.”
“He didn’t do too badly with me either. Please tell me he’s in this hospital, Eric.”
“Yeah, but it’s a fair walk from here. Right on the other side of the hospital. Why you asking?”
“I need to see him. Like you say, ‘just in case’,” said Striker, pulling the cannula from his wrist, clambering out of bed and starting to get dressed.
Within two minutes, after ignoring Bardsley’s pleas, Striker was heading for the door. A Pakistani doctor donning a surprised expression said, “Detective Inspector, I need to check—”
“Sorry, doctor, I’m self-discharging. Thanks a lot for your assistance.”
Bardsley shrugged at the doctor and followed Striker out of the ward.
“Which way, Eric?”
“Follow the signs for A ’n’ E, if you must.”
“I must.”
Despite the plethora of aches, Striker started jogging. Three minutes later, they were approaching the Accident and Emergency Department.
“Now where?”
“Take a left then a right and you’ll see them,” said Bardsley, struggling to keep up.
Striker saw two firearms officers standing outside the entrance to
a ward, clutching their Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns.
“Morning lads, DI Jack Striker, MIT.” Realising he didn’t have his warrant card, he waited for Bardsley. “He’ll vouch for me.”
“It’s okay, sir. I recognize you,” said one of the officers, opening the ward door. “Third door on the right.”
“Thanks.” Striker was halfway down the corridor.
“Jack! Wait, will you?”
He let Bardsley catch up and they both entered the room, where two more firearms officers were sitting, one reading a newspaper, no MP5s, just Glock 17s strapped to their legs.
A man in bandages sat in the bed, looking like a mummy.
“Hi, Danny. Sorry about the face. Did your brother put you up to this?”
He didn’t reply.
“Lads?” Striker gestured with his head for the officers to leave.
“We’re under strict instructions from Mr Halt not to take our eyes of him.”
“Well, you were just reading the paper. Two minutes. It’s important to the investigation.”
They looked at each other and both nodded. “We’ll be outside the door. Two minutes, right, sir?”
“Cheers, lads. But I may only need one.”
Once they’d shut the door, Striker went in close. “Danny, I know you’re no killer, but you’re up to your neck in it, fella. Was it your older brother who kidnapped me?”
Still nothing.
“Jack, it’s him. He was caught red-handed.”
“Eric, Shut it!” He leaned right up to the arrestee’s face. “Talk to me, Danny. Look, you’ll get a fifteen stretch for kidnap and attempted murder and you’ll only serve half that – unless, of course, you take the rap. In which case, you’ll never see the light of day again. Was it your brother?”
He turned his head away.
Striker yanked at the bandages and pushed his fingers into Danny Powers’s wounded face. “Talk to me, Danny.”
“Aaargh! You fuckin’ lunatic!”
The two firearms officers rushed in. “Sir, this is out of order!”
Striker probed again into Powers’s face.
“Aaaaargh! I caaan’t. He’ll fuckin’ kill me. He’s outta control.” Blood oozed through the bandages.
“Do you want me to do it again?”
“One of the armed officers pulled out his Glock and pointed it at Striker. “Sir, I strongly recommend you stop this, now!”
“Aaaaargh! Yeah, it was our Vic, now fuck off, you headcase.”
Striker released his blood-soaked hand. “Thank you.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Vic Powers flipped the mobile phone in anger and tossed it onto the dashboard.
Still no answer. What the fuck was Danny playing at? He’d told him, in no uncertain terms, to keep his mobile charged and by his side at all times. Probably fell asleep. Or had he bottled it? It wasn’t every day your brother asked you to look after a kidnapped cop without offering a decent explanation. “Trust me, Dan” probably wasn’t sufficient under the circumstances. But his bro owed him big time, from all those favours over the years, especially when it came to clearing dickheads from his pub each time Vic had been on leave from Two Para. That ‘Woody’ character being the latest, as he’d unwittingly self-referred onto the original hit list of twenty-four.
By now, he suspected Danny probably knew what he’d been up to, particularly considering the abduction of two cops. Anyhow, if things went pear-shaped, he’d ensure he himself took the full blame and he’d tell the cops how he’d coerced Danny into assisting him.
Prison didn’t scare him one bit, despite the cancer. He wasn’t naive. He’d prepared himself for this eventuality, psyched himself up. It would be fun: he’d be like a kid in a sweetshop.
His eyes flicked from the Golf’s rear-view mirror to the wing mirrors every few seconds as he powered through the Manchester streets, his overactive mind drifting…
… He recalled leading his weary mother, Edith into her seat beside Josh’s fiancée, after the announcement that the magistrates had reached a decision. He hadn’t been confident because the evidence had been largely circumstantial and witnesses scarce, obviously intimidated. What had wound him up from the start was that the case should’ve been manslaughter in his eyes, seeing as Josh’s suicide was a direct consequence of him being jumped and beaten to a pulp by these fuckers.
The humdrum of the court room had waned and everyone stood up in respect as the magistrates took their seats. The head guy peered over his spectacles at him, Mum and the family as they sat praying for justice.
The five faces of the accused mirrored each other with glib looks. One even managed a smirk. Another eyeballed him and he held the gaze, electricity between them, until a court security chap clocked it and blocked his view.
Something about the way the head magistrate chose his words, plus the reluctant tone he’d used, suggested things were not good. When the head juryman delivered the verdict of not guilty – due to insufficient evidence – Edith physically slumped, along with his heart. The “whoop-whoops” of people in the gallery and the raised arms, sneers and leers from the five defendants high-fiving one another were as close to ‘too much’ as a man could take. All his powers of discipline and constraint were required.
Deep down, everyone associated to the case knew they were guilty, although proving it was obviously another matter. Detective Sergeant Jack Striker offered apologies to Edith, but she was too distraught and angry to acknowledge him as he slinked off to screw up yet another case, no doubt.
Powers had concentrated on the public gallery, at the standing people who were still cheering. And there he was, wearing his trademark eyepatch and grinning with an upraised fist of victory as his latest ‘works in progress’ escaped from justice: Kingston, the so-called reformed character, who served the community so well.
Yeah, right. He knew all about Kingston, the old Moss Range Crew leader who had become the darling of the media, a local figure offering hope within the community in the fight against gang warfare. He’d been on chat shows, in the papers and had been portrayed as a shining example of hope, proving a leopard could actually change his spots. Bollocks.
Just because a man had had a few kids and found God didn’t mean he could fool everyone by suddenly becoming a good person. There were always consequences from actions, and Kingston would soon learn this reality.
From his extensive research, he’d discovered Kingston had been the one who’d pulled the trigger of the only Smith and Wesson pistol present at the scene of Lenny’s shooting in Moss Range multi-storey all those years ago. The bullet in Lenny’s skull had been from that same make of pistol, but the cops couldn’t prove it. The intel had come from the streets, yet no one had the balls to testify in court.
He’d also been either linked to, or been a suspect in, two other shootings, one fatal. And now he was feeding his overinflated ego by parading himself to the public as some sort of messiah. Well, not for long.
He’d wanted Kingston to squirm; he always had to be the last. Doing him early would’ve brought obvious links and the others would’ve been spared poetic justice.
He was frustrated that some of the other ASBO pricks hadn’t had their comeuppance, but he could live with that. The list of twenty-five was maybe pushing it, even for him.
He thought of those five smug faces in the dock: Castro, Big-un, Levi, Shanks and Chisel. Well, they weren’t so fuckin’ smug now, were they?
The ASBO boys, like Bolands, Dodger and Gartside, had been hit-listed to help the local community, in a much more effective way than Kingston professed to be doing. Plus, he needed to throw the cops off his true scent, letting them think someone was just randomly mopping up the streets of the scumbags blighting the community.
Apart from Chisel, he’d left all those that could’ve been linked back to him till last. Chisel just had to go early, though. He was a particularly nasty piece of work and a one-man crime wave. The bonus was that Gartside, Dodger
, Shanks and Castro had been prime suspects in four separate murders recounted by members of VOICES. After the initial shock, he could see the hidden satisfaction in their eyes.
As he approached Kingston’s home, he cursed at the sight of an unmarked police vehicle opposite, twenty metres down the road. They stood out like a black man at a BNP rally. He dropped into second gear and turned off along a side street, then accelerated away.
Why were they there? Were they onto him? Or was Kingston up to his old tricks again? And why wasn’t Danny answering? The clock was ticking. What to do.
He’d play things cool, have a damn good think. He’d not arouse any undue suspicion by throwing a sickie. He’d go to work as normal and finish things off later, at Kingston’s bullshit little community project.
***
Powers was pondering his next move regarding Kingston when Sergeant Thompson shouted him over.
Thompson, as ever, was sitting on a high chair in front of his computer terminal, police side of the long custody counter.
“Can you do the hourly visits, please, Vic?”
“No problem, Sarge.”
Powers exited the staff office and opened the heavy metal door before heading down the corridor. He began checking each cell by peering through the spy holes.
He’d been working here for nearly two years since quitting the Paras after Josh had hung himself. He’d beaten himself up for not being there for the younger brother who he’d idolized back in the day. Pre-Kabul, he’d gone to as many snooker matches as he possibly could to support Josh, often taking his mum with them, until that fateful day when the Crew jumped him, ending his career and basically his life.
While out in Kabul, he’d had time to think it all through and discuss it with his no-nonsense buddies. The injustice of life, the way British society had deteriorated, the way the scumbags ruled the streets and how the authorities pussy-footed around. The public’s fear was tangible and he knew someone would have to do something about it, using the only way he knew that worked. Fight violence with even more ferocious violence.
To glean the intel required, he knew the ideal job would be as a civilian custody clerk and he’d waited patiently for the opportunity for well over a year, while he planned his mission.