by Col Bury
An explosion of gunfire made everyone pivot and cower. Bullets clanged and ricocheted off the back of the van.
Striker flinched at the repeated blasts and then span round to see the manic Dessie Bowker charging at the police van, pistol in hand, emptying the gun’s magazine in the direction of Powers.
“You killed my son, you bast-aaard!” yelled Bowker, his face twisted, eyes bulging.
All cops took cover, some just hitting the deck. Screams emanated from the crowd of onlookers, many spinning to flee the scene. The van doors weren’t shut yet so Powers was the proverbial sitting duck. Still cuffed, he jumped out, blood dripping from his right shoulder where he’d taken a hit. Striker sprinted to Powers and dived across him as more shots fired and Bowker closed in. Striker felt a shockwave to his chest, a reverberation in his ribcage, just before he landed, dragging Powers with him. Firearms officers unleashed a volley of sharp, accurate shots to Bowker, his upper body an eruption of blood as he fell, almost in slow motion, onto the crimson tarmac.
If Bowker the gangster hadn’t retired before, he definitely had now.
Bardsley rushed over to Striker and Powers, as relentless, haunting screams filled the air, intensifying the horror. The detective crouched down and leaned over the two sprawled bodies on the road. “Shit, Jack… Jack? Are you okay, mate?”
Chapter Fifty-One
Once Powers had been released from hospital, having had the gunshot wound to his right shoulder tended to, the series of interviews had begun, with Halt taking the reins and choosing Bardsley as his second jockey. To be fair to the vigilante, his full and frank confessions to the murders had gone a considerable way to patching up what the press had cruelly called “a shambolic inquiry”.
It turned out that Powers had been devastated by Lenny’s shooting all those years ago. To say he was disappointed at the police’s failure to catch the shooter was an understatement. He’d bubbled with frustration and anger while out serving in Helmand Province with Two Para, where he’d endeavoured to channel his rage into his work as a soldier. However, when he’d heard that his little brother – the talented snooker player Josh – had been attacked by the Bullsmead Boys, he’d been given compassionate leave. Then, the bombshell from the specialist came when Josh was told he’d never play snooker again, due to the fracture of the orbits in his right eye.
Desperate to rekindle his younger sibling’s snooker career, Powers tried everything to assist. He paid for special glasses to ease the double vision, but as Josh’s frustration grew at being half the player he was, Powers’s wrath grew tenfold. Second and third opinions from eye specialists came and went, all saying the same thing. The eye would gradually sink into its damaged socket and finally settle, but the double vision would always be there, intermittently at best.
Josh was inconsolable and the depression finally broke him, culminating in him taking his own life. It was their mum, Edith, who’d returned home from bingo one afternoon to find her youngest son hanging from the banisters of the family home. It had been the very house that overlooked the alleyway where Powers had executed Shanks, Levi and Renshaw, before kidnapping Big-un to use as bait for Castro.
Powers received the call about Josh’s suicide while on an operation in Helmond Province and had completely flipped at the news. After disobeying orders from Command, he’d jeopardised not only the operation but also the lives of his colleagues by charging into a Taliban stronghold. That day he shot dead five of the enemy and two of his colleagues were injured in the battle. After lengthy discussions, his army career was terminated and he returned home.
From then on, he began to plan his mission in earnest. He knew that in order to glean the required intelligence regarding the crimes committed against his brothers, he would have to find a way in. Because the recruiting of the “twice as expensive” police officers had been suspended due to economic cuts, he applied to become a civilian detention officer at Bullsmead nick. In hindsight, it had proved a better option, being on the periphery, lower profile, with less chance of snooping colleagues.
During one of the interviews, he’d even told Eric Bardsley that he’d broken into the detective’s house in a bid to “temporarily silence” Bardsley, who he’d seen with Striker in the bushes outside the temple. But Powers was surprised to see a naked young man jump out of Bardsley’s bed to confront him. Powers had promptly struck the ‘lover boy’ with his baton before fleeing the house.
Bardsley had camouflaged his anger by joking in his own inimitable way. “Thanks for the heads up, Vic, but I was already onto it. And, anyway, when are you gonna pay me for the carpet cleaning and the broken back-door window?” Unbelievably, Powers actually offered to pay!
Powers had insisted that he’d had no desire to harm any police officer, doing only what he had to do in order to complete his mission. He apologised profusely for all the injuries received by officers who’d “unfortunately got in my way”. Plus, he felt particularly remorseful for the attack on Striker’s nephew, Deano. Nonetheless, when it came to the non-completion of his ‘mid-list’, he was disappointed in himself.
Striker, still sporting a nasty bruise on his chest where one of the late Dessie Bowker’s bullets had taken a chunk out of his body armour, had his own series of interviews to contend with. He was quizzed at length by Professional Standards. And, although he’d squirmed more than once at their jobsworth-style interrogations, he felt he’d held his own. They were particularly interested in exactly who had rescued Striker from the cellar and dropped him off at hospital. But “concussion and shock are a formidable combination”, Striker had told them. He knew they’d spoken to his colleagues, particularly Vinnie Stockley. His counterpart had delved deeply into Striker’s past when interviewing his sister Lucy about the Deano attack.
Still, Striker had already played his ace card. When he’d been digging on the internet and had found the VOICES website – now closed by the authorities – he’d also found something else intriguing on a very different forum.
He’d known Cunningham was into kinky sex after he’d awoken from their drunken one night stand all those years ago with his hands tied to the bedposts. The crazy bitch was dressed in bondage gear, holding a whip and dripping hot wax on his bare chest. He’d left that fast, he’d nearly taken the bedposts with him.
So, after joining the BDSM forum under a false name, Striker discovered that both Cunningham and Stockley were members under the guises of “Madam Justice” and “Mister Obedient”. He’d loved to have shared this revelation with Bardsley over a pint, though that would have been the equivalent of putting it on News at Ten.
This info was all he needed to keep Stockley quiet, his pointy face flushing red when Striker had addressed him by his kinky alias in his office.
This had boosted Striker, along with the fact that he’d hung onto his job “by a piece of burning cotton”, as Halt had succinctly put it in the Crown earlier. They’d all surprised Striker with a celebratory shindig, greeting him with cheers and raised glasses on his entrance. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, and not being one for a fuss, Striker had gone with the flow for half an hour or so and, of course, sank a couple of John Smith’s.
Bardsley told him he was going to give Maggie a second chance, since the Casanova window cleaner was now off the scene. “But, on one condition,” Bardsley had said with a cheeky grin. “She cleans the bleedin’ windows!”
Becky Grant, who’d been co-ordinating the security at the hospital, informed Striker that Kingston had actually survived. Even so, he’d spend the rest of his days in a wheelchair.
Poetic justice, thought Striker.
It was as nice to see Ben Davison with his new fiancée, Louise, as it was to see Cunningham and Stockley looking sheepish in the corner. It was also good see Lauren Collinge having fully recovered from her kidnap ordeal. What wasn’t so good was the sight of her huddling so close to Brad Sterling.
Ah, well.
Despite the tempting eyes of that curvaceous barmaid gazin
g through the crowd, Striker made his excuses, knowing something much more important awaited him.
When he’d been discharged from hospital, he’d been surprised to receive a phone call from Suzi.
“You okay, Jack? You’ve been all over the news,” she’d asked, her voice filled with a concerned tenderness he’d not heard for years.
Apparently, Sky News had run a live feed of the Powers’s capture. It included Striker not only chasing the vigilante across the rooftops, but also later leading him out with Davison, then Striker diving across the killer and taking a bullet from Bowker. The latter part was edited considerably and just reported verbally, due to the graphically violent content. The whole thing had been more poignant to the viewers with the added ingredient of that “kidnapped cop” seeking retribution on the vigilante. Beth and Harry had apparently watched the whole thing open-mouthed during the post-school news bulletins. Suzi had lifted Striker’s spirits by saying that both kids – not just Beth, but now Harry too – had wanted to see him. Harry had even ditched his red United shirt and put on his sky blue City one instead.
Back in his apartment, ‘Mack the Knife’ was playing on the CD player as he waited for his kids to arrive for their first ever sleepover at Daddy’s apartment. He plopped some frozen bloodworm into the fish tank and watched it disperse. Mr Plec and Sliver the loach took cover while the rest feasted frantically on the smell of blood.
He wondered whether it would be Suzi who’d bring the kids over. It would be nice to see her. The paradox of his kidnap ordeal was that it had given him time to think, time to reflect on his life and the relationships therein, the people that mattered. And he knew Suzi, the mother of his children, his first love, would always be right up there.
The apartment buzzer sounded, surprising Striker. Were the kids here early?
Peering through the blinds, he was blown away at whom he saw, distant memories whizzing back. He ran a hand through his dark locks, considered not answering. The buzzer rang again, sounding louder somehow.
He walked tentatively into the hallway, where he took a deep breath before picking up the phone from the wall. “Wozza, me old mate. Come on in,” he said, with fake enthusiasm, pressing a button to release the communal door. “There’s a lift on the left.”
A minute or so later, Striker opened the front door, feeling awkward and trying not to look shocked. The ageing process hadn’t been kind to Wozza, his ginger hair cropped close to hide his receding hairline. A few wrinkles had appeared and he’d developed a paunch, not that it mattered. What did matter was who he’d brought with him – in the wheelchair.
Wozza glanced down. “Look, Lenny, it’s Lord-bloody-Lucan.” He returned his gaze to Striker. “Have yer got Shergar hiding in there with yer, too?”
Striker forced a smile.
Lenny appeared to smile back. He donned a red, Santa-style bobble hat. It jiggled from side to side as if he was excited. Wozza pushed the wheelchair along the short hallway.
Striker glanced down at Lenny, who was dribbling. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s full of the joys of the upcoming festive season, aren’t you, Len?” he said, jerking the wheelchair a little.
Lenny rolled his head from side to side, akin to Stevie Wonder but without the harmonious tones, the white bobble on the hat swinging.
“Come on, Wozza, how is he doing?”
“Ask him.”
Striker felt uneasy. He walked over, crouched a little and asked softly, “How are you, Lenny?”
Lenny rolled his eyes and spluttered some saliva onto his top lip then sidled his head again.
“Does that answer your question?” said Wozza, expertly wiping the spit away with a readied tissue.
Striker turned toward the sink and dipped his head to wash a cup over-rigorously. Guilt engulfed him at not keeping in touch with his old mates.
He poured milk into two cups, hesitated, gesturing at Lenny. “Does he…?”
“No. He can’t. Gets his nutrients via tubes. He’s sorted. I did it before. I’m his full-time carer now.”
“Ah, right. Good on yer, Wozza.” He poured hot water into the cups, the steam rising into his face momentarily.
“How did you know where I was?”
“Your Lucy gave me the address.”
“I didn’t mean that. You know what I meant.”
“It’s safe to be honest with you, then… Inspector?”
“Come on, we’re mates, right?”
“Alright. Ged and I had our suspicions because of some of the things Vic was saying and doing at the action group’s meetings.”
“What was he saying and doing, then?”
“Look, Jack. Don’t turn this into an interrogation or I’m outta here. You’ve caught him now so let’s leave it at that. I came to see how you are, bud. Plus, I’d thought it would be nice to reacquaint you with Lenny.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right, and I’m glad you came.”
“And I wanted to return this, discreetly.” He handed a wallet to Striker.
Surprised, Striker took it, checked its contents, seeing his warrant card was still there. “Thanks, but where was it?”
“Look, at the last VOICES meeting, I overheard Danny Powers on the phone, saying that someone was skulking in the bushes outside the temple. I didn’t think much of it, until later when I found your wallet on the floor of Vic and Danny’s office. So I told Ged and we got in touch with DJ. Remember the pledge we made on the park about always sticking together, no matter what?”
Striker nodded, remembering it well, for it was the night Lenny was shot.
“Anyway, the three of us went to Danny’s pub. He was really edgy and scared, drinking whisky. When we confronted him, he said he’d no clue what we were talking about. So we left, arguing about what to do. We were even gonna call the cops, but… Anyway, we heard banging and smashing coming from the cellar. The hatch rattled, so we yanked it up and there you were.”
Striker stared into space, in deep contemplation.
“We knew nothing of Vic’s crazy business until that night, I promise you.” A moment passed. “Our secret – right, Jack?” he asked, looking unsure.
“One thing I can keep, Woz, is a secret.” Striker reached across the table and they shook hands.
Wozza smiled, withdrew a present, crudely wrapped in Christmas paper and gave it to Striker, who noticed Lenny lolling his head from side to side again.
Striker tore the wrapping off, beamed and shook his head. A framed snapshot of Striker, Wozza, Lenny, Ged and DJ on Bullsmead Park. They were all posing, trying to look like tough guys, but looked more like a naff boy band.
“The Sunnyside Boys.”
Epilogue
On A Wing the food was so-so. Vic Powers was treated with the respect he deserved, both by the screws and the inmates. He’d caught some of his fellow prisoners giving him the odd stare, sizing him up. They didn’t hold his gaze for long as they knew what he was capable of. They were weak and they knew he knew it. They also knew that he wanted to kill them more than they wanted to kill him. This was a unique situation for these pretenders – someone even more aggressive than them, but with brains to boot. No wonder they were shit-scared of him. Nonetheless, he wasn’t complacent – far from it. He expected someone soon to attempt to make a name for himself. Especially since he’d already started the chemo and may have appeared more vulnerable.
But he was ready. He was always ready.
Sitting in the prison library, he picked up a copy of the Manchester Evening News. He smirked knowingly at the headline.
And they thought he was a handful. God help them…
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Table of Contents
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2015Copyright © Col Bury 2015
Acknowledgements
Praise for Col Bury’s writing
For my mum, Vera Bury - my number one fan. Pity Dad wasn’t here to see this. xPrologue
; Prologue
Sixteen years laterChapter One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue
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