My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (13 page)

After a meagre three and a half hours’ broken sleep, Striker was back at the station mulling over the statements and copies of officers’ pocket notebooks from the growing file currently strewn across his desk. He’d phoned the hospital and there was no change regarding Deano. He’d also checked the custody system and discovered that Mozo and Grinley hadn’t been arrested yet. Had they gone to ground for some reason?

Amazingly, neither Cunningham nor Stockley had answered their phones last night, so he’d just picked up the new inquiry and run with it as the one larger connected case he’d suspected it was since the second murder.

Clearly now it was a chase to catch a determined vigilante killer, and evidence-wise they had next to nothing. However, as the scenes mounted, something was bound to arise that would lead them to the killer. DNA would be useful, particularly if the killer was on their database.

A tall burly man dressed in dark clothing, perhaps in his thirties. The attacks always featured a long dark weapon that was sounding increasingly like a baton, which is a strange weapon of choice if you want someone dead. Is he releasing pent up anger, enjoying the feel of the repeated strikes necessary to kill them?
Punish
them? Granted, in the latest murder possibly a kitchen knife was used too, obviously to make sure, like the rope with Chisel. Or had the rope been symbolism as he and Bardsley had discussed? He’d checked all recent hangings over the last year, but couldn’t make a connection. Frustratingly, it all still seemed rather puzzling. Mixing MOs maybe? If this was to confuse the cops, then it was working… for now.

The possible baton aspect nagged him. They were easy enough for anyone to purchase these days, especially on the internet. And clearly cops used batons. Surely this wasn’t the work of an officer who’d finally snapped? Exasperated, maybe, at the way the wheels of justice turned ever-so-slowly, and in some cases, seized up completely. Nah, this wasn’t Hollywood, it was Bullsmead. He pushed this unwelcome, and highly unlikely, possibility to the back of his mind.

From the first murder, Striker was still waiting for forensics on a couple of cigarette stubs and a bottle of lager, and clothing from each victim had been seized for potential fibre comparisons, but the latter would take some time. The former items were likely to have been discarded by the gang of lads, not the killer. That could provide a few more potential witnesses, but they could easily say that’s where they hang out most nights and that the bottle and cigarette ends had been there for days, rendering them useless.

He began to consider the possible characteristics of potential suspects. Who would suddenly start killing youths and why? Someone with a grudge, who’d been wronged somehow? This guy had been seen twice from a distance, though both times on foot. No vehicle had been seen. Why this area? Someone local? Had to be. Striker’s knowledge of the B Division’s scumbags was extensive, even so he was struggling to come up with anyone with the bottle to commit these types of crimes – someone unknown to the cops? Or someone who’d recently returned to the area perhaps?

The cogs turned slowly, in need of oil: evidence.

They’d already had a morning meeting, where he’d dished out numerous tasks to the officers present. He’d requested that Becky Grant chase up forensics from the first scene, and had delegated Lauren Collinge to liaise with the Operational Policing Unit on compiling a list of potential suspects. The criteria being offenders with a propensity to commit serious violence and who may have a grudge. It was a big ask and Striker expected an extremely long list, so had allocated another DC to assist.

Collinge had apologised for not being around last night and was coy about her mystery date, saying only that it had gone “quite well”.

Bardsley knocked and entered, carrying more pocket notebook photocopies of the house-to-house enquiries conducted by uniform last night and from this morning’s revisit.

“Anything relevant, Eric?”

“Just the odd one hearing noisy voices passing, but no eyewitnesses, apart from the old lady that Sterling and Grant spoke to,” he said resignedly, sitting opposite his boss.

“This is the big one. The case that’ll make or break me… us.”

“I know, Jack. The press are all over it like a nasty rash. Have you read last night’s Evening News?”

“No.”

“There’s a copy knocking about in the main office, but basically they are already linking the murders, and saying that we have a madman in our midst. The Sun
started the speculation yesterday, but it wasn’t front page news. It will be after last night though. They’ve already dubbed him ‘The Hoodie Hunter’.”

Striker raised his eyebrows, creasing his brow. He thought about possible repercussions with the gang fraternity, as there would almost certainly be an adverse reaction. “Tell me something I don’t know. He’s not just a serial killer, he’s on a murder spree, mate.”

They were both quiet for a moment, until Bardsley said, “Okay, good news. I popped into Khan’s off-licence to pick up some fags on the way to work and he’s back.”

Striker’s eyes widened. “So soon?”

“Apparently, he’d only gone to London to his brother’s and didn’t want anyone following him, so lied to his family about going to Pakistan.”

Striker shook his head. “Have you spoken to him?”

“No, he was down at the wholesalers. But I did set up an appointment for a statement in half an hour.”

Striker got up from his seat with renewed vigour.

A chat with Khan could establish, at the very least, if Grinley and Mozo were involved, or witnessed more than they’d been letting on.

He made a quick call to Brennan to inform him about Khan. His boss had sounded annoyed, not just at the mounting pressure of the case, but probably at both Cunningham and Stockley turning in late and missing the morning meeting. Shoddy, but
that
was their business. Striker had his suspicions, as they undoubtedly had about him, for very different reasons.

He grabbed his coat and left with Bardsley to find out exactly what the elusive Khalid Khan had seen.

***

“I’ll take the lead, you take the notes,” said Striker, alighting the Astra. Bardsley promptly picked up his daybook and the two detectives entered the newsagents, hardly having noticed the rare Manchester sun. The door bleeped, alerting Khan, who strolled over from one of the aisles.

“Inspector Striker. So pleased to meet you, sir,” said Khan in a strong Pakistani accent, proffering a hand, which Striker shook. Khan’s wife was behind the counter, donning a polite, and somewhat nervous, smile.

Striker forced a half-smile in return, still wondering why this man had left his family when they were vulnerable to more racist attacks from the local youths.

Bardsley wore a look that implied,
And what about my handshake?

Striker glanced at the newspapers on the counter, seeing the headlines on the front page of the Sun: ‘Hoodie Hunter Strikes Again?’ He wasn’t surprised that the media had sensationalised events, inevitable really.

“Is your ‘family business’ sorted now, Mr Khan?”

“Yes, sir, and please call me Khalid.” The shopkeeper had dark bags under his eyes, his face in a kind of permanent frown like that of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “My wife told me you helped sort out our problem and that you wanted to speak with me about something very important, so I cut my break short.”

Striker recalled Response Inspector Barney Briggs having mentioned he’d called in to chat and reassure Mrs Khan, then promptly deployed a couple of PCSOs to patrol the area for a few days. “Yes, it’s about the attack outside your shop, the night before you left.”

“Okay. I tell you what I know. Please.” Khan beckoned the detectives to the back of the shop with a hand gesture and they followed him through a doorway with colourful dangling beads. The beads made multiple clicking sounds when pushed aside and a spicy aroma was initially pleasant, then so overpowering that Striker could almost taste the peppers.

Khan pulled out two seats for them at a dining table before sitting himself.

Striker headed straight for the crux of the issue. “So, Khalid, please tell us what you recall from the night of the attack.”

“Yes. Gang of lads, you know, locals youths. I think may be responsible for graffiti on my shop, but I’m not sure.”

Striker glanced at Bardsley, whose pen was poised.

Khan continued, “But Inspector Briggs is onto that matter and I’m very thankful because—”

“Khalid. The attack. What did you see?”

Khan smiled, apparently realising his digression. “Two boys from gang were in shop when lots of shouting outside. I looked through blinds because I was close to shutting shop.”

Bardsley had started making notes and glanced up to ask, “And what did you see, Khalid?”

“Well, I told you on night, but I was scared, very scared, and I didn’t tell you everything because of this.” He frowned even more, if that was possible, almost looking sulky now.

Striker felt this was going to be hard work, but it had some potential. He wondered how Collinge was doing with the list of potential suspects, though still nodded his head in polite encouragement.

“Gang had surrounded someone and were shouting, and I thought it was mugging or something. But then, man in middle started swinging black stick or something, like he was crazy guy.” Khan did the repeated striking motion, even widening his eyes to emphasise his point.

“I see you just raised your left hand, so the killer was left-handed, Khalid?”

He studied both his hands briefly, then said, “Yes, yes, left.”

“So who did he hit?” asked Striker, trying not to lead the witness.

“He hit them all and then they moved back few steps and I watched him hitting one boy particular, over and over, like he wanted to kill him.” Fear shone in Khan’s eyes as his account became frantic. “Other boys looked really, really shocked and they looked very, very scared indeed. The man must have hit boy twenty or thirty times and he shout as he hitting him.”

Bardsley looked up curiously at Striker. “What did he shout?”

“Can I swear, please?” The detectives nodded in unison. “Shout ‘Fucker’ – over and over again.” Striker raised his eyebrows. “Each time he hit him, he shout ‘Fucker’. It was very scary shit, Inspector.”

“It sounds it. And what did the other boys do then?”

“Well, one of them moved forward begging for him to stop, but he swung for this boy too and they all ran off in different directions.”

“Then what?”

“The boy on floor was groaning and rolling in pain and man keep hitting him, until boy stop moving.”

This was much better than Striker was expecting and he checked that Bardsley was getting it all, which he was, writing furiously. “When he eventually did stop, what did he do?”

“He looked round and I quickly closed blinds. Very quickly because I was—”

Bardsley finished the sentence for Khan. “Very scared? Understandable, Khalid.”

Striker guessed Bardsley was rather peeved that Khan hadn’t told him any of this when he’d done the initial knock-on, prior to Khan fleeing to his brother’s. He glanced at his colleague, before turning back to the newsagent. “Then what, Khalid?”

“Few seconds later, I looked again and he running toward petrol station, very fast.”

Continuity. Good.
“And what did the two boys do, while you were watching?”

“They watch with me. They very scared, too. One was crying.”

“Which one was crying?”

“The little one I think.”

Mozo.
“Is this them?” Striker pulled out two photos of their latest visits to custody that Bardsley had printed earlier.

“Yes, yes.”

“Okay. Can you describe the attacker and tell me what accent he was shouting in?”

“That’s easy. Mancunian. We’ve been here for twenty years and he shouted it like this…‘Fuck-or, fuck-or.’ Definitely Mancunian.”

This was getting better and better. “And what about the man’s physical appearance, Khalid?”

“Very big and stocky.” He unnecessarily pulled his fists up to his chest and raised his shoulders to portray someone stocky. “Long black coat, with black trousers and black boots. The scariest thing was his mask, with holes in showing crazy eyes, like a balaclava, but that looked dark green, maybe, I think.”

“Khaki?” asked Striker.

“Yes, yes, khaki, like the army colour.”

“Could you tell us his height and his skin colour?”

“He about six-two, or three, or something, and white man.”

“Hang on. But I thought he wore a face mask throughout?” asked Striker, as Bardsley looked up again, pausing, pen poised.

“He did, but eyes, you see.”

“His eyes?”

“Skin round eyes was white. I saw this, when he looked at me.”

Striker’s own eyes lit up and he saw Bardsley glance his way, a glint in his too.

“He saw you looking then?” asked Striker.

Khan dipped his head, almost tearful, his frown intensifying. “Yes, sir. This made me very scared.”