My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (19 page)

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 reluctantly 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?

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.

Striker had considered involving the trustworthy DS in his undercover op – he’d not given it the customary operational name due to it being unofficial. In any case, the computer responsible for spitting out these names down in Hendon, London, probably wouldn’t have ‘Operation Dodgy’ in its repertoire.

Ultimately, he’d decided against involving Grant. The less people who knew about this, the better, and he trusted Bardsley like a brother. He trusted Collinge too, but she was only here by necessity, and he felt more than a tinge of guilt at ‘using’ her in this way. Especially, if his hunch about the characters off the VOICES forum was to reveal any semblance of substance.

At the same spot they were at earlier, Striker, Bardsley and now Collinge sat in the hired Vectra, the woods to the left hiding them from the temple. It felt much more remote in the dark, only the odd ‘moo’ emanating from across the fields to the right breaking the silence, adding to the eeriness.

Somewhat awkwardly, Striker shuffled side-on in the driver’s seat to study Collinge in the back. “Okay, Lauren. Are you ready?”

“Now or never, Boss.”

He frowned at her. “We’re off duty, right?”

“Looks like it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re aware that I’ve not done much UC work before, aren’t you…
Jack
?”

Bardsley lit a Benson and Collinge tossed him a dirty look, opening the rear window.

“I’m fully aware of that, Lauren, but you’re more than capable and you did do the surveillance course a couple of years ago, didn’t you?” She nodded. “I should know because I got you on it, so now’s your chance to put it into practice. I’ve got every confidence in you.” He smiled at her. “Now, got your cover story straight?”

Lauren took a deep breath and said, “I’m Laura Jackson from Urmston and I lost my beloved younger brother, Brian, aged seventeen, in a gang fight when, in the summer of 2009, he got jumped in Moss Range and was stabbed then left for dead.” She took an audible breath, exaggerated in a subtle attempt at sarcasm, perhaps. “He died in hospital two days later and they never caught the
baaa-stards
who murdered him.”

“Impressive, Lauren. I actually believe you, love. I’m filling up here,” said Bardsley, sucking on the Benson.

Lips pursed, Collinge held a hand up in a mock threat to slap Bardsley, who dodged to the side, grinning mischievously.

Striker nodded approvingly. “Perfect, Lauren. You can do this. Just get a feel for what they’re about and report back. Put your phone on vibrate, but like I said, have the number ready on speed dial to ring on this pay-as-you-go, if you need us.” He held up a basic-looking black Nokia. “We’ll be nearby. If there’s a break in the meeting, use these.” Striker handed her a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“I’m not smoking, Jack.”

“You don’t have to. Just light one up and go for a leisurely stroll, then give us a quick bell, if you can, to update us. If not, no worries, we’ll just wait till the end.”

“Okay,” she said, but there was something amiss in her tone.

“You’ll be fine. I have every faith in you. It’s just for intel really. Nothing will happen to you, I promise. Just wanna rule these guys out of the equation, and if we get something more to go on, then great. We’ll be very close by, honest. You ready, Lauren?”

She didn’t look very ready, a nervy expression hardening her soft features. “Let’s do it,” she said with forced conviction.

***

The call box door squeaked shut and he undid the top couple of buttons of his black trench coat, his funeral coat that held the memories which spurred him on. After composing himself with an intake of the chilly night air, he dialled the number. Three rings later, an official-sounding female answered.

“Emergency services, which service please?”

He put on a pseudo-Scottish accent he’d been practicing on and off for days. “The po-lice.”

A few beeps later, another female, same officious tone. “Greater Manchester Police, which town please?”

“Moss Range, Manchester.”

“What’s the nature of your call?”

“It’s about that killer on the news – the Hoodie Hunter, I think they call him.”

“Oh, really?” She sounded surprisingly unconvinced.
Silly bitch.

“Aye, really.”

“What about him?”

“He’s attacking a wee lad on Moss Range Park.”

“Okay, and your name is?”

“That’s nae important, but ye’d best send someone down here sharpish.”

“How do I know this isn’t another crank call? We get loads, you know.”

“Ye’ll know when ye get here, ’cos there’ll be another deid lad.”

“Okay, okay. How do you know it’s him?”

“He uses a baton right?” Silence on the other end. “Well, he’s using it right now. I saw him. It’s him. Listen…” He pushed play on his Dictaphone and distant, intermittent screaming ensued.

“Okay, can you still see him?” There was urgency in her voice now.

“Naw.”

“Can you stay on the line, until we get patrols there?”

“Naw.” With that, he hung up.

He was beginning to enjoy this; it had given a perverse sense of fun to proceedings. Thinking up new ways to outwit the police and the fuckwits had brought a new feeling of accomplishment to his work.

Ten minutes later, he was driving in the opposite direction toward the city centre, having passed half a dozen speeding police vehicles, blue lights and sirens in full flow, plus a couple of plain cars carrying whom he suspected were detectives. He could’ve sworn he’d seen the unfortunate DI Jack Striker’s replacement Vinnie Stockley among them.

If so, job done.

He pulled the black VW Golf GTI into a side street, checked his mirrors and got out. He descended the steps of the dim, dank subway and what others would construe as fear intensified, as he heard the gang’s bullshit-spewing voices. Unlike many, he knew fear was his friend and was just adrenaline heightening his senses, preparing him for battle.

No time for symbolism and games now.

In preparation of what was to come, he rolled down his hat, which doubled as a balaclava.