My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (23 page)

Bardsley was beginning to feel somewhat concerned. Not only were both Striker and Collinge not answering their mobiles, they were now switched off. He’d put the Margaret issue to one side for now and reluctantly reported back to Stockley regarding the CCTV footage. Stockley seemed to be fretting and appeared out of his depth. Bardsley had heard the rumours about his nickname on the division – ‘Feathers’ because he was always flapping – but this was the first time he’d really witnessed confirmation.

All available officers had been kept on duty until further notice, to assist with the two new scenes. The media were hovering like vultures and more officers from surrounding divisions had been drafted in to assist with the manhunt for Bobby Copeland.

He’d been assigned to ensure that uniform had thoroughly checked the shops for CCTV and to co-ordinate house-to-house, which he’d done, albeit in haste. He knew he was supposed to report back to Stockley again, but he was now driving at double the speed limit deep into South Manchester, back toward the temple in Cheshire.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled the Astra into the gloomy lane leading to the temple and soon crunched into the empty car park. The lights activated at his presence, bringing welcome brightness. By the look of the place no one was present, all inside lights being off. He quickly jumped out and checked the large wooden doors, but they were firmly locked.

Back in the Astra, he drove around the much darker rear and, again, no signs of anyone present.

“Where the hell are they?” he muttered.

Taking a torch from the Astra’s glovebox, he meandered through the wooded area to where he’d last been with Striker, the damp foliage slushy underfoot. Shining the beam around, he saw nothing untoward and returned to the Astra.

A notion struck him. He’d seen them flirting for a while and if nothing had come from Striker’s little mission then maybe, just maybe, they’d hooked up for a few drinks. He remembered that country pub around the corner, where Collinge had been prior to her entering the meeting, and checked his watch. Gone midnight – it’ll be shut now.

However, if an impromptu date
had
been the case, then why hadn’t they answered their mobiles?

Doh! Of course. Bardsley shook his head knowingly. They’d be having dessert. You lucky bugger, Striker!

He prayed he was right, but something still nagged and he didn’t like the feel of it. Why hadn’t Striker called to update him or to even ask him about the latest on the case? Sure, if he was having a ‘special moment’ with Collinge then he wouldn’t want Bardsley to know, but…

He studied the eerie Masonic temple, the trees swaying and rustling above him, and he wondered if this place did have something to do with the case after all. But what could he possibly do now? He certainly couldn’t tell the brass about Striker’s op.

His mobile rang and he saw that it was Stockley’s work number. “Shit.” He ignored the call and jogged back to the car, reassuring himself that Striker was a top notch detective, who could handle himself.

Heading back to the B Division, his mind slowly returned to how he could persuade Stockley to stand him down from duty, so he could get back to Margaret and try and sort out his godforsaken marriage.

***

Striker shuffled awkwardly in his sitting position, away from the door, his urgency enhanced as a key rattled in the keyhole behind him. He felt naturally apprehensive, but all the earlier wimpy thoughts had been vanquished, replaced by a gritty determination to survive. He was still perplexed as to why he’d been taken, by whom and what involvement his so-called friends Wozza and Ged had in this surreal situation.

He managed to reach his original location. Still sitting, he leaned against something with a cool, hard surface, possibly a metal barrel or drum of some kind. He tried to stifle his breathlessness.

The dark musty room became awash with light as the door opened. Striker dipped his head to shield his temporarily blinded eyes.

The deep voice was local, cool as you like and almost apologetic. “I had no choice.”

Striker raised his head slightly to view the large silhouette of the man whose head was turned away. Striker’s eyes still struggled to adjust to the sudden light, though he was certain of one thing. He knew that this man wasn’t Bobby Copeland.

He cleared his throat. “No choice?” he managed, somewhat croakily, mouth as dry as a lizard’s arse in a sandstorm.

The voice raised an octave, though still guttural. “You know what I mean, DI Striker.”

Ah, so he knows I’m a cop.
“No choice but to assault and kidnap a police officer?”
What did this headcase want?
Striker raised his head, squinted and achieved better focus. The man was about three metres from him and it was no surprise to Striker that he was wearing a balaclava. The guy had to have gigantic balls to be doing what he was doing.

“Met our little friends yet?”

“Huh?”

“The rats. They’re wild buggers. Feed ’em on meat, you know. Surprised you’ve still got a face, Inspector.”

Jesus!
He tried to remain cool.

“So how did you know, Striker?”

“Know what, er... sorry, we haven’t been introduced.”

The kidnapper sniggered. “I admire your sense of humour in the circumstances.”

“Comes with dealing with shit, day in, day out. Mopping up the streets.”

He hesitated, dark eyes opening further into a brief glare. “Tell me about it. I know the feeling very well.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that then?”

“Doesn’t matter… and
I’ll
ask the questions. So, how did you know?”

“Any chance of a cool beer?”

“No. Answer the question. You sound like a Tory MP.”

Striker smiled, falsely. “Know what exactly?”

“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.

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 his 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?