My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (24 page)

Bardsley’s pleas to Stockley had resulted in a vacant stare from the DI, the knockback about finishing for the night not quite “fuck off”, but may as well have been. He’d been designated to take a statement from the occupants of the terraced house beside the alley of the first scene, as apparently they’d “heard a kerfuffle”. Just as he was about to knock on the door, his mobile rang to the tune of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, the anthem of Liverpool FC. One of the uniforms protecting the scene threw him a dirty look, obviously a United fan.

Bardsley answered it.

“Hi, is that Eric Bardsley?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“It’s PC Ben Davison, the one from the scene in the park where—”

“Yeah, I know who you are, Ben. What’s up?”

“You need to come home. There’s been an incident at your house.”

“What? Is Maggie okay?”

“She’s fine, just a bit shaken.”

“What’s happened?”

“You’ve been burgled. Just get down here and I’ll wait for you.”

“I’m on my way.”

“You’re not going anywhere. What about that statement?” asked Stockley, breaking off a conversation with one of the SOCOs.

“Gotta go, Boss. I’ve been burgled.”

“I need that statement.”

“I
need
to see my wife!” he shouted, heading up the road to his Astra.

“Bardsley… Bardsley! BAAARSDLEY!”

***

Frustratingly, and unsurprisingly, the rat idea was proving to be the long shot Striker had suspected it to be. He’d heard them shuffling about, but none had been bold enough to come his way as yet. He’d even tried to play dead, having recalled one being up close the last time he’d come round, but still no joy. The sneaky buggers were obviously cleverer than he’d given them credit for.

In his desperate state, he obviously wasn’t thinking straight, his thoughts a jumbled mess. His head was still throbbing from all the knocks he’d taken, though somehow he was becoming accustomed to the pain.

He heard faint footsteps. The line of light around the door’s seam shadowed slightly. A key turned in the door. He turned his head away to soften the flooding light.

“Just checking you’ve not had any silly ideas, Striker.”

It was him again, the same voice. Striker looked up and saw the handgun in silhouette. The man still wore a face mask, and this time Striker got a glimpse of his skin below the eye.
Caucasian. Narrows it down further. Every little helps.

He shined a torch around the room that Striker was increasingly convinced was a cellar.
The ripped crisp box!
The torch soon found it.

“You should’ve said you were hungry. I’d have cooked you one of the rats. Met ’em yet?”

Striker nodded.
Surely he wouldn’t guess Striker’s desperate plan. It was too ridiculous.
“Thirsty and bored shitless.”

“And that’s how you’ll stay until I’m done.” He moved a few paces forward, still checking with the torch.

“Done what?”

“More questions. You can tell you’re a detective.”

Striker wasn’t lying about being bored. He was sick of tip-tapping around this nutter’s stupid game. “Until you’ve finished killing more young men?”

“You think I’m that killer off the news, don’t you?”

“Yeah, why else would you kidnap me?”

“Maybe
you’ve
wronged me in some way.”

Striker didn’t like his matter-of-fact tone. He was seriously beginning to doubt whether he’d actually get out this alive. He needed this bastard up close.

“I’ve never intentionally ‘wronged’ anybody.”

“Maybe not intentionally.”

More games. Come closer so I can trip you up and rip your bloody throat out with my teeth.
“Don’t suppose you could slacken these ropes off a bit could you? They’re a just a touch uncomfortable.”

“Suppose not. Not arsed about your comfort.”

“So remind me then, about me wronging you.”

“Let’s just say that not much has changed, has it?”

“Meaning?”

“Well, just look at the case you’re on now. You’ve not caught the offender for that either. A common theme running throughout your career.”

“You’re talking crap. I’ve got an excellent conviction record.”

“Talking crap, eh?”

More anger. Come on, closer. If this guy was the killer, then Striker felt certain he wouldn’t kill a cop because from the letter he seemed to have some sort of warped moral values. Come closer…

The alternative was to be all submissive and compliant. But Striker didn’t do submissive and compliant. “Yeah, complete crap.”

“You cocky fucker,” he spat.

Something clicked in Striker, a giant penny dropping. “So which of Lenny’s brothers are you then?”

The gunman exploded. “Now you’ve really left me no choice!” he yelled, pointing the pistol at Striker.

Then he fired two shots.

Bardsley had quickly returned to the nick and parked up the Astra, before getting into his Fabia and speeding to the outskirts of the division in record time. He was warned by supervision against living so close to the division in which he worked, but with less travel time it compensated somewhat for the usual long hours. Anyhow, the local dicks were separated just enough from his newish estate on the border of Stockport, it being set back on a hill. With one road in and out, the only people that entered were residents or legitimate visitors, so anyone from the estate would stand out like a tramp at a black tie event.

He passed Ben Davison’s panda and pulled onto his driveway, swinging open the driver’s door before he stopped. Within a few seconds, he’d clocked one of the small panelled windows smashed on the back door and went inside. Davison was sitting at the pine kitchen table, taking a statement from Maggie, who was opposite in her dressing gown, her head dipped.

“You okay, love?”

They both looked up, Davison nodded.

Eyes bloodshot from crying, Maggie said, “Yeah, yeah am fine, Eric,” unconvincingly.

“Did you see anyone? What’ve they taken?”

Davison answered. “Margaret didn’t see anyone, just heard them. She’s a bit shaken. We’re just going through what might be missing, but up to now that amounts to nothing.”

“Nothing? Did you disturb them, Maggie?”

“I must have done, if they’ve not nicked anything,” she said half-heartedly.

Something didn’t feel right. Maggie looked sheepish. “I’ll take a look around.”

Five minutes later, Bardsley was back in the kitchen. He purposely watched Maggie as he spoke. “Nothing missing that I can see. Strange burglars these. Going to the trouble of breaking in, then stealing nothing.”

“They must’ve heard me get up and call the police. That’s all I can think of.”

“That’s a result then, of sorts, eh Eric?” said Davison, taking a sip of the brew Maggie had obviously made him, in Bardsley’s favourite Liverpool FC mug. He’d let Davison off, knowing the lad wasn’t into football.

It just didn’t feel right. Twenty-five years of marriage and he still couldn’t tell if his own missus was lying or not.
Some bloody detective I am!

“Suppose so. As long as you’re okay, Mags,” was all he could muster.

“Can I finish the statement, Eric?”

“Yes, of course, Ben. I’ll do a fresh brew. Coffee okay?”

“Please.”

Davison turned to Maggie. “So you were in bed asleep when you heard this noise…”

In bed asleep?
The paranoia started again.
Why didn’t she answer her mobile earlier? Was she in bed with
him
?

Bardsley flicked the kettle on and then went upstairs. Entering their room, he could see the bed covers were a little ruffled. He checked underneath the bed and pulled back the duvet – nothing untoward. He studied the carpet and saw that the beige had turned slightly pink as if something had been spilt and rubbed dry. He bent down and sniffed the stain. Initially, all he could smell was a slight mustiness, but he kept sniffing. There was a hint of the familiar metallic scent that all cops knew.

Back in the kitchen, he finished making three coffees and plonked two on the pine table, Davison still writing away, not noticing Bardsley had switched his cup to a plain old brown one. Despite nothing being taken, there was always paperwork to do.

“Did he come into the bedroom, Maggie?”

She looked startled. “Who?”

“Who? The burglar, of course. Who else?”

Avoiding eye contact, she said, “No, no. I stayed there till PC Davison arrived.”

“Well, what’s that reddish stain upstairs beside the bed?”

“Oh, that?”

“Yes, that.”

“That’s just some red wine I spilt.”

“Since when have you been drinking red wine alone in bed?”

“Not often. Just now and then.”

Was she blushing?
“And, why didn’t you answer the phone earlier?”

She sipped her coffee, then said, “It was on charge.”

“Was the landline on charge too?” No response. Bardsley turned to Davison. “Take it you’re calling SOCO out?”

“Erm, there’s nothing specific for them, except the glass samples I suppose, but I could take them.”

“Call them out, Ben. They can take a sample from the carpet while they’re here.”

“Why? No one came into the bedroom,” insisted Maggie.

Bardsley’s eyes fixed on his wife. “Why? Because I don’t believe it’s red wine. I think it’s blood.”

***

Bardsley watched through the living room window as Davison pulled away in his panda. Feeling deflated, he turned to Maggie, who was sat on the sofa, looking like a naughty schoolgirl outside the head teacher’s office.

Bardsley glanced above the mantelpiece at the photo of them both on their wedding day. He turned to his wife, cursing his heart for still loving her, despite his growing suspicions.

“You worried about the results of that carpet stain once it’s been analysed?”

She looked up, her face harder than usual. “Not at all. It’s just wine, Eric.” Maybe he was being irrational, his suspicious mind, honed at work, now bleeding into his marriage more than ever. It had always been there, although perhaps now he was going over the top with this wonderful woman with whom he’d shared a quarter of a century. Together they’d reared three children, who’d blossomed into responsible adults any parent would be proud of.

“I’m going to bed, Eric. I feel drained with all this. You coming up?”

He looked at her, unable to think straight. “No. Think I’ll stop on the settee for now, love.”

***

Bardsley stirred as his mobile’s tune persisted. He felt as though he’d only had an hour’s sleep and, realising he was on the settee, his first thoughts were of Maggie.

He reluctantly reached out to the coffee table and answered the phone, grumbling a croaky, “Hello.”

“Bardsley, it’s DI Stockley. We need you back at the nick. We have a serious problem. How soon can you make it?”

“Huh? Why, what’s up?”

“Lauren Collinge has been reported missing.”

“What?”

“When did you last see her?”

Wake up! He couldn’t tell him because it would compromise Jack and his unofficial investigation.
“Er… Let me just get a brew and I’ll be down.”

“Scrub the brew. Get down here, and quick.”

“Who’s reported her missing?”

“Brad Sterling. Now, hurry up.” The DI terminated the call.

Brad Sterling? What’s going on?

After a quick rinse of his face and a gargle in the kitchen sink, Bardsley fired up his Fabia and was on his way.

He lit a Benson and opened the driver’s window, the cool night air waking him fully. As he drove through the virtually deserted streets, except for the odd taxi dropping off revellers from town, he tried to make sense of Stockley’s revelation. How could Lauren be missing? He’d left her and Jack at the temple. Had something gone wrong there? Had he completely misjudged the importance of Jack’s secret op? Maybe there was more to that place and that VOICES group than he’d initially thought. Or had Lauren and Jack finished up there and gone home, and then something had happened to her? How did Brad Sterling know she was missing? He was CID cover for the night, so would have been at work.

He tapped in the code into the keypad that lifted the barrier. Pulling into the nick, he felt rather foolish that he’d assumed Lauren and Jack had finally ‘got it on’. So where the hell was she?

He parked up, jogged to the rear door nearest to their part of the building before typing in another code. Once inside, he went through another security door and took the stairs two at a time. Out of breath, he entered the MIT office. Surprisingly, for such a late hour, there were numerous officers bustling about – some on phones, others in deep conversation. He saw Stockley talking to Cunningham and Brennan at the far end of the room and made his way over.

Slightly out of breath, Bardsley asked, “Sir, what’s happened?”

Brennan turned to him. “Thanks for turning out, Eric. DC Collinge hasn’t been seen since nineteen hundred hours last night.”

She has. Just get a feel for things first.
“Isn’t she at home asleep?”

“Clearly not, Bardsley. That’s why we’ve all turned out.” Cunningham, true to form, making him feel like a dick.

“When did you last see or hear from her?” asked Brennan.

Bardsley hesitated, smoothed a hand across his beard. “Can I just ask why Brad Sterling reported her missing? How would he know?”

“Why are you stalling? Tell us!” Brennan sounded impatient.

“I need to know, then I’ll tell you.”

“I don’t like your attitude here, Bardsley. We haven’t got time for games.” Brennan eyed him. They all did.

“Please, it’s important.”

Brennan sighed. “Look, in brief, Sterling had arranged to call at Collinge’s home before his night shift this evening, so went for a quick coffee and she’s not been seen since.”

Bardsley saw that Cunningham’s face looked stonier than usual, if that was possible, and noticed Stockley watching her too.

“Okay, sir, but how do you know she’s definitely missing?” asked the DC.

“Dennis, you don’t have to explain yourself to him,” said Cunningham sharply.

The detective superintendent exhaled audibly, looking vexed. “Being honest with us, Sterling told us he’d arranged for them to meet up if things got quiet at work, and Collinge said that she’d definitely call him in any case. But she didn’t, so when Sterling went round, she wasn’t there. And her family have no clue either. So, tell us what you know, Eric. NOW!”

She simply has to be with Striker. Perhaps they did hook up after all.
“It’s awkward, sir.”

All three glared at him, eyes widening. “Bardsley, what are you hiding?” asked Cunningham.

Maybe something
had
happened at the temple.
“With respect, sir, I just don’t wanna drop anyone in it… but I think she’s with Jack Striker.”

***

Bardsley drove Stockley, the sulky-looking Sterling and a uniformed officer from the night shift, toward Striker’s city centre apartment. He was cursing himself for having to actually do this, despite being left with no option.

He pulled into the street of the Striker’s home and, on seeing the sign post, he felt fleeting warmth at the sight of his birthplace’s name:
Liverpool
Street
.

Knowing it was a private car park with a key fob system, Bardsley parked on the street at the front of the trendy apartment block. The Beetham Tower loomed large at the top of the street, much bigger than Bardsley had remembered, most of its lights now off due to the early hour.

“Right, bring the wham-ram,” said Stockley to the constable in the rear as they all got out of the Astra.

“What do you need that for?” asked Bardsley, pointing at the heavy steel implement used for forcing entry.

“I’d have thought that would be obvious.”

“You can’t go smashing Jack’s door in.”

“If he doesn’t answer, then I’ll do it with—”

“Pleasure?” Bardsley finished the DI’s sentence for him, but Stockley didn’t respond. Bardsley shook his head. “He’ll be in… with Lauren,” Bardsley said, hopefully. He glanced at Sterling, who looked away, clearly worried about what they might discover.

Having had time to think and come to his senses more, he’d recalled that neither Lauren, nor Jack, had answered their calls. This, along with the dubious op at the temple, then Lauren being reported missing, made him doubt whether they’d now be in bed together. Perhaps he’d been naive, missed something crucial, like he had done with Maggie. Maybe he was losing his sharpness or, God forbid, just getting old.

Either way, he’d dropped his mate in it. Striker could be caught sleeping with someone from his team, which wasn’t exactly the crime of the century, yet even so it may be construed as unprofessional and at the very least would be fuel for the gossipers. Or, Jack’s secret op could become common knowledge, which would be a whole lot worse for all three of them. It was a lose-lose situation. Bardsley prayed Jack would just answer his door.

After they’d climbed the six outer steps to the apartment’s communal entrance, Stockley asked, “What number?”

“He lives at flat twelve on the second floor.”

Stockley pressed number twelve repeatedly on the keypad, creating a low buzzing sound. A minute of pressing passed and he started trying the other buzzers. After a few minutes, the voice of a woman, clearly half asleep, answered.

“It’s the police. Can you let us in please?”

“Oh, erm… hang on a minute…”

Bardsley saw a room light up on the first floor above them and the curtain was pulled aside discreetly, a woman’s face peering briefly. A moment passed, then the communal door released with a buzz. Stockley opened it and they followed him in; the officer carrying the wham-ram, rather awkwardly because of its weight, entered last.