My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (25 page)

Inside it was plush, a spotless cream carpet and matching walls. They passed sixteen pigeon holes to the left and a notice board to the right, sparse but for a couple of posters about city centre events. They were soon up the carpeted stairs and standing outside number twelve. Stockley banged on the door three times.

Nothing.

He knocked another three times, throwing looks at the others. Normally they’d opt for the letter box next, but there wasn’t one. Bardsley had seen that each resident was designated a pigeon hole down in the communal hall for post.

“Right, Constable. Wham-ram it.”

“Steady on. Give him time to answer.”

“We need to find DC Collinge,” Stockley snapped, before moving aside as the officer holding the wham-ram edged into position and began checking the door for the appropriate point of impact. Sterling donned a look of concern a few paces back.

Bardsley banged on the door a further six times. There was still no answer. “Can’t we try the neighbours first?”

“No. Now move,” ordered Stockley, with a poorly disguised glint in his eye.

Bardsley stepped aside as the uniform moved in, carrying ‘the Enforcer’.
There were several types of wham-ram, including the dual device, but this was the easiest to carry and was most officers’ preferred option. The constable pointed at his chosen spot, two thirds up the door beside the keyhole. His face a picture of concentration, he gritted his teeth as he lined it up and did a mock run, slowly swinging the Enforcer
back and forth to the desired point.

Bardsley rubbed his beard, watching the officer, who glanced at him saying, “They don’t call me ‘One Arrow Aaron’ for nothing, you know.” Aaron impacted the door with everything he could muster and, after the loud crash of splintering wood, Aaron nearly followed the Enforcer
into Striker’s apartment, a satisfied look on his face. The door had almost split in two and hung at an angle on one hinge.

“If they weren’t awake, then they will be now,” said Stockley as the officers poured in.

Bardsley headed down a corridor full of framed police commendations and certificates, as well as a collage of Striker’s kids, Beth and Harry, while the others took a room each. He knew, from previous visits, where Striker’s bedroom was. He heard Stockley shouting, ‘clear’ intermittently, on checking rooms. Bardsley tentatively opened the bedroom door, aware of Sterling peering from behind him.

He viewed Striker’s bedroom, turned to see Sterling’s face showing a glimmer of relief that soon transformed to panic. The empty double bed was far too neat to have been slept in. Bardsley instantly thought back to the temple.

Now he would have to tell them everything.

PC Ben Davison was peeved that he hadn’t been allowed to go to the Lakes today to propose to Louise. It was symptomatic of the Job that all rest days had been cancelled because of this serial killer on the loose, which was understandable considering the latest unprecedented development. Two officers were officially missing, sending shockwaves through GMP. Most of the night shift were being utilised for an op run by Mr Halt. That was as far as Davison’s knowledge of it reached, for it had been classified as restricted info.

Everyone at the nick was growing increasingly concerned about the officers, the attractive DC Lauren Collinge and her decent boss, Jack Striker. Davison liked the DI, who obviously hadn’t forgotten his roots like some, having been true to his word about telling Sergeant Roach about Davison’s good work at the scene of the park murder. Subsequently, Roach had promised to submit a report to Mr Halt to consider Davison for a divisional commander’s award. Hopefully
that
would impress Louise!

However, on the downside, Davison had been asked – or told – to do a night shift and he expected a late finish. Okay, so the overtime would come in handy, especially if Louise said yes, but he was running short of leave and wondered when would he actually get a chance to have a social life. Because of the shifts, his erratic sleeping patterns and the drain of being a cop, he’d hardly seen Louise at all recently. He was starting to understand why so many cops separated from their partners.

He envisaged himself proposing, down on one knee, top deck of a boat on a Lake Windermere that was glistening in the Cumbrian sun amid the backdrop of stunning mountains. Nervous at messing it up,
and
the outcome, he’d played it in his mind a hundred times.

“Louise, we’ve been together for two years now… We’ve had some wonderful times together… I’m not one for sharing my feelings, but when it comes to you… well, I… want to share the rest of my life with you… Will you marry me?”

One of the boat’s crew looked on from the cabin, his finger poised on a CD player waiting to unleash ‘Congratulations’, while another furtively lit the sparklers on a cake. The many tourists on the upper deck looked his way, cameras at the ready, secretly clutching party poppers, some smiling, staring agog…

Louise flicked a hand through her sunlit blonde hair, a stunned look on her face that flickered with a hint of confusion. “I’m very flattered, but just remind me who you are again…”

A lone vehicle shook him from his musings,
suddenly appearing with a squeak of tyres from a side street, the driver clearly in a rush. He accelerated the panda and saw that despite him doing 40 mph, the black hatchback was still pulling away, probably twenty above the speed limit.

Davison cranked up the revs to sixty, flicking on his blues ’n’ twos, a rush running through his body. He closed in on the car, trying to identify its make and model, squinting in a fruitless attempt to see the registration mark.

Mindful of the force’s policy on pursuits, he assessed his surroundings and then pushed the hands-free button on the panda’s gearstick to alert comms via his vehicle’s radio set.

He shouted over the klaxons, “One treble-eight six, control.”

“Go on, Ben,” said civilian Maureen Banks, his favourite comms operator.

“Vehicle making off at speed… Moss Range Road… heading north… toward the city… it’s a black hatchback… no further description… standby…” He gripped the steering wheel and eased the accelerator pedal down.

“What’s your speed, Ben?”

“Oh, er, sorry, Mo. It’s sixty-five. The limit’s fifty here. Dual carriageway.”

“Repeat, Ben, all I got was your two-tones.”

“Sixty-five… six, five… received?”

“Gotcha. Road conditions?”

“Slightly wet, but it’s stopped raining. Traffic’s very light, no pedestrians.”

“What’s it done, Ben?” It was Bob the Dog, interrupting.

“It’s just made off on seeing me.”

“Mo, I’m en route from Bullsmead Road.”

“Received, Bob. Any VRM yet, Ben?”

“Standby!” Davison hit seventy and began to close in on the hatchback.

Thirty metres away. “One occupant, looks like a male.”

“Keep it coming.”

Twenty-five metres. “Part VRM: mike, kilo, zero, eight…”

“Got it. Did you say male driver?”

“Affirmative.” Davison eased his foot to the floor, seeing hazy streetlamps and houses whizz past in his peripheral vision. Twenty metres. “Seventy-three miles per hour.”

“DI Stockley, control. Back off, Davison, I’m calling this pursuit off.”

“Ben, did you get that?”

“Juliet, victor, yankee.”

“Received, but DI Stockley said you’ve to end the pursuit, Ben.”

“End it, Davison. You’ve breached force policy. That’s an order!”

“Sir, he’s slowing down… fifty-seven… vehicle taking a left, left onto Richmond Road… temporary loss…”

“Four double-zero seven, about five minutes away.”

“Received, Bob. Sir, can they continue?”

“What speed?”

“Ben?”

“Only thirty-five… right, right onto Boldman Street…”

“DI Stockley?”

“Okay, continue.”

“Mike five, making the area.”

“Nice one, we may need a van. Ben, that VRM comes back to a Skoda Octavia in white.”

“Vehicle stopping, Boldman Street.”

“Four double-zero seven, four minutes away.”

“It must be on false plates, Mo. It’s a VW Golf GTI in black.”

***

The last thing he wanted to do was kill a cop.

But his work for tonight was not yet complete. With the cops closing, it had been imperative that he’d made the jump to the last batch on his list, the ones that the police could actually find a link to. It wasn’t a problem, as he knew a conflict situation was always in a state of flux. He was adaptable and nothing would stop him from completing his mission. The midlist scumbags would be the fortunate ones, for now. They were just mere irritants, stains on society. He simply couldn’t risk being caught before the ones who really mattered had been dealt with, particularly after last night’s turn of events and the little predicament he now found himself in.

He sighed and stared up at the wispy clouds snaking past the moon, as the lone officer got out of his patrol car. Blue lights flashed around, bouncing off the two large industrial buildings, between which he’d purposely stopped on the deserted street. Checking his mirrors, he watched the officer edging toward him.

He slipped the knuckleduster onto his right hand and checked the baton was in position up the left sleeve of his coat. He calmly placed his man bag into the footwell of the passenger seat. The Glock 17 would remain in the glovebox, for now.

The officer was bound to react on seeing that he was wearing a balaclava. Checking his wing mirror, he saw that the cop was up close, just a few paces away.

He swung open the door, into the cop, knocking him sideways. He leapt out of the car, throwing a straight right, the knuckleduster impacting the cop’s left cheekbone. He instantly flicked the baton from his left sleeve and clicked it open. Still on his feet, the stunned cop reached for his CS gas, but the baton was already crunching into his collarbone. The metal fist followed up with a nose-bursting blow and the cop fell to the ground.

He stood over the young constable, whose eyes rolled back. No resistance remained. He stooped down, unclipped the noisy radio from the body armour and threw it twenty metres down the road. The desperate concern in the woman’s voice faded and the radio clattered in the distance as it landed then skidded to a stop.

Another police car exploded into the street, wheel-spinning to a stop with a handbrake turn. The occupant, a much older officer, was already rushing out, clutching his baton and yelling in a Scottish accent, “Urgent, back up! Officer down, Boldman Street. Get an ambulance.”

The cop was just five metres from him, so he turned and headed for the Golf. The door still open, he dived inside and reached for the glove compartment. As he felt his legs being grabbed, he fumbled for the Glock.

“Ben, it’s alright, pal,” roared the cop. “I’ve got the bastard.”

He kicked out, buying crucial seconds. Forcing himself round, he faced the oncoming officer, pointing the handgun at his forehead, stopping him dead.

“You’ve ‘got’ no one. Now back the fuck up.”

The dogman’s face hardened, but he didn’t move, just froze, glaring.

“You deaf, Constable? Don’t make me do it.”

The old cop stared into his eyes. “I guess you’re Him, aren’t you? They’re gonna catch you. Don’t make it worse for yourself. Just give me the gun.” His voice was surprisingly unwavering.

“Not a chance. I’ve not finished yet. Now, move away, old timer, or you’ll never get to see your pension.”

The veteran slowly retreated, holding the stare. “So now you’ve gone from attacking scumbags to assaulting police instead? You’re gonna lose that public sympathy if you’re not careful.”

“Stop trying to stall me. You lot are just in my way. It’s nothing personal. Now go help your mate.” Hearing more sirens approaching, he slammed the door, fired up the Golf and screeched off.

The metal barrel beside Striker had two gunshot holes spouting liquid, bizarrely reminding him of an old western he’d once seen starring Clint Eastwood. The sudden hiss of liquid had drenched Striker completely. His ears were still ringing from the bullets that had very nearly taken off his face. His heart was palpitating faster than he thought possible. Experiencing the gun’s discharge close up reminded him of Lenny being shot all those years ago, and the piercing bangs still resounded in his ears, doing his headache no favours.

Thankfully, either the gunman was a lousy shot or Striker’s theory of the man not wanting to kill a cop was correct. Either way, he’d certainly made his point, and some. The latter was the most probable, as the way he’d held the pistol was textbook, with the opposite wrist supporting the firing hand. Striker didn’t doubt this man’s dexterity of aim and he was almost certain this man was the killer. With that in mind, Striker simply had to escape, and quick or he’d probably end up as rat food. He struggled to shake those unforgettable scenes from Herbert’s rats trilogy from his weary mind.

His guess at his kidnapper’s possible identity had clearly hit a nerve. If Striker was correct, then who knows what a desperate man would do next for self-preservation, even if cop killing was against his moral code.

Once the rounds were discharged, the gunman’s silhouette had disappeared through the door, the ensuing darkness and solitude engulfing Striker again as the door slammed shut, offering him a strange solace. The only sound was the flow of the liquid from the barrel that was slowly diminishing in intensity.

Striker was drenched, but wasn’t too bothered since he recognised the smell of the liquid and licked his lips. He smiled, then leaned over and let the tiny waterfall pour into his gaping mouth, savouring its refreshing taste as his thirst was welcomingly quenched. He’d lost all sense of time. His eyes had adjusted better than he’d thought to his new place of residence – albeit temporary, he hoped.

Again, he pondered Lauren and her possible whereabouts. Was she also tied up in some cellar somewhere? Or worse? He dismissed the thought, unable to handle it. And what about Copeland? Were Striker’s colleagues still wasting time hunting him, while Striker was stuck in this godforsaken shit hole?

His predicament, combined with his scrape with possible death, had made him feel a little emotional, philosophical even.

His children had been at the forefront of his mind throughout the conscious hours of his incarceration. A tinge of guilt jabbed him, a reminder from within that they should have been paramount in his thoughts always, not just now. Nonetheless, he’d been pushed out by Suzi – admittedly after his own regrettable dalliance – and had since thrown himself deeply into his work. And now, with her lover Bannatine on the scene, Striker felt even more distance between them than ever before.

He cursed. The liquid behind him became a trickle and his mind drifted toward his mum. He wished he’d met up with her more often for a brew and a chat. Good old Mum. The only one who’d forgiven his shortcomings throughout the family feud that had erupted after Lenny was shot. Striker’s late father had been seriously peeved at having the cops sniffing around his family home. So much so that he’d chucked teenage Jack out into the big wide world, with those reverberating words: “Good bloody riddance!”

Those damn words had cut Striker deeply at the time. Three years later, just after he’d got himself a flat and become a police officer – basically to show Dad he wasn’t worthless – the oak tree that was Harry Striker went and died on them. The melancholy surrounding his dad’s sudden heart attack was deep-rooted.

The noisy liquid abated, the barrel now empty. His befuddled thoughts shifted and he began to ponder his precarious relationship with Lucy, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Perhaps he’d been too stubborn, like he’d been in the three years away from his dad, despite his mum’s efforts to reunite them. He should have swallowed his pride much earlier, which may have prevented his big sis deteriorating into a life revolving around drugs with DJ.

He hoped he was wrong on that one, but he’d already met hundreds of so-called ‘druggies’ in his job and the signs were disturbingly evident: loss of weight, dishevelled appearance, spotty complexion and unpredictable disposition. Unfortunately, Lucy ticked all the boxes. If he could somehow wangle his way out of this mess, he would make a concerted effort to help her.

He’d heard before of people staring death in the face and somehow coming through with renewed purpose, then righting all the wrongs in their life. What he would give for that opportunity himself. He’d tragically missed that chance with his old man, and the profound sense of making Dad proud that he’d carried all his life had intensified rather than diminished since their bust up. Maybe it was time to concentrate on the living. Striker desperately wanted to be included in this philosophy too.

The concerned, craggy features of his dad looked serious in Striker’s mind’s eye: “Dig deep, son.” He used to shout this to him from the sideline, whenever his junior football team was losing.

Striker took not only a deep breath, but also his late father’s advice.

As far as he’d seen, when his abductor had visited him the room had no windows, and he felt sure of what type of cellar it actually was. When his host had shown his unique brand of hospitality a second time he’d learned more about the room’s layout, it having been partially illuminated.

In the far corner was definitely an opening of some sort that almost certainly led to another room. The walls had no decoration and were just plain old brown brick in bad need of pointing. What struck Striker was the supporting wall that ran halfway down the middle. He was unable to see behind it; even so, it offered possibilities. The hefty supporting pillar, in line with the wall toward the far end, revealed a gap between the pillar and the wall. Hopefully it allowed access to the other side. The obvious hindrance was his ligatured wrist and ankles, which had been chafing with a vengeance, despite the cold liquid providing some relief.

Even considering his numerous aches, his senses seemed heightened, invigorated by the refreshing liquid he’d gulped, and simple logic told him at least the type of location, if not his exact whereabouts.

What had clinched it for Striker was the smell and taste of the liquid that perhaps he knew rather too well: his beloved John Smith’s.

Maybe there was a God after all.

The irony being, to escape he would need all the Dutch courage he could muster. The bonus being, the spewed bitter had soaked the rope, enabling him to ease his wrists from side to side.