My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (28 page)

Vic Powers flipped the mobile phone in anger and tossed it onto the dashboard.

Still no answer. What the fuck was Danny playing at? He’d told him, in no uncertain terms, to keep his mobile charged and by his side at all times. Probably fell asleep. Or had he bottled it? It wasn’t every day your brother asked you to look after a kidnapped cop without offering a decent explanation. “Trust me, Dan” probably wasn’t sufficient under the circumstances. But his bro owed him big time, from all those favours over the years, especially when it came to clearing dickheads from his pub each time Vic had been on leave from Two Para. That ‘Woody’ character being the latest, as he’d unwittingly self-referred onto the original hit list of twenty-four.

By now, he suspected Danny probably knew what he’d been up to, particularly considering the abduction of two cops. Anyhow, if things went pear-shaped, he’d ensure he himself took the full blame and he’d tell the cops how he’d coerced Danny into assisting him.

Prison didn’t scare him one bit, despite the cancer. He wasn’t naive. He’d prepared himself for this eventuality, psyched himself up. It would be fun: he’d be like a kid in a sweetshop.

His eyes flicked from the Golf’s rear-view mirror to the wing mirrors every few seconds as he powered through the Manchester streets, his overactive mind drifting…

… He recalled leading his weary mother, Edith into her seat beside Josh’s fiancée, after the announcement that the magistrates had reached a decision. He hadn’t been confident because the evidence had been largely circumstantial and witnesses scarce, obviously intimidated. What had wound him up from the start was that the case should’ve been manslaughter in his eyes, seeing as Josh’s suicide was a direct consequence of him being jumped and beaten to a pulp by these fuckers.

The humdrum of the court room had waned and everyone stood up in respect as the magistrates took their seats. The head guy peered over his spectacles at him, Mum and the family as they sat praying for justice.

The five faces of the accused mirrored each other with glib looks. One even managed a smirk. Another eyeballed him and he held the gaze, electricity between them, until a court security chap clocked it and blocked his view.

Something about the way the head magistrate chose his words, plus the reluctant tone he’d used, suggested things were not good. When the head juryman delivered the verdict of not guilty – due to insufficient evidence – Edith physically slumped, along with his heart. The “whoop-whoops” of people in the gallery and the raised arms, sneers and leers from the five defendants high-fiving one another were as close to ‘too much’ as a man could take. All his powers of discipline and constraint were required.

Deep down, everyone associated to the case knew they were guilty, although proving it was obviously another matter. Detective Sergeant Jack Striker offered apologies to Edith, but she was too distraught and angry to acknowledge him as he slinked off to screw up yet another case, no doubt.

Powers had concentrated on the public gallery, at the standing people who were still cheering. And there he was, wearing his trademark eyepatch and grinning with an upraised fist of victory as his latest ‘works in progress’ escaped from justice: Kingston, the so-called reformed character, who served the community so well.

Yeah, right. He knew all about Kingston, the old Moss Range Crew leader who had become the darling of the media, a local figure offering hope within the community in the fight against gang warfare. He’d been on chat shows, in the papers and had been portrayed as a shining example of hope, proving a leopard could actually change his spots. Bollocks.

Just because a man had had a few kids and found God didn’t mean he could fool everyone by suddenly becoming a good person. There were always consequences from actions, and Kingston would soon learn this reality.

From his extensive research, he’d discovered Kingston had been the one who’d pulled the trigger of the only Smith and Wesson pistol present at the scene of Lenny’s shooting in Moss Range multi-storey all those years ago. The bullet in Lenny’s skull had been from that same make of pistol, but the cops couldn’t prove it. The intel had come from the streets, yet no one had the balls to testify in court.

He’d also been either linked to, or been a suspect in, two other shootings, one fatal. And now he was feeding his overinflated ego by parading himself to the public as some sort of messiah. Well, not for long.

He’d wanted Kingston to squirm; he always had to be the last. Doing him early would’ve brought obvious links and the others would’ve been spared poetic justice.

He was frustrated that some of the other ASBO pricks hadn’t had their comeuppance, but he could live with that. The list of twenty-five was maybe pushing it, even for him.

He thought of those five smug faces in the dock: Castro, Big-un, Levi, Shanks and Chisel. Well, they weren’t so fuckin’ smug now, were they?

The ASBO boys, like Bolands, Dodger and Gartside, had been hit-listed to help the local community, in a much more effective way than Kingston professed to be doing. Plus, he needed to throw the cops off his true scent, letting them think someone was just randomly mopping up the streets of the scumbags blighting the community.

Apart from Chisel, he’d left all those that could’ve been linked back to him till last. Chisel just had to go early, though. He was a particularly nasty piece of work and a one-man crime wave. The bonus was that Gartside, Dodger, Shanks and Castro had been prime suspects in four separate murders recounted by members of VOICES. After the initial shock, he could see the hidden satisfaction in their eyes.

As he approached Kingston’s home, he cursed at the sight of an unmarked police vehicle opposite, twenty metres down the road. They stood out like a black man at a BNP rally. He dropped into second gear and turned off along a side street, then accelerated away.

Why were they there? Were they onto him? Or was Kingston up to his old tricks again? And why wasn’t Danny answering? The clock was ticking. What to do.

He’d play things cool, have a damn good think. He’d not arouse any undue suspicion by throwing a sickie. He’d go to work as normal and finish things off later, at Kingston’s bullshit little community project.

***

Powers was pondering his next move regarding Kingston when Sergeant Thompson shouted him over.

Thompson, as ever, was sitting on a high chair in front of his computer terminal, police side of the long custody counter.

“Can you do the hourly visits, please, Vic?”

“No problem, Sarge.”

Powers exited the staff office and opened the heavy metal door before heading down the corridor. He began checking each cell by peering through the spy holes.

He’d been working here for nearly two years since quitting the Paras after Josh had hung himself. He’d beaten himself up for not being there for the younger brother who he’d idolized back in the day. Pre-Kabul, he’d gone to as many snooker matches as he possibly could to support Josh, often taking his mum with them, until that fateful day when the Crew jumped him, ending his career and basically his life.

While out in Kabul, he’d had time to think it all through and discuss it with his no-nonsense buddies. The injustice of life, the way British society had deteriorated, the way the scumbags ruled the streets and how the authorities pussy-footed around. The public’s fear was tangible and he knew someone would have to do something about it, using the only way he knew that worked. Fight violence with even more ferocious violence.

To glean the intel required, he knew the ideal job would be as a civilian custody clerk and he’d waited patiently for the opportunity for well over a year, while he planned his mission.

Admittedly, things had gone a little off track, but once he’d done Kingston, he’d go seriously low profile and reassess the situation. He’d have to release that tenacious bugger Striker and the young DC first, of course. Cop killing had never been part of the plan.

He’d been a little apprehensive about coming into work, but he could tell all was well here. However, there was growing concern that he’d not yet heard from Danny.

***

Striker hadn’t made a big deal about his findings as he was sure Halt and the rest of the brass would’ve stopped him even entering the nick. After all, he was technically on gardening leave and should have still been in hospital. Nonetheless, he wanted to do this himself, his way, smoothly and with minimum fuss. Consequently, he’d deal with whatever the brass chose to throw at him.

Being in charge of the custody area, Sergeant Thompson had been told out of necessity, and the look of utter astonishment on his face still lingered. Striker had to dissuade him from his initial preference of involving the brass, saying they had no time to rustle up and brief a team before Powers got an inkling they were onto him.

Striker had made calls to Ben Davison and Bob the Dog after Bardsley had filled Striker in on the details of their altercations with Powers. Both officers had sufficiently recovered from their trauma and, despite being given the day off, had jumped at the chance of being involved in the arrest. Davison and Striker looked like ‘the walking wounded’. Bardsley had been with Striker throughout, plus he’d had Powers sneaking around his house frightening Maggie. Meanwhile, Bob the Dog had nearly seen his dreams of retirement go up in smoke from Powers’s handgun.

Yes, it was unorthodox, but so was Striker. And why the hell should the likes of Stockley and Cunningham get any credit when they’d done sweet FA on this case?

The main thing was the team he’d hastily assembled were trustworthy. The four of them, along with Sergeant Thompson, watched Powers on the CCTV monitors. He was walking around the cell block, somewhat ironically checking on the criminals’ welfare. Thompson had sent Brenda the civilian custody clerk back into the staff office, saying that he needed to study some CCTV for a few minutes.

“Ready, lads?”

Davison, sporting a shiner any boxer would be proud of, clicked open his baton and flicked at the press studs of the leather cuffs holder on his utility belt.

Bardsley nodded, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

Bob the Dog revealed his Billy Connolly grin. “I’ll go to the van dock and get Rhys ready, in case he decides to run that way.”

Thompson looked as apprehensive as a student officer about to deliver his first briefing to the shift. The disbelief in his voice graduated to anger. “If this guy
is
a serial killer, then shouldn’t we get Firearms down and let the hierarchy know? It’s in
my
custody office and it’s on my arse.”

“Thommo, it’s
my
arse that’s on the line, not yours, mate. It’s my call, so stop fretting. Right, come on, let’s do it.”

***

After finishing from the hourly checks, Powers had not returned to the staff office, opting to go through a side door toward the kitchen area near the CCTV room to make a brew. As was customary, he thought he’d ask whoever happened to be doing their two-hour stint on the cameras if they wanted a brew.

However, on entering the somewhat compact room, he was surprised to see Sergeant Thompson sitting at the long, dark blue Formica desk facing the cameras.

“Sarge, why are you on here?”

Thompson couldn’t hide his shocked expression. He hastily scanned the plethora of screens before him as he stood up, the chair wheeling backward and clattering a radiator behind. “Ah, Vic, I’m just, er, filling in ’cause Brenda needed the loo,” he said, while pushing the buzzer to the charge desk.

Thompson sounds nervous. Something’s not right here.
Powers looked at the screens and saw a couple of figures in the custody area. One of them was a uniformed officer and the other was…
Jack fuckin’ Striker!

Thompson lunged forward in a bid to grab Powers. The sidestep and swift right uppercut thwarted his attempts, sending the custody sergeant sprawling across the desk and into unconsciousness.

Powers had anticipated this eventuality at some point. He studied the screens while pushing a button marked ‘UP’ on the control panel. An expansive metal shutter began to rise at the far end of the thirty-metres-long secure van dock area. He headed for the door leading to the van dock, hearing Brenda’s robotic-sounding voice on the control panel intercom saying, “Go ahead, Sarge,” as he exited the CCTV room.

The sudden barking of a police dog heightened his senses. It was straining at its leash, held by Bob the Dog, whose face contorted. The noisy shutter continued its mechanical rising behind the dogman, beyond the car park…
freedom… and Kingston.

“The game’s up, Powers,” shouted the dogman, withdrawing his baton.

“Like fuck it is,” he said, running toward the growling dog.

The German shepherd jumped up onto his hind legs and Bob unhooked the leash. Powers volleyed the police dog into the air, Rhys howling as he backflipped and landed upside down with a yelp.

Bob swung his baton, hitting Powers in the chest, seemingly winding him. But Powers lashed out a backhand to the cop’s cheek. He ran under the now fully opened shutter and sprinted through the car park to his Golf.