My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (7 page)

PC Ben Davison’s shock at seeing the hanging body was diluted somewhat because the park bench was empty. He ran past it in search of Johnson, knowing he’d definitely be late off now and the Lakes trip with Louise tomorrow would most probably have to be cancelled. There was a perverse relief in that he’d finally buried the nagging searching issue which had blighted his probationary period. However, if anything had happened to the injured witness he’d have some serious explaining to do. Found one, lost one, back to square one.

Having left Bob the Dog and Rhys preserving the crime scene, he’d called for back-up. He headed for the park gates, his Maglite frantically scanning the gloom of the park. Aided by the dropping temperature, a shiver crawled up his spine to prickle his neck and scalp, as the image of the hanging lad’s bloated features pervaded.

He soon spotted the bright lights of the ambulance at the park’s entrance, ricocheting off the house windows beyond, and relief flooded him when he saw a paramedic tending to Johnson at the rear of the vehicle. The medic was about to start wiping away the blood from Johnson’s head.

Acting on instinct, Davison began sprinting and shouted, “Hang on… a minute… please.”

The medic, in his green uniform, froze, looked up.

Davison stopped at the park gates to catch his breath. “We’ll be needing… swabs… before you treat him. Give me… a minute.”

He’d already alerted Mo at comms and asked for CID, SOCO and supervision to be made aware, but he’d not informed them he’d nearly lost the witness. Or was Johnson the murderer? He knew all eyes would be reading the computerised log over the coming days and once an entry was put on the log, it was basically cast in stone, hence his reticence over the air.

He made a radio transmission. “One treble-eight six, comms…”

“Go ahead, Ben.”

“Mo, any ETA for SOCO?”

“Five minutes.”

“Received, thanks.” He turned to the medic and Johnson. “Obviously if you feel it’s imperative to treat him now, I can’t stop you, but I’d prefer it if you just sat him down and waited, so we can take swabs and maybe even photos first. And we’ll probably need those surgical gloves you’re wearing too.”

The medic nodded and led the still groggy-looking Johnson inside the rear of the ambulance.

Davison was pleased to see a police van turn up as requested, and two sombre-faced officers he didn’t recognize exited. One was a plain-looking white woman about thirty, with her blonde hair up in a bun and no hat on. The other was a much younger, slightly overweight Chinese bloke with an acne problem. They were reinforcements from the neighbouring A Division and their presence was clearly of a begrudging nature.

“Okay, so where do you want us?” asked the female cop, now holding a scene log and a roll of police scene tape, face like a smacked arse.

“If you could follow me and your colleague stays with this… er, witness.” Davison paced toward them, away from the ambulance, his voice hushed. “He still could be a potential murder suspect, but I doubt it as he’s made no attempt to escape.”

The Chinese cop suddenly looked a little more interested and he unconsciously dropped a hand to caress his cuffs on the right of his utility belt.

The sulkier cop said in a hollow Geordie accent, “Okay, let’s go then.” She glanced down at her wristwatch. “Am supposed to be off duty in half an hour, like.”

And I was supposed to be proposing to my girlfriend tomorrow, but we’ve a job to do so show some interest, will you?

Five minutes later and the play area of the park was cordoned off with long strands of police tape, juddering spasmodically in the wind. Davison was protecting the scene at the entrance to the play area, while the female A Division officer was virtually out of sight on the far side, nearer to the hanging body. It was her choice, since she wanted a “sly ciggie”, the red end lighting up intermittently in the distance. Bob the Dog and Rhys were still patrolling the scene, protecting the perimeter, even though no one else was around at this late hour.

Davison’s radio burst into life as a female CSI arrived, and he knew she’d be doing her bit regarding Johnson before the medic tended to the wound. Surprisingly, the young Chinese officer emerged behind a torch beam. He still donned a half-hearted look, his voice abrupt.

“Right then, where do you want me now?”

Davison was speechless and saw Bob the Dog passing, on yet another circuit of the scene.

“We want you with the bloody murder suspect, lad! The SOCO girl can’t be expected to restrain him ya idiot,” said Bob incredulously.

The light bulb above the officer’s head was virtually visible, and he promptly swivelled and jogged back to the ambulance.

Bob shook his head, disappearing into the night, on another wander around the scene. Davison had sporadic chats with the dogman each time he passed, informing him of the A Division officers’ reluctance to be there, as well as resignedly whinging about cancelling his Lake District trip.

Davison noticed a couple of approaching suits. He strained his eyes, trying to recognise them. As they got closer, he saw they were wearing the customary white over-shoes and the smaller of the two carried a torch, its beam haphazardly cutting through the gloom like a lightsabre.

“Right, what have we got?” asked an important-looking bespectacled chap with a pointy nose. Davison vaguely recognised him, but wasn’t sure who he was.

“Er… Could you clarify who you are, please?” For the first time tonight, Davison noticed his breath was visible as he spoke and wished he’d put his GMP-issue fleece on underneath his jacket.

The man bounced looks with an almost cardboard cut-out of himself beside him, albeit a younger version with rounded glasses. Throwing Davison an icy glare, the older one fumbled in his pocket, then flashed a warrant card for a split second. “DI Stockley, MIT, and this is DC Barron. Now, you gonna tell me what we’ve got here, or what?”

“Oh, er, sorry, sir. It’s a dead lad… a hanging.” He shined his torch at the dangling body twenty metres away.

“Yes, I know that, constable. That’s why I’m here. I do have a radio, you know. Evidence-wise, I meant.” He rolled his eyes at DC Barron, who smirked.

Davison always felt a little uneasy when speaking with suits, especially bosses, but this guy was a knob. “Oh, right, there’s a potential witness being treated in the ambulance, you probably just passed him, sir.”

“We’ll need a statement off him then. Anything else found? Scene preserved? Incident log started?”

“No weapons or anything’s been found. And, yes, we’ve cordoned the area off and a scene log has…”

Stockley brushed past Davison, cutting his sentence short, and lifted the taped cordon before heading into the scene saying, “Don’t go off duty till I say so, and make sure you’ve done a statement. Now, put your hat on, Constable, there’s a good lad.”

Davison cursed to himself and did as he was told, despite no members of the public being present and it not really mattering. He raised his jacket collars around his neck to ward off the night chill, then heard footsteps and the hum of voices as someone else approached. He recognized these two suits from the other crime scene earlier. He’d briefly interacted with them on various works dos and these two seemed decent enough blokes. It was DI Jack Striker and that old Scouser whose name escaped him.

“Hi Ben. You okay, fella?”

Davison fleetingly considered telling the DI that he had been until that power junkie Stockley had arrived, though decided against it.

“Fine thanks, sir. DI Stockley’s over there, with the deceased.” Davison again shined his Maglite toward the scene and Striker’s face stiffened.

“Looks like you’ve done a good job, finding and preserving this scene in quick time. Believe you’ve got a witness too. I’m impressed, Ben. I’ll be speaking to Paul Roache about this.”

Davison felt uplifted. “Thank you, sir.”

Striker regarded the PC, then the crime scene. “What time you supposed to be off duty?”

Davison withdrew his smartphone and checked the time, the screen lighting up his face momentarily. “Er, about two hours ago.”

“I’ll see if I can get you relieved by the night shift, when I get a minute.” Striker gave a subtle nod and headed along the left side of the flapping police tape.

“Cheers, sir.”

“Well done, fella,” said Bardsley, as he passed the probationer and followed Striker parallel to the low perimeter fence of the play area, both mindful that they’d entered the previous scene on Bullsmead Road earlier.

Ten seconds later, about five metres from the swings, Bardsley withdrew a small torch, alerting Stockley to their presence by shining it his way, the beam briefly reflecting off his and Barron’s glasses as the detectives turned.

“What are
you
doing here, Striker?” Stockley pinched his lips and glared from the other side of the low fence separating the field and the children’s play area.

Striker took a deep inhalation on seeing the silhouette of the hanging body shifting slightly in the wind. He swiftly composed himself. “Just back from the morgue and wanted to see if this was linked to my case.”

“Don’t enter this scene or you’ll mess up
my
enquiry before it’s begun.”

“For God’s sake, Vinnie, I know that.” He considered asking why his colleagues were only wearing overshoes and not full protective suits, but decided against it.

“Anyway, it’s too early to tell if there’s a link, though I doubt it. Yours was beaten and, as you can see by the rope around his neck, Striker, this lad has been hanged.”

“Cut the sarcasm. We’re supposed to be on the same team, aren’t we?” Striker spotted a female constable on the far side of the cordon, and within earshot, so lowered his voice. “You need a hand with anything, Vinnie, like cutting the body down? You’ll need a ladder by the looks of it.”

“I know! There’s one on the way with CSI. And no – you’re not supposed to be here. Maria’s already told you that.”

“Oh, been having a nice little chat with her have we? Surprise, surprise.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Doesn’t matter. You know there’s a school behind you, don’t you? Wouldn’t want the local infants seeing this, would we?”

“Of course, I know that. He’ll be down before dawn, once we get a stepladder and Mortham arrives. And if he’s not, we’ll just close the school, okay?”

Bardsley coughed for attention, shining his torch at the hanging body and then the nearby climbing frame. “With respect, Boss, we just wanted to see if it was linked to ours and backed up the gangland theory. I see the Moss Range Crew have been here.” Bardsley’s torch lit up ‘MRC’ in yellow on the side of the climbing frame. “Is that still wet?”

Stockley looked heavenward. “Look, stop interfering will you? This could be suicide for all we know. Let us begin our investigation and we’ll liaise tomorrow.”

“Suicide? I doubt that very much,” said Striker, rolling his eyes. With both Bardsley’s and Barron’s torches lighting up the dead lad’s bloated face, it was clear from his blooded nose and bruised eye that he’d been in some kind of fight recently.

“Boss, you might want to come here,” said Barron. “He’s got four Bs tattooed on his knuckles.”

“Okay Striker,” said Stockley, “since you’re here, make yourself useful and go to the hospital to interview the witness, so we can get a quick ID on this lad.”

“No need, Boss, I know him.”

Stockley turned to Bardsley. “Who is he?”

I dealt with his case a few years ago, when he stabbed a schoolboy with a chisel. It’s Steven Bowker, aka Chisel. And he has plenty of enemies.”

“Right. Could you put that ID in writing before you go home?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “So, did you get
your
body ID’d then?”

Striker answered, “Yeah, it was Gareth Bolands and obviously his dad took it real bad. Do you know him? Nicknamed Gasbo.”

Stockley shook his head.

Barron said, “Yeah, I know him. He’s got an ASBO, hasn’t he?”

Striker nodded. “That’s right, Steve.”

“And so has Chisel…” said Bardsley.

There was an audible silence, Striker wondering about the connection, albeit tenuous, as no doubt the other detectives were.

Stockley broke the lull. “I suggest you disappear now. Cunningham and Brennan won’t be at all happy you’ve attended here.”

“Even though our local knowledge has just given you a swift ID? I think the word you’re looking for is ‘thanks’.”

The four detectives pivoted on hearing a kerfuffle at the play area’s entrance. Striker and Bardsley headed toward the raised voices.

Davison, awkwardly clutching the scene log, was struggling to prevent a group of irate-looking men from entering the scene.

“Where’s my fuckin’ son? I want to see him, now!” shouted a stocky, middle-aged man, pushing Davison, who was now frantically speaking into his radio.

“It’s Chisel’s dad, Dessie Bowker. He’s a right handful, Jack.” Bardsley ran over, and grabbed Bowker’s arms, managing to swing him to the floor. Two beefy lads about twenty headed for Bardsley, but Striker blocked them off, a palm in each chest. One swung for Striker, so he dipped his head and stung the lad with a left uppercut to the chin. He instantly hit the deck.