My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (12 page)

It was then that Striker’s mobile chimed. He answered. “Jack Striker.”

Bardsley looked up as Striker’s face became stern, his head shaking slightly.

“Give me fifteen minutes, Becky, and thanks for letting me know,” he said, before dropping the mobile into his jacket pocket.

“Jack?”

“Braeburn Road. Two more victims.”

Bardsley instantly shook off his domestic problems and jolted into cop mode.

Within seconds, they plonked their pints on the bar and headed for the door. The pretty barmaid looked surprised when Striker breezed past her.

“Something I said?”

Striker briefly turned to her, but kept walking, backward. “Some other time, perhaps?”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Her smile faded and she appeared disappointed.

Though Striker knew that ‘other time’ wouldn’t be any time soon.

***

“So one survived then?” asked Striker impatiently. The strobe flashes of blue police lights, from the vehicles preserving the scene, momentarily blinded him. The scene was already marked by a white SOCO tent about thirty metres away, half on the pavement and half on the road. Braeburn Road was a fairly wide B road that ran alongside Moss Range Park, with predominantly privately owned semis running its length, many with their lights on as the curious occupants watched the show through twitching curtains.

Tonight DC Brad Sterling was the night DO, while the rest of CID worked a mixture of day and afternoon shifts. Sterling would endeavour to keep abreast of any serious stuff and update a night crime log, until reinforcements returned in the morning to assist. And this was serious as it gets. Sterling must have only just started his shift – talk about hitting the ground running.

“Yes, Boss, one survived. He’s at the hospital under armed guard. Still unconscious though.” Sterling brushed a hand through his lightly gelled blond comb-over, and Striker was mildly irritated on spotting a small Manchester United badge on the DC’s tie.

Swiftly dismissing the triviality, he asked, “Which hospital, Bullsmead General?”

Sterling shook his head. “No, he’s in Manchester Royal Infirmary.”

Shit
.

“You alright, Boss?”

The MRI brought back unwanted memories for Striker and he’d not been back there for many years. He shook the memories away before they began, knowing their ability to consume him. “Huh? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Do we have a name for the deceased yet?” Striker gazed at the SOCO tent, adjacent to the railings and bushes on the periphery of the park.

“No.”

“So, what exactly happened, Brad?”

“It looks like an ambush. I’ve spoken to” – he checked his A4 daybook – “Betty Grange from number fifty-two Braeburn Road and she said she heard ‘rowdy lads’ passing and peeked from behind her bedroom blinds. Then she saw ‘a large, dark figure jump from the bushes’ and suddenly attack the two lads.”

Striker was transfixed. “So we actually have a witness
and
a survivor?” He glanced at Bardsley, who nodded with a determined look. “Is someone taking a statement?”

“Yes, Boss. DS Grant came back on duty and took the old dear back to the station.”

“So, from your initial account, how did she describe the attack?”

“The attacker punched the taller of the two lads, knocking him clean out. His head appeared to crack onto the pavement. He’s the one in hospital. Then he swung ‘a long black pole’ repeatedly around the other male’s head until he collapsed.”

“Was it a baton?” asked Bardsley.

“Could’ve been. Nothing’s been found and more officers from the late shift are on their way with dragon lamps for the search. Betty Grange was about forty feet away and it’s obviously dimly lit. Unfortunately, her eyesight’s not the best either and she’s in shock. But that’s not all.”

“Go on.”

“Once the second male had stopped writhing on the floor, the offender” – he checked his notes again – “coolly glanced over both shoulders, then straddled the lad, took out a large knife and eased it into his heart.”

Striker swapped looks with Bardsley.

“Looks like we’ve definitely got a serial killer, Boss.”

“A vigilante on a mission.” Feeling vindicated, Striker turned back to Sterling.

“That’s what we’re all thinking too.”

“Did he stab the other lad?”

“No, he straddled him, still holding the knife, and bent down. But he hesitated and looked around. Then, he quickly scaled the fence and ran into the park. Betty Grange said she’d heard a dog barking at that point, so…”

Striker thought for a moment, absorbing the info, processing the enormity of this escalating situation.

“Are Brennan and Cunningham aware?”

“The duty officer over at comms has been in touch with Mr Brennan, who asked me to call you. He couldn’t get hold of DCI Cunningham, nor DI Stockley for that matter.”

Hmm…
“Okay. Cheers, Brad.” Striker scanned the scene, his eyes resting on Response Sergeant Paul Roache. “Eric, do you mind co-ordinating house-to-house enquiries with Paul?”

“Not at all.”

“After that, you get yourself off home, okay?” Striker was mindful they’d had a few pints and Bardsley nodded, obviously thinking the same. “I’ll not enter the scene for now because I wanna check this lad out at the hospital. What’s his name, Brad?”

Striker couldn’t imagine how things could possibly get any worse, but was at least thankful they now had an eyewitness, despite her limitations. And, perhaps, the breakthrough they desperately needed would finally be forthcoming.

After another flick through his notes, Sterling said, “Don’t forget he was unconscious, so he—”

“What’s his name?”

“Dean Salt. He’s in the ICU room three.”

Striker was stunned, his heart plummeting on hearing his nephew’s name.

This was now personal.

Striker thanked the nurse and tentatively entered the ICU at Manchester Royal Infirmary, the very same ward that his old pal Lenny was in all those years ago when Suzi’s alibi saved Striker’s arse. He fought hard to stem the flood of bad memories.

He’d been deliberating whether or not to phone his sister. Lucy had no way of knowing that Deano had been attacked, since he’d often staggered home in the small hours, sometimes not returning home for days. However, he prayed there had been some mistake, that the name was just a coincidence. Deep down, though, he knew. He decided on a positive ID from himself, before the harrowing task of informing Lucy.

He showed his warrant card to the two armed officers sitting outside ICU Room 3. They sat upright, nodded in acknowledgment. The bleeps of life-assisting machinery and medicinal smells greeted him as he opened the door; medical staff in green outfits, and a couple in dark blue, scurried around donning stern expressions. One, a female, saw his raised warrant card, nodded knowingly and pointed him in the right direction as there were four beds. He headed for the one on the extreme right and slowly pulled back the pale blue privacy curtain. He edged nearer, seeing that the patient wore an oxygen mask, his face bruised. The head appeared swollen under extensive bandages, and tubes and wires were connected to the body. He looked closer and his fears were confirmed.

“Deano,” he whispered. His mouth dry, he swallowed and glanced heavenwards, momentarily. Seeing a cannula in his nephew’s left hand, he walked around the bed and held his right hand, which dangled slightly from the bed. It felt cold, almost lifeless.

Fighting back emotion, he began to reminisce, recalling the day he became an uncle, cradling his newborn nephew in this very hospital. Suzi was drug free then, her happy beaming face mirroring Striker’s, the latent stirrings of his own desire to be a parent back then simmering deep inside.

The many football matches he’d watched the young Deano play in began to whiz through his mind like an old movie: his first goal, his first winner’s medal and his first injury. Striker had run on the pitch with the ‘magic sponge’ before carrying him to the side-line. The many Man City matches he’d taken him to came into focus. Not much success back then, but they’d had fun and the blues had even turned over their illustrious red rivals from across the city a couple of times, perking them up, reinforcing their faith.

A few recollections of family parties later and he returned to the now, releasing his grip on Deano’s limp hand, sorry he hadn’t been around for the last few years. The adolescent Deano had clearly gotten in with the wrong crowd, and Striker knew all about that. Only six months ago, Striker had received a courtesy call from Paul Roache to say that Deano had been arrested on suspicion of street robbery. Striker couldn’t get involved in the case for legal reasons, but outside work he’d advised Lucy accordingly. Nonetheless, Deano was still convicted and was lucky to get away with just an official caution, which basically equated to a bollocking-cum-final warning.

The way Deano looked now reminded him again of Lenny Powers sixteen years ago. As Striker sat back in the chair, those haunting memories flooded back…

***

The door to Room 3 opened and Striker’s mind zoomed back to the present as he saw a youngish nurse enter. His head was banging and he wished he’d not had those beers earlier with Bardsley. The nurse smiled somewhat forcedly and picked up a clipboard from the bottom of Deano’s bed. She busied herself around Deano, doing her routine checks, occasionally glancing at Striker.

“I’m his uncle. Will he live?”

She hesitated, her voice soft. “He’s taken quite a knock to the head.”

“What do you reckon, though, off the record?”

“I shouldn’t speculate, but there’s a fair chance. People do come round from comas. We’ve stabilized him and got the swelling under control, so…” She became quiet, looking a little uneasy.

Striker nodded, realising he shouldn’t really have put her on the spot like that. He’d speak with the doctor later. Within seconds the nurse was gone and Striker sank back into the chair, his mind briefly drifting again.

Striker’s thoughts returned to Deano.

Despite the intensifying dread, he knew he had to make that phone call to Lucy. Either that, or go visit her in person.

The door opened and the doctor entered. Striker rose from his seat, not liking the doctor’s grave expression.

***

Live on air, the press release from GMP was read out to the mass of reporters gathered outside Bullsmead Police Station by Det Supt Brennan, amid a flurry of flash photography.

“Tonight’s unprovoked attacks on two innocent young men are currently being investigated by a thirty-strong team of very able officers. I can confirm, with deep regret, that one male aged eighteen has unfortunately died. A second male of the same age is currently in intensive care. We are not at this point linking it to any of the other recent murders, although this cannot be ruled out. The investigation is at an early stage and further information and evidence is being gleaned as I speak. I would urge anyone who knows anything about this to contact the incident room, where your call will be dealt with in the strictest of confidence, or alternatively call Crimestoppers anonymously.

“Family liaison officers are currently with the two families of the victims, and it would be inappropriate at present to elaborate further. Except to say I would like to take this opportunity to reassure the public that Greater Manchester Police are working flat out to catch the perpetrator, or perpetrators, of these despicable crimes, and that numerous extra patrols will be in force for the foreseeable future. To preserve the integrity of the investigations, I won’t be taking any questions at the moment and a press conference will follow in due course.”

A plethora of eager voices spurted out questions as countless camera clicks and flashes followed. Brennan raised a placating palm before turning to leave. The torrent of questions continued.

“Mr Brennan, when are you going to admit that Manchester has a serial killer at large?” … “Are you close to an arrest?” … “Do you have any advice for the local community?” …

None were answered and Brennan retreated into the nick.

Striker switched off the large plasma TV. Having decided to tell Lucy in person at her home, he glanced across at his sister, her eyes bloodshot and baggy.

“We’ll catch him, you know.”

“Will you… really?” She sounded unconvinced.

“I promise.”

“Well, you better fuckin’ find him before I do, that’s all I can say,” DJ said through clenched teeth, as he tied the laces of his trainers.

Striker glanced at his old mate, but didn’t speak. DJ was no stranger to drugs and looked just as gaunt as Lucy. As ever, he still shaved his head and still had the same criminal mentality. On the few occasions he’d seen him, since the Lenny shooting, DJ had been distant. Lenny aside, DJ knew Striker blamed him for Lucy’s deterioration and Striker knew DJ was wary of him. He’d never been the same with him since Striker had joined the Job. Their old friendship was tucked safely away in the distant past, along with the dark secrets they shared. Words were rarely exchanged between them now, especially as they both knew they could easily bring one another down.

DJ’s current anger was understandable. Deano was on life support with swelling on the brain; the doctors had given him a fifty-fifty chance of survival.

“You sure I can’t give you a lift to the hospital, Lucy?”

“I said I’ll take her.” DJ eyed Striker.

Striker got the message. “Okay. I’d best get off, Lucy. I’m so sorry.” He needed to return to work to establish who was dealing with these recent attacks throughout the night. He was weary and needed a vodka nightcap, then some shut-eye. He nodded at DJ, who was unresponsive.

At the door, Lucy looked at him, her face softening, eyes glazed.

Hugging his sister for the first time since their dad’s funeral, he felt her frail bony body, the emotion deep within him bubbling.