My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (16 page)

The evening meeting had been called by DCS Halt, who’d been recalled from his Mediterranean cruise, after urgent talks with the chief constable. That’s all Striker knew, save the possible announcement that the police’s Mutual Aid policy may be utilised, whereby detectives from other forces would provide reinforced manpower.

Or should that be “person power”?
Striker asked himself while climbing the stairs to the top floor. At the very least an announcement would be made by Halt regarding assistance from other detectives within GMP, as Striker had seen new faces dotted about the nick. Then again, their force was one of the biggest in the country, and taking the Mutual Aid option would be like GMP’s proud hierarchy admitting an inability to handle such a big case.

And now, with another battered body being found dumped in the undergrowth near a disused rail track on the outskirts of Moss Range, Halt was back. Dane Woodthorpe, aka Woody, had been on the cops’ radar for a while now, but someone had clearly beaten them to it. From what Striker could tell, having not been directly involved, the MO used on Woodthorpe pointed to their man. The consensus was that this man had to be Copeland, so Striker expected some extremely awkward questions being thrown his way.

Striker hadn’t seen Cunningham as yet. However, Stockley, back from his promotion interview that had apparently “gone great”, had revelled in telling him that the DCI was seething at Copeland’s release. Striker knew Cunningham would certainly make her views known to Mr Halt. Conversely, Striker wasn’t overly worried Copeland was still out there because he was convinced he wasn’t their man. Nonetheless, he wasn’t looking forward to this meeting and was prepared to take some serious flak.

The conference room had a huge circular mahogany table that didn’t really match the dark grey carpet. An overhead projector pointed an image simply saying, ‘Operation Predator’ onto a large screen at the far end of the room.

As he walked in clutching a notebook, Striker saw Stockley beside Cunningham and they both gave him the eye, therefore he purposely selected a chair directly in front of him at the opposite end of the table. The glare Striker received from Halt nearly knocked him off his feet. He felt his mouth starting to dry up and wished he’d brought a drink in. The humdrum of whispered conversations gave the room vibrancy. Striker had a quick scan and saw several new faces, confirming Mutual Aid had begun.

The only truly friendly face present was that of Becky Grant. Despite the earlier stern look, he was glad to see Mr Halt back, after Striker’s disagreements with Cunningham and Stockley. Then he spotted his old response colleague Inspector Barney Briggs, sat at the far end of the room with his finger poised on a computer mouse. Briggs, obviously requested because of his know-how in using the projector and computer equipment, offered a sympathetic smile and nod that Striker returned. Halt was standing at the front near the large screen, reading an A4 sheet of paper.

Predominantly inspectors and above appeared to be present, plus a few DSs, including Grant, who lifted a subtle hand acknowledging Striker. He’d had to explain to Bardsley earlier that he hadn’t been invited, much to his angst, and promised him a comprehensive scrum-down later.

With the remaining seats taken, probably twenty in all, Halt raised a hand and the room automatically hushed.

“Okay, everyone. Thanks for coming. Firstly, let me introduce you to Edward Nosworthy, a criminal profiler from the National Crime Faculty.” Halt gestured near the front to a fat balding man pushing sixty. Nosworthy half raised his hand, probably knowing some officers would frown upon his presence.

Striker stopped himself from rolling his eyes, instead he sighed discreetly. Good old detective work would catch the killer, not geographic profiling, forensic psychology, cognitive mapping and statistical analysis. There was no time for all that.

Halt checked the room for dissent. “In truth, Edward should have been with us earlier.” He tossed a look at Cunningham. “But since he’s only just arrived, he won’t be providing us his insights just yet. However, he’ll be part of the team until matters are resolved, so let’s make him feel welcome.” Again, Halt scanned the room.

“Now, I won’t harp on about the importance of what faces us because you’ve only got to switch on the TV or pick up a paper to see the storm this vigilante has caused. The Hoodie Hunter they’ve dubbed him. Quite fitting, I suppose.” The tone of his voice briefly became sarcastic. “This guy thinks he can fix Broken Britain. Hmm…

“One of the problems we face is that some of the public secretly support him, going off his ‘fans’ on social networking sites. Evidence is in short supply and I’ll be asking each of you what you’ve got later. Communication is the key on this. Tomorrow the Sun” – Halt’s facial expression was one of disgust – “are publishing a letter, supposedly sent from the killer.”

The low whispers started up again and Striker sat forward in his seat, spotting a few shaking heads.

“At least they kindly gave us the original, which is being examined at Bradford Park as I speak. Unfortunately, we were unsuccessful in our attempts to block publication of the letter. Anyway, have a read for yourselves – Barney.” He nodded at Briggs, who clicked on the mouse and the letter appeared on the screen. The room fell silent as they all read it intently.

Dear Sirs,

The government is weak. Weak leaders are half the problem. Respect and discipline have evaporated from society. Harsh tactics are the only answer. I make no apologies for mine.

The destructive characters you’re dealing with here simply don’t care. They want to inflict serious harm on people and understand only one language. I know because I am fluent in that language too. However, I have discipline, respect and morals – they don’t. There’s been talk of forcing them into two years of national service, but we can’t just use the forces as a dumping ground for these idiots. That would be an insult to the professionals already serving their country.

Harsh behaviour requires harsh treatment, but we don’t have corporal punishment and our prisons are an absolute joke. You’ve tried and failed, so now it’s my turn. I know for my plan to work I’ll have to be relentless, or “prolific”, as some serial killers are described. But they are invariably insane and I detest the thought of being mentioned in the same breath as them. I have principles and I’m only doing what many wish they had the balls to do.

I call upon all those wronged by our ineffective justice system to bear arms and seek retribution.

I see the papers have given me a name – whatever. I suppose I need one.

Soon.

HH

“Any first impressions?” asked Halt.

Striker began. “He’s connected to the military in some way.” Twenty pairs of eyes looked his way.

Halt seemed to sigh, his expression still stern. “Interesting, Jack. Why’s that?”

“His terminology. The start, ‘Dear Sirs’, plus he doesn’t want the offenders being dumped into the forces. And he seems hot on discipline and professionalism.”

Halt slowly nodded, considering Striker’s observations.

Stockley jumped in. “Of course, that could all be just a smokescreen to throw us. After all, he’s already shown that he’s a cunning bugger, hasn’t he?”

“I don’t doubt that.” Halt smoothed a hand through greying hair.

“He’s military.” Striker said doggedly.

Cunningham joined in. “Well, if it is a smokescreen, then Jack’s certainly been suckered, like he was by Copeland.”

One or two officers shuffled awkwardly in their seats. Striker bit his lip, hard, and then swallowed discreetly.

“Maria! Later.”

Later? Great.

Halt looked around the room, sensing unrest. “Just to update you, we already have teams searching for Bobby Copeland, but he’s not been seen since his release. You’ve all got the photos of him, right?” Everyone nodded. “Okay, now back to the letter.”

Becky Grant spoke out. “I’m with Inspector Striker. Speaking as ex-military myself, the experience is etched into my soul, and it’s difficult to shake the doctrine and principles gleaned. Even if you try, it still creeps through into your language, like it seems to have done in this letter.”

Cunningham rolled her eyes upward, twisting her neck slightly for emphasis. “Well, what with Jack’s hunch and your soul, Rebecca, we should have the killer in custody before bedtime.”

“Now, now, everyone. Settle down.”

Striker noticed some of the new faces looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Just remind me, Maria. Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same side?”

Her expression tightened. “Sure we are, Jack. But if he is military, then why is he using a baton and a rope?”

It was a good question.

“Right. We’re all entitled to our opinions. And there’s a lot more to get through. Barney, hand out the copies of the letter.” Briggs gave a bundle of A4 sheets to Cunningham, who took one and passed them on.

Halt continued, “Keep a copy each and re-read it as many times as you wish, and show your teams. If anything at all springs to mind, then let me know.”

“I don’t like that ‘Soon’ sign-off, at the end,” said a new face, a chap in his mid-thirties, his accent broad Yorkshire. Possibly Leeds.

“That worried me too,” replied Halt.

“Could just mean that he’ll be in touch again soon,” said another new voice, this time a craggy-featured Lancastrian, beside the Yorkshireman.

“Hopefully, but I think this guy communicates by his actions,” said Stockley with a hint of derision. “The most worrying part is him calling for ‘all those wronged to bear arms and seek retribution’.”

Striker actually agreed, but stayed silent.

The remainder of the briefing was taken up with a laborious step-by-step breakdown of each scene, evidence gleaned, outstanding enquiries and plans of action. Then there was the reallocating of resources, including the newer colleagues from outer forces. Plus, the delegation of teams to deal with each murder, and organising debriefs for the end of each day. The designated incident room was thankfully here at Bullsmead, which pleased Striker. What didn’t please him was the fact he’d not yet been mentioned.

“Okay, everyone. Overtime’s not an issue, so I’ll be expecting a concerted effort. Now, let’s go catch him.”

Daybooks snapped shut and pens were slid into pockets as people went about their business with renewed zest. Striker glanced over at Halt, who was already looking his way.

“Jack, can you stay? I want a word.”

The conference room was clear except for Halt, Cunningham and Striker. He stood up to face them as they approached and stopped side by side about two metres from him.

“How many complaints have you had in your career, Jack?” asked Halt.

A little confused, Striker answered, “Er, say about one or two a year since I joined, so perhaps less than twenty. Why, sir?”

“Because today we’ve had three more.”

“With respect, sir, there’s a school of thought that if you’re not getting complaints, then you’re not doing your job properly.”

Halt’s face transformed from serious to sympathetic. “Look, Maria’s updated me on… events… and with the fiasco of that community meeting, then the release of Copeland, plus your nephew having been attacked, we’ve decided that you’re off the case.”

Striker glared at Cunningham, who mirrored the look back tenfold.

“Cut the hard face, Maria. Copeland’s not our man.”

“Oh, come on, Jack. His alibis are based on the word of a drunken woman and as soon as he’s released there’s another body. He’s our prime suspect.”

“It’s not him. Just look at the letter.” He held it up. “There’s no military connection, for one, and he’s not that articulate. For God’s sake, he’s a piss-pot alcoholic, totally incapable of these murders.”

Halt held up a large hand. “Look, Jack, you are wrong. Not only is Copeland clearly connected to Bolands and Sinclair, but we’ve just discovered that his partner, Dorothy Langton, was also having casual sex with our second victim, Steven Bowker.”

Striker was stunned, but stood his ground. “It’s still only circumstantial evidence, though, sir.”

“Look, Jack, I’m sorry, but we feel it’s become a little too personal for you and think you should take a week’s leave.”

“No! With respect, sir, I can catch this maniac. I have the local knowledge. You’re making a big mistake.”

“We just want you operating on full steam. Go to your family. They need you.”

“What, and
you
don’t?”

Halt’s voice became hushed. “Jack, young lads are dying here, and we’re not getting any closer to the killer. To be honest, from what I can see, we’ve got sod all to go on as yet, except for this Copeland character.”

He could feel his fuse shortening, his mouth parched, voice hoarse, “But I’ve barely got going on this!”

Halt dipped his head briefly, sighed. “Exactly, Jack. The case is too big for you at the moment, especially in your frame of mind.”

He was struggling to remain calm.
This is surreal. There’s bugger all up with me!
He turned away briefly, took in a deep breath and tried to stem the rising anger; he had deep respect for Halt. “Right. Thanks for your honesty, sir. At least I know where I stand now. If I agree to this break—”

“The decision’s already been made, Jack.”

Was Cunningham smirking?
Striker’s fuse was burning out rapidly. He thought of Deano still lying comatose in hospital and the promise he’d made to Lucy about catching the perpetrator. “So who’s taking charge of my team in the interim, one of those newbies?”

Cunningham chipped in, this time definitely smirking. “Vinnie will fill in for you, while you’re away.”

The fuse incinerated. “Oh, that’s fuckin’ marvellous! You really know how to kick a man in the balls, Maria. That prick Stockley dealing with my family? Thanks a bunch.”

“Striker!” shouted Halt.

He thundered out, the door bouncing on its hinges.

“STRIKER!”

He ignored Halt’s cries as he thundered down the corridor. That’s all he needed. Stockley with a one-way ticket into his family, to snoop around at will until he found something.

***

The Grosvenor Casino in town had a new décor in various shades of blue, but the layout was exactly the same as when Striker was last there six months ago. The bubbly twenty-something receptionist Linda recognised him and offered a welcoming smile before taking his jacket and buzzing him through the secure door.

Exhilaration rushed back like an old friend, albeit a troublesome one that had gotten you into a whole lot of trouble. A mass of colourful lights and computerised chimes and bleeps greeted him, making him blink a couple of times to focus, the half bottle of vodka he’d supped in his apartment now kicking in. The repetitive clinking of pound coins hitting the winning tray caught his attention and he turned to see a Chinese bloke putting an excited arm around a female half his age. She gave the man a peck on the cheek as four yellow and black ‘BAR’ symbols shined brightly in a line before them.

Striker climbed the three steps to the bar area that had a dozen or so people, mainly men, dotted about. This was a good vantage point, overlooking the numerous roulette tables. He heard the low drone of gamblers deliberating with friends regarding their next move, while light swing music played in the background. Sinatra.

“Hey, Jack! Longa time no see. What brings you back?” The barman was collecting glasses from a nearby table, his dulcet Italian tones chirping Striker up somewhat.

“Hiya, Franco. Long story, mate.”

“Let’s see… voddy Red with two cubes of ice, isn’t it?”

“Well remembered.” Striker always opted for vodka Red Bull in here to keep him awake for a long session. In any case, they didn’t have John Smith’s
on draft.

He scanned the bar area. On the far side, behind a mahogany cordon, a large group of females filled a lengthy table full of scrumptious-looking food. The tempting aromas drifted his way, reminding him he’d not eaten since lunch ten hours ago. He looked at the ladies scoffing and thought that he may have a nibble later.

Franco placed the drink on the table he’d just cleared. Striker took a sip, cold and tangy as it eased down his throat, invigorating him. He put his hand in his back trouser pocket, prompting Franco to raise a placating hand.

“Nah, Jack. It’s onna the house. Good to see you, my friend.”

Striker lifted his glass and smiled, albeit forcedly. “Cheers.” A young couple brushed past him on the stairs to the bar, so he turned and headed a few metres to another of his old vantage points. He leaned on a rail overlooking the gambling arena and placed his drink on a ledge beside a spider plant. A strange and slightly uneasy feeling of being ‘back home’ swamped him. His anger was subsiding, the murder enquiry and his supervision’s lack of confidence in him ever so slowly fading from his mind.

He watched the tables, studying the croupiers, memorising the winning numbers and waiting, until the tingle of excitement within him grew irresistibly.

Having knocked back another drink, he headed down the steps to the gambling area to change some cash to fiver chips. He’d brought £300, though decided to change a ton and see how he went. When he headed for the chosen table, he spotted an old pal, resurrecting memories, some never forgotten.

“Bloody ’ell, Jack. What a blast from the past.”

Ged the Giant towered over him. It was good to see him after all these years; the memories flooded back – some good, some bad. He noticed a few grey hairs had invaded Ged’s dark brown mop.

Ged proffered a sturdy hand, grinning. “How’s tricks, mate?”

They shook hands. “Well, you know…” A twinge of guilt jabbed Striker for not keeping in touch. “How long’s it been… twelve years… more?”

“About that.”

“Married? Kids?”

“You can tell you’re a cop, with all these questions.”

“I’d have asked them if I
weren’t
a cop, mate.”

Ged nodded. “Yeah, you were always the inquisitive one. To answer your questions, I’m not married and I’ve no kids. I heard about you and Suzi splitting. Sorry.”

“That’s life.”

After an awkward moment, Ged digressed. “Do you still go watching City?”

“When I can. Chance would be a fine thing at the moment. The Hammers aren’t doing so well, are they?”

“I try not to think about it. West Ham always seem to let me down. Bad time to be missing City games though, mate, what with all that money coming in for new players. You busy at work then? You’re an inspector now, aren’t you?”

“Now who’s asking the questions? Yeah, we’re very busy.”

“What, with that Hoodie Hunter fella?”

Striker inwardly sighed. Social conversations always turned to work for a cop. If he was an electrician, he doubted Ged would be asking him about light fittings. Would a window cleaner really be quizzed about his window round on a night out? Or a bricklayer asked about walls? “Yep,” he said, purposely keeping it brief.

“Bad shit, all that, innit? But you’ve gotta admit, Jack, the streets are a bit quieter, aren’t they?”

“Don’t say you agree with what he’s doing.”

“All I’m saying is that it was only a matter of time someone fought back, what with the way it’s all been going.”

It was time to change the subject. He certainly didn’t want to fall out with Ged so soon after seeing him again. And he obviously hadn’t heard about Deano yet. “Do you still see any of the others?”

“Er, yeah. Wozza, and DJ. He’s the one who’s kept me up to date about you.”

“I sometimes see DJ, but I’ve only seen Wozza once since…” His voice tailed off.

“Since our Lenny was shot?”

“Yeah, sorry for bringing it up,” he said solemnly.

“It’s okay. I think that night changed something in all of us didn’t it, mate?”

“Definitely.”

Another slight lull ensued. Striker glanced at the roulette table as a female croupier leaned over to clear the table of all the losing chips. They soon rattled and clinked down a hole out of view, much to the disappointment of the half a dozen punters.

“Do you reckon you’ll catch this Hoodie Hunter guy then?”

Why the fixation?
“We always catch ’em in the end.”

“Are you close though?”

Striker ignored the question, looked at the tables again. He clicked the handful of chips together. “Fancy a flutter?”

“Yeah, why not?