My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (2 page)

DJ had blood dripping from his nose but seemed to regain his senses. He scrambled into the front, legs dangling outside the swinging door. Cursing, Sniffer grabbed at DJ’s feet. Dark faces sneered, contorting angrily, closing in.

Two of the Crew turned, pointing their pistols at the Escort. Jack reversed rapidly, twirling the steering wheel. Spinning tyres echoed throughout the car park as he negotiated a handbrake turn. Sniffer was thrown off balance, while DJ slid further out, but Jack grabbed his right arm. He struggled to control the car and slammed the brake with a resounding screech. He mustered the strength to drag DJ inside, Ged stretching across to assist, receiving a sturdy trainer in the face from the stocky Sniffer in the process.

Most of the gang surrounded the Escort, banging their guns and fists on the windows and bodywork, their twisted faces and manic eyes peering in like starved zombies after their prey. A couple more ran over swinging baseball bats. The two rear side windows smashed inward, showering those inside with small chards, causing screams that mingled with a cacophony of insults and threats. The vehicle rocked from side to side.

“LET’S GO, JACK, FOR GOD’S SAKE!” Lenny’s voice crackled in panic.

A silver handgun dangled through the broken window, pointing at Wozza, who grabbed it hastily.

“Fuckin’ gimme that.” DJ snatched the pistol from Wozza.

Jack wheel-spun the vehicle forward, flicking Jerome into the air. He bounced onto the bonnet with a thud, his handgun clanging off the side of the car. A couple of hangers-on released their grips. DJ pointed his newly acquired handgun out of the window.

“No, DJ, don’t!”

“Just fuckin’ drive, Jack.”

As the car sped toward the ramp leading to level five, there was a flurry of deafening bangs, whistling and pinging sounds.

DJ, arm out of the window, fired back manically, making Jack wince repeatedly as he drove. “WANKERS!” underlined each shot until the handgun was spent, the tiny wisps of acrid smoke instantly dispersing.

Jack’s ears were still ringing from the gunshots when the rear windscreen smashed through and he felt something spatter on the back of his head and neck. He nearly lost control of the vehicle, feeling it lift onto its two rear wheels down the ramp. The car rebounded on return impact and they all bounced up, then down, in their seats. Jack managed to regain enough control for a swift right. The back end skidded to the left into the lengthy crash barriers, yanking off the bumper, which clanged noisily behind them.

Jack noticed red speckles on the windscreen and dash area. DJ wiped dripping blood from his swollen nose then stared into space. Confused, Jack continued driving.

Wozza began bawling inconsolably.

“No, no, NOOOO…” Ged’s head was in his hands.

It was only when they reached the bottom of the multi-storey that Jack looked round. Lenny was slumped forward with a dark crimson hole in the back of his head.

***

After weaving frantically through the side streets, while checking the rear-view mirror as often as a fleeing bank robber, Jack finally eased off the revs. He drew the car to a halt on a dark cobbled road a mile from the precinct. Beneath the relative sanctuary of Bullsmead railway arches, Jack heard the rumblings of a tram above. The full moon offered scant light behind wind-dispersing clouds.

Jack took a deep breath, flicked on the interior light. Wozza’s sobbing had reduced to sniffles. Ged stared ahead like a child in a war zone. Jack slowly turned round and saw the motionless Lenny. The back seat and footwell were soaked in blood, Lenny’s hair matted carmine.

“Is he… still breathing?” asked Jack, struggling to comprehend the situation.

Ged was holding his cousin’s hand. “Think I can feel a pulse. Aw… fuck… Len… What have we done? What are we gonna do now?”

Wozza looked forlorn, clearly in a state of shock, red dots sprayed across his face interspersing his freckles. Jack turned to the brooding DJ, who hadn’t said a word for five minutes, congealed blood from his misshapen nose covering half his face. “We really need to drop Lenny at the hospital. What do you reckon, DJ?”

“I’m a dead man.”

“What?”

“I said I’m a dead man.”

Jack couldn’t believe it. “Forget
you
, DJ. Let’s sort Lenny first.”

DJ pivoted, mad-eyed. “Fancy yer chances, Striker?”

“What are you on about? Lenny’s dying here, you selfish prick. You and your bleedin’ ‘master-plan’.”

DJ lunged for Jack, who instinctively swerved his upper body sideways. He gave DJ a swift uppercut, rocking the car. DJ cried out, his weakened nose exploding again. As he swung a retaliatory punch at Jack, Ged leaned forward, blocking it with his sturdy arms.

“Enough! Let’s sort Lenny… Now!” Due to his size, when Ged raised his voice people tended to listen.

Jack’s gaze was fixed on DJ, whose posture appeared to slump as he began his gazing into space routine again. “Right, DJ, you with us on this?”

An imperceptible nod, then he seemed to snap out of his self-absorbed trance. “Yeah, sorry, lads.”

After all putting their hoods up, they headed for Bullsmead General Hospital two miles south. Jack prayed they didn’t pass a police car; Ged prayed his cousin would live. Such was the state of the battered Escort, they’d stand out more than a bride at a funeral.

Jack avoided the main roads as best he could, opting for the side streets, the odd stare from pedestrians making him crouch in the seat. Lenny lolled with each turn, Ged and Wozza whimpering throughout.

They soon reached the brightly lit accident and emergency department, Jack pulling up beside an ambulance. A paramedic was having a sly cigarette beside it, acutely aware of the nicotine’s damage capabilities, but clearly enjoying it as he puffed away.

“Ease him onto the floor, Ged, from your side.”

“Aw… Jack…”

“Do it!”

Ged kissed Lenny on the forehead. He opened the back door and slid him out as gently as he could. “Soz, our Len.”

The door still half open, Jack accelerated, purposely wheel-spinning, then sped off with his hand on the horn for a few seconds. He caught a snapshot of the startled paramedic looking over. In one movement the medic stubbed out his cig and headed for the prostrate Lenny.

Jack cringed as they left the hospital grounds, passing a police panda car entering. Luckily the lone driver seemed preoccupied enough to miss them flash by.

Soon they were under the gloomy arches of the disused Bullsmead railway station. After exiting the Escort, DJ retrieved a petrol canister that he had filled earlier, from behind a bush. Once all the lads were clear he expertly tossed a burning rag onto the petrol-doused vehicle. Within seconds, a whoosh of flames illuminated the area, as if the devil had turned the lights on to grass them up to God. They all ran like hell into the depths of darkness.

Ten minutes later, they collapsed against the inside of the decrepit wall surrounding Bullsmead Park, the ground damp and cold underneath them. They breathed heavily in unison, unable to speak for a minute or two. The dark expanse of the park before them revealed no footpaths leading out, only the void of the vast field surrounded by misshapen trees swaying and creaking eerily.

“Do you think… he’ll survive?” asked Ged, sporting a developing shiner under his right eye from Sniffer’s kick earlier.

“Well, he’s in safe hands now. There’s always a chance.” Jack doubted his own words as he whispered them, mindful of people passing on the other side of the wall.

It was DJ’s turn to sob.

Jack put a consoling arm around his shoulders, feeling him shudder fitfully. “Come on. We’re all in it together, mate. Sorry for punching you.” Wisps of the chilled night air followed Jack’s reassuring words like cigarette smoke.

“S’alright. It was my idea, so it’s my fault. Simple as.”

Wozza, still appearing stunned, looked at Jack but didn’t speak, his face pale in the moonlight.

Jack lit a cigarette, gave it to DJ, then asked, “When you fired those shots, do you reckon you hit any of them?”

DJ took a long drag, exhaled, blowing a thoughtful smoke ring before turning to Jack. “Yeah. I saw one fall down holding his face. I think it was Kingston.”

More silence, more repercussions.

Ged shattered the silence, his deep tones incapable of whispering. “If Lenny dies, those fuckers will pay. Mark my words.”

“I’m with yer on that, mate,” said DJ, through snarling teeth. “Even if he doesn’t die.”

“And when my cousins find out, the shit will hit the fan big time.”

Jack knew Ged was right about Lenny’s brothers, but rationale was required. Despite Jack’s grave concerns for Lenny, and criticising DJ earlier for his selfish reaction, he was now thinking of self-preservation.

“Lads, we really need to get our stories straight, you know. The cops’ll be sniffing around soon. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not going down.”

They sat on the damp ground for hours, smoking and debating their options, until somewhat satisfied. All four of them clasped outstretched hands, pledging to stick together and to never speak to anyone else about tonight.

Jack trudged home, unable to shake the vivid flashbacks of the dark red hole in his poor friend’s skull, wondering how he could possibly hide all this from his family. He hated lying and he knew, deep down, this would always be the biggest lie of his life. It would haunt him forever…

Detective Inspector Jack Striker stroked a hand through his lightly gelled, raven-black hair, closed his eyes momentarily and took in a calming breath. He wasn’t particularly shocked to find a young man whose face had been beaten to resemble a piece of rare steak. After all, this
was
Bullsmead, one of the largest and notorious council estates in Manchester, if not Europe, and he’d seen worse – much worse.

His apprehension stemmed more from the pending work ahead. It was his first case since returning to his old stamping ground on promotion as a substantive DI in the force’s Major Incident Team. And he knew the eyes of the B Division’s top brass would be scrutinising his every move.

Having cautiously entered the white SOCO tent, while wearing a matching protective suit, he stooped his six-foot-one-inch frame and studied the battered body at his feet, the crimson reflecting vividly under the bright portable lighting. The lad’s denims were spattered in blood, his head swollen, misshapen. Visual ID was impossible at this stage, unless someone here knew him.

Striker shook off the initial apprehension, the excitement of the chase spurring him on. Time to get things moving. “Who is he? Any witnesses?”

Also in a white protective suit, portly, non-PC-DC Eric Bardsley held up a fat finger. He responded on his radio to the female comms operator asking if more troops were required at the scene. “Come ’ead, love. What do
you
think?” He rolled his eyes deridingly, his distinctive tones, gruff from years of chain-smoking, clearly revealing his Liverpool roots.

Bardsley’s origin had been swiftly pounced upon by the many football-crazy Manchester City and United fans he worked with at Bullsmead nick. They had instantly labelled him a ‘Scouser’, his broad accent being the spark to ignite the fire of the Mancs, guaranteeing banter in abundance. Bardsley was well up for it though, being a supporter of bitter North West rivals Liverpool FC.

Striker studied the body and wondered briefly what the future held for his own children, Beth and Harry, when they became teenagers. He also wondered how his estranged wife Suzi would react to the news that he wouldn’t be able to pick the kids up from school tomorrow, as it would have been the first time in two weeks. Knowing her, she would receive the news like a hungry lioness being denied her food.

Bardsley shook his head, a thoughtful hand smoothing his greying and somewhat dishevelled beard. “According to CID, there’s no ID yet, Jack. No witnesses either.”

Some DI’s, the ones up their own arses, would insist on their detectives calling them ‘Boss’, but Striker wasn’t one of them. He was from the streets himself,
these
very same streets. Respect was important, of course, but once out of uniform and into the confines of a plain clothes unit, he felt team morale was more important than the vanity of a power junkie. And providing the nasty bastard – or bastards – who’d killed this lad were caught pronto, his team could call him what the hell they wanted.

The double bleep of a text message prompted the DI to pull out his HTC mobile. He frowned at the message, sure that Suzie was a mind reader:
Don’t forget kids 2moz – I’m at work so we’re counting on U. And don’t let us down… AGAIN.

Striker forced family thoughts aside and exited the tent. Intermittent flashes of blue lights from panda cars parked around the crime scene illuminated the chilly autumn night. He scanned the noisy figures dotted about the area ogling the crime scene, recognising a dodgy face here and there.

All of these people and still no witnesses? Typical.

He spotted Jamo Kingston, a local gangster-turned-good-guy, whose face always seemed to pop up, ever since he’d been appointed as an Independent Advisory Group member. Striker thought it ridiculous that Kingston had been chosen as a link between the cops and the community. He certainly wouldn’t be telling
him
anything about this case. Kingston, wearing an eyepatch from when he was shot years ago, was already sticking his nose in, talking to a uniformed officer on the far cordon. The loss of his left eye had apparently made him ‘realise the error of his ways’, but Striker wasn’t so sure.

Moss Range Road ran from a slip road off the Mancunian Way, through urban sprawls and onto Bullsmead Road, where Striker stood, on the Bullsmead Estate in South Manchester. The Mancunian Way, a mini-motorway running high across the south edge of the city centre, offered its elevated motorists a flashing glimpse of Manchester in all its glory, providing them with a flavoured mix of old and new.

On view was a panorama of surviving cotton mills, factories and warehouses, many having been converted into hotels and apartments. The former were a constant reminder of Manchester’s historic status as the ‘international centre of cotton and textiles’. Formerly known as ‘Cottonopolis’, the city became
the
global supplier of textiles, via its large network of canals and railways.

Lying prominent in the city centre were two large universities and the mightily impressive Beetham Tower – the tallest residential structure in Europe – that was even visible to Striker now, four miles away in the distance. Two of the tower’s vivid red warning lights peered back at him through charcoal clouds, like the eyes of the devil.

This stretch of Bullsmead Road had a row of shops opposite a long line of red-brick council semis, the street cast in an orange haze by staggered lampposts. Front gardens contained a mixture of colourful children’s Wendy houses, slides and swings, a discarded bike and even a decrepit-looking sofa. Most houses were lit up as if electricity was free around here, and in many cases it probably was. Front doors ajar, family members congregated outside, some drinking cans of cheap lager. A mum cradled a baby in her arms while sucking on a cigarette. A couple of her other offspring were running boisterously around the front garden, despite it being gone ten thirty, a barking mongrel chasing them. Two of the houses overlooking the crime scene were boarded up.

Typical.

Striker glanced up and saw a pair of old trainers tied by their laces dangling bizarrely on a telephone wire. Beyond them the clouds were gathering, promising rain – another reason to get things moving.

Fortunately, the SOCO tent had been erected promptly, ensuring the scene was protected. However, if they were to find a discarded murder weapon he didn’t want it to be rain-soaked and free of vital forensics. His initial assessment was that the uniforms, despite their limited numbers and the usual plethora of Friday night calls, had done a decent enough job. The cordon was a good forty metres wide, the road was closed and Traffic, in their high-visibility jackets topped with predominantly white hats, were diverting vehicles down side streets toward alternative routes. He could hear the inconvenienced drivers’ curses before they’d begun: “Fuckin’ pigs!”

A white-suited female SOCO – now supposedly referred to as a ‘CSI’, but they were still SOCO to UK cops, old habits and all that – was examining the general vicinity outside the tent, currently bagging a discarded bottle of lager. She peered round from her kneeling position, as though feeling Striker’s eyes on her. They exchanged nods.

DC Bardsley gestured at a uniformed officer talking to two boys sitting on a garden wall. Their dark hoods concealed their features.

“They’re our only hope so far,” croaked Bardsley. “There’s no suggestion they’re directly involved, but they were here when we arrived so they may have seen something.”

“Have you spoken to them, Eric?”

“No, I thought I’d leave that to the ‘wooden top’ while I…”

Striker cut him short, not liking the insinuation that all rookies lacked intelligence. “You were a probationer once, Eric. Never forget that.”

Aware of the growing groups of noisy locals gawking around the cordon, Striker disrobed the protective suit and overshoes and walked over. He turned to Bardsley, who’d done the same and was following so closely that Striker smelled remnants of the DC’s last cigarette on his breath. He fought the urge to ask him for one.

“Have they all been spoken to?” asked Striker.

“Most of the ones here when we arrived were very tight-lipped. I spoke to a shopkeeper who said there had been a gang of about a dozen lads loitering outside his shop. He said they ran off after all the commotion.”

“Commotion?”

“Yeah, he said there was a lot of shouting and swearing, and people running around. But he didn’t actually see what had happened.”

“Didn’t see, or was too scared to say?”

Bardsley shrugged.

Feeling a tinge of hope, Striker stopped to scan the row of shops, trying to shrug off an old memory of the newsagents in the middle, when as a probationer he’d disarmed a masked robber. He could still hear the crack of the handgun shooting perilously past his ear, even now, a little too close for comfort. In the end it didn’t do any harm to his career prospects, he supposed. The divisional commander’s commendation took pride of place on the living-room wall of his city centre apartment.

All the shops except for a Chinese takeaway were in darkness, clearly having shut for the night. “Anyhow, I thought you said there were no witnesses.”

“I meant to the actual attack.”

“Who’s this guy that may be a witness then?”

“Khalid Khan from the newsagents. He was pulling his shutters down as I spoke to him. Like I said, he heard the attack, but was too scared to come out. He did peep through the shop window though, and saw a ‘tall bulky figure’ running from the group of youths in the direction of the petrol station.”

Striker still felt a little uneasy as his unwanted memory of the newsagents nagged, but he managed to suppress it. “Just one lad?”

“Yes, just one, but it wasn’t a lad, it was a man. Course he might’ve just been a scared passer-by. Mr Khan did say the boys were running in different directions, yelling, totally freaked out, but the tall bloke stood out somehow.”

“Stood out?”

“He was the only one who wasn’t shouting.”

Striker absorbed this as they approached the constable talking to two lads sitting on a wall. It was rookie cop Ben Davison. Striker prided himself on knowing everyone at the nick and also took satisfaction in passing on his wisdom to the probationers. He peered over the PC’s shoulder, seeing a pen poised over a blank page in his pocket notebook.

“No joy, Ben?”

The fresh-faced Davison turned to Striker. “Huh? Oh sorry. No, not yet, sir.”

The two pallid-looking youths were no more than sixteen – about five years younger than Davison, Striker guessed. The one on the left glanced up at Striker with shifty eyes, looking vaguely familiar. The other lad appeared to be sobbing under his dark baggy hood.

“You knew him, fellas?” Striker nodded toward the SOCO tent.

“Sort of,” replied Shifty.

“Sort of?”

“Yeah, he’s from the Moss. I don’t know his name or anyfin’ though.”

Striker considered this momentarily. Moss Range was another town on the B Division and distinctly rival territory.
So what was the dead youth doing here?
“What happened?” he asked.

“What do yer fuckin’ think, man?”

Striker resisted the urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck. Instead, he kept his tone measured. “We weren’t here, so I don’t know.”

“Yeah, exactly. You ‘weren’t here’, were yer?”

Sod this
. “Were you involved?” Striker fixed his stare on the cocky one.

“No way, man,” he insisted, somewhat panicky.

Striker recalled this character. He’d lifted him a couple of years ago for affray – a kick-off between local gangs, if he wasn’t mistaken. A quick flick through the ever-growing files in his mind and a name popped up.

“Look, Grinley” – the lad looked surprised and instantly vulnerable – “we need to know what’s happened so we
can
do something about it.”

“I dunno anyfin’.” Luke Grinley exchanged glances with the other youth. “Anyway, am no grass, copper.”

“Right. So you do know something. Was it gang-on-gang?”

Striker swapped looks with Davison while Grinley dipped his head.

Eric Bardsley interjected, “Hey, lah… we have decent witness protection programmes these days, you know.”

“Yeah, right.” His reply was full of venom. “And am definitely not talking to a Scouser.”

“You cheeky…”

Striker blocked Bardsley as the DC lunged toward Grinley. “Eric, go check on the Chinese chippy before it shuts.” Bardsley eyed Grinley then walked away grumbling. Striker turned his attention to the other lad. “What about you, fella?”

“Say nowt, Mozo.” It was almost a threat from Grinley.

“Zip it.” Striker glared at Grinley.

The other boy looked up, his face streaked where grubby hands had seemingly been wiping tears. “I…”

Grinley appeared to nudge him with his elbow.

Striker lifted a warning finger and Grinley turned away huffily.

“Yes, go on.”

“I saw nowt neither.”

“Ever heard that withholding evidence is an offence?”

Mozo screwed his face up. “Yeah. So what? I’ve been locked up for ‘obstruct police’ before an’ got off with it.”