Free My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) by Col Bury

held the somewhat heavy dragon lamp, its beam lighting up the park brilliantly compared to his meagre torch.
    “Go on, Rhysy-boy,” said Bob the Dog in his crisp Glaswegian tones, encouraging Rhys toward the open field to the right. Then a whisper, “Who’s there, Rhysy-boy? Who’s there?” Rhys pulled on the leash, making it taut, and the officers followed. A few small lit rectangles in people’s homes grew larger as they did a sweep of the vast field. So far, there were no signs of anyone.
    The damp grass and soil squished as they made their way across the field, the cold wetness seeping into Davison’s right Magnum boot, reminding him he needed a new pair.
    “Are you still seeing Louise then, Ben?”
    “Yeah…” He paused for a moment. He’d not told anyone about his proposal plans. However, despite his practical jokes, Bob was a damn good mate, one who’d helped him immeasurably throughout the extremely steep learning curve of his probation. He was so excited, he just had to share the news. “Gonna pop the question tomorrow, mate.”
    Bob the Dog tugged Rhys to a stop. “Really? Good on ya, pal… Aye, good on ya. She’s a bonnie wee lass.”
    “Cheers, mate. Just hope she says yes.”
    The lamp saved a lot of time and shortened the search significantly, with its beam reaching the far corners from the middle of the field beyond the just discernible white football posts.
    “Ach, course she will, pal. You’re a good lad.” Bob the Dog guided Rhys around the field, then back toward the children’s play area. “Best be thorough here. ‘Shouting and screaming’ could be something an’ nothing. But in this job, ya never know, pal.”
    Davison knew his colleague was right, but with so many call-outs ending as ‘no trace’ jobs, it was easy to become blasé. “How are you and ‘Mrs the Dog’ doing?”
    “We’re fine and dandy, thanks. Think she’s giving me my oats nowadays ’cause she knows my pension pay-off’s coming soon. When the cash dries up, so will she. Woo-hoo!”
    Davison laughed, shining the mighty beam at the play area. It was then that he saw an illuminated figure, with blood seeping from his head, staggering toward them like a stoned zombie.
    “Jesus…” said Davison, agog, as Rhys began barking uncontrollably.
     
    ***
     
    Striker eased the unmarked silver Vauxhall Astra to a halt behind Bardsley’s older, dark green version of the same model. Claythorne Street was yet another terraced street, north of Bullsmead, in Moss Range. It was about three miles from the city centre, which was marked, as ever, by the huge Beetham Tower. Striker could see the hundreds of oblong windows high in the distance, probably half of them lit up, including Manchester’s only ‘sky bar’ half way up, where Friday-night revellers would be having a good old shindig.
    Meanwhile, Striker had to tell a mother and father that their son was dead.
    He exited the Astra, as did Bardsley, faces solemn. They were outside number thirty-five, a good thirty metres from the Bolands’ home at number seven. After a quick look over both shoulders, Striker asked in a hushed voice, “You got the missing report, Eric?”
    “Yeah, it’s in here.” Equally tactful in tone, Bardsley opened his turquoise daybook and took out the report taken earlier by a uniformed Bobby.
    “Where, when and by whom was he last seen?”
    Bardsley studied the report, straining to see under the orange haze of the nearby streetlamp. “Er… Reported missing at just after midnight and… last seen at ten this morning by his mum, who also reported it.”
    “Okay.” Striker thought for a moment. “What I don’t get is why they’d report him missing? It’s not like he’s a little kid and I bet a bad boy like him normally rolls in at all hours.”
    “According to the notes, apparently he was supposed to meet his girlfriend at twenty-one thirty hours… It’s her birthday and, well, he promised.”
    Striker raised his eyebrows,