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

wondering how much weight Gareth Bolands’ word actually carried, having earlier scrutinised his escapades on their database.
    “How sure are you that he’s our victim, Jack?”
    “Ninety per cent, but we’ll need an ID off the next of kin. You ready?”
    “Always.”
    The night chill starting to bite, they paced down the street, dimly cast in an orange haze by the streetlamps, passing the line of flat-fronted, gardenless houses, and they were soon outside the Bolands’ residence.
    All the lights on show inside were switched on. Shouting emanated from within. Striker knocked on the dark wooden door and glanced at Bardsley, who was frowning.
    More raised voices, then the door opened. A scruffy-looking, mixed-race man with a pot-holed face and ample beer belly greeted them, along with a waft of stale booze.
    “You cops?” His voice was gruff, weary.
    Striker flashed his warrant card, as did Bardsley. “DI Striker and this is DC Bardsley. May we come in?”
    “Where’s my son?”
    “Are you Mr Bolands?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Can we talk inside?”
    “Who-da-fuck-is-it-Dougie?” yelled a woman from inside, clearly Irish.
    “It’s the police, so shut yer big gob will yer, woman?” Bolands senior nodded resignedly, turned and walked inside.
    The detectives followed.

Chapter Eight
     
    Davison recognised the staggering youth as Jamie Johnson, aka ‘Johnno’, one of the local Bad Bastard Bullsmead Boys, the four letter Bs on his knuckles confirming this. Johnson had blood oozing from a head wound and, for the first time since Davison had known this character, he actually looked relieved to see the police, rather than him making off in the opposite direction, as per usual.
    Rhys added intermittent growling to his frantic barking.
    Johnson held both hands up to his eyes. “Stop shining… that thing… in me face…will yer, man?”
    Davison dipped the powerful dragon lamp.
    Bob the Dog pulled Rhys in close and gave the German Shepherd a reassuring pat on the back to appease him. “What happened to you then, lad?”
    “The swings…” Johnson collapsed on a graffiti-stained park bench, just pointing, his eyes empty.
    “He’s in shock, Ben.”
    “And on something too, by the looks of it.”
    Davison took a closer look at the head wound, using his Maglite this time. The laceration was surprisingly small, considering the blood loss and matted hair, but there was also clearly some swelling.
    “Have your attackers gone, fella?”
    Johnson just shrugged and stared at the floor. The two cops exchanged looks and headed for the play area, led by Rhys again.
    Bob the Dog turned to Johnson briefly. “Stay on that bench, lad. We’ll sort you an ambulance.”
    Davison was already onto it, depressing the transmission button on his radio and dipping his head slightly to the left toward the police radio clipped to his body armour. “Mo, one male, eighteen years, conscious and breathing, with a head wound. Ambulance to the park gates, please.”
    “Okay. You alright there?”
    “Yeah, but something’s clearly gone on and we’re still searching. Standby.”
    Over the airwaves, brusquely: “DC Smith, comms. Talk-through with the officer in the park please.”
    “Go ahead.”
    Bob the Dog rolled his eyes at Davison.
    “Update on those injuries. Are they serious?” It was the night DO.
    Davison deeply inhaled the cold night air. “Negative. Small cut and slight swelling to head, and he’s upright and talking to us.”
    “Okay. Keep me updated. Thanks, comms.”
    “They never trust us, do they Ben? Had it all my career. As soon as they ditch the uniform they become arrogant, interfering buggers, teaching us to suck eggs.”
    “S’alright. He’s just doing his job, mate. I’m not arsed, really. Come on.” Davison’s cynicism hadn’t yet reached the levels of ‘old sweats’ like Bob, though he knew that time would come eventually. His tutor constable warned him that years as a cop changed you