Free Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) by Peter Carroll

floors up, with an impressive view across their portion of the Capital. Hargreaves spoke with his back to Stark, hands clasped behind him; as if at ease on the parade ground.
    “Are there any links between the victims or any forensics to work with?”
    “No, sir, not yet I'm afraid. We're continuing to investigate whether the victims had any links, however tenuous, but so far we've not had any luck.”
    His boss slowly turned round to face him, folded his arms across his chest and fixed him with a look of utter contempt.
    “Stark, police work has nothing to do with luck! It's about hard graft and putting in the hours. Somewhere there's a piece of evidence you've missed,” a jabbing finger came out from the fold, “and I expect you to find it. I really don't need some sort of vigilante running around the city pretending to be the moral arbiter for us all. We decide who needs punished - not this guy.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Is that it?” barked Hargreaves, hands now thrust into his pockets.
    “So far, sir. I'll let you know as soon as anything else develops.”
    “Yes, you will. That's all, Stark. You're dismissed.”

16. The Magic Word
     
    I already told you I hate trains. There are lots of reasons why but most of them are related to my fellow passengers' behaviour. I particularly hate the way people seem to forget they're sharing a small space with others: others who don't necessarily share their taste in music. Headphones are supposed to direct the sound into your ears, so you can listen to your music. They were not designed to be used on a one in and one out basis. The one in letting you enjoy whatever cacophony floats your boat, while the one out annoys the living crap out of everybody else within a ten mile radius.
    This boy was about sixteen or seventeen maybe and the latest in a long line of annoying little faecal sacs I'd been forced to endure while taking train journeys. I suppose you might call him unlucky but, then again, you make your own luck in life don't they say? If he'd had the good sense to use his headphones in the way Mr Sony intended, he would have avoided my wrath, but he didn't.
    This boy exuded a say-something-if-you-dare-old-man attitude. Dressed from head-to-toe in expensive sportswear, despite the minimal likelihood he'd recently darkened the door of any sports club or arena. Baseball cap worn with peak facing the rear: natch. This base-layer augmented with an array of tasteless, oversized jewellery and a face so acne-ridden it was hard to see any of his actual facial skin. His particular dose of this most distressing of teenage afflictions was so severe, it looked more like third degree burns than spots.
    The choice of music player was a mobile phone, which blasted forth some god-awful racket by a rapper (one with a silent c as far as I could ascertain). He exacerbated this din by accompanying it with robust language, directed toward a video game contained within the same device. Apparently, he wasn't all that good at this particular game. The whole package was too irritating to let go. I decided to christen him Sports-boy.
    I spent a good amount of time thinking about ways to get even with such anti-social scumbags on a number of recent trips. The plan I eventually devised depended on a certain set of factors to allow it to work. Those factors all came together on this journey, and I took my chance.
     
    First, I needed to get close to the little turd in question, which I achieved easily enough. The aural pollution he cast into the atmosphere created an exclusion zone of at least two seats all around him. Sports-boy looked momentarily perturbed by the sudden proximity of a proper adult. Ordinarily, he would have no problem driving them away. After this initial disquiet, he soon re-assumed his arrogant 'screw-you-all' persona and returned to cussing vehemently in response to his gaming ineptitude.
    The second element required for the success of my plan, depended on him being one of the