Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) (10 page)

Remembering how big the guy was and how easily he'd overpowered Dwayne previously, he decided to err on the side of caution.

“Alright, motherfucker! It's payback time. Let's see how you like chewing on these!”

With that, he unloaded the entire clip of ammo through the door of the stall. The noise was deafening, splinters of wood flew dangerously close to his face and by the time the eighth shot left the gun barrel, the door was hanging off its hinges. Dwayne stood, frozen to the spot, as the bloody carnage he'd wreaked was revealed to him. His ears rang, hands trembled uncontrollably. His heart beat so hard it felt like a pendulum banging back and forth between his sternum and spine.

Outside the door, Lamar kicked into survival mode. Before agreeing to accompany his friend on this mission, he got assurances it would be a quick, clean, efficient kill and they'd be out of there as soon as it was done. Dwayne, the stupid fuck, unloaded the whole clip, making an unholy racket in the process. People passing by stopped and stared at Lamar. He pushed the door open and saw Dwayne admiring his handiwork. Not moving.

“Yo, blood! Let's get the fuck outta here now! NOW!”

The scream jolted Dwayne into action. He jammed the gun back into his waistband and bolted for the door. The two of them raced for the exit, leapt onto the bike and roared off into the evening's rush hour traffic. Only once they were several blocks away, and convinced the cops were not on their tail, did Dwayne afford himself a victory whoop. He'd showed that fucker good and proper. He would return to the block a man again - a man to be reckoned with. A new reputation forged as a ruthless killer and a chance to put an end to the nicknames like Gums, Grandpa and Grannyfucker.  

***

The call came through while we were sitting in our car eating lunch. A shooting at the shopping centre but details were sketchy.

Me and Garry made our way to the toilets near the back. We were greeted by the head of security; a walrus of a man who introduced himself as Jackson Hodge. In an attempt to look officious and in charge he'd chosen to wear his cap. However, the company must have struggled to find one to fit a walrus and, as a result, the thing looked like he'd borrowed it from a passing child. I tried hard not to laugh.

“Hi, guys. Thanks for coming so quick.”

I nodded.

“What you got for us, Jackson?”

“Got a dead, white guy in one of the stalls. Shot up real bad. At least six or seven bullets I reckon. Witnesses say they saw two black kids running away from the scene.”

“Kids?”

“Well, teenagers, you know, youths. Not little kids if that's what you were thinking.”

That was a relief but, these days, I tended to assume the worst and be glad to be proven wrong.

“Ok. Let's take a look then.”

The area had been roped off using the kind of thing you see on a red carpet or opening ceremony. A couple of bored looking guards from Jackson's staff were preventing anyone crossing the temporary barrier. We ducked under the thick, red cord and made our way into the toilets.

The guy was indeed 'shot up real bad'. An impressive slick of blood pooled out from the stall, congealing on the floor. Shards of wood from the shattered door were strewn here and there. Excessive force was the phrase that sprung to mind. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, mixing with faeces. Not the kind of eau de toilette you'd be thanked for giving to anyone as a Christmas present.

I looked at the guy's face. Interestingly, all the bullets which hit him, did so in the torso and legs; a couple clearly missed altogether and were embedded in the wall behind the cistern. Whoever our assassin was, he was no marksman. It was odd. I knew this dead guy, I was sure I knew him, but just couldn't place him.

“Garry, do you know this guy?”

“Nah, don't think so. Why? Do you?”

“No, probably just one of those things, you know, reminds me of someone I
do
know; their unknown double. What's that called again?”

“Doppelgänger.”

“Yeah, that's it. Doppelgänger.”

But it wasn't that. An icy knife of realisation ran me through as my memory connected the dots. This was the dude that came into the toilets after I'd made that boy Dwayne Clements swallow his gum.

Killers were black kids.

Shit!

This whole thing was getting more worrying by the minute. Why the fuck would Clements blow
this
guy away? He didn't do anything other than walk in at the climax of our little disagreement. Was I next? The little bastard had a gun and, manifestly, enough bottle to use it. My stomach fluttered, I felt adrenaline stream through my system.

It was important to stay cool. I couldn't give Jackson Hodge the impression I knew the victim, and giving any hint of knowing who was behind the shooting, would surely lead to the unravelling of my life. Keeping schtum was my only available option. There was no way to tell Hargreaves or Stark about my suspicions without incriminating myself in relation to the original assault on Clements. That, in turn, would inevitably lead to accusations of being the vigilante. A quick mental audit revealed to me that I had no cover story, no alibi if that happened. I needed some head space.

“Garry, call it in, mate. MIT will need to deal with this now.”

We walked back to the foyer outside the toilets and Garry duly reported in. It took about twenty minutes for the uniforms, detectives and SOCO to arrive. Once they were all briefed and reassured the area was safe, we escaped to a bar. A beer and a game of football on the TV sounded like just the distractions I required.

Sitting on a bar stool, allowing the alcohol to unwind the tension in my temples, I pondered the events of the day. It occurred to me it was more than likely Dwayne Clements would be caught quickly. CCTV cameras festooned the shopping centre, at least a dozen witnesses would identify him and his partner, and he'd been sloppy and careless to such a degree that his arrest was guaranteed without my intervention. I wouldn't need to get involved, I was certain of that.

I thought about the poor bastard who'd been shot and it made me feel awful. He'd probably used that toilet many times before. It was such bad luck he arrived in time for Clements to see him and assume he was in cahoots with me, which he wasn't of course. I wondered about his family and other unhelpful things which multiplied my feelings of guilt and complicity. I needed to stop drinking now or I was heading for a very dark and discouraging place.

I finished the beer, made my apologies to Garry, and headed home. Normality and love were calling loudly to me from my house.

20. Can You Hear Me Now?

There it was, the beginning of the shit storm. As he walked past the news stand outside the Tube station, Stark noticed the Daily News headline blaring out across London and the rest of the world.

CITIZEN V!

Vengeance With Impeccable Manners

He reluctantly bought a copy - he really didn't want people thinking he was a regular reader or in any way sympathetic to the politics of this toilet paper with print on it. He felt like shouting out very loudly, “Don't worry, I'm a police officer and I'm buying this for purely professional reasons only! Nothing to see here, nothing to see here. Move along now, please!” Instead, he folded it so the logo would be obscured.

Callahan's report was predictably salacious and exaggerated. The approach of the editorial team at the paper was obvious:
of course
it didn't condone violence and murder,
but
all of us must have a secret admiration for the way this anti-hero was standing up for decent, hard-working folks who were sick of the spongers blah, blah, blah. The usual right-wing agenda they shoe-horned into any major story they covered. Knowing Callahan quite well, Stark found the politics of this rag at odds with the giant reporter's easy going, rather liberal, attitudes to life. Then again, a crust needs to be earned; no doubt, a front page story like this one would keep Callahan kitted out with garish trainers for quite some time to come.

He did have to hand it to Callahan though. The name he'd given the vigilante was very good. It would provide endless hours of radio phone in fodder, chat show discussions and, for the more entrepreneurial out there, he could already see the clothing and other merchandising opportunities such a snappy moniker would present. Stark got on the Tube and made his way across town to convene with Katz and the Chief Inspector.

DCI Hargreaves was a seething mass of frustration and anger. He slammed the paper down on the desk in front of Stark and Katz.

“That is the worst of all possible worlds! A vigilante and a serial killer combined into one neat package, with the implicit backing of the most-read newspaper in the country. What I want to know, Stark, is how they got so much detail, so quickly? You assured me you'd had a word with your pal, Callahan. Well, I'd hate to think what he'd have written if you hadn't bloody bothered!”

His voice was raised but not at full volume. Hargreaves may only have been a small man in stature but he had a big impact on others.

“Well? What have you got to say for yourself, Stark?”

It was one of those can't win situations subordinates in any of the services often found themselves facing. They both knew nothing Stark said would earn him a reprieve but, by the same token, to actually say nothing and just take the bollocking would not suffice either. He could fight fire with fire and go down all guns blazing or he could acquiesce and slink away licking his metaphorical wounds. In truth, he couldn't be arsed fighting so acquiescence it was.

“Sorry, sir. I thought I'd...'

“Thought? You know what thought bloody well did, don't you, son?”

It was a phrase that made no actual sense but was clearly understood by both parties to imply a lack of foresight on Stark's part. The DCI pressed his fingers together as if in prayer and tapped his chin, the skin on his face flushed, his blood pressure shooting skyward.

“Right, the cat's well and truly out of the bag on this now. The most important thing is to catch this idiot before he can cause any more problems for us. Do you think you're up to that, Stark?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, well, you better hope you are, son, because if this gets any worse, I'll be sending you back to Glasgow to hand out parking tickets. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. Crystal.”

It didn't take long for things to go from bad to worse.

“Ok, I'll let him know. We're on our way.”

Katz put down the phone and gave Stark a look that he'd become very familiar with.

“Let me guess, another body, courtesy of our friend, Citizen V?”

“Not exactly, sir, but close. Something more like Dwayne by the sounds of it. Another mutilated youngster in hospital with no idea what happened to them.”

“Great, the DCI's going to be so happy.”

When they reached the hospital it quickly became apparent the press had been tipped off. A scrum of reporters, TV crews and radio journos, jostled and jockeyed for position outside the main entrance.

“Fuck! Drive around the block Katz and find somewhere to park away from the bloody vultures. I don't want to deal with them right now.”

They parked the unmarked Mondeo a couple of streets away in a metered bay. Stark couldn't help thinking he might well be in charge of a few of those north of the border very soon.

“Do the honours will you, Katz. I've not got a scrap of change on me.”

“You're like the sodding Queen you are, sir. Never seem to have any money on you. Scottish tightwad!” grumbled Katz.

“Watch it you or I'll have you cited for racial discrimination!”

Katz looked at him disdainfully and flicked him the bird before sticking enough money in the meter for a couple of hours parking.

Stark took out his mobile and made a call.

They walked into a yard at the back of the hospital where John Constance met them.

“Hi there, DI Stark, Detective Katz. Follow me.”

The orderly was fit to bursting at being asked to aid Stark in his investigations. He led them to a door controlled by a swipe card and opened it with his accredited pass.

“Open says me!” he beamed, thinking his little joke to be highly amusing. No one else was particularly impressed. Certainly not Katz, whose skin crawled in the presence of Constance. He reminded her of a rodent with his furtive, darting eyes and pointed features. His horrible excuse for a moustache even looked like whiskers. She shuddered as she inadvertently brushed against him on her way through the door.

Stark shook the orderly’s proffered hand.

“Thanks, John. Really appreciate that, mate. Now, away back to work before someone notices you've gone. Don't want to get you into any bother.”

“No worries, DI Stark. Always a pleasure to help you out, never a bother. Good luck - it's another weird one and no mistake.”

Stark gave him another hand shake.

All Katz could muster was a cursory nod as she accelerated away up the corridor. Stark half jogged after her and drew level as they turned a corner.

“Jings, Katz, you not so keen on my wee pal then?”

“He's a horrible, slimy, little rat. He gives me the bloody creeps!” she said with surprising vehemence.

“Aw, that's a bit harsh - he's just a lonely, wee, sad case that wants to feel important by helping the polis now an again.”

“I don't give a shit, he creeps me out and, by the way, Jock, the word is police!”

He could have sworn she smiled as she said this.

“There you go again with that racialism. I'm going to HR to tell them I'm being oppressed!” He feigned a huff and they turned the next corner straight into Floyd Callahan.  

“Starky! Imagine meeting you here!”

The beanpole reporter beamed his winning smile.

“Don't you Starky me you lanky git! I take it your pal Captain V sent you a message? Shone a spotlight into the night sky - the V signal was it? Well here's a V signal from me you prick!” and with that, Stark delivered a two-fingered salute.