IT’S ALWAYS SURPRISING how far brain and skull fragments fly from the back of your head when shot at close range. An odd mix akin to cheap ketchup and mushy peas splattering a whitewashed wall is never a pretty sight, but it can be perversely satisfying to see in this relentless process of mopping up.
***
“The Hoodie Hunter? He sounds like a real pussy to me, man.”
“I’m telling you, Castro, he’s one mean muvver. Dunt fuck about. Takes out three at a time. According to the Sun, he once …”
“The Sun? Rah, yeah, right, man, it must be true then.” Castro drew hard on his spliff. “C’mon, shock me. He did what?”
“Well, they said he took out five in one go on the other side of town, but the cops denied they were all down to him, innit. Said it was gang shit.”
“The Hoodie Hunter?” he said, disdainfully clicking his tongue on his teeth. “So he took out five hooded sweatshirts … in one go? Sounds like an aggressive shoplifter to me, innit. Hoodie Hunter, my arse.” Castro sneered under his own dark hoodie. Everything about him was dark, from his skin right through to his thoughts.
Big-un was worried. All the papers had said this “one-man crime-wave” was responsible for up to a dozen hits this year alone, and he knew the net was closing on the likes of the Bad-Bastard Bullsmead Boys. They’d done some bad shit and this appeared to qualify them for whatever this crazy muvver was doing. He stroked a hand over the tattooed “B”s on each of his knuckles, signifying membership. “But, bro, he single-handedly fucked up the Moss Range Crew on the Westside.”
“Rah, rah! Yeah, yeah, yeah. Those pussies? Blam, blam, fuckin blam. Heard it all before, man,” spat Castro, sucking the dregs of the spliff. He had to admit, though, their rival gang had been a bit quiet recently since their two main men had been smoked by someone. Granted, it saved him a job, but he knew it wasn’t any of his crew. He’d heard the MRC had been branching out their business into Manchester city centre and had dissed a few doormen, so that was the most likely reason they’d been smoked and not this vigilante prick. He killed the weed stub in the ashtray.
“Rah, bro. I had twos up on that.”
“Fuck you and your bullshit, Big-un. You sound scared, man.”
“Am not scared … just a bit … wary, innit.”
“Rah, rah. A bit? Well, if that pussy ever fancies his chances, then I’m ready.” He withdrew the Browning revolver from his waistband and pointed it at an imaginary target. “I was fuckin born ready, man. Just ask Leroy Bright … or Mad-dog McPherson … or Lenny Jacobs …”
Big-un knew he couldn’t ask them, because they were all dead.
***
DI Jack Striker had seen a pattern emerging. It was simple, but this guy must know someone close enough to access criminal records, as each one of his victims had been career criminals and menaces to society. He’d certainly done his research, having hit the bull’s-eye with each of his eight victims to date. The papers were calling him the “Hoodie Hunter”, and Striker had to concede that in the four months since this all started, the streets had become safer for Joe Public. Decent folk were off the killer’s radar completely and the vibes from media phone-ins, polls and news reports were, on the whole, edging toward being favourable to this accomplished assassin. After the initial bravado of the mini-riots from hooded demonstrators had waned, diminishing numbers of alcohol-fuelled youths were hanging out on street corners terrorizing their neighbourhoods.
However, this was tempered significantly by the fact that Striker, and his sidekick DC Eric Bardsley, had had to tell eight mothers that their sons had been murdered. Striker could still hear the mothers’ screams now, haunting him.
This was his first case since his promotion to the force’s Murder Investigation Team. Just his damn luck that it was the biggest murder case Manchester had seen since the notorious Doctor Harold Shipman. The pressure was mounting and, despite reinforcements being drafted in from outside the force, The Brass was not happy.
Alone in his office, he continued scanning the fat file of statements and photos gleaned from the eight confirmed slayings to date. He must have missed something.
The irony being, the Hoodie Hunter had done in four months what GMP had been struggling to do for four years. Striker castigated himself for fleetingly almost admiring the man’s work. Then, he swiftly reverted back to Detective Inspector mode and stared down at the fanned photos of dead sons.
***
He thought of his younger brother and bubbled with controlled anger. He’d learned to channel his rage into focus years ago in Kabul: an unforgiving place. He’d been watching the news and wasn’t overly impressed at being dubbed “The Hoodie Hunter” by the media. However, to the streetwise, the nickname did sum up his actions, he supposed, as he’d certainly sent shockwaves ripping through the hooded youth fraternity. And from what he’d seen of that Detective Inspector Jack Striker in the many press conferences, he did seem like a decent cop; another reason to focus.
His latest reconnaissance now complete, he highlighted the last five names on the list, knowing exactly where to find them.
***
“He’s been quiet, Eric. Too quiet,” said Striker to the non-PC DC.
Bardsley stirred the tea, splashing it round with the subtlety of a Sumo wrestler doing a pirouette. He rolled his eyes, his Scouse tones as bullish as ever. “Now you’ve gone and said it, Boss. Jinxing us with the Q-word.”
“Well, nothing for ten days. You don’t start what he’s started and then suddenly stop. He’s planning something.”
“He may’ve just finished. Had enough. Completed his … er … mission.”
“Nah, there’s more to come. I know it. How’s our list of suspects looking?
“Well, I’ve done four more today and, again, nothing too obstructive and all with solid alibis. I think DC Collinge has done a couple, too, with pretty much the same results. But we’ll keep plugging away, Boss.”
The list of fifty possible suspects was drawn up by Striker and the Chief Inspector of the Operational Policing Unit based on intell’, and was just another tool in the investigation. It was almost certain the killer knew the area and had a decent IQ, which narrowed the possible perps down drastically. Nonetheless, frustratingly, without a DNA profile of this highly skilled individual, Striker wasn’t holding his breath on the list coming up trumps. But every angle had to be covered, including the remote possibility that the man was not even known to the Police, which would make things a whole lot harder. Striker also knew that they all slip up in the end, more so if they become prolific, as complacency creeps in, even with the best.
Bardsley handed Striker a cuppa, a stray drop splashing on to a witness statement the Inspector was reading at his desk.
“Shit, Eric!” Striker quickly dabbed the statement with the back of his silk tie. “No wonder Margaret does the brews in your house.”
“That’s all she bleedin’ does though.”
“Why, what’s up?”
Bardsley said nothing, but Striker sensed there was more and raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Well, I know I’m not the best hubby in the world. A bit brash, always in work … I am polite though … I always tell her when I’m coming.”
Striker half-smiled, a tad confused.
Bardsley continued, “But only problem is, I have to shout it because she’s upstairs in bed and I’m on the settee.”
Striker grinned, shook his head.
“If the truth be known, I’ve not had a shag for six months, Boss.”
Striker was surprised at Bardsley’s sudden openness and briefly thought of his own non-existent sex life, especially since the first murder. But at least Bardsley had a missus. Well, one that was still with him. And, more importantly, he did still live with his kids, unlike Striker.
“And with trying to catch this psycho I hardly ever see her.”
“Nature of the beast, Eric … you could go back to uniform.”
Bardsley stroked his greying goatee. “Fuck that! I’d rather be celibate!”
Striker laughed, and at that moment realized that this was the first time his brain had had a conscious break from concentrating on the case. It also dawned on him just how much the whole thing was affecting them. Not only were The Brass – and himself – squirming in the incessant gaze of the media, but personally Striker had twice missed picking up the kids from school on his “arranged visits” and Suzi needed no excuse to block his access completely, such was her acrimony. He needed to call his solicitor some time soon.
“Saying that, I wouldn’t mind getting stuck into some of those new probies,” said Bardsley with a pervy glint in his eye.
And timed to perfection, as if God was both teasing them and refocusing them simultaneously, the porcelain face of stunning trainee detective Lauren Collinge peered round the door and both men stared agog.
“Boss … quick … there’s an attack in progress … it might be our man.”
***
The call box door squeaked shut and he undid the top couple of buttons of his black trench coat; his funeral coat that held the memories which spurred him on. After a deep intake of the chilly night air to compose himself, he dialled the number. Three rings later and an official-sounding female answered.
“Emergency services … which service please?”
“Police.”
A few beeps later, another female, same officious tone. “ … Greater Manchester Police … which town, please?”
“Moss Range, Manchester.”
“What’s the nature of your call?”
“It’s about that killer on the news … The Hoodie Hunter, I think they call him.”
“Oh, really?” She sounded surprisingly unconvinced. Silly bitch.
“Yeah, really.”
“And what about him?”
“Well, he’s attacking a lad on Moss Range Park.”
“Oh, right … and your name is?”
“That’s not important, but you’d best send someone down here … pronto.”
“How do I know this isn’t another crank call? We get loads, you know?”
“You’ll know when you get here cos there’ll be another dead lad!”
“OK, OK. So how do you know it’s him?”
“He uses a baton, right?” Silence on the other end. “Well, he’s using it right now. I saw him. It’s him. Listen …” He pushed play on his Dictaphone and intermittent screaming could be heard in the distance.
“OK … can you still see him?” There was urgency in her voice now.
“No.”
“Can you stay on the line until we get patrols there?”
“No.” With that, he hung up.
He was beginning to enjoy this, and adding creativity had brought a sense of fun to proceedings. Thinking up new ways to outwit the police, and the fuckwits, had brought a new feeling of accomplishment to his work. And, he knew Striker and his cronies were as far away from catching him as ever.
***
“I’m off to drill me baby-muvver,” said Castro with a smirk.
“Which one?” asked Big-un.
“Laticia, of course. Need a fix of her Babylons.” His smile revealed a gold incisor.
“Don’t blame you, bro.” Big-un pictured the said Babylons: impressive to say the least and well worth a juggle.
“So meet me back ’ere in a coupla hours, OK? And bring some funds for tomorrow.”
“Do I ever let yer down, bro?”
“Never … so let’s keep it that way, man.”
Their fists met in a show of respect and Big-un left Castro’s flat, then headed to meet up with the boys. They’d jack a few pissed-up students, inflict some pain, have a bit of Sniff, then go back to Castro’s to discuss business, like they did most nights.
***
Ten minutes later, he was driving in the opposite direction towards the city centre, having passed half a dozen speeding police vehicles. Blue lights and sirens in full flow, plus a couple of plain cars carrying what he suspected were detectives. He could’ve sworn he’d seen DI Jack Striker amongst them.
If so, job done.
He pulled the black VW Golf GTI into a side street, checked his mirrors and got out. As he descended the steps of the dim, dank subway, what others would construe as fear intensified. Unlike many, he knew fear was his friend and it was just adrenalin heightening his senses, preparing him for battle. He rolled down his hat, which doubled as a balaclava.
On his approach he could hear their voices growing louder. There was laughter, too, but not for long. He saw the first one, then the second, and soon clocked that there were six in total.
Careful.
They were listening intently to a big lad in the middle who was gesticulating as he described beating his latest victim. The words “Rah, rah” and “innit” were prevalent. His instant recognition of the big lad known as “Big-un” gave him a surge of excitement. The others were dressed in usual dark sports gear with their hoods predictably up. He stopped at the subway’s entrance, straining to identify his prey from twenty metres away. He withdrew a small pair of binoculars and soon sussed the one he had no interest in had a white stripe across his hood.
He saw that two were going through the pockets of a young curly-haired lad who was clearly shitting himself; probably a student.
Right.
“Oy, dickheads!”
They pivoted in unison, looking surprised.
“Want some?”
“You fucking with us, man?” shouted Big-un.
“What do you think, you bunch of low-lives?”
The student was discarded like a rag doll. They all surged forward as one, a mass of arms, legs and aggression, their profanities resounding off the subway’s walls.
He turned and ran, like a fox being hounded. He took the steps three at a time and soon passed a cul-de-sac on the right … one … then ignored the second right turn … two … he could hear them closing … three … he turned into the third cul-desac, stopping at the end before turning. Breathlessly, he withdrew a baton from his left sleeve, his preferred weapon due to its silence and his dexterity with it.
And he waited …
The noisy throng emerged at the top of the dark street.
“There he is … the cheeky fucker!” Toward him they ran, their footsteps resounding.
He stood his ground, baton at the ready. They slowed up, still cursing, a wariness creeping into their psyches, perhaps. Big-un drew a blade, glistening under a streetlamp. “You’re fucked now, gobshite!”
He backed off from the gang, slowly edging round them, baton outstretched, cutting the night air with threatening swings. Eyeballing Big-un, he subtly manoeuvred them into the opening of an adjacent alleyway just a few metres to his right. They edged forward, cursing, spitting their venom, spreading across the alley’s entrance. One tried to sneak behind him, but the baton cut noisily through the air.
“Wanker! Am gonna shank you,” said Levi, clicking a flick-knife open.
He knew all his targets’ names, and more, much more.
He jockeyed them back a few paces with a few sharp forward steps and vicious swings of the baton, further into the alley, capitalizing on their hesitancy.
He spotted a third knife appear and took a step back.
“He’s bottling it now. Ha! His arse has fell out. Fuckin slice him, bro.”
Two metres away, if that, their anxious faces just visible in the darkness.
Big-un lunged forward, the others followed, yelling. He sidestepped Big-un, grabbed his arm and jerked it behind his back, before wrenching it up to his neck until it cracked. He threw in a kidney punch for good measure.
“Aaargh!” Big-un’s blade clanged on the floor and he dropped like a bag of shit, clutching his broken arm. One at the back shaped to throw something and he ducked as a bottle smashed beside him on a wall. They surged forward and a 360 turn impacted the baton on to a couple of stray skulls. Spotting Big-un trying to get up, he stamped on the broken arm, producing a girlie squeal.
But the throng were getting too close.
Plan B.
He expertly swung his baton and connected on the nearest cheekbone with a thud. The youth yelped like a puppy and the others hesitated again, giving him a second to remove a brick in the wall.
“That won’t fuckin stop us, you muppet.”
Behind the brick was his trusty Glock 17. “This fuckin will though!” He retracted his baton in a blink and slipped it up his left sleeve. Gripping the handgun in both hands, he took aim. All swagger now gone, their fear-etched faces froze. Levi turned to run.
“It’s a dead end, boys … just like your lives!”
Three shots blasted out, one for each forehead. They dropped like dominoes.
Big-un tried to clamber up the wall, but fell to his knees and glanced up.
He heard someone sobbing and looked up at the last lad standing. The one with the white stripe on his hood, his face pallid and still as the moon.
“Go, now. Speak to no one, or you won’t be so lucky next time. Go sort your life out.” The lad left like shit off the proverbial shovel.
He spun, pointing the Glock at Big-un.
“Pleeeease … you’re Him, aren’t you … The Hoodie Hunter?” He scanned up the street and saw that a few lights had come on. Time to get things moving. “Yes … I’m Him.”
“Aw nooo … can I go … pleeease?” asked Big-un, pathetically.
“What do you think?”
Big-un began whimpering, ironically akin to many of his own victims.
***
“Sorry, Boss, nothing,” said the dogman with the powerful dragon lamp, his German shepherd, Reece, straining at the leash.
“Fuck!” Striker kicked a discarded beercan, knowing he’d been suckered. He scanned the vast park to see numerous dipped flashlights dotted about, all heading his way.
Bardsley and Collinge returned with torches from a sweep of the children’s play area. “All clear.”
“Never mind, Boss. It’s just a hoax call. At least no one’s dead.”
Striker bit his lip, hard. The last person he wanted to snap at was Lauren Collinge.
“Give us a fag, Eric.”
“Thought you’d stopped?”
“Just give me one.”
Bardsley did as he was told and Striker took an exaggerated drag, instantly feeling dizzy, albeit briefly.
As they were joined by uniform, Bardsley looked at Collinge and whispered, “Lauren, it could still be a decoy. We’re all here now, aren’t we?”
Collinge nodded and looked a little embarrassed.
“Right. No one goes off duty tonight. He’s up to something.” Striker’s voice notched up a decibel. “I want house to house done around that phone box, the CCTV tapes from the garage on the corner … and those bloody 999 tapes … now!”
***
Castro’s mobile finally rang and he looked at Big-un’s name on the screen.
“About fuckin time, man. Thought you’d got nicked or summat. Where’ve you been?”
“Hi, Castro,” said the deep voice.
“Who the fuck is this? Where’s Big-un?”
“You’ll know me soon enough. As for Big-un … for a big-un, he’s a right cry-baby, isn’t he?”
“Yo, dickhead! If you touch him you’re dead meat. Do you know who you’re fuckin with, man?”
“It’s too late for Big-un. And, yes I do know you … man. That’s why I’m coming up, right now.”
The phone went dead. Castro was confused and felt a surge of panic. Who the fuck would have the balls to take out his number two and diss him like that?
He took out his Browning and paced the flat. A quick glance out of the window revealed nothing. Shit … who was this muv …?
Then it struck him like a Tyson punch. It’s that Hoodie Hunter guy!
A fear he’d never known engulfed his soul, but he fought it. “OK, Mr Hoodeee-fuckin-Hunter … let’s see who the man is. I’m not just some punk-arsed-muvver you can trample all over … I’m the man.”
Even as he spoke, he could see for himself the pistol shaking in his grip.
There was a bang on the door. Castro’s heart flipped. He wished he’d gone easier on the weed today. He pointed the Browning and edged closer.
Another bang.
He moved to the wall away from any line of fire. He needed to check the spy-hole. He took a sharp intake and moved swiftly to take a quick look. What he saw made him jump to the wall beside the door. He registered a snapshot of a man in a balaclava, holding a handgun.
He weighed up his options. He’d have to get the boys to clear the flat of money and merchandise pronto, before Five-0 got here, but this was self-defence, right? Bizarrely, he pictured Laticia’s Babylons.
Fuck it!
Castro cracked out six shots, splintering the door, each bullet piercing through. Cordite filled the air. Adrenalin pumped. He felt sickly. He heard nothing, except his own heartbeat. Cautiously, still pointing the pistol, he peeped, but saw nothing. He slowly unlocked the latch and jolted the door open.
Relief.
“Woo-yeah, man!” Castro eyed the body. No movement. Definitely smoked. Black trench coat with blood seeping out. He jumped on to the body and began to dance. “Who’s the man now, Mr Hoodeee Hunter?”
As he danced, he noticed the floor was wet and got a whiff of something. He crouched and touched the carpet, then smelled his finger. He laughed maniacally, his gold incisor glowing, and resumed his celebrations.
“I was right about you, man … the Hoodeee Hunter’s only gone and pissed himself … what a fuckin pussy!”
He watched the fuckwit dancing over the corpse and rolled down the dual-hat balaclava, then readied the Glock 17. He stepped out from the doorway into the corridor.
“You’re all the same,” he hissed in disgust, causing Castro to pivot like an owl on speed. He cracked a slug into the fucker’s gun hand and the Browning bounced a few feet away.
Castro shrieked and clutched his hand. His eyes wide with shock.
A woman’s petrified face appeared in a doorway down the hall.
“Get back in and you’ll be safe!” he said and her door slammed.
A man’s muffled voice now: “It’s OK, Beryl, I’ve called the cops.”
He refocused on Castro. “Pull back the balaclava,” he said, gesturing with the Glock’s barrel.
Shaking, Castro slowly peeled the facemask back and it revealed a duck-taped mouth. He peeled it further and Big-un’s vacant eyes looked up at him.
“Now pass me my other Glock.”
Castro had tears in his eyes. “Look … fuck you man! Who the fuck do you …?”
“OK, I’ll get it myself.” He blasted Castro in the chest “ … That’s from arkid …”
Castro buckled and gasped for air, his expression a grimace with a dash of disbelief. He leaned against the corridor wall.
“ … And this one’s from me.” The second shot hit the top of Castro’s brow and he collapsed in slow motion.
He stepped over the bodies, resisting the strong urge to spit on them, and retrieved the empty Glock. Still no DNA for Jack Striker. As he heard the sirens, he glanced down the corridor at the wall.
It’s always surprising how far brain and skull fragments fly from the back of your head when shot at close range. An odd mix akin to cheap ketchup and mushy peas splattering a whitewashed wall is never a pretty sight, but it can be perversely satisfying to see in this relentless process of mopping up.
***
Later that night, he opened the bottle of triple-distilled Jameson Irish Whisky he’d been saving and he toasted the photo of his brother on the mantelpiece. After taking a mouthful, he started working on a new list …