Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) (11 page)

“Detective Inspector Stark, that's very hurtful, as well as being more than a tad rude. It just so happens that
Citizen
V did indeed tip me off about his latest exploits. Not been able to get into the room though, thanks to a half pitbull, half ward sister guarding the door,” came the jovial reply.

Katz snorted.

“If you two are quite finished, perhaps we could go and check on the victim...
sir
?”

“You see that, Callahan? That's what the modern police force is like nowadays. No bloody respect any more!”

Katz had walked ten yards, showed her warrant card to the guard dog/sister and stepped into the room before Stark had even finished his sarcastic riposte. He just shrugged, smiled at Callahan and followed after her.

As Stark closed the door behind him, he took in the scene. A young, uniformed, female constable was handing over an evidence bag to Katz, bringing his partner up to speed in hushed tones. A boy of about seventeen lay in the bed, head swaddled like an Egyptian Mummy, awake but looking very sorry for himself. He was hooked up to a couple of pieces of equipment that whirred and beeped intermittently. A frumpy-looking, middle-aged woman, who Stark assumed was the boy's mother, sat on a chair, stroking his forearm tenderly. A lump of sodden paper tissue protruded from the sleeve of her blouse and she pulled it out and dabbed at her nose as she sniffed.

Katz dismissed the young cop and she and Stark both turned their attention to the mother.

“Hello, Ma'am. I'm Detective Inspector Adam Stark and this is Detective Constable Lara Katz. I'm sorry to intrude but we really need to speak to your son about what happened to him.”

She struggled to control her emotions, her lip quivered and tears and snot began to slip down her face.

“Please catch the animal that did this. My poor, beautiful boy...”

She tailed off as sobs prevented her actually speaking coherently, the paper tissue saturated beyond helping to remove any of the additional moisture she was producing. Luckily, Stark always attended such situations with a packet of disposable handkerchiefs in his pocket. Experience taught him this was helpful on a number of levels - not least of which was winning the trust of victims and letting them know he actually gave a crap about their trauma. He passed her the packet and she nodded gratefully as she took them; emitting a surprisingly powerful noise as she blew her nose.  

“Sir, this is Mrs Pritchard and that's her son, Luke. He was attacked on his way home from a party at one of his friend's houses. He didn't see the attacker and has no recollection of anything that happened after he left the party. Whoever attacked him,” Katz surreptitiously made a V with her fingers in order to confirm to Stark that this act belonged to their man, without alarming or alerting Mrs Pritchard, “cut off his ears, then dumped him a couple of streets away from here, where a passerby found him and called an ambulance. The constable said the doc told her he'd been sedated but also had alcohol in his bloodstream as well as traces of cannabis.”

Mrs Pritchard's face suddenly hardened and she gave her son a stare that needed no augmenting with words.

“Ok, let's just forget about lectures and so on as far as his social life is concerned for now,” said Stark. “We'll leave all that to you for later, Mrs Pritchard. What I want to know, Luke, is what you remember. Just start at the beginning and give me everything you can.”

The boy looked broken - physically and emotionally - struggling to come to terms with what happened to him. A sudden thought occurred to Stark.

“Sorry, can you actually hear me ok, Luke?”

Luke nodded slightly.

“Good, sorry, it's just...you know...”

Stark felt a bit foolish at this outburst.

“Go on, Luke. Tell us what you can,” interjected Katz.

“I don't really remember anything,” came the whispered reply.

“Start with the party. Who was there? When did you leave? That sort of thing. Sometimes a tiny thing can really help us,” Katz suggested softly.

Stark really liked this modulation. There was a hint of a foreign accent in Katz's voice that served to make it sexy; despite the serious nature of the words being spoken.

It didn't have that effect on Luke, if anything, it seemed to increase his nervousness and unease.

“It was my friend Ryan's party.”

“Do you have a phone number and address for Ryan?” Stark asked.

“Yeah, he lives on the next estate to us, 10 Pheasant Avenue. You can find his number in my phone.”

Katz picked up the phone and scrolled through the contacts until she reached an entry called Ryan. Luke confirmed the number belonged to his friend and she scribbled the number on her notepad, then placed the phone back on the bedside table.

“Go on,” prompted Stark.

“His Mum was away so he had the house to himself. There was a whole bunch of people there but I didn't know that many of them. I got bored and left about midnight. I was walking home coz I can't afford taxis and it wasn't that far...”

He drifted away and his eyelids began to droop.

“I think that's enough for now, Detective Inspector. He's very tired and full of painkillers. He already told the policewoman who was here earlier all that he knows, which seems to be very little,” said Mrs Pritchard, springing to her son's aid despite her disapproval of his flirtations with illegal herbs.

Katz and Stark exchanged glances. She was right. There was little to be gained by pushing hard right now.

“That's fine, Luke. You need to rest and get better as quickly as you can,” Stark said sympathetically.

“Bye for now, Mrs Pritchard. We'll come back when he's feeling stronger.”

21. Lion Hunting

I was sitting in the spare room noodling on my guitar. The room's a half-hearted attempt at a home-studio. A musician since my early teens, I played in a succession of bands that never really got anywhere. These days, I express my muse through Cubase, composing little ditties via the computer that no-one other than my son's goldfish would be interested in. And, let's be honest, the fish only tolerated them because it couldn't remember how shit they were between each listening. I also filled some time posting video tutorials on YouTube for kids to learn how to play their favourite rock tracks. It's important to put something back. Actually, more like a pathetic attempt to try and prove to the world that I still had it, which I never did. Still, at least I could recognise my own shortcomings - even if I couldn't avoid them.

Browsing YouTube as I doodled on the fretboard, I looked for stuff on this Citizen V character, trying to find out who this fucker was. Why was he following me, upping my ante and 'finishing off' what I started?  

When I stumbled upon the video, the blood in my veins seemed to thicken and solidify as I watched. A disturbing, grinding noise turned out to be coming from my teeth and my eyes widened to the saucer proportions of a cartoon character.

I should have bloody-well known better. Stupid, arrogant, dick. I'd gotten away with my exploits so often that I became blasé, undercooked my preparations and failed to think through scenarios.

The video was entitled 'What's the magic word sonny?'. Someone on the train took out their smartphone and videoed my exploits once the crowd started singing the eponymous refrain. I should have waited for a one-on-one situation! What was I thinking about conducting my business in front of an audience? Hubris, that's what did it. I mean, what the actual fuck was I going to do about this?

I could try and track down the person who posted it, find some way to persuade them to delete it. Shit idea. The fucking thing had already scored four hundred likes and been shared sixty-five times. Fingers crossed, no-one who knew me would find it before I could sort out some kind of plan.

If a cop or one of the MIT team got onto this I would have to answer a whole shitpile of difficult questions. Clements would identify me for sure, I never made any attempt to hide my face from him. The lorry driver might be dead, but me and Garry definitely abducted and scared the living crap out of him, before this Citizen V murdered him. With enough effort and the right motivation, the forensics guys would likely discover some minute scrap of incriminating evidence to confirm that. Witnesses might have seen me trip Jacobs, particularly when prompted with photos of me: the woman who walked past, for instance. If I didn't have an alibi for the time he was killed...

I scrolled down the comments and my heart stopped. Not metaphorically. It
actually
stopped, along with my breathing, vision and any sense of perspective. I was fucked. Well and truly shafted!

Fifteen comments down, someone called Moondogvomit666 proclaimed:

'I no this fucker! Hes a copper. Arested me once. Works out of Hackney. Citizin Vagina - a total cunt!'

Replies alternating between 'LOL!' and 'bullshit!' followed on.

There were two saving graces. Moondogvomit666, whoever he was, failed to name me explicitly and, since his post, many more comments followed on. As a result, his revelation was hidden four pages back. It really needed looking for, so this might buy me some time.

Why hadn't I thought of a phone? I made sure the train didn't have any CCTV on board but patently failed to think about the rest of the modern world. It's not as if I'm some kind of technophobic Luddite. I use this technology myself every day. I know my way around a computer and I've got an iPhone for god's sake. Hubris. Fucking hubris, that's what did it.

I needed to think, to get out of the house. I shouted to my wife that I was going out to get a few beers to drink with the game later.

Driving out into the early evening, my mind spun web after web of possibilities. The streets were filled with people oblivious to my predicament and I tried to think how I might escape it.

***

Bobby 'Bubba' Harvey found working for the Corantelli family to be a pretty satisfying experience. Sure, Leo could be a bit of a dick at times but it was easy to ignore his petulance for what it was. In general, they treated him well, paid handsomely and allowed him to enjoy the status and violence that came with his role.

Bubba spent years working as a doorman. He gained Carlo Corantelli's attention one evening while dealing with some particularly unpleasant drunks in a very forceful but controlled manner. The club involved happened to be Carlo's most prestigious and it mattered that such things were handled appropriately. Very soon Bubba graduated to Chief of Security for Leo.

The incident in Cardoza's tarnished his reputation with the old man a little. Leo was ok about it. After all, he ordered Bubba to 'kindly fuck off and leave him alone' that night. To be fair, Bubba was pretty sure if he'd been screwing the girl Leo picked up that evening, he'd like some privacy to do so. Leo also didn't make too much fuss in an attempt to ensure no-one found out exactly what happened in the toilets. Leo wasn't aware, but he'd failed. Everyone in the team looking after him knew about the phone's rectal insertion. In fact, they even coined a new nickname for him as a result - “Ring Ring” - as in, if you need to call him, ring his ring. The drunken game of cards where this nickname arose proved impossible to finish once Barry Kennedy came up with it. Bubba thought he might actually die he laughed so hard.

Bubba didn't usually spend much time on the internet but tonight he wanted to browse for clues. Various bits and pieces caught his attention but, aside from the unclothed women, the most interesting clip was on YouTube. It showed some everyday citizen, vigilante-type guy facing up to a teenager on a train and confiscating their mobile phone. He scrolled through the comments for a few pages and found a very interesting snippet from a brainless muppet called Moondogvomit666. The possible link with Leo's attacker seemed promising. He took a screen grab and printed it off.

An hour later, he stood in the alley behind Cardoza's with a very nervous Myles Gilmore quivering in front of him.

“Is this the guy who attacked Mr Corantelli?”

The print of the video was grainy, indistinct, but Myles knew right away it was his customer. The moral dilemma facing him was one he desperately hoped he'd never need to face. If he said yes, the guy might end up being killed in some heinous fashion. That, in turn, might end up with him getting into trouble for helping the criminals in their task. If he said no and, subsequently, Corantelli found out he'd been lying, Myles himself might end up as worm food.  

'Err, I, err..'

Bubba put a rather hefty paw on Gilmore's shoulder. “Don't make me force you to make up your mind, son. Is it him?”

“Yes,” whispered Myles.

“Thanks. See you later and, remember, I was never here, right?”

Myles nodded. As Bubba walked away down the alley, Myles rushed over to a bin and threw up.

***

Leo Corantelli looked at the screen on his phone as it lit up and the ringtone bleeped out. The tune was irritating and the number displayed unrecognised as a stored contact. This was not so surprising given it was a new mobile. Considering where it had been lodged, he couldn't bear to keep using the old one - despite it being perfectly serviceable after its adventures in his lower digestive tract. He decided to take the call. With any luck it would be in regard to the bastard responsible for his proctological assault. At the very least it would bring a halt to that infuriating jingle.

“Hello?”

“Leo, it's Bubba. I think I found the guy you're looking for.”

“He better hope not!” replied Leo bitterly.

“You're not going to believe this - I'm pretty sure he's a cop!”

Leo almost crushed his new phone in anger and outrage.

“A fucking cop? You're shitting me right?”

Leo failed to notice the ironic and slightly inappropriate colloquialism and Bubba felt it best not to mention how funny he found it. Ring ring.

“Nope, I shit you not. He's based right here in the city and I know exactly where to find him,” Bubba said with a certain air of pride in a job well done...and a smirk for a joke well concealed.