he’d changed. Inevitable really, since they now saw him differently and, like many people, they probably had stuff to hide. Be it no car tax or a house full of knocked-off gear that “fell off the back of a lorry” or was “bought from a bloke in the pub”. He couldn’t blame them though; Davison himself was still partial to the odd bargain, even now, credit crunch and all.
A couple of pedestrians looked up startled as he took a sharp right onto Park Road. He soon eased on the footbrake, anticipating the first of ten sleeping policemen he knew existed up to the park gates – a bid by the council to temper speeding motorists, with Bullsmead Primary School being adjacent to the park.
On his approach the park gates emerged between a long line of terraced houses. He clocked number twenty-seven to his left, the source of the call, but didn’t stop. He switched off the emergency lights. His anxiety grew on envisaging the vast eeriness of the park at this time of night and he sought reassurance by fumbling for his flashlight on his utility belt. He clicked it out of its holder, while easing the panda to a halt outside the park gates.
Pressing the transmission button on his radio, he said, “One treble-eight six, state six, single-manned – sorry – crewed .” He cringed knowing how politically correct some of his supervisors were. You never really knew just who was on air in the police from day to day. He’d simply wanted to let anyone listening know that he was alone, but deep down he knew no one was available to back him up anyway.
Checking his flashlight was working, he got out of the panda and clambered over the shoulder-high park gates. “Entering the park now,” he informed comms, trying not to sound nervous.
The park’s eeriness swamped him. With his torch beam sweeping from side to side, the bushes seemed to move on their own. He thought he saw the shape of a dark figure and flicked the beam back.
Nothing. He inhaled deeply, edging forward. Silence, except for his own footsteps and breathing.
He wondered whether this job had anything to do with those youths at the Wilkinsons’. He felt rather edgy and unclipped his retractable baton, before clicking it open. He briefly pictured his beautiful fiancée Louise, who he was taking to the Lake District tomorrow on his rest day. He planned on proposing to her on a boat trip on Lake Windermere. He’d got it all sussed: a cake with sparklers and everyone on the boat joining in with that old ‘Congratulations’ song, hopefully. The celebratory meal was booked at a swanky restaurant overlooking the lake.
His torch beam followed the narrow path to its end, where the park opened up to a vast darkness. He shined it to his right across the expansive field, then to his left toward the children’s play area. The outline of a climbing frame and swings in the distance shifted bizarrely. In front of him was the start of another long path, leading to the exit near Bullsmead Primary School.
Now then… Which way?
The low growl behind him made up his mind.
Chapter Six
In his office, feeling somewhat fatigued, Striker ran his left hand through his hair and stretched his arms upward in front of the computer screen. Not long now until a good night’s sleep to fully recharge him for tomorrow.
The office was modest with predominantly beige décor. There was the faint tick of a round white clock on the wall beside a map of the B Division. Through the window the bright city centre lights glowed five miles away.
Cunningham had shot off from the crime scene with her chauffeur-cum-lover boy Brad Sterling. Her last words: “There’s been another attack… on the border with the A Division. I just hope it’s not linked.” Sterling had then done the obligatory wheel-spin and they were gone.
Like Cunningham, initially worried there may be a link with his case, Striker had kept one ear on the radio. He’d returned to the office and checked the computer log regarding
A couple of pedestrians looked up startled as he took a sharp right onto Park Road. He soon eased on the footbrake, anticipating the first of ten sleeping policemen he knew existed up to the park gates – a bid by the council to temper speeding motorists, with Bullsmead Primary School being adjacent to the park.
On his approach the park gates emerged between a long line of terraced houses. He clocked number twenty-seven to his left, the source of the call, but didn’t stop. He switched off the emergency lights. His anxiety grew on envisaging the vast eeriness of the park at this time of night and he sought reassurance by fumbling for his flashlight on his utility belt. He clicked it out of its holder, while easing the panda to a halt outside the park gates.
Pressing the transmission button on his radio, he said, “One treble-eight six, state six, single-manned – sorry – crewed .” He cringed knowing how politically correct some of his supervisors were. You never really knew just who was on air in the police from day to day. He’d simply wanted to let anyone listening know that he was alone, but deep down he knew no one was available to back him up anyway.
Checking his flashlight was working, he got out of the panda and clambered over the shoulder-high park gates. “Entering the park now,” he informed comms, trying not to sound nervous.
The park’s eeriness swamped him. With his torch beam sweeping from side to side, the bushes seemed to move on their own. He thought he saw the shape of a dark figure and flicked the beam back.
Nothing. He inhaled deeply, edging forward. Silence, except for his own footsteps and breathing.
He wondered whether this job had anything to do with those youths at the Wilkinsons’. He felt rather edgy and unclipped his retractable baton, before clicking it open. He briefly pictured his beautiful fiancée Louise, who he was taking to the Lake District tomorrow on his rest day. He planned on proposing to her on a boat trip on Lake Windermere. He’d got it all sussed: a cake with sparklers and everyone on the boat joining in with that old ‘Congratulations’ song, hopefully. The celebratory meal was booked at a swanky restaurant overlooking the lake.
His torch beam followed the narrow path to its end, where the park opened up to a vast darkness. He shined it to his right across the expansive field, then to his left toward the children’s play area. The outline of a climbing frame and swings in the distance shifted bizarrely. In front of him was the start of another long path, leading to the exit near Bullsmead Primary School.
Now then… Which way?
The low growl behind him made up his mind.
Chapter Six
In his office, feeling somewhat fatigued, Striker ran his left hand through his hair and stretched his arms upward in front of the computer screen. Not long now until a good night’s sleep to fully recharge him for tomorrow.
The office was modest with predominantly beige décor. There was the faint tick of a round white clock on the wall beside a map of the B Division. Through the window the bright city centre lights glowed five miles away.
Cunningham had shot off from the crime scene with her chauffeur-cum-lover boy Brad Sterling. Her last words: “There’s been another attack… on the border with the A Division. I just hope it’s not linked.” Sterling had then done the obligatory wheel-spin and they were gone.
Like Cunningham, initially worried there may be a link with his case, Striker had kept one ear on the radio. He’d returned to the office and checked the computer log regarding
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