A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  Morley looked terrified. Granger looked angry.

  ‘He’s just done his best. He didn’t know… did you, Graham?’

  ‘I did actually… and thought long and hard about coming here, knowing I could be in trouble, but I just wanted to do what I could for that poor girl.’ He made a last effort at being defiant.

  I stood up and again leaned into his personal space, my face only inches from his.

  ‘Bullshit. You just want revenge on Grantmore and his cronies. You’re not interested in justice for Lisa Holland. I might have been more inclined to believe your motives if you’d brought this to us before the trial. We couldn’t have actually used the tapes but we would have known for sure they’d concocted the story. Imagine what we might have done to discredit their evidence if we’d known that before court.’

  ‘I resent that tone of voice, Inspector. I cannot be expected to understand the rules of the Criminal Justice System. I have done my duty by coming here today.’

  The cloying stink of righteous indignation hung in the room.

  ‘Bollocks! You were clearly a spineless wimp as a school kid, letting a bully like Grantmore piss all over you, then you pratt about like Miss Marple and still haven’t got the actual balls to get even when you get the chance… You’ve sat on this for eight months and now it’s useless. A young girl’s life has been ruined by Grantmore… by far worse than bloody playground bullying. You could have helped put that right. Get him out of here before I charge him.’

  I got up and flung open the door, shaking my head in disgust at Morley as he gathered up his file, while Granger waited in the corridor with a look of thunder on his face, clearly directed at me.

  Morley stopped as he left the room and looked at me, and I could see there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t understand…’ he almost whimpered.

  Granger tried one last approach.

  ‘Sir. You really need to examine the file Mr Morley has assembled…’

  I stalked into the corridor towards the young officer and poked my finger into his chest.

  ‘I thought you were better than this. I’m bloody disappointed. I don’t give a shit what’s in his file… probably more illegally obtained crap… now get him out of here before I lock him up.’

  I stomped back into my office, slammed the door and dropped heavily into my chair.

  ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard!’ I hissed in sheer frustration, realising one was for Grantmore, one for Morley – and the other for me, as I hated losing my temper.

  I sat pondering what might have been. Staring into space, thinking of Lisa’s anguish and her father’s cold fury. I had literally only seen Lisa Holland for those few minutes in court and then her dad for the time it took to wangle his caution. So why had this case got to me when others, often far more distressing, hadn’t? The reality was that sometimes playing the cool, dispassionate and objective cop just didn’t work.

  I confess that I barely gave a second thought to what my duty should have been as regards Morley’s illegal phone hacking. He had committed serious offences, and thinking back now, twenty-odd years after the event, he must have done it lots of times. He hadn’t just struck lucky on those three messages. I should have done something about it, but I had bigger fish to fry and he seemed such an insignificant wimp of a man, I did not anticipate any comebacks. Even worse, I did not think for one moment about the poor man’s battered self-esteem and how I had further damaged it – something I would truly come to regret.

  After about twenty minutes of this navel-gazing there was a knock on my office door. It was Granger. By now, I had calmed down and was regretting that I had taken my frustrations out on him and so was pleased he had returned. Although I did not intend to apologise – not my style with a junior officer – I did want to clear the air.

  ‘Come in, sit down,’ I offered.

  ‘I’d rather not, thank you. I just wanted to say that I feel that my position on your inquiry is now untenable. I do not think I can continue to work for you and request I be returned to divisional duties.’ He stood there, almost at attention, looking me directly in the eye.

  Talk about knocked off track. This kid continued to surprise me. I was now angry again. Who the hell did he think he was?

  ‘PC Granger, I decide where you work. Not you. You’ll stay on the incident and learn your trade. You will do as I tell you. Do I make myself clear?’

  There was a lengthy pause. ‘Yes… sir.’

  ‘Forget about Mr Graham bloody Morley… I don’t want to hear any more about him and his tapes, and neither does anyone else. Now get back to work.’

  He turned on his heel and left without another word, slamming the door.

  ‘Bastard!’ Now the reference was just for me.

  I felt an absolute prick for letting myself down in front of him earlier by losing my temper and acting as the stereotypical senior detective – arrogant and egotistical. Even more uncomfortably, I also realised that he was witness to my neglect of duty over Morley’s actions. It was a unique experience for me to be in the same position into which I had manoeuvred other officers, so that I could manipulate them to my own ends. I didn’t like the feeling. I felt a moment of worry that he might decide to report the matter, particularly if my earlier misdemeanour over Holland’s phony caution were also revealed in the course of an internal disciplinary inquiry.

  After a few more minutes thinking things through, I decided it would be wise to get him back onside. He was clearly ambitious and would surely welcome support from a man in my position. I was still pissed off that a spotty kid barely out of school had got the black on me, but my arrogance and ego also concluded that with a bit of nurturing he could be almost as good a copper as me. Despite his cock-up with Morley, he was still “one to watch” and a potential member of what I knew the troops called “Darnley’s Clan”. I resolved that I’d find the chance to win him over. As for Mr Morley, I barely gave him a second thought.

  For the second time in the space of five days, I had made another serious error of judgement.

  Seven

  Four Weeks Later

  09:40 Saturday, 16th January 1999

  A totally naked Sean Grantmore strained against the handcuffs. Both wrists and his left ankle were already secured to three corners of the specially constructed dominatrix table, kept in room three at Nicole’s massage parlour on Witham, barely half a mile from Queens Gardens Police Station. Nestled between a second-hand car dealership and a cheap furniture shop, Nicole’s was the second of Grantmore’s parlours. As the boss, he regularly sampled the merchandise – particularly any new lines. Katia, a very shapely Romanian girl wearing a short, tight white masseuse’s tunic and a pair of red killer heels was currently struggling to complete his immobilisation by handcuffing his right ankle to the bed. Sean had almost given in trying to thwart her efforts by kicking out with his right leg, as she was valiantly hanging onto the loose end of the handcuff, and the harder he kicked, the tighter the end around his ankle was getting. With a final pull that felt like it was going to slice his foot off, Katia snapped the handcuff in place.

  This new girl had fascinated him from the moment he first saw her a week ago, when he’d called in to collect the takings from Janine, who ran Nicole’s, and she’d introduced her as the latest recruit. The girl, in her early twenties, seemed brighter and more self-confident than most of the girls Nicole’s “employed”, and had shot him a look of defiance when Janine explained he was the boss. He decided there and then that he would teach her some respect the first chance he had, and her explicit teasing since their first meeting had served only to fuel that decision. Earlier that morning, he had rung Janine and told her to keep Katia free. Grantmore liked to frighten the girls in his employ and although he would never admit it to himself, he could only become aroused when his conquests were afraid. However, this girl had been such an expert se
ductress that Grantmore found himself going along with her in a state of excitement he had rarely before experienced, even though she was in total control and he had not even touched her. That state had lasted until the first set of handcuffs had rasped shut on his ankle and he had begun to feel vulnerable.

  Before he had chance to think through his predicament, Katia had grabbed his exposed genitals and viciously squeezed, ramming his own socks into his mouth as he opened it to scream. She reached under the elevated table and pulled a length of wide adhesive tape from the base, where she had previously hidden it, and secured the socks by sticking it over his mouth. As her employer and non-paying customer, he now desperately wanted to end this excursion into what he still presumed was Katia’s speciality – the world of sadomasochism. Or at least reverse the roles. He tried to shout for help but all that emerged was a barely audible “Ggggnhhhhhh”. He was now just terrified about what was going to happen next – sex was the last thing on his mind. How could punters pay for this?

  Suddenly Katia slapped him across the face with surprising strength and then spat in his face. Grantmore’s fear ratcheted up a notch as it slowly dawned on him that this was not a sex game. The girl was truly angry – and in complete control. She then disappeared from his view and he could hear her moving about behind him. With his eyes shut like a kid lost in a nightmare, he felt the terror rising as bile in his throat, his fear growing along with the wait. But then he felt gentle fingers stroking his cheek and he tentatively opened his eyes. Gone was the tight white tunic, replaced with a baggy grey Gap hoodie. She was holding his wallet and with a theatrical flourish she removed the fat wad of notes that he used to flash around to impress. She tossed the empty wallet aside and stuffed the cash into the pocket of her jeans before moving out of his very limited eyeline.

  ‘Bye, you nasty, worthless piece of shit,’ she taunted – in a broad cockney accent.

  Grantmore raised his head and strained to look down past his feet. He watched as she pulled up the venetian blinds on the sash window, then raised the lower half and stuck her head and shoulders outside and whistled softly. He then heard footsteps running nimbly up the metal fire escape that led from a platform below the window down to an enclosed yard at the rear of the premises. Katia began to climb out of the window as Grantmore saw a tall hooded figure appear on the platform. A bulky brown envelope was passed to Katia, who quickly inspected its contents then turned and blew a kiss to Grantmore before disappearing from sight down the fire escape. The hooded figure climbed into the room and stood staring at Grantmore through a Tony Blair mask. It was obviously a man, with a slim but athletic build.

  Grantmore began to struggle against his bindings but there was no slack, and he succeeded only in causing the handcuffs to bite painfully into his wrists and ankles. Only his flaccid penis managed any form of free movement, serving to increase his terror and shame.

  The man reached into the pocket of his black Adidas sweatshirt and Grantmore saw he was wearing yellow washing up gloves. He removed a syringe from his pocket and uncapped the needle, placing the orange cap back in his pocket. He moved next to Grantmore and held the syringe close to his head, depressing the plunger slightly, squirting small drops of colourless liquid onto his cheek. Grantmore moaned in sheer terror and then urinated as he smelled bleach. He screwed his eyes tightly shut in an effort to block out what was happening.

  The man did not hesitate but stabbed the needle through Grantmore’s right eyelid and into his eyeball before carefully depressing the plunger. Grantmore emitted an almost silent scream of agony through his gag and began to shake his head violently from side to side, succeeding only in snapping the needle off in his eye. His attacker was left holding the syringe, which he returned to his pocket. He then took out a plastic modelling knife and waited silently and patiently until his victim ceased the wild thrashing of his head. He then calmly took a tight hold of Grantmore’s chin and with two long strokes of the knife cut an X across the same eye. He then pocketed the knife.

  Through the intense burn of his pain, Grantmore felt a hand press something to his chest, before hearing his attacker climb out of the window and rattle away down the fire escape.

  Eight

  11:00 That Same Morning

  ‘For pity’s sake, fucking get me off here!’ screamed Grantmore.

  Detective Superintendent David Kingston stood looking down at the brutalised and bloodstained Grantmore, who remained shackled to the four corners of the table. A Special Course graduate from Bramshill Police College, Kingston had shot through the ranks and was now at least two promotions above his competence, yet still four below his aching ambition to be a Chief Constable. The man carried a sad mix of ambition and uselessness that rendered him decidedly unpleasant. He was currently shitting himself in an agony of indecision, desperate not to allow the two junior officers who had requested a senior detective attend the scene, to see that he was unsure what to do next – while dying to ask them. Meanwhile, they were relishing his discomfort almost as much as they were Grantmore’s.

  Janine, used to hearing the anguish of Grantmore’s “conquests”, had eventually come to investigate the silence. With no way of releasing him, she called the police. The attending uniformed officer had quickly assessed the scene, torn off the gag, removed the socks from Grantmore’s mouth and then called out the CID, an ambulance and the fire brigade. The medics had arrived first but were thwarted by the handcuffs. The bemused female crew could only stand aside while the three firemen took a closer look and sent the rookie back outside to get the bolt croppers. He’d returned with two more crew members eager for a look at what would turn out to be the topic of much fire station hilarity. Janine, as gloriously happy as she could ever recall, joined the merry throng to cover her employer’s embarrassment with a pink fluffy towel. The assembled audience expanded further with the arrival of Detective Sergeant Hudson and Detective Constable Jo Young. It hadn’t taken the deductive powers of Sherlock Holmes for her to immediately spot the significance of Grantmore’s injury, and the cardboard note taped to his chest confirmed it. She immediately advised her DS to ask for Darnley to attend but he was off-duty and Kingston, who was “on call”, had been sent over from nearby Central. Jo Young quickly briefed him about the obvious suspect.

  ‘Shall we chop him loose?’ asked a fireman, flexing the bolt croppers.

  ‘SOCO need photographs first, boss. This is a major crime scene,’ said a delighted Jo Young, knowing full well that this ridiculous statement would not only prolong Grantmore’s pain and humiliation but increase Kingston’s indecision.

  With a sideways wink at the DC, her DS chipped in. ‘There might be some DNA on them cuffs, sir. We need ’em swabbing before they’re cut off.’

  ‘Hospital must be the priority, Superintendent,’ said the ambulance driver, clearly pushing for a positive decision.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, get me out of here,’ screamed Grantmore, his head thrashing from side to side.

  Janine stepped forward. “We have a Polaroid in the salon.’ Hardly able to suppress her mirth, she trotted off to fetch it.

  Even Kingston could figure out that the imperative was to get Grantmore cut free and into the ambulance and that was what he ordered, as soon as DC Young had taken a couple of snaps with the Polaroid, insisting to her bemused boss that they would have to do in lieu of SOCO photographs. The photographs, although somewhat blurred, probably due to Grantmore’s unwillingness to lie still and pose, clearly showed the attacker’s message. Printed in red felt tip pen on a piece of plain grey card, roughly torn from some form of packaging, was the message –

  *

  ‘Sorry to disturb you at home, boss, but we’ve got a job on I knew you’d want to know about.’ Jo Young described the crime scene that she had just left.

  ‘If it hadn’t have been me called to the job, it may have taken a little longer to link it to Holland, but as soon as I told Kingston
about the rape case and what happened in court he was like a dog with two tails. He’s already sent two arrest teams out, one for Russ Holland… fair enough, the link is obvious… but the other team’s gone for Lisa. He reckons it could have been her… and if not, she’ll be useful as a lever to get her dad talking. What a bastard.’

  My immediate reaction was one of self-preservation. I had bent the rules over Holland and this incident and subsequent investigation was bound to uncover it. Holland had to be arrested and questioned, so his attack on Grantmore in court would all be presented as part of a chain of behaviour culminating in what was a vicious attack. If he was charged, I was highly likely to get called to give evidence and it would be professionally damaging that I had not only made a serious error of judgement in cautioning him but had also circumvented the correct procedure.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know, Jo. Are they bringing them into Central?’

  ‘Kingston’s at Central waiting for Russ Holland, but he’s sent Linda Swales and myself to interview Lisa at Priory Road. I’ve told Kingston that I think he’s bang out of order having Lisa locked up and Linda agrees. I was her Victim Liaison Officer for four months and I know her. There’s no way she could have done that to Grantmore. She’s damaged enough by the rape without this.’

  ‘Okay, you and Linda go easy with Lisa. You know her and I trust your judgement that she’ll have had nothing to do with it. But keep her talking, while I go into Central and speak to Kingston. Thanks again.’

  From what Jo had told me, it was obvious that Russ Holland had extracted the revenge he’d threatened. Half of me had to admire a man who could avenge his beloved daughter in such a dramatic fashion. The other half was pissed off that in doing so he’d dropped me in the shit.