A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  I had come to no conclusions when he strode purposefully into my office and without saying a word dropped a blurred and grainy photograph on my desk. It showed a back view of a man wearing a black Adidas sweatshirt and faded jeans climbing a metal fire escape at the back of a two-storey building. He dropped a second photograph, showing the man at the top of the fire escape, clearly wearing some type of mask. By now, I knew what the photos were showing. A third photo was dropped. I wasn’t too surprised to see a female figure climbing out of the window at the top of the fire escape being greeted by Tony Blair. The next showed a bulky package exchanging hands.

  I looked up expectantly – he had one photo left. The final instalment. Talk about dramatic effect. The young bugger had clearly planned this moment for maximum impact. He dropped it and as clear as day in the alley below the fire escape, wearing the black Adidas sweatshirt and just about to pull a plastic mask into place, was Russ Holland.

  I was speechless.

  ‘You didn’t really want this crime detecting, did you?’ As cool as you like. ‘This one, however, will be of far more interest.’

  He reached into his briefcase and withdrew yet another photograph. He looked silently triumphant and then repeated his nonchalant drop onto my desk.

  I immediately recognised the location as outside the Silver Cod pub on Anlaby Road in Hull. Although it was dark, the streetlights illuminated a tall, well-built male climbing out of a dark-coloured Vauxhall Vectra, as if about to meet another man standing by the front wing of the car. It was snowing heavily. It took me a few seconds to grasp the significance of the photograph – it was the vehicle recorded by Janice Cooper, after she had had the suspicious caller some weeks before she was attacked. The registration number was discernible, but identifying either man from the grainy photograph was a different matter. But I realised that there must be more to come.

  Triumphantly, PC Granger mouthed just one word: ‘Grantmore!’

  My office door was wide open and there were only two others present in the incident room. They were taking no notice of our exchange, but I guessed we were about to embark upon a conversation we would both want to keep between ourselves. I rose from my desk, picked up the photographs and my car keys and shepherded him out of the building and into my car. I set off into the countryside towards Bridlington.

  We rode in silence. My mind was in overdrive, with dozens of questions that as yet I could not even frame. The sudden rush of information just would not compute, so I kept quiet and tried to calm down. Unnervingly, Granger sat alongside me staring straight ahead, seemingly as cool as the proverbial cucumber. After five minutes, I pulled into the car park of the King’s Head at Nafferton and turned off the ignition. I took off my suit jacket and handed it to him, indicating he should take off his tie and thus disguise his uniformed state.

  Having only spoken to ask what he wanted to drink, we found ourselves sat at a small round table in a quiet corner of what turned out to be an empty public bar, each with a pint of bitter. I took a drink, placed the pint back on the table, sat back in the chair and in a voice that did not betray my own anxiety said, ‘Go on then.’

  Leaving his untouched drink on the table, he leaned forward and in a hushed, emotional, yet strangely conspiratorial tone, he began at the place I was the least interested in – his failing marriage. It was clear that he was treating this occasion as some form of confessional. Perhaps it was the chance to tell an older and wiser man and gauge my views. Whatever had sparked this need to unburden himself I decided to just let him get it off his chest. He took me through how he had met his wife, his falling in love, his misgivings based upon her reputation, his colleagues’ and even his dying father’s warnings. Then the rumours, the confrontation, her confession and on into how his temper snapped when he saw them together on patrol the previous night while he was out having a pint with a few mates. He drew to a close by necking a good half of his pint and acknowledging that his actions would get him the sack but he didn’t care, as he had forgiven Amy and they were going to try and make a go of the marriage.

  I then added to his woes by describing Anne Beedham’s phone call. To be fair, he coughed up straight away and with typical male bravado and a degree of engaging humour described how Anne Beedham had seduced him the day after her ordeal, when I had sent him back to clarify whether or not she had told the robbers where Janice Cooper lived. Despite the seriousness of his predicament, like most blokes, he couldn’t help but impart some of the more lurid details of how this married woman, who must have been about twenty years his senior, had behaved. Their relationship had continued in a rather wanton fashion until this morning when, in a fit of remorse, he told her that he wanted to end the affair and win back the heart of his wife. She went ballistic. Having completed this bizarre episode of male bonding, I began to explain that shagging a victim for whom you were acting as an FLO was almost certainly going to get him the sack in itself – even without the fact that he had also thumped a uniformed police sergeant in full public view. By this point, we had both drained our pints and I was keen to move the conversation on. In my mind, I was now facing an ex-PC Granger. He’d be history by this evening, suspended until his dismissal following a disciplinary hearing – or even a court appearance. I doubted the patched-up marriage would last long under the pressure of no job and the big black stain on his curriculum vitae that most decent employers would avoid like the plague. My thoughts were purely on personal survival but due to his control of the conversation thus far, I had been unable to marshal my thoughts and still hadn’t figured out the provenance of the photos or what exactly they meant. I was just trying to figure out how to play the young man when he, all too calmly, asked me if I fancied another pint.

  While he was at the bar, I nipped outside and rang Martin Sharples, who of course was waiting in his office back in Beverley to suspend my young colleague. Without going into too much detail, I asked him to trust me and reassured him that the lad was with me and involved in important developments in the inquiry. I assured him that he would not be out of my sight until he went off duty that evening and I would personally accompany the officer to his office at ten o’clock the next morning.

  ‘Matt, what are you up to? You know I trust you, but I also know what a devious bastard you are and I don’t want him in any more trouble than he is already. I’ve discussed with Professional Standards how I’d like to proceed with this and I’m confident I can save his job, so don’t you go messing that up. But okay. My office at ten in the morning.’

  After making the call, I remained outside, trying to think. I needed to get back in control. Granger was playing me and I didn’t know where this was leading. I tried to shrug off these doubts. I was an experienced detective superintendent, well versed in manipulating people and getting things done my way. He was a spotty-faced rookie and obviously bright, but no match for Matt Darnley. My confidence a little restored, I nipped for a quick pee then rejoined him in the bar, intending to get back in the driving seat. Looking back, I had seriously underestimated him and thus had no clear plan of action. He, on the other hand, as I was about to find out, had done his ruddy homework.

  *

  Two hours later, I’d dropped him back off in Driffield and I headed home, with a lot of thinking to do before we met Martin Sharples the next morning. Over that second pint, I learnt what an extremely ambitious and ruthless young man Peter Granger was. I was dumfounded as he explained the photographs were courtesy of the bespectacled nerd I had so disgracefully dismissed back in December. Graham Morley’s personal surveillance of his arch-enemy Grantmore had continued unabated since then – at Granger’s direction. Although serving under my command on the incident, he had not told me, or any of his supervisors, that he had tasked Morley to continue to gather information about Grantmore, assuring him of his ability to eventually assist him to exact his revenge. Usually while off duty, he assured me, he had been meeting and briefing Morley and
going through his extensive archives of over five years’ of his amateur, but quite skilful, surveillance. He had found evidence in those files to link Grantmore to two or three already recorded serious crimes and to others that were not even reported. The young sleuth had put together his own file showing the potential of Morley’s efforts, his intention being to approach me when he felt the time was right and impress me with his investigative acumen. He then planned to get me to help turn Morley’s amateur sleuthing into hard evidence, followed by a high-profile arrest and convictions. In this way, he envisaged securing a mentor at my level, entry into the CID and onward and upward. As I say, this kid was ambitious.

  Halfway through his account, I’d asked, ‘Why me? You were disgusted with my behaviour towards Morley. Surely you could have taken this to anyone. Grantmore’s head on a plate would be an offer few senior detectives would refuse.’

  He gave me the obvious answer, which I’d been too slow or too complacent to cotton on to.

  ‘For a start, you’d have had no choice but to listen and help me. I can prove that you neglected to fully question Mr Morley back in December. If you had, you’d have seen what I’ve seen in his files. Even back then, we could have had Grantmore arrested, charged and remanded for two serious assaults… Graham had the evidence. If you’d done that, Grantmore wouldn’t have ended up being mutilated by Holland, as he would have been in prison on remand. It’s common knowledge that you cautioned Holland after his attack on Grantmore in court, and if it came out he did in fact go on to blind him… which these photos prove… Grantmore would surely sue the force and you’d be disgraced.’

  My arse was now twitching.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why Morley has sat on all of this. If he wanted revenge, why didn’t he come to the police as soon as he got something on him?’

  ‘To be frank, although he followed Grantmore around, photographed him and listened to his voicemail, he more often than not didn’t know what he’d got. I was able to link it to crimes or incidents recorded and it became obvious. Secondly, he’s still terrified of Grantmore and it took him tremendous courage to come in on the day he saw us. Then you just blew him out of the water.’

  The lad was right; I’d badly misjudged Morley and failed in my duty. If this series of events was revealed, I’d face serious disciplinary charges, but more importantly, my reputation would be shot to pieces. I’m ashamed to say that it wasn’t until that night, when I couldn’t sleep, worrying about how to save my own neck, that I gave a first thought to the victims in the cases Granger outlined – a badly injured prostitute he had paid someone to assault for trying to escape his clutches, and a rival drug dealer whose leg he had broken in a brutal attack with a wheel brace. Nor for that matter to poor old Morley.

  I was now feeling well and truly on the ropes and unsure as to how this was all going to pan out. ‘So what do you want now?’

  For the first time he looked unsure of himself, even embarrassed.

  ‘As I said, I just wanted to show you what I’d found out and impress you. I want to get on… and you’d have had to help me.’

  The mists cleared.

  ‘But today you’re in the shit… so you want to trade?’

  ‘I came to you this afternoon because I knew my attack on Sergeant Knaggs was likely to get me fired. I intended to ask you to speak up for me and help me keep my job… if you’d have refused, I’d have threatened to bring the Morley files out into the open.’

  ‘Blackmail.’ I let that sink in. ‘Believe it or not, I’d have done that anyway, as I think would your own chief superintendent. But you now have the added problem of the lovely Mrs Beedham, already emotionally damaged by her ordeal, then cruelly used by the police officer meant to protect her. I doubt Martin Sharples is going to remain on your side when he knows that. In fact, the force could never condone that behaviour, even if they can accept the provocation over the assault on Knaggs. You’re dead meat.’

  I was beginning to see a glimmer of hope.

  ‘Then so are you, sir. I think this is what is called a Mexican stand-off.’

  I most definitely would not want to play this lad at poker, as he did not look in the least bit worried. His moment of embarrassment had passed.

  At this point, I realised the only slight edge I had was that he did not know that Anne Beedham had not yet made any sort of official complaint. As far as I knew, there was just the three of us who knew that the force’s FLO policy – and indeed the sexy Anne – had been abused. Still playing it by ear, with no thought-through battle plan, I tried to take back control.

  ‘Okay, for now we seem to be in something of an impasse, but I think you’re overestimating your hand. You are looking at the sack and possibly a criminal charge of assault, while I’m just facing professional embarrassment. Which one of us is the force going to support? There’s no way your little escapades can be hidden away. Fuck me, you smacked the sergeant in front of witnesses, several of ’em being coppers, and Mrs Beedham’s bravery has been all over the media. They’re not going to let a mere constable get away with trying to blackmail a senior officer.’

  Before he could respond, I then added, ‘And what about the Grantmore pictures? How are you going to explain sitting on evidence about two current serious investigations?’

  ‘I haven’t sat on them. There are literally hundreds of photos in his files and I’d seen the one at the Silver Cod several times but just never spotted its significance until today, when I recognised the reg. number. Morley has dated it in his files and the snow helps date it… it was taken quite a while after Janice Cooper had her suspicious caller. He of course only took the photo as he was watching Grantmore, when the car drew up. I know you could never formally identify him from the photo, it’s too blurred. But when you know it’s him, I think you can tell. One thing’s for sure, though, show Grantmore and he’ll know it’s him and he’ll think he’s identified. Morley has notes that go with all the photos.’

  All thoughts of his predicament were momentarily absent. He was excited about finding this photograph, recognising its significance and being responsible for the first positive breakthrough on the murder.

  I pressed on. ‘You’ve sat on that evidence until it’s suited you.’

  ‘Actually, sir, the photo was in the file that you had a chance to examine when he brought it in. Had you bothered to look, no doubt you would have spotted its significance immediately.’

  He made no effort to hide his sarcasm and I realised he once again had the upper hand.

  ‘But what about the shots on the fire escape? They were over two weeks ago. Once you saw them, you would have realised exactly what they represented… the whole bloody force knows about the attack on Grantmore. You’ve kept them to yourself.’

  He shook his head. ‘Morley hates Grantmore. He wants Holland to get away with it. He never showed me the photographs until this morning, when I spotted the significance of the one with the car. They weren’t in the file… he didn’t want me to see them.’

  ‘So what changed his mind?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I went to his house this morning knowing that I had to use the evidence he’d gathered and I’d already assessed… today… to show you before the shit hit the fan over Knaggs. When I just leafed through the files again and spotted the significance of that car, I explained to him how it linked Grantmore to the kidnap, robbery and murder and that this was probably what we needed to sort him out for good. He just got up, went to a cupboard and took out the photos of Holland taken on the day Grantmore was attacked. I guess he realised things were getting serious and coming to a head.’

  ‘But how did he know Holland was about to attack Grantmore? Why was he there?’

  ‘He didn’t know. He hangs about his house and his businesses and sometimes just follows him, taking his photos in the hope he catches something worthwhile. He’s just obsessed. It’s really s
ad. He was in the back alley, saw something strange was happening and took the photos. Just luck.’

  At this point, we both seemed to run out of steam and fell silent. There was a lot to think about. We finished our drinks and by the time we got back in my car and started back towards Driffield, it was dark. My mind was racing, figuring out how to play the scenario I now faced, and I guess he was in a similar frame of mind.

  Twice he asked me, ‘What are you going to do, sir?’ Both times, I ignored the question, marvelling at how his police conditioning made him unthinkingly continue to call me sir while actually in the act of threatening me. I was asking myself the same question – what was I going to do? About him, about Beedham, about Holland, about Morley’s evidence, about Grantmore – and deciding on a course of action before ten o’clock in the morning when we both had to meet Martin Sharples?

  We pulled up outside the nick and I sensed he was going to ask me yet again what I intended to do.

  ‘Don’t ask me again. I need time to think. Stay away from Morley and Beedham and meet me in Burgess’ Café in Beverley at eight thirty in the morning. We have to see Mr Sharples at ten. Let’s just let things settle. Nothing’s going to change tonight.’

  Everything was set to change that night.

  Eleven

  That Night

  02:00 Tuesday, 2nd February 1999

  Nineteen-year-old Ryan Harrod should not even have been at his parents’ home in Ponteland, a quiet village to the north-west of Newcastle. He should have been thirty miles away in the Scotia Quay Halls of Residence at Sunderland University but had made an unannounced dash home to see his mum on her forty-fifth birthday. So he should not have been the one responding to the hammering on the door in the early hours – confronting the three armed and masked men who pushed him backwards and followed him into the hall.

  ‘He shouldn’t be here,’ snarled the smallest of the three intruders.