A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  ‘Bullshit, Darnley.’

  ‘This photo was taken barely two weeks before the job. The other bloke was at the Silver Cod for the football, Hull v Sunderland, on the 28th of November last year. That bloke is in that gang. A gang that shot one of its own when he fucked up. You fucked up, Sean. This photo shows you with the car and a gang member. No one will identify that man from this photo, but I’ll make sure he gets to see it and he’ll know it’s him – just like you know it’s you. Then you’re dead because he’ll know you can lead us to him.’

  ‘You can’t link me to that car, to that robbery or the murders, and you know it.’

  ‘I know that. You know that.’ I again tapped the photo. ‘But he doesn’t. He’ll just think that the idiot he used in Hull and had to shoot has an idiot mate who has now dropped him in the shit. The article in the paper will say the police are seeking the identity of both men in connection with the murders. So he will think we don’t know who you are… but he does… and he will not risk you grassing him up.’

  I then formed a gun with my right hand and shot him in the forehead.

  He jumped up, knocking over his chair, and then leaned forward, both hands on the table, and stuck his face close to mine.

  ‘Bollocks! You don’t frighten me, Darnley. You’re bluffing. The paper wouldn’t print it and you wouldn’t dare do that… and that’s not me for a start.’

  ‘You just said that in the wrong order, Sean. If that’s not you, whether I’m bluffing or not is irrelevant. You have just confirmed it is you… so sit back down and let me save your life.’

  But Sean is not the brightest one-eyed massage parlour operator in Hull, and he hadn’t grasped the significance of what he’d said. He stormed out of the café and crossed Spring Bank. Outside Cleopatra’s, he paused and looked back.

  ‘Come on, Sean, you know I’ve got you. Come back.’

  But the penny still hadn’t dropped and he disappeared through the pink door.

  Well, my initial plan hadn’t worked – yet. Maybe he just needed a bit more persuasion. Part two of my plan was now necessary and it involved sticking my ever-extending neck out even further. But I knew I was on the right track.

  Fourteen

  16:15 That Same Afternoon

  The two men sat huddled together in a corner of the pub, their heads almost touching as they engaged in what was clearly a serious and tense conversation. Both nursed pints of dark beer, as did the majority of the other totally male patrons of the Brown Cow in Pennywell, a suburb of Sunderland. For a Wednesday afternoon, the pub was busier than one would expect but also quieter. No music played, there was no rowdy banter or laughter and all of the men were either alone or in pairs. This was a drinker’s pub. Although most of the customers knew or recognised each other, no one knew the two in the corner.

  ‘Please, Paul, he’s got kids, for fuck’s sake. We’ve known him for years and he’s never let us down. He’s a mate.’

  The man speaking was smaller, stockier and older than his companion, and spoke with a broad Geordie accent that was brimming with obvious emotion.

  The tall, well-built younger man took a swallow of his beer and responded in a calm and cultured voice without any trace of accent.

  ‘Well, he’s let us down now… and become a liability. He’s as panicked as a bolted horse and in our game, panicking leads to mistakes. We cannot afford mistakes.’

  ‘The gun’s gone. In the sea. They’ll never find it. He swears he left no blood at the house for the cops to use. There’s no way they’ll get back to him.’

  ‘Just like that idiot Emmerson… he bled. The kid nutted him and broke his nose. That means DNA… evidence. They’ll get him and charge him with murder. He’ll do a deal and grass us up because he’s got nothing to lose. I should have shot him on the night, like I did that liability from Hull.’

  ‘He swears he left no blood at the scene… he cleaned up, and you know he’d never grass,’ pleaded the older man, his drink forgotten.

  ‘Look, Mick. You saw him… he was covered in blood. He pulled the trigger but we all go down for murder if he talks. The bullet that killed the kid will match the one in Emmerson’s head and they’ll know the jobs are linked. They’ll end up asking questions up here again. If they get a DNA hit on Billy, they’ll be all over me and you like a rash. They’ll find out we’re mates and were in the army together. If he talks, we’re done.’

  Mick shook his head in denial before taking a long drink from his pint.

  Paul remained calm. ‘Tomorrow, we all go out fishing on your boat. Tell him we need to talk. He goes the same way as the gun.’

  ‘Why would they come to us? Only Billy’s got a record. One assault… years ago. We’ve got no criminal records and you’re a businessman for God’s sake and I’m a fisherman. The cops won’t link us to the robberies just ’cos we know each other. Billy would never grass.’

  ‘No, he won’t grass. He won’t get chance. I’ll meet you both at your boat at half six in the morning. And Mick… be there… and make sure he’s there too.’

  Mick sat back in his chair, creating space between himself and his younger companion. ‘Are you threatening me as well, Paul?’

  ‘We all survived Bosnia because I was in charge and you and Billy followed orders. We agreed when we started this we’d have to adopt the same principles if we hoped to succeed. Billy messed up… so Billy has to pay. Just don’t mess up, Mick.’

  ‘But you messed up with getting Emmerson involved… If we’d stuck with just us three, that wouldn’t have happened.’

  Paul calmly placed his glass on the battered surface of the circular table and sat back upright on his chair. Mick mirrored the movement and for a few tense seconds they just stared at each other – until Mick bottled it and looked away.

  His point made, Paul pointed his forefinger at Mick and through gritted teeth hissed, ‘And I put it right. Billy wasn’t available and we needed some help to make it work in an area we didn’t know, and Emmerson fulfilled his purpose. One more job then we pack in. Near Hull again, well away from here. I’ll get back onto my local contact down there.’

  He downed the rest of his pint, stood up and stared hard at Mick.

  ‘Your boat. Half six. Both of you be there.’

  Then he turned and walked out of the pub.

  Mick sat for a moment staring out of the window before draining his pint and muttering to himself, ‘Aye and you should have got rid of the gun after Emmerson… you clever bastard.’

  He rose and followed his old major out of the pub.

  Fifteen

  The Next Day

  Thursday, 4th February 1999

  At 11.30am on a Thursday, the newsroom at the Hull Daily Mail was almost empty. Tonight’s edition was agreed and reporters were out and about chasing up the odd loose end, or working on future stories. On the horns of a dilemma, Richard Wilde sat nervously chewing his nails in between sips of lukewarm coffee. Ever-increasing computerisation, the changing face of advertising and the rise of the internet meant that throughout the country, journalists were being shed like leaves in an autumn wind as local newspapers closed, downsized or went weekly. Nobody even wrapped fish and chips up in newspaper nowadays. Only that morning, the editor had announced likely redundancies and Richard had been sure he’d received a sympathetic smile that seemed to say “hard luck”. It was bound to be last in, first out and he’d only been with the Mail for just over a year, his first job straight from his degree in Journalism. He knew that the seedy backstory fed to him by Detective Superintendent Darnley about the Sonia Daggett murder had impressed the crime editor but he doubted that alone would save his skin.

  Ever since the incident in court when he’d witnessed the attack on Grantmore and was leaned on by Darnley, the young reporter had wrestled with his conscience. The “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” arrangement D
arnley had promised never featured in his university training, but he had already recognised that other reporters traded ethics for stories. But last night Darnley had approached him with something in an altogether different league – and he was shitting himself. It was one thing to be facing redundancy, but quite another to be contemplating the sack and having to change careers.

  So Richard was trying to weigh up the pros and cons of doing Darnley’s bidding. His hand would stray to the desk phone when his logic told him that no one would ever find out and he’d get the scoop to save his job. Then he’d put his fingers back into his mouth and savage another nail, as his heart overruled his head and he saw the unethical – and job-threatening – nature of Darnley’s request.

  Decision suddenly made, he picked up the phone and tapped out the number Darnley had given him during their brief meeting early yesterday morning at the café at Hull Railway Station. However, before the call even connected, he hung up again, stood up, pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and left the building. Ten minutes later, he had found a telephone box that worked, and redialled.

  *

  An Hour Earlier

  ‘Paul… great to hear from you,’ Grantmore lied, his mouth suddenly going dry and his hands sweating so that his mobile almost slipped from his fingers. He had only just joined Lulu on the massage couch and was angry when his mobile had rung. Recognising Paul Frame’s number, his ardour and anger rapidly turned to fear and he couldn’t stop himself from answering it.

  ‘I’ll keep this brief. I want another job setting up similar to the last one.’

  As usual, Frame’s gentle, polished tone chilled Grantmore far more than the rough, profanity-laden accents of the villains he usually associated with.

  ‘Look, Paul, I’m really grateful for the work you’ve put my way and for the loan for the business but to be frank…’

  ‘Sean, I don’t want to hear any buts. Emmerson was a but and Billy’s become a but. You don’t want to become a but.’

  He paused to let the veiled threat sink in.

  ‘Tell you what, set this one up and on the word of an officer and a gentleman, this is the last time… and I’ll forget the last twenty grand of the loan. That can be your cut this time, with an extra five for your trouble.’

  Grantmore hardly heard the offer as he contemplated telling Paul that the police were all over him. He should tell him to quit the country. But he realised that was as good as telling him he’d cocked up just like Emmerson and, by the sound of things, Billy too. He was also desperate to know if the murder of the young lad in Northumbria was also Frame’s work. When he’d left Darnley in the café yesterday, he’d sent one of the girls out to buy a newspaper and read the full article. Was it connected like Darnley had said? It easily could have been – but was Darnley just bluffing? He needed to know just how deep he was getting – but how the hell could he ask? He needed time to think.

  ‘That’s a good offer, Paul… you’re on. But, look, I’m with somebody. I’ll ring you back later today for some details. Shall I use this number?’

  ‘No, I’ll ring you. Tomorrow morning about eleven. Be available on this number and then we need to meet up to discuss details.’

  The line went dead.

  *

  One hundred and twenty miles to the north-east, Paul Frame threw his mobile into the sea from the stern of Mick Keegan’s trawler. He felt no more or less sorry about wasting a decent mobile than he had done an hour ago when he ended a fifteen-year friendship with Billy Pike. He too had entered the cold North Sea from the stern of The Blaydon Races, wrapped in a heavy-duty builder’s sack weighed down with rubble. Extreme caution and a lack of emotion had kept Frame alive in Bosnia and served him well in his short but successful criminal career. Mobiles were easily replaceable and so were careless associates. One more robbery and then he’d get out of the country. Another old army pal was making a mint working out of South Africa, hiring out mercenaries, and was always suggesting he try something similar. He’d done his homework and had secured the three of them jobs with a Nigerian businessman. He’d worried Billy might not want to join them – but that was now all sorted. A bit of sun and fun was beckoning and he’d make sure there were no loose ends to spoil it. He watched Mick as he changed course for the fish landing docks. Mick had hardly spoken to him since they’d met in the pub yesterday but had followed instructions and made sure an unsuspecting Billy had met them on board. While Paul had engaged Billy in conversation, Mick had smashed him over the head with a mallet and helped prepare his make-do coffin. Paul knew that Mick was a vicious bastard and he’d now have to watch his own back until after the last job. Mick, he knew, would be asking himself when it was his turn to die – when might he too become a “loose end” that needed tying off?

  He’d also need to work out how to make sure Billy’s young and attractive wife, Debbie, didn’t make waves. Billy had only managed to pull such a woman using the money from the robberies, and he suspected she’d easily swap horses if a sweeter life beckoned. She was a “bit of a gal” and had given Frame the come-on in the past, so he was planning to have some fun with her – and keep her sweet – before he left for Africa.

  After mulling over that scenario for a pleasant minute or two, his thoughts turned to Grantmore. He’d run into him a couple of years ago over a few drinks in a pub in Hull, while watching his beloved Sunderland on the TV, and in subsequent meetings had learnt he ran a few massage parlours and prostitutes and acted as a criminal fixer for gangs all over the north. Frame’s haulage business, which he had started when he left the army, had never really given him the life he felt he deserved after serving Queen and Country for twenty years, and he had persuaded his two ex-army pals to put their training to good use – crime. By the time he met Grantmore, they had already pulled off a handful of robberies well away from Tyneside, keeping them well separated by time and geography, and hadn’t been too greedy. As their expertise grew, so did the proceeds and although firearms had been brandished, they’d never fired a shot and none of the robbery victims had even been hurt. However, always an ambitious man, Frame had begun to dream of the big one before giving up crime for a life of luxury in sunnier climes.

  Frame came from a privileged background with a private school and university education. Despite that and his Sandhurst officer training, a successful army career and rising to the rank of major, he found himself strangely impressed by Sean Grantmore. Although the man was an ill-educated braggart and bully, Frame recognised a certain criminal cunning and saw his wide network of criminal contacts, hard man persona, illegal know-how and small but successful empire as evidence of a man who had made good.

  Slowly but surely, they developed a criminal association, starting with the robbery of a filling station near Sleaford in Lincolnshire. As the number of joint crimes grew and their association deepened, Frame began to see Grantmore for what he really was and realised that he needed to gain the upper hand – become the “officer” in the relationship – the one in charge – just as he was with Billy and Mick. His chance came when he lent Grantmore some money to help him open his third massage parlour. During the months he was under investigation, bailed and on trial for the rape of Lisa Holland, Grantmore’s businesses suffered and he fell behind with his payments to Frame. Subtly, Frame made him realise he was unhappy and drip-fed details of his military career, which had involved an expertise in black operations with his two current criminal associates. Slowly but surely, their roles reversed until the career criminal became overawed and afraid of the man he had initially seen as an amateur in his game. Then Frame deliberately compressed the loan repayment schedule for a couple of months, making clear the implications of not paying but eventually offering a now terrified Grantmore a way out – setting up bigger, better and more lucrative crimes – which involved more risk for Grantmore. He relaxed repayments as Grantmore fed him information to facilitate the Bridlington and then B
everley robberies.

  He blamed Grantmore for recommending Emmerson and kicked himself for allowing his initial impressions of Grantmore to cloud his judgement and weaken his defences. Grantmore had to go the same way as Billy. With two murder hunts on his tail, too many people could lead the police to him. He knew Grantmore had many enemies, so when he turned up dead there would be more suspects than the police could shake a stick at, and he doubted they would work too hard to find the killers. When someone had half-blinded him only a few weeks ago and the police had failed to charge the obvious suspect, he knew that eliminating Grantmore was not going to be too much of a problem. But only after the final job.

  *

  Grantmore’s heart had only just stopped hammering after Frame’s call when his mobile rang again. He roughly pushed Lulu away and reached down onto the floor for the phone. With his heart already starting to race, he stabbed the answer button, fully expecting to hear Frame’s voice again.

  Instead, a rather timid male asked, ‘Is that Sean Grantmore?’

  ‘Why… who the fuck wants him?’ Just glad it wasn’t Frame again.

  ‘I wanted to ask Mr Grantmore some questions about a murder that took place in Ponteland near Newcastle recently.’

  Ridiculously, Richard Wilde felt exposed and vulnerable in the telephone box on Ferensway. He pulled the collar of his jacket higher, trying to shield his face, and turned in towards the phone’s cradle. Not really understanding the implications of the instructions Darnley had given him, Wilde quickly rehearsed the next step in his head.

  ‘Who the hell is this? Is this the fucking press? Did Darnley put you up to this?’ Grantmore screamed hysterically.