A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  He was already waiting for me, nursing a coffee. As he saw me, he left his seat and approached the counter and ordered me a drink. I made myself comfortable at the table he had just vacated, on top of which lay his notebook and pen. He walked to the table carrying my coffee, set it down and resumed his seat, looking around as if expecting to see someone else approaching – and clearly nervous. He also sported a sticking plaster across the bridge of his obviously swollen nose.

  ‘What the hell’s happened to you?’ I indicated his injury. ‘What’s all this about… and why the urgency?’

  I noticed his hands were shaking slightly as he nervously fiddled with his pen and scanned the café.

  ‘Calm down, Richard. What the hell’s the matter?’

  Using my best fatherly tone, I adopted my “you can trust me, I’m a copper” look and put my hand out to squeeze and still the arm that was still twiddling the pen.

  ‘I know it was Russ Holland who maimed Grantmore… and I know you can prove it.’ He sat upright and back in his chair, further away from me, and pulled his arm out of my grip. ‘Don’t deny it. You know it was Holland who poked his eye out, or whatever he did, and you’ve shoved it under the carpet.’

  ‘Have you got me here just to threaten me? You know nothing.’

  ‘Look, I need to do my duty, not as a reporter but as a citizen, and I need you to do the right thing now and protect Grantmore. I know he’s a thug but the police have a duty to protect everyone. If you don’t, I’ll go to your superiors and tell them you can prove Russ Holland maimed Grantmore.’

  ‘What do you mean, do the right thing now and protect him?’ I was puzzled about what the hell was driving this conversation.

  ‘I know you think he’s involved in those murders. That’s why you’ve used me, but now he’s going to be murdered and I won’t be involved in letting that happen. You’ve got me involved in something that’s way over my head… now you’ve got to get me out.’

  He slumped down in his chair, defeated and clearly shit-scared.

  At this point, I just thought he had figured out that my tactics of pressurising Grantmore into grassing on his accomplices would put Grantmore in danger. He was having second thoughts about his role in helping me, and possible repercussions if Grantmore rolled over. But what was all this about Russ Holland?

  ‘Grow up… you’re in it up to your neck. You rang Grantmore and then passed on his request for a meeting to me. You want to stay on the Hull rag all your life, that’s fine by me, but if you want to be a real crime reporter you have to get your hands dirty. Your chosen profession is mired in shit. Press tactics are far murkier than mine. Stick with me and I’ll make sure you get a great story that’ll have the nationals gasping.’

  Plenty of stick followed by a bit of carrot. I sat back, waiting for his rapid u-turn, a smug grin on my face.

  ‘Fuck you, Darnley. You’ve got a witness who saw Russ Holland at the crime scene. You could have stopped him after he blinded Grantmore… but now he’s going to kill him and I want no part of it.’

  The kid was almost shouting, and a couple of old dears sharing a pot of tea and scones a couple of tables away turned to see what was going on.

  My mouth went dry – he knew about Morley? I stood up, took hold of his arm, pulled him to his feet and guided him out of the café. He came, unresisting.

  ‘Let’s continue this in my car… and keep your voice down.’

  It took him about five minutes to calm down before he began to tell me the story of his confrontation with Morley and what he had learnt from him. My reading of the situation had been way off. He knew about Morley’s obsession with Grantmore and even how he’d first met me when he’d brought in the answerphone tapes after Grantmore’s acquittal for rape. He now understood the provenance of the photograph of Grantmore with the Vauxhall that I had persuaded him to threaten to publish. When he came to tell the tale of Morley seeing Holland and the woman on the fire escape at Nicole’s, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and my over-worked brain turning to mush. It was not until he had completed his account that I registered his last comment – that unfortunately Morley had not photographed the event?

  I saw a glimmer of hope. ‘Hang on, you’ve lost me. Tell me again what Morley told you about Russ Holland attacking and blinding Grantmore.’

  ‘He’s told me he’s already told you. You know Holland did it but you’ve done nothing. He was hanging about near Nicole’s that day and saw Holland climb the fire escape, meet a women who climbed out of the window, hand her a package and then climb in the window she’d come out of. Trouble was, he didn’t have his camera… it was in for repair.’

  Why Morley had made the decision not to fully disclose to Wilde I didn’t know, but it gave me room for manoeuvre – fingers crossed.

  ‘I suppose he didn’t tell you that he has refused to give evidence about what he saw? I can’t do a thing without evidence. This is just the same as when he had the answerphone tapes. He’s spineless. I haven’t ignored what he’s said… you know that Holland has been arrested based upon the attack you and I witnessed in court. He denies the attack at Nicole’s and there is no other evidence. I’m not ignoring it… I’m biding my time… I’ll get him.’

  Some of the anger dissipated from the young man’s face and he seemed to slump further into his seat. He conceded that Morley had told him that he was glad that Holland had maimed Grantmore. He saw it as justice, not vengeance. So he could understand why he wouldn’t give evidence.

  ‘But why has he told you all this?’ I was still confused.

  ‘Because things have changed. He’s convinced that Holland now intends to kill Grantmore, and even he can’t just stand by and see that happen.’

  He explained how Morley had told him he had continued his observations on his enemy, still intent upon gathering evidence of his wrongdoings. The previous night, while he’d been hanging about near Grantmore’s home, he’d seen Holland enter his rear garden and check doors and windows. Morley had recognised the man’s agitation and anger and was convinced he would soon attack Grantmore again, and what more could he do to harm him beyond what he had already done? Morley was convinced Holland now intended to kill his daughter’s rapist.

  ‘Richard, you’ve done the right thing to tell me this. I can see why Morley has not told us… he’s frightened of his own shadow.’

  ‘You’ve got to arrest and question Holland. You can’t allow him to go ahead and actually kill Grantmore. I can’t just sit on this. I want out.’

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to me.

  ‘There’s more. He’s no ordinary vengeful father. Look at this.’

  It was a photocopy of an archived article from the London Evening Standard dated October 1982, with the headline ‘Local Army Hero Honoured’ above a formal head and shoulders photograph of a young man in the uniform of an army captain. I quickly scanned the article but a section had been highlighted with a yellow marker pen:

  …without a thought for his own safety, 30-year-old Ralph Harrison of Walthamstow, a captain in 3rd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment, who had already been in combat for over 15 hours, charged a machine-gun post…

  There followed heart-warming words of praise from Harrison’s mother and his commanding officer.

  Walthamstow’s Ralph Harrison was now Hull’s Russ Holland. It was unmistakable. The years had hardly altered his features.

  I sat there, stunned. The direct attack on Grantmore in court, his manner at Queens Gardens when he spoke of eliminating vermin, the planting of the girl Katia into Nicole’s and the calculating way he had literally branded the object of his hatred. These were obvious hallmarks of a man trained for action.

  ‘He was a bloody Para… he’s trained to kill and he’s stalking Grantmore.’ He was then clearly struck by another bombshell: ‘And I�
�m grassing him up… but I’ve got to… and you’ve got to protect me.’

  He snatched back the article and stared hard at the photograph, as if trying to make sure it was really true.

  ‘How the hell have you found this out? He’s obviously had a change of identity.’ My mind was racing, the implications spiralling and colliding in a frenzy of apprehension.

  ‘It’s Morley, he’s fanatical about the whole saga. He’s blaming himself for Grantmore getting off the rape of Holland’s daughter, glad Holland wreaked revenge but uneasy that he knows he did it and you’ve not nicked him for it. He’s told me about the other photograph he got that’s enabled you to link Grantmore to the murders and the north-east. He’s desperate you get him this time but he’s wracked with guilt about it all. You’ve met him… he’s a sad and lonely man but he’s a genius with a computer and at searching the internet. He must be spending every waking hour on this… he’s obsessed.’

  I looked again at the press clipping. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Events were now out of control. So much had happened so quickly, my mind could not assimilate all the nuances of my predicament. After our meeting in the pub, I’d spent yet another sleepless night, followed by a morning in the incident room, supposedly reading statements and signing off actions but actually churning over my limited options. Since the arrest of Grantmore three days earlier, the incident had settled into a disappointing lull. I knew I was failing to give any investigative direction and the team were getting restless – losing heart. I had to make up my mind as to how to move forward or pretty soon the top corridor would pick something up on the force jungle drums and I’d start to be asked awkward questions. At the moment, the new ACC (Ops) had been fobbed off that Grantmore’s arrest had been down to informant information and was just a fishing trip and so far the team were keeping tight-lipped about the photograph. But that situation wouldn’t last. Northumbria had no exciting developments, with their major incident still getting up to speed with lots to do but no leads.

  And now the whole saga of Holland wounding Grantmore was back to haunt me – but now with a fucking journalist aware of the truth.

  It was not the moment to figure out how to proceed. The priority was getting Wilde calmed down – even if not fully back onside. I spent the next half-hour reassuring him that he’d done the right thing and there was no way I would not be tackling Holland and continuing to try and get Morley to commit to giving evidence. I could sense that the very act of unburdening himself had helped. Perhaps he now saw that matters were in official hands. I repeatedly thanked him for warning me about Holland and also promised him that he would get the scoop when the cases were resolved – which I repeatedly assured him they would be.

  I decided to call it a day. I was mentally exhausted. It was the weekend and we were now at the stage where only a skeleton staff were keeping the incident ticking over until Monday. I was aware the twenty-four-hour deadline Grantmore and I had agreed was fast approaching, but I was in no state to make any decisions. I prayed he wouldn’t contact me.

  I needed time to think.

  Surely nothing else could go wrong?

  Seventeen

  Three Hours Earlier That Same Day

  Friday, 5th February 1999

  Cheryl tenderly spread more baby oil across the broad shoulders of her ten-thirty appointment and sensually yet firmly began to massage it in, occasionally leaning forward to gently rub her naked breasts on his warm skin. Normally by this stage in a “massage”, the punter was keen to roll over and get on with the “extras”, but this guy seemed about to nod off. Cheryl would usually relish the prospect of an easy half-hour with no sex involved, but the rent was due and she was skint, so she bent lower, whispering in what she thought was her sexy voice, ‘Is that making you feel good, luvvie? Do you want me to do your chest now?’

  There was no response. She carried on for another five minutes, with increasingly less enthusiasm. She may as well have been polishing a car bonnet. She finished with a gentle slap on the man’s shoulders. ‘That’s your lot, sunshine.’

  There was no attempt at the sexy voice. Again, there was no response. The man just lay still, breathing steadily with his eyes closed.

  ‘Come on, love, time’s up. Put your clothes on. Me eleven o’clock’ll be joining us in a minute if you don’t move.’

  Cheryl slipped into her pink beautician’s smock, beginning to feel slightly uneasy about how this was going. She chuckled, trying to lighten the situation while giving the man a gentle nudge. There was still no response.

  Shrugging her shoulders, she left the naked man lying there, his well-toned body glistening under the harsh glare of the very unsexy strip light above the massage table. Leaving the room, she quietly closed the door behind her and entered the reception area, quickly explaining the situation to her mate Pauline. Cheryl’s eleven o’clock customer couldn’t help hearing what was said and slowly rose from the scruffy leather sofa where he had been impatiently and excitedly waiting his turn and scuttled off down the stairs. As the local ward councillor, the last thing he wanted was to be involved in an incident in the local knocking shop.

  ‘That’s more cash down the pissin’ drain,’ grumbled Cheryl, watching her next customer scarper.

  ‘I reckon we’ve got a nutter. Where’s Grantmore when you need him?’ Pauline reached for the phone and dialled the sister establishment on Witham and was soon explaining their predicament to the boss.

  *

  Fifteen minutes later, an agitated Grantmore bounded up the stairs to find Pauline and Cheryl sitting side by side on the sofa, nestled amongst the pink fluffy cushions enjoying a cup of tea. He looked at them expectantly.

  ‘He’s gone then?’

  Pauline was well used to her boss’s temper and was hardly fazed by his rants and threats after almost seven years in his employment, so she’d persuaded Cheryl they should make best use of this unexpected lull in trade and enjoy a nice cuppa.

  ‘Nope, he’s still there. Not moved a muscle.’ She slurped on her tea. ‘And don’t go mad at us. You always say any trouble and we should fetch you… so we ’ave.’

  Their boss was feeling extremely stressed. He had heard no more from Paul Frame and it was now 11am, so he was likely to call at any minute. He strode purposefully to the door and without entering, flung it open. The girls leaned forward to look into the room through the gap between Grantmore and the doorjamb, but all they could see were the soles of the man’s feet hanging over the end of the massage table, toes pointing towards the pink shag pile. He still hadn’t moved.

  Thinking the man had died mid-massage, Grantmore groaned at the thought of all the questions the bloody police would ask. So his immediate reaction was not to wade in aggressively as he normally would with a troublesome punter – of which there were many. He entered the room and repeated what Cheryl had done about half an hour earlier – he gave the man a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  After a five-second pause, the man steadily pushed his head and torso off the massage table and then swung himself into a sitting position facing Grantmore, who instinctively stepped back, catching the backs of his legs against the couch, causing him to flop back clumsily into it. The girls on the landing were also caught unawares and jerked backwards, with Cheryl smacking her head into Pauline’s, causing her to spill her tea into her lap and yelp.

  The customer glanced to his right at the sound and firmly but politely asked the girls to close the door. Cheryl jumped up and did as she was told. Her last sight before doing so was of Grantmore slouched on the sofa, with his mouth hung open and his one working eye wide with shock. She beckoned Pauline and both listened at the door.

  The man remained sitting on the massage table, seemingly unembarrassed by his nakedness, and looked down at Grantmore, who remained slumped in the couch staring up at Paul Frame.

  ‘M
orning, Sean. Thought I’d come down for a chat rather than ring. I always think a personal call is better. I can look you in the eye… no offence mate… and make sure you get the message.’

  He bounced lightly off the table and stood in front of Grantmore, his six-foot-three-inch, broad-shouldered nakedness adding to the intimidating nature of the unexpected meeting.

  ‘Brought you a little something just to make sure you don’t let me down. You sounded slightly apprehensive about working for me yesterday when we spoke.’

  He padded around the head of the table and briefly bent over the chair where he had left his clothes. When Frame turned and walked back to him, Grantmore saw that he was holding a handgun, his arm slack so that the gun pointed unthreateningly towards the floor. Grantmore stared at the gun, convinced he was about to be executed yet unable to move or speak.

  Frame positioned himself directly in front of Grantmore, who remained slumped on the worn coach, his eye transfixed by the gun. He hadn’t noticed that in Frame’s left hand, there was a fat brown envelope and when the gang boss tossed it into his lap, he jerked upright with shock.

  ‘Five grand… as promised. Count it while I get dressed.’

  He tossed the gun onto the couch next to Grantmore, walked back to his clothes, and began dressing with his back turned.

  Grantmore looked into the envelope and saw the money, looked at the gun, looked at the money, back at the gun and then at Frame’s broad muscled back. He quietly put the envelope down on the floor, quickly picked up the gun and curled his finger around the trigger. He didn’t want any more of Frame’s cash or any more involvement in his crimes, however lucrative they’d been. There was no way he was going to die in his own premises. He was in charge here.