Desperate to find some way to alleviate his anguish, he had begun to watch Grantmore and learn his habits, haunts and acquaintances. He found it helped, and deep down knew it was the feeling of power, that at some point on one of his surveillances a perfect opportunity to kill him may present itself.
He had quickly identified Nicole’s and Cleopatra’s and then the new premises on Hessle Road he was developing for his third front for prostitution. He had tracked him to his home and assessed the layout of the house and gardens. He found he always used Lambert Taxis, had a gambling habit that he fed at Napoleon’s Casino and used three pubs with distinct and separate circles of friends and acquaintances. Low-life criminals at the Earl de Grey on Waterhouse Lane close to the City centre, mates who supported Hull City at the Silver Cod on Anlaby Road and his non-criminal acquaintances at the Beech Tree, closer to his home.
On two occasions, he had come face-to-face with Grantmore and not once had the thug reacted. It was obvious that he did not remember him from their one and only meeting in Hull Crown Court. This angered him further. He needed Grantmore to know he was there. For him to recognise his suffering – and to know he was watching and waiting. He began to hatch a plan to confront the bastard and make sure he knew. That would be some form of mental release from his anguish, even if only temporarily.
He had no fears about Grantmore’s reaction – he wanted one. He knew that for this tactic to work for him, he had to deliver the message face-to-face. But would Grantmore turn to the police? He couldn’t risk their intervention again.
With a plan in his head for that confrontation, he was now on Hessle Road, across from the building that Grantmore was having renovated for his new business venture.
Russ Holland was a self-employed electrician and in that capacity had a connection with many of the small building companies in and around Hull. He had learnt that J & S Renovations, a company he often worked with, were carrying out the conversions to the old shop that was soon to boast the name “Simone’s Massage”. As he watched, drinking a coffee from a nearby Greggs, he could see that Ken Johnson and Brian Standish were already there. Ken was unloading the van while Brian nipped across to Greggs. Holland knew from an overheard conversation between a boastful Grantmore and a young chap in the Beech Tree, a couple of nights ago, that Simone’s was due to open in mid-April. He had also learnt that Grantmore did a site visit every Monday morning to discuss progress with Ken and Brian.
As he watched, he saw a Lambert’s taxi pull up near the battered blue builder’s van, and the focus of his hatred stepped from the rear and entered the building. He finished his drink while turning his face to the weak but bright wintry sun that shone from a perfectly blue sky and breathed steadily, pleased to feel the icy calm descend upon him just like when he was about to embark upon an operation in his old life. He tossed the paper cup into a nearby bin, crossed the busy road, pushed open the front door of the building and walked into what was clearly going to be the reception area of the new business.
The three men were engaged in conversation behind what would form the reception desk, with the plans of the renovation spread out before them. All three looked up as Holland entered.
Brian Standish walked from behind the counter, holding out his hand to shake Holland’s, saying, ‘Great timing, Russ. Mr Grantmore has only just arrived.’
‘Hi, Russ. Hard luck, mate, you’ve just missed the bacon butties,’ said Ken Johnson.
‘Sean, this is Russ. He’s come to have a look at doing the electrics on the job. He’s popped by to give us a quote. Thought you might want to know who we’re planning to subcontract it to.’
Holland was prepared for and had expected an immediate reaction from Grantmore, but it was obvious that he had not made the connection. By luck, Standish had not used his surname and he guessed the context of their meeting provided an initial camouflage.
Brian ushered Holland towards Grantmore as if they too should shake hands. He moved closer and faced Grantmore but did not offer his hand.
‘Hello, Sean Grantmore.’
Grantmore looked perplexed at the man’s strange use of his full name, direct glare and obvious reluctance to shake hands. There was still no recognition.
Brian and Ken were similarly confused at the electrician’s manner. They only knew Russ Holland in his professional capacity and had no idea that he even had a daughter, let alone that they were renovating a building for her rapist. They knew exactly what they were building for Grantmore, and exactly who and what he was; but as far as they were concerned, he was just a paying customer.
‘Are you happy for me to do this work for you, Mr Grantmore?’
‘If the lads recommend you, I’m more than happy,’ replied Grantmore, relieved that the bloke had got down to business.
‘I always need work. If there’s anything I can do for you at Nicole’s or Cleopatra’s… or for that matter at your home on Tranby Lane I’m your man. In actual fact, you could do with some extra security lighting at all three.’
Brian and Ken had moved slightly away while Grantmore and Holland chatted and were busy examining the next stage of the work.
Grantmore’s brain synapses had started to fire. He had vaguely registered Holland’s comments as meaning, “I know where you live”. He was also processing the notion that he had met this man before, but a full interpretation of the situation had not yet fully formed.
‘I heard about what happened to your face,’ continued Holland in a friendly conversational tone. ‘Do you know who did it? Must be a right nasty bastard. A nutcase.’
He moved forward and put his face closer to Grantmore’s, invading his personal space as if to get a better look at the injury. ‘Right fucking mess,’ he concluded.
Grantmore began to react to what was obviously developing into a very strange confrontation. He put his hand on the electrician’s chest and firmly pushed him back, out of his face. On the other side of the room, Brian and Ken became aware that the intended business meeting was developing into something altogether different and began to take an interest.
‘I fucking know you…’
‘I’m sure we can put all that behind us. Business is business after all. So no hard feelings between us then, Mr Grantmore,’ smiled Russ Holland amiably.
Suddenly Grantmore made the connection.
‘You fucking bastard,’ he screamed, and launched himself at the man he was convinced had blinded him.
The two builders watched in amazement as Grantmore threw him to the ground, sat astride him and began raining blows to his face, causing blood to burst from Holland’s nose. Before they could react, Grantmore jumped to his feet and kicked the prone and passive Holland several times to his body. He then stood back, panting, staring down at his victim who lay still.
Ken pulled out his mobile phone and punched in “999”.
‘You fucking bastard,’ repeated Grantmore, breathing heavily, his fists clenched by his side. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming here?’
He launched a further kick, this time aimed at Holland’s head.
The two builders would later describe to the police how Holland’s hand shot out, grabbing Grantmore’s inbound foot and twisting it so that Grantmore fell to the floor alongside him. They explained how, in fury, Grantmore once more sat astride the still prone Holland and began to throttle him. Their statements went on to outline how Holland never threw a punch or kick but in order only to protect himself, the electrician grabbed his attacker by the throat with his right hand and slowly forced him to his feet and against a wall. They were amazed that Grantmore seemed totally unable to continue his attack, turning limp and useless, while Holland was apparently effortlessly holding him firmly in place with one hand. They told how when Holland released the grip, Grantmore slid down the wall to sit slumped against it, panting for breath, only to resume his attack when he recovered. Again, Holland d
id not retaliate and the two builders had no choice but to restrain their employer while he struggled to get at Holland in a frenzy of shouting and swearing. It was only the sound of approaching police sirens that finally brought his aggression to a halt.
When a young PC walked into the room, the four men were now calm but the two builders were still hanging on to their captive, even though he had ceased to struggle. Russ Holland stood quietly trying to mop the blood away from his face with his handkerchief, although his nose was still bleeding heavily. Ken and Brian were both well-built and fit men and they had no trouble or qualms about manhandling Grantmore. Neither man was concerned about his criminal reputation as a hard man. They were Hull lads born-and-bred and moved in circles that would regard him as just a flash pimp and a bully. It was the nature and connections of the two builders that had led Holland to select them as the witnesses to his confrontation with Grantmore. He knew they would not be intimidated and would not be afraid to tell the truth about what happened. The phony tender to complete the electrics was a perfect opportunity to let Grantmore know he was watching him. That he was there. He wanted him scared, edgy and constantly looking over his shoulder.
He had not wanted or planned this police intervention and had been surprised at Grantmore’s immediate violent reaction when he eventually recognised him. However, he had seen it as a possibility beforehand and had deliberately not fought back, using the choke hold not only to protect himself, but to illustrate to Grantmore how easy it would be to do him harm. Just doing something and evoking such an extreme reaction gave Holland some immediate relief. Grantmore was well and truly riled and he was sure that the two builders, who he had known for over ten years, would describe Grantmore as the aggressor and he would be unable to allege that Holland had in any way threatened or assaulted him.
Now that the police were involved, Russ thought he may as well gain another credible witness, so before the officer could even speak he held his arms outstretched, palms open in the universally accepted gesture of peace and reconciliation.
In a voice feigned to show his emotion at what had happened, he said, “Sean, there was no need for this, I just wanted the work. We have to move on.’ He shook his head in dismay and went back to trying to stem the blood from his nose.
As he had hoped, Grantmore again went berserk, struggling against his captors and screaming blue murder. Ken and Brian renewed their efforts to hang on to the bloke who was, for a couple of months at least, paying their wages. How he was going to react to their restraint was weighing heavily on both their minds. Would they keep the contract? Ken, who was the “brains” in the partnership, decided that the cops were here now and unilaterally decided to let go. Brian was caught unawares and Grantmore pulled violently free only to crash into the officer, knocking him over into a filthy pile of brick and plaster rubble, his helmet dislodging and going skittering across the dirty concrete floor. The collision stilled Grantmore, and Brian finally let his grip relax as they watched the officer rise to his feet and assess the damage to his uniform.
The sound of another approaching siren – or it could have been the sight of his ruined uniform – galvanised the copper into action. He flung his right arm around Grantmore’s neck, pulled him into a headlock and threw him to the floor, lying heavily across his chest while maintaining his hold.
‘You’re under arrest for assault.’
At this point, whether that was for assault upon himself, or Holland, no one knew.
Twenty-One
12:30 That Same Day
Monday, 8th February 1999
I had returned from my meeting with Mrs Beedham to the incident room and imparted the good news to an elated PC Granger that he was now off the hook for his unprofessional amorous liaison. I did not, of course, reveal how I had achieved this unexpected result; just that I had put myself at some risk in so doing. I told him that DC Young was taking over as the FLO. By any view, this was a great result and he did seem extremely grateful. I just hoped he was now even more reluctant to use the leverage he had over me around Morley and Holland. Always the poker player, however, he didn’t reciprocate and let me know that I was off the hook.
I’d started my Monday morning with four pressing problems. I’d resolved one – the least pressing. Now I had to make inroads into the other three. “Operation Look After Darnley” had to make progress.
Where to start?
I had an ambitious newspaper reporter literally sitting on a career-making scoop – a Falkland’s War hero living under a false identity mutilates the man acquitted of his daughter’s rape, and a top cop fails to act on eyewitness testimony. He even had a follow-up story with the ex-Para now stalking the victim to finish him off. Thank God he didn’t know about Morley’s photographs. Although I thought he’d swallowed my lie about Morley refusing to give evidence, I couldn’t imagine him sitting on the story for long. My promise to feed him stories he must now have seen as just minor titbits.
My first priority in trying to stop him exposing this saga was to stem Russ Holland’s bloodlust. I had to warn Holland off and convince Wilde that Grantmore was safe. The longer I could stall Wilde, the harder it would be for him to ever use the story, as it would seem like he had colluded with me – which of course he had.
But let alone Wilde; how long could I rely on Morley’s hatred of Grantmore and Granger’s gratitude to me, for neither of them to expose my failings?
Self-preservation was undoubtedly my overriding priority, but the murder of the young man in the north-east and the potential links to my inquiry had increased the pressure not only on me as the SIO, but also on the force for progress. Due to the rarity of tiger kidnap offences, the National Criminal Intelligence Service (NCIS) had arranged to send officers to both incident rooms to make sure enquiries were effectively coordinated. Our arrest of Grantmore six days earlier, on the day Harrod was murdered, had sparked the interest of our ACPO team, who because of those added national pressures were pushing me ever harder for updates – and more detail. I now had little choice but to reveal the source of the photograph outside the Silver Cod, used to justify Grantmore’s arrest, as I honestly believed, from Grantmore’s reactions, that it was the key to opening up the two enquiries. I had to persuade Morley to step forward as a witness and explain why and when he had taken the photograph. In this way, the identification of Grantmore with the Vectra and the as yet unknown driver could enter the official evidence chain. This route obviously risked exposing my initial failings with Morley, but I considered I could ride that lack of judgement – as long as the full story about the evidence in his files didn’t come out. I was now pretty sure Granger would back me up. I’d considered meeting Morley personally, apologising for my earlier mistakes and seeking his cooperation but judged that Granger would have more success. Even if he did, I still had to hope that Morley’s hatred of Grantmore would continue to override his public duty in relation to the photographs proving Holland mutilated him.
Having thus secured the witness introducing the photograph, I then intended to be open with NCIS and ACPO about Grantmore’s arrest being an attempt to try and pressure him to inform on the man driving the Vectra, and who I was now assuming were his criminal associates from the north-east. I had also determined that I would admit “off-the-record” conversations with him – albeit somewhat sanitised versions – in which I had “threatened” to release the photo to the media to increase that pressure, and he had already clearly implied his involvement.
Although some of my fellow investigators and senior officers might feel my methods somewhat out-dated and ethically dubious, I doubted they would have a better idea. I expected them to discuss holding an identity parade for Janice Cooper to look at Grantmore, but from her brief description of the man with the car, it sounded much more like the tall, well-built man wearing the Sunderland scarf. It wasn’t Grantmore, who was a good six inches smaller, and we’d also ruled out Emmerson. The reality w
as that there was no hard evidence to link Grantmore to the actual crimes and no easy legal and ethical way forward. The only suggestion I could make was to continue to exert any pressure we could summon to make him grass. Get that photo in the paper. They’d never agree.
What I had concluded was that I needed to get hold of Grantmore – today – and tell him our negotiations were at an end – from here on in, it was by the book. I couldn’t afford to stick my neck out any further with this review of the inquiry approaching.
The bit I couldn’t figure out was how to stop Russ Holland. I was toying with the idea of letting him know I knew his true identity, showing him the photographs Morley had taken and warning him off any further reprisals. I had even considered telling him I was close to linking Grantmore to the robberies and murders and he would soon get the sentence he deserved, so he had no reason for his personal vendetta. But in my heart, I knew he no longer trusted the legal process and was a complete loose cannon. I would be telling him too much for little practical purpose.
But I had to warn him off and reassure Wilde. How?
Not for the first time did I wish I had never gone to Hull Crown Court on that day, hoping to witness Grantmore get sent down for rape. I wished I’d never set eyes on Russ Holland – or whoever the hell he really was.
A Duty of Revenge Page 18