A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  ‘Now where were we, Sean?’ I began as soon as the warder had left us alone.

  He just sat, slumped.

  ‘Well, Sean, I have good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?’ I asked in my most cheery and friendly tone.

  He remained silent and motionless. Beaten.

  ‘Okay. Good news first… just to cheer you up. We’re going to go with your plan… or at least a good part of it. I want you to set up the next job. If you do that and if you’re telling the truth about your role, I’ll keep your charges to a minimum and speak to the trial judge.’

  There was no response.

  ‘Now the bad news. I intend to arrest you on suspicion of robbery and get your admissions on tape.’

  Now I had his attention. He pulled himself upright and looked a bit more like the old Grantmore. Angry.

  So I carried on: ‘This is what you’re going to do to save your own life. You will admit to me now your role in the crimes. Keep it brief. Just enough for me to justify your arrest. Then I’ll get two detectives off the incident to interview you formally. At that point, I want names and details of the man in the photograph and the rest of his gang. I want whereabouts of guns, the money, addresses, phone numbers, garages, lock-ups… you know the score. Where I’m going to find hard evidence.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m giving you a statement or saying any of this on tape. It’s all got to be off the record.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Sean, and you know it.’

  ‘I walk… without charges… or no deal.’

  ‘Just think a minute, Sean. Say I agreed… which I can’t… but you stick to that approach and then we arrest this lot and they drop you. Say you were there. You supplied the gun. You pulled the trigger. There’s nothing to stop them.’

  His bluster had disappeared. He was thinking. I paused a while to let it sink in.

  ‘Then we’ll have to arrest you and, of course, at that point you are going to look like a liar if you claim just to have set the jobs up… a jury would think “that’s what he would say”. It would be your word against theirs.’

  ‘And remember, another force are involved… I can’t control what the police up there decide to do. Stick with me. I’m offering to let you get in first… get your account down officially… it sounds more convincing. We’ll formally alibi you for when the robberies and murders took place, so if they try and stick some of the shit to you, we’ll know it’s a lie from the outset. That’ll make anything else they say look like lies. No guarantee, I accept, but…’

  ‘I can prove I was nowhere near the murder of Emmerson. I’ve already got that covered. And I wasn’t up north when that young kid got shot. I knew nowt about that ’til you showed me it in the papers.’

  He was warming to my proposal.

  ‘Just tell me now what you know. I’ll make sure you get bail for this and the assault on Holland. There won’t be a court appearance yet. I can argue that you are continuing to provide valuable intelligence about robberies and murders and I need you to be in contact with the suspects to gain more intelligence… and prevent another robbery and who knows what else.’

  I paused. I was nearly convincing myself.

  ‘Or we can just go right back to me putting the photo of you and the main man in the media and wait and see what happens. You’ll just have to trust me.’

  The truth was, he couldn’t trust me. I was manipulating him into admitting his role, implicating his accomplices, and providing sworn evidence against them. I was arranging his prison time and probably his death warrant. But the reality was he had nowhere else to go. He was beaten.

  He fell silent again. Slumped. Thinking. Until eventually: ‘I’ve got no choice.’

  All remnants of resolve deserted him at that moment and he started talking. First, naming the man in the photograph – Paul Frame. How Frame had coerced him into setting up the crimes, due to the fifty grand debt he’d first told me about in the Molescroft pub. Next, he named Michael Keegan and Billy Pike, telling me of their army background and how Frame had intimated he had killed Emmerson. As he spoke, I could see why he was so malleable to my threats – he was already truly terrified of Frame.

  What he told me was ample to justify the arrests of all three men – and himself – but he seemed either unable, or unwilling, to reveal any hard evidence. I pushed for information about the whereabouts of the cash or guns or anything he’d witnessed, but nothing came. My instinct was that he had little to tell beyond his part in setting the robberies up. I hoped he would reveal more under closer scrutiny, when formally interviewed. One thing was for sure: from what he’d said of Frame’s planning and expertise, I seriously doubted we’d find any useable evidence if we locked them up now, based solely on his say-so. Then they’d walk.

  I had to move on, so we quickly discussed his progress so far in identifying potential targets near Hull for Frame. He was expected to have completed that task later this week and the job was likely to happen the following week. He emphasised to me how Frame would always demand to meet the driver alone and then with that person and their local knowledge, carry out a reconnaissance of the potential targets, keeping the final choice secure from even Pike and Keegan, until the job happened. So he stressed how he would be unable to tell me the definitive target in advance.

  I told him that my plan was for the job never to take place in any case. It was too risky. Then I dropped my next bombshell.

  ‘No need to find a driver, Sean. I need the person we put into the gang to be trustworthy. Working for me… not you.’

  He flung up his arms in horror. ‘You mean an undercover cop? No fucking way. They’d give evidence behind screens and all that and everyone would know I’m a grass. I’d have everyone in the bloody prison after me, not just him and his crew.’

  ‘Calm down, I’m not going to use a copper and they won’t ever be giving evidence. Don’t tell me a man in your trade has never heard of a participating informant? It’s legal but they’ll never go near a court, or give evidence, and their identity will be protected.’

  I explained the basic principles to him and I could see his scepticism lessening as I told him how a judge would give their authority to keep their identity from the court.

  ‘All I need you to do is to put my driver in contact with the gang, pretending he’s your man. You won’t even have to meet him. As I say, I don’t want the robbery you set up to even take place. I can’t let anyone else get hurt. And that’s better for you. If we catch them actually committing a crime you set up, they’ll know it was you or the driver that grassed. But if I can get them before the job because the driver unearths some evidence about the murders or robberies that have already taken place, it’s safer all round… even for you.’

  Not a very convincing argument – they’d still think it was him and the planted driver – but this was a war of attrition. I continued to explain the legal niceties around the use of participating informants, as I figured if we both kept talking and it all sounded legit, he’d fall for it.

  He kept quiet. Thinking.

  I then stressed that he could not tell his interviewers what we had agreed. All he must say was that he had told me that he suspected Frame was planning another job in the Hull area soon. That would explain why I would order his release after interview so that he could pass me details of the next job when he got them from Frame. I explained I could sell this plan to my superiors as protecting the public and potential victims.

  I’d done all I could think of. I now just needed him to admit his part under caution and on tape.

  I held the faint hope that he might tell his interviewers more than he’d told me, or Northumbria might have had a breakthrough. Maybe just the names of Frame, Keegan and Pike might trigger rapid results, or at least the confidence to find hard evidence if we locked them up straight away. The last thing I wanted was for what we had just agreed
to actually happen. I didn’t want him setting up another job, let alone use an unofficial participating informant. That was just my “emergency” backstop that I prayed I wouldn’t need. I didn’t even want to have to let him have bail if at all possible, as with all the pressure on him there was a chance he could flee. But to be honest I gave that scenario little thought and judged it a risk worth taking. He was born and bred in Hull with his criminal empire in the city that I guessed he rarely left.

  There were a thousand and one questions I still wanted to ask him. I still needed more details but I had to leave that to the formal taped interviews. As I walked him back to the custody suite, I reassessed my backup plan – my last resort. Was it viable? The planted driver would have several days to dig around and potentially find some additional evidence before another job even took place. If that didn’t work, we could pull him out and still arrest the gang on what evidence we had. Was it worth a try? Worth the risk?

  What I did know was that Frame intended to commit another crime. He would do that with or without Grantmore’s help. Without Grantmore, we wouldn’t know where or when it was and it was highly likely someone else would get hurt or even killed. So if we didn’t have any evidence to make a speculative arrest stick, then the potential of my plan was obvious. It at least gave us a chance to find some before we struck – and before they did. We’d have more control. We’d know when and where they planned to strike – and could get in first.

  In the custody suite, I formally arrested Grantmore and as he was led away to his cell, I began to feel energised, buoyed by the reaction I knew I’d get back at the incident room when I returned with the names of our suspects. I would be vindicated in my arrest of Grantmore as a fishing trip last week. Today’s progress would re-energise the team. Investigative velocity would be restored.

  I was still in the custody suite, on the phone with DS Ride discussing who I wanted to carry out the interview, when I became aware of the warder using the landline on his desk behind the counter. I gained the impression from the way he kept glancing at me that I was the topic of his conversation. I turned away and pretended to still be engaged on the phone, while I listened.

  ‘Yes, sir, he’s here now and has arrested Grantmore for robbery.’ He paused, obviously listening, until, ‘No, sir, he left just over an hour ago.’ I guessed he must have been referring to Granger.

  My hunch was that he was talking to Kingston. It made sense based upon his threat at lunchtime. It was obviously not just me who had snouts in the custody suite, and he would no doubt have a couple of his favourites on my inquiry. I’d have to watch my back, as although not the world’s best detective, he had the authority to start to dig if he chose to do so, and if he dug in the correct places I was in bother.

  It was late and I’d been at work since half seven and had only eaten a sandwich. I was tired and hungry – but wired. Things were happening and for the first time in weeks, I felt back in control. I rang Granger to check on progress but was disappointed to hear that so far he’d been unable to find Morley, who was not even answering his mobile. I told him to book off duty with DS Ride, update him and resume his search early the next day. I stressed the urgency of his mission.

  My next call was to Richard Wilde.

  Twenty-Four

  Later That Same Evening

  Pete Granger felt energised. Just glad to be concentrating on the work he loved after the trauma, doubts and worries of the last few weeks. He’d decided to ignore Darnley’s instructions and pay one last visit to Morley’s flat on Anlaby Road, before he booked off duty and went home, but as soon as he pulled up he could see he was wasting his time – the flat was in darkness. He wondered where he might be at this time on a Monday night. But then chuckled to think he could be outside Nicole’s or Cleopatra’s looking for his quarry, when Grantmore was safely tucked up where Morley wanted him – in a cell. He resolved to be back at the flat and talking to Morley before seven in the morning and thus able to update the briefing.

  As he drove towards home, his thoughts turned to Amy and their continuing troubles. After things had come to a climax with his attack on Knaggs, she had admitted her affair but declared her undying love and become excessively loving and caring, which he found false and cloying. He realised as he drove that he was glad that she was on night shift and he would probably not even see her before she left. To make sure their paths didn’t cross, he decided he would call in at his local, the Hop Pole, and have a well-deserved pint. The very fact that he had decided to do this convinced him that their marriage was over, and he resolved to bring matters to a head as soon as possible. As he pulled into the pub car park, his mobile rang.

  Thinking it could only be Darnley, he answered it with, ‘Hi, sir, he’s still not in. I’ll try again first thing in the morning.’

  A voice he didn’t recognise said, ‘Who’s not in, PC Granger?’

  Immediately on his guard, he replied, ‘Who is this?’

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Kingston. I asked you a question, Constable. Who is not in? And furthermore, to whom did you think you were talking?’ The questions came as commands.

  ‘I thought it was the incident room at Driffield, sir. I was trying to complete an action on my way home but the man isn’t in.’

  Granger had never met Kingston and only knew of him by reputation – a bully and a tosser. Like virtually every other officer in the force, he had laughed at the story of his indecision when Grantmore was found manacled to the bed with his eye ruined.

  ‘Where are you, Officer?’ demanded Kingston.

  ‘Willerby, sir. Just about to go off duty.’

  ‘I want you in my office here at Queens Gardens in twenty minutes.’

  The line went dead.

  He knew nothing about the current tensions between the two superintendents but rationalised that his only possible connection with Kingston was through Grantmore and Holland – and thus Darnley’s ducking and diving. His “fight or flight” instincts were instantly alert.

  He tried to ring Darnley but his mobile went straight to answerphone. He had little choice but to set off for Queens Gardens, and arrived within the twenty minutes Kingston had demanded. He tried Darnley’s phone again, this time leaving him a message about his summons to see his opposite number. A couple of minutes later he was on the top corridor, hoping he’d find Matt Darnley’s office light was on, but the only office occupied at that time of night was Kingston’s.

  He knocked and waited. He was beginning to think he wasn’t in his office when the command ‘Enter’ emanated from the room. He did as he was instructed and remained standing, looking at the senior detective, who was on the far side of his desk busily writing, with his head down over the pages. Granger thought it best to keep quiet. Even to anyone as inexperienced as he, it was all too obvious that Kingston was showing him who was “in charge”.

  After two or three minutes, Kingston ostentatiously replaced the cap on his Montblanc fountain pen, sat back in his high-backed office chair and fixed Granger with a hard stare, again clearly intended to intimidate. With a derisive flick of his hand, he directed Granger to the chair opposite him.

  Granger gave him a confident smile and said, ‘Evening, sir. You’re working late,’ as he sat upright in the much smaller hard-backed office chair. Although the intimidation tactics were working, he was determined not to show it.

  Kingston tipped forward on the chair and came to rest with his arms on his desk, hands clasped together. ‘Yes. And tell me why are you working at all?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why are you not suspended for assaulting Sergeant Knaggs? Because you damn well should be.’

  Granger made no reply.

  ‘Well?’ demanded his interrogator.

  ‘I thought you would know that better than I.’ Granger knew he was being facetious but despite himself, he couldn’t help wanting to wind up this po
mpous little man.

  ‘Adopting some of your new mentor’s attitudes, I see,’ responded Kingston, apparently not wound up at all.

  ‘Mentor, sir?’ Granger continued to play dumb. Mainly because he didn’t have a clue what this was about.

  ‘Okay, Constable, let’s play it your way. When you eventually face a disciplinary panel, you will be sacked. Detective Superintendent Darnley will not be able to help you one jot. You will be unemployed and virtually unemployable.’

  Granger remained silent.

  ‘I know that Darnley is in some way postponing your suspension, and my guess is that you are in some way involved in one of his schemes.’

  Silence.

  ‘He is damn well using you… you must see that?’ stormed Kingston.

  Silence.

  ‘Furthermore, I know it is to do with Sean Grantmore and Russ Holland. Why else would a detective superintendent see both those men while they are in custody in the presence of a uniformed PC?’

  The last three words were spoken with derision, as if a uniformed police constable was the equivalent of a Girl Guide in such a situation.

  Silence.

  ‘Well. What do you say for yourself?’ now almost shouting, his face reddening with anger at what he saw as Granger’s insolence.

  ‘Sorry, sir, was there a question in there? I thought you were telling me something. I was intrigued.’

  He knew he was really pushing his luck but he was damned if he was going to appear intimidated.

  Clearly infuriated, Kingston rose to his feet and leaned forward on his desk.

  ‘Look, Constable, I know all about you and your little slut of a wife. This force does not want people like you, or her… or the sergeant you assaulted for that matter. Unless you tell me what the hell you and Darnley are up to, I’ll make it my personal mission to get you… and your wife… sacked. Is this getting through your thick skull?’

  Granger was amazed. The man had clearly lost it. Intimidation coupled with insults. He decided he’d better tone down the insolence and appear to be intimidated – just to find out what the hell was going on.