The doorstep confrontation had actually gone better than Wilde, the crime editor, or even Darnley could have hoped. The three journalists were celebrating that success.
The editor-in chief raised his glass to Richard. “You’re going places, kid, if you keep this up. Well done. Well done. Why the hell he even said anything I don’t get. If he hadn’t run off at the mouth like he did, we’d have struggled to print anything.’
Richard could not help but bask in the glow of the top man’s admiration. How things had changed in less than four hours. Darnley had gone from his nemesis to his saviour. He raised his glass towards his boss and blew his own trumpet a little more.
‘He had refused to answer any questions and was busy ushering us off his property when I tried one last ploy. I intimated that the DS who was pilloried at the inquest by the family’s solicitor was the person who had tipped us off about the celebration at Wintringham Fields. Then he just lost his temper… and his judgement.’
This was of course exactly what Darnley had told him to do. Imply that DS Naylor was the source of his information.
Wilde continued boasting. ‘I must have just hit a nerve… it was a guess but there’s obviously something about DS Naylor… he immediately began to cast aspersions on his ability, admitted that the DS had rung him about the body but never requested he attend the scene and had not accurately explained the circumstances.’
‘So we have a neat and tidy… and verifiable account we can run with,’ chuckled the editor-in-chief, ‘family convinced it’s a murder, Open verdict, an incompetent DS according to the detective superintendent, who himself is too busy having a posh dinner… and apparently well pissed… to visit a potential murder scene. We need a comment from the Chief Constable to round it off… then we run the family’s campaign for justice. Fucking beautiful. This’ll get national interest.’
‘I have a little bit more’, grinned Richard. ‘Remember that case last month when Sean Grantmore was blinded? Kingston was taken off it because he buggered up the scene. Could we incorporate that into the story? I have checked what my source has told me and Kingston was definitely the first senior officer to attend the incident.’
‘Oh, it just gets better. Our lazy, drunken senior detective is also incompetent. We can probably drip that in later… keep the story running a little longer.’ The boss raised his whisky once more to his favourite young reporter and chucked in another “You will go far, young man”.
The crime editor, however, was now lost in his own thoughts. Young Wilde was obviously getting his information from someone in Humberside Police who clearly wanted to shaft Detective Superintendent Kingston. From his experience, which was considerable, this had all the hallmarks of Matt Darnley. He recalled that it had indeed been Darnley he had interviewed about the attack on Grantmore last month and he had investigated the Daggett murder. So there were clear links. If Richard Wilde had somehow fallen into Darnley’s clutches, he’d need to be very, very careful.
*
It was early evening and I had just put the finishing touches to my presentation for tomorrow morning’s review. I was buzzing. Jane Greenhall had rung about an hour earlier to say that Crabbe was also intending to attend and had suggested we hold it in the incident room as opposed to Headquarters – to add an air of “authenticity”. Even she couldn’t resist a chuckle at Crabbe’s choice of description. I was growing more confident that the review would go well, as the inquiry was looking set to progress rapidly. I was just keen to hear from Granger that Morley had provided a statement. Richard Wilde had contacted me immediately after his confrontation with Kingston, proud to be en route to debrief his editor-in-chief. He’d promised to ring me back after the meeting to let me know how the Mail proposed to handle the story.
It seemed like I had killed two of my birds.
There was a knock on the door and yet again the indomitable Detective Sergeant Ride came in with more news.
‘Hey up, boss, something’s afoot. I’ve just had Professional Standards on the blower telling me to let you know that DS Naylor has been suspended. Now. Forthwith. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred pounds. Superintendent Proctor wants you to ring him so he can explain.’
Bird number three dispatched!
I pretended to look surprised. ‘Why? Do we know?’
‘Well, they obviously didn’t tell little old me… but a little bird tells me it’s something to do with talking to the Hull Mail.’
‘Bollocks… about our job? Not just when we are at a vital point?’
I hoped I was sounding convincing, as Ridey had an extremely well-tuned bullshit detector.
I hadn’t expected anything to happen this quickly. Wilde had told me what had happened and how Kingston had lost his temper, and he was hoping that the story would appear in tomorrow’s paper. I wondered if Kingston had taken the initiative, got in first and dropped Naylor.
‘Cheers, Tony. I’ll ring and find out what’s going on. Have you heard anything from Pete Granger? Has he tracked Morley down yet?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about that. He rang about an hour ago to say he’s been to his flat again and then to his workplace… he works part-time for the Hull City Council in their IT department on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and he never turned up yesterday or today. Granger’s really worried about him.’
‘Damn. That old guy who lived in the same flats reckons he hasn’t seen him since Thursday.’
I knew that Morley had spoken to Richard Wilde on Friday, so it seems he had not been about since then. I was also starting to get worried.
‘Tell Pete to leave his number with the neighbour, at his work and with anyone else that might see him. Make sure they ring us as soon as he surfaces. When he’s done that, get him back here to see me.’
When Ridey left, I sat and pondered about how I’d play tomorrow’s review if we hadn’t managed to track Morley down and obtain the statement. I needed to speak to Granger, so we could coordinate how we’d explain the photograph and Morley’s role. But first I had to ring Superintendent Proctor before he went off duty. While I was looking up his number, another thought struck me. This morning, I had set out to merely knock Kingston off his stride – temporarily stall his desire to drop me in the shit by giving him something else to think about. It seemed from Wilde’s earlier ebullient phone call that that objective had been well and truly delivered. Could I now go further?
Steve Proctor picked up immediately and after exchanging pleasantries, he launched into business explaining what I already knew about the inquest into Keith Donovan’s death, the family’s outrage and Naylor’s alleged shortcomings. He explained that the family had this very afternoon made a formal complaint about the officer and about Humberside Police in general failing to adequately investigate the circumstances. He then went on to describe how Detective Superintendent Kingston within an hour of that complaint being made demanded to see ACC Paul Jones and described how he had been confronted at his own home by two Hull Mail reporters, using information that he alleged could only have come from Detective Sergeant Naylor. Jones had ordered Naylor’s immediate suspension.
So Kingston had decided to get in first.
Already knowing the answers, I probed him for more detail about what the reporters knew and bit by bit the story of the anniversary dinner came out, along with Kingston’s version of events – that Naylor had rung him but had not properly described the circumstances and had never actually asked him to attend the scene. How, of course, he would have done, if the DS had done his job properly. Kingston was also claiming that after his grilling at the inquest, Naylor had threatened him that if he didn’t admit he had failed to attend and thus exonerate him, he would go to the press. I queried if that was true why Kingston had never done anything about such a threat from a junior officer. After all, this had supposedly taken place last week.
At this point, Steve Proctor
asked me to hang on a moment, and I heard him get up and close his office door before he continued.
‘Exactly. The whole thing fucking stinks. I’ve raised that already but everyone knows I hate the bastard, and think I’m just being vindictive.’
He sounded bloody vindictive.
Steve Proctor had been my fellow detective superintendent until Crabbe had decided that his career needed “developing” – to make way for Kingston’s to be developed – in the CID. Steve had been a damn good detective, rising right through the ranks of CID in his thirty-two years police service and he had bitterly resented being what he saw as side-lined – put out to grass – for a “Bramshill flyer” on his way up the slippery pole to the top. He knew he’d never now get to be a detective chief superintendent and Head of CID, his ultimate and, to be fair, well-deserved final career goal. A sideways move to the Professional Standards Branch was in his view a way of nudging him into retirement and a humiliating end to his career.
It was all too easy to press his buttons.
‘Look, Steve, we worked well as a team. We trusted each other and watched each other’s backs. I can’t stand Kingston and he’s fucking useless, but apart from all that, I reckon you’re dead right to smell a rat. If Naylor had really threatened him with going to the press, Kingston would have run crying to either his mentor Paul Jones or even the ruddy Chief.’
‘I’ve said all this, but of course Paul Jones is overseeing the complaint and the inquiry into Naylor. Jones and Kingston are two peas out of the same pissing pod. Kingston’s told him he never reported Naylor’s threats, as he thought the man was just overwrought and he dealt with it himself… man to man. Didn’t want to get him into bother. Like hell.’
‘Just between you and me, I’ve got little time for Naylor but he just wouldn’t dare not to try and call out a more senior detective to a suspicious death. He’d just want to pass the buck and watch his own back.’ I paused for dramatic effect… ‘And from what I’ve heard, he’s Kingston’s man, his snout… and Kingston has somehow got the black on him.’
‘Can you find out what?’
‘I’ll do my best and be in touch. But this is just between me and you, okay?’
‘Bloody hell, Matt, as you say, we’ve watched each other’s backs enough times to trust each other. Come on, mate… I might even get my old job back.’
Twenty-Seven
That Same Evening
Tuesday, 9th February 1999
As Richard Wilde left the boardroom following what was probably the proudest moment of his fledgling career, one hundred miles away in Newcastle, Peter Frame sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. The woman beside him stretched luxuriously and with her sexiest smile asked him to light her one too. He did as he was asked, smiling back at the extremely attractive Debbie Pike, while mentally counting how long it had taken him to get Billy Pike’s young widow into bed. His smile turned to a self-satisfied grin. It was just five days. Five days after he and Mick had dropped Billy into the cold North Sea from the stern of The Blaydon Races.
‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Debbie, poking him playfully in the ribs.
‘Just thinking that you were even better in bed than I’d imagined… and wondering what the hell you see in Billy.’
He had almost said “saw”.
‘Money. Easy money. No more and no less.’ She grinned too and drew hard on the fag.
After he and Mick had disposed of their bungling accomplice, Frame had grown perturbed that his wife had not contacted him, worried about his whereabouts. After five days, he had gone to suss out what the hell was going on and decided to ask her where the hell he was. Within half an hour, she had seduced him. The sex had been incredible and he was now confident that she wasn’t suspicious about Billy’s absence – and certainly wasn’t concerned.
The truth was that Debbie suspected Billy was dead and that the man she had just slept with had killed him. If Frame had known what she was thinking she would have already met the same fate as her husband.
Debbie had known for some time that her husband, Frame and Keegan were committing crime. There was no other explanation for the change in Billy’s fortunes. She had known Billy Pike a long time and him being flush with money was not due to hard work, a lottery win or the death of a long-lost relative – he had to be nicking it.
Billy had been one of the well-known local teenage tearaways when she was still at primary school. The sort of lad her mam and dad tried to steer her away from, but the type to which she was irresistibly drawn – the hard, bad lads. His conviction for an assault at a Newcastle United game, when he was about eighteen, only enhanced his appeal. By the time she was fourteen, he’d joined the army and left the area. She’d still see him about when he was home on leave and still fancied him, but their paths never crossed.
By the time she was twenty, she’d already had a kid to one bloke, who immediately cleared off, and within a year married another who turned out to be just as useless as the father of her young son. At twenty-three, she had two kids and was on her own in a council flat on the Cowgate estate, fulfilling the fears of her parents. When Billy Pike reappeared permanently in the area a few years ago, she had used her still effective feminine wiles to attract the ex-squaddie. She then basically used him as a meal ticket, in exchange for the odd night in her bed. Billy was infatuated by Debbie, who was about seven years his junior and far more attractive than any woman he had ever managed to bed without agreeing a price beforehand. Having actually met and got to know the object of her schoolgirl crush, she realised he was both boring and possessive. But he was generous. For those few years, Debbie enjoyed more creature comforts than she had for years and although she felt no affection for him, she continued to sponge off him while keeping him interested.
Then, over a period of two or three months, things changed. His gifts became more extravagant, he began to dress better and he purchased his rented flat. He told her about two of his old buddies from the army who had moved back to the Newcastle area, one of whom had his own haulage business and the other who rented a trawler. He had told her how he was working for both of them and making plenty of money, and his declarations of devotion became more earnest and regular – alongside his increasing generosity. This wasn’t the high life but for Debbie Banks it was beyond what she’d ever experienced. Billy’s pleas to marry him and move in became decidedly more attractive.
Debbie didn’t even finish her schooling but she was smart and streetwise and had learnt through her experiences with her two previous feckless partners. She was no longer a mug where men were concerned. So before she committed to Billy Pike, she made it her business to find out all she could about Billy’s new employers: Peter Frame and Mick Keegan.
Billy had never taken her out in either of the men’s company but their paths had crossed a couple of times and she had been introduced to them both. She had blushed – a very rare reaction for Debbie – when Frame had overtly appraised her feminine charms. His height, good looks and dress sense were complemented by his velvety cultured voice and confidence. Billy had introduced him as his former senior officer and new employer. As he shook her hand with a warm, dry and firm grip, he looked directly into her eyes and told her what a lucky lady she was to have such a reliable and honest man as Billy Pike looking after her. Billy had virtually exploded with pride and later told her all about the university-educated senior officer, but despite her questioning remained vague about exactly what work he was doing for him. She was intrigued by Frame and why he was employing such a jerk as Billy.
When eventually they met Frame again in a city centre bar, he was with Billy’s other ex-army colleague and employer, Mick Keegan. Frame was just as charming and even more attentive as he invited her and Billy to join them for a drink. He quite deliberately left his leg resting against hers beneath the table and as she rose to leave, gave her bare thigh a gentle squeeze. Keegan on the other hand bare
ly passed the time of day, obviously not happy about Frame asking them to join them. As with Frame, she was unable to prise from Billy exactly what he did for Keegan, other than “this and that”.
Over the next few months, Billy would stay more regularly at her house, and his efforts to persuade her to move in and marry him intensified, and her will to resist slowly weakened. When he bought a small house in a nicer area, she realised that although she’d never love Billy Pike, he would provide for her and the kids better than any of the other no-hopers she was likely to meet. Her only doubts now remained about how long this could last. She had spotted the pattern where Billy would disappear for several days at a time, saying that he was either driving for Frame, usually down south, or accompanying Keegan on a fishing trip. These absences would be prefaced by urgent meetings he had to attend and a string of phone calls on his newly acquired Nokia mobile, that all seemed to require privacy. Once away, he never contacted her but would return home in a much more animated state than was his normal demeanour, and his generosity would know no bounds. His reluctance to discuss where he had been, or what he had been doing, was obvious and it was at this point in their relationship, on the verge of agreeing to marry him, that she concluded he was committing crimes with his ex-army buddies and she needed to know more. She had no qualms whatsoever about living on the proceeds of crime, but she needed to be assured of her intended husband’s future prospects. Was this ever-improving lifestyle likely to be long-lasting? A short-lived shot at a financially secure and comfortable marriage, quickly followed by a husband in prison was not in her plan. In the end, the fact that a well-educated ex-army officer was obviously in charge reassured her, and even Billy’s tight-lipped stance on his job and where he had been, helped to convince her that things were being tightly run and her future was looking good. Eventually, all her misgivings dissipated and in August 1998 she married Billy and moved into his house.
A Duty of Revenge Page 24