A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  He waved the handgun around wildly, using it to indicate where the family should sit, once Ryan was back in the living room and had been joined by his mum and dad.

  When two of the intruders left the house with Ryan’s dad, heading for the family-run post office about a mile away in the village centre, their armed colleague should have only been standing guard over a terrified forty-five-year-old postmistress. Now he also had to control her handsome, six-foot-three rugby-playing son, who was built like the proverbial brick shithouse.

  Ryan should have sat quietly next to his mother as instructed and should not have weighed up the option of suddenly diving over the coffee table that separated them and their captor and ripping his head off. He should not have considered the odds of the gun being a replica. He should not have concluded he could overpower their guard.

  He should have been a chess player, not a rugby prop forward. He should not have been angry and outraged. He should have been calm and cowardly.

  But Ryan was what he was.

  Totally unexpectedly in the eyes of both his mum and the gunman, he threw himself across the room with an almighty yell and closed his strong hands around the neck of the gunman while smashing his forehead down with bone-crunching ferocity on his nose. Blinded by the pain of his broken nose, the battered intruder instinctively pulled the trigger, blowing a hole in Ryan’s guts.

  The gunman should not have had to shoot Ryan.

  Ryan should not have died in front of his screaming mother on her birthday.

  Twelve

  That Same Morning

  As a rule, as soon as my head hits the pillow, sleep rapidly follows. But not last night. I lay on my back plotting and scheming – something I usually did in work time. I ran through the various scenarios I was presented with, looking for a way forward that could protect my job and reputation and get Granger back under control. I had no luck laying in the dark, so at about 4am, I got up and sat at the kitchen table with a strong coffee and tried to work it out with a pen and paper. Most definitely not my usual style – I like to fly by the seat of my pants and rely on gut instinct or intuition, call it what you will. After an hour, I gave up and resolved to meet Granger and play it by ear – it usually worked, so why change the habits of a lifetime?

  I went for a run, then showered and shaved, put on my sharpest suit and headed for Burgess’ Café in Beverley, feeling remarkably calm. I was chewing on a toasted teacake accompanied by yet another strong black coffee when Granger strolled in, looking remarkably fresh. He ordered tea and toast then joined me at the battered pine table in the front window looking out onto Beverley’s only remaining medieval arched entrance, known as North Bar. For a while, we were quiet, both obviously weighing up our options.

  He broke first.

  ‘Sleep well, boss?’ he asked nonchalantly, chewing on his toast.

  I nearly choked on my teacake. Talk about cool. It had been my intention to keep quiet until he started things moving, thinking he’d have spent a sleepless night worrying about a criminal record, the sack and a long stand in the dole queue. Instead, he seemed to be playing me at my own game and I was immediately on the back foot.

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Liar. You’ve been awake all night… just like me… trying to figure out what to do now.’

  ‘Got any ideas?’

  ‘North Sea Ferries to Rotterdam, escape onto the continent until it all dies down?’

  A definite light-hearted response, so I just thought “bollocks” – and took a leap of faith.

  ‘What I do know is we can’t continue to try and shaft each other. We’ve got to work together. We’ve got each other over the proverbial barrel and unless we start doing some smart thinking, we’re both fucked. You’ll be suspended, charged with assault and sacked. Your next career is going to be a pretty shit one after that… nobody wants to employ a sacked copper. I’ll probably keep my job but my reputation will be shot and I’ll end up in charge of fucking traffic or the pissing dogs ’n’ horses.’

  He did not respond.

  ‘You know, I’ve been impressed with how you handled Anne Beedham…’ I stopped, looked at him and laughed at my unintended pun. He broke into a wry smile. I was encouraged and ploughed on.

  ‘Professionally, I mean. That’s why I kept you on the inquiry despite your length of service… you know that. I’ve told you. And I was wrong about Morley. You’ve made good out of my cock-up and come up with an excellent lead for the inquiry. And, while I’m being honest… I have to admit you’ve got the drop on me. You are an intelligent, crafty young bastard and I can tell you have a copper’s nose. If we work together and trust each other, I think we can both get out of this mess… what do you say?’

  He was sat forward, elbows on the table, cradling his drink in both hands, deep in thought. Before he could respond, my mobile rang. The display showed it was Tony Ride.

  ‘Are you on your way in, boss?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll be in about eleven. I’ve got to see Chief Superintendent Sharples in Beverley at ten. Why, what’s up?’

  ‘We’ve been contacted by Northumbria about a job they had last night in Ponteland near Newcastle. Another tiger kidnap and a robbery at a post office. They shot and killed the postmaster’s nineteen-year-old son. They were alerted to our job by NCIS… too early to tell if they’re linked but we should have more by the time you get in.’

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s close to where we recovered the money from the building society. Coincidences again? Find out as much as you can before I get there. See you as soon as I can.’

  I briefly outlined to Granger what I’d been told and expressed my view that this was almost bound to be the same team. The stakes had now been raised considerably and the potential Grantmore connection he had unearthed was in reality our one and only tangible, workable lead.

  ‘Come on, this is why we’re coppers. A nineteen-year-old lad’s been murdered. That’s got to be our priority now. Listen to me and we can sort out our problems and detect the job… but you’ve got to trust me.’

  He sat back and sipped at his drink. Now I kept quiet.

  ‘Okay, let’s start afresh. So have you got any proposals?’ he asked, a touch too sarcastically.

  ‘Yeah. The first thing is, you’ve got to stop being such a clever little shit. It’s no use carrying on like this, strutting about trying to prove you’ve got the biggest dick. Accept I’m the boss, have more experience than you, and I’m meant to tell you what to do. Then you do it.’ I paused. ‘Then we both just might emerge from this cock-up relatively unscathed.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me what to do.’

  ‘Right. First thing is that you keep quiet while we go see Mr Sharples and I get him to convince Professional Standards not to suspend you. I intend to show him the photograph at the Silver Cod, explain the significance and tell him that you have cultivated an important informant who will only talk to you and I need you on the inquiry. When we add the job last night where the young lad was killed, he’ll agree… I know him.’

  The lad looked hopeful but doubtful at the same time.

  ‘You belting that sergeant won’t go away, but if we can detect these jobs with information that you have gained through good police work, me and Martin Sharples can speak up very powerfully on your behalf… and maybe save your job. It’s the best chance you’ll get.’

  I had no intention of telling him that Anne Beedham’s complaint was still just between her and me. Extra bargaining power.

  ‘You’d do that?’

  He now looked almost grateful.

  ‘As you’ve pointed out, you’ve got the black on me over the attack on Grantmore. I’m looking after myself… but in doing so, I have to look after you. We use Morley to get to Grantmore. We agree to leave Holland and that’ll keep Morley sweet.’

  I had no intention of telling him the full detail
s of how I had misread Holland, faked his caution and then manipulated Kingston and the ACC. If Morley’s photos of Holland came out, I was well and truly shafted. He literally only knew the half of it. But I could see how I could still make all that go away.

  ‘Give me the photos of Holland at Grantmore’s place but tell Morley you’ve destroyed them and told no one about them. He hates Grantmore. Holland’s probably his hero.’

  ‘But Holland mutilated Grantmore and now we can prove it. You’re just looking after your own skin.’

  ‘Too true… and as I said… I’ll look after yours.’

  I took a deep breath and another leap of faith.

  ‘Look, Grantmore’s a dangerous arsehole. He got exactly what he deserved. You and I… and Morley… know for sure that Grantmore raped Lisa Holland and got off. The evidence of Lisa plus those answerphone messages is enough for me. Her dad just dispensed the justice she deserved… the justice we, and the courts, failed to deliver. Let’s leave it alone and get Grantmore and whoever killed Emmerson… and maybe this kid up north.’

  He reached a decision – and then into his briefcase and sorted through a few documents before handing me the photographs.

  He sat back, seemingly content. But that lasted only seconds. ‘But… shit… there’s still Anne Beedham…’

  ‘Forget her for now. One step at a time.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Not now. Leave that with me… trust me.’ My tone made it obvious I did not intend to discuss that problem any further at this point.

  He sat back, deflated and deep in thought.

  My priority was definitely to save my own skin, but I was suddenly struck by the realisation that I also really wanted to keep him out of the shit. I wanted to help him. Why?

  I bought us another round of coffees and then explained to PC Granger, who was now acting like a constable again, how we would proceed from here.

  *

  By eleven o’clock, we were both in the incident room with PC Granger’s suspension – at least temporarily – suspended. Martin Sharples had taken a practical approach, as I knew he would, and was far keener on detecting serious crime on his patch than seeking retribution on a young copper who had only done what both of us may have done at his age in the same circumstances. A brief conversation with his counterpart (and friend) in Professional Standards won a temporary reprieve, but the top corridor would ultimately have to be convinced. My priority now was to inject investigative velocity and propel us ahead of the problems snapping at our heels.

  I instructed DS Ride to get all the team in for a briefing at one o’clock and then took Jo Young aside. Jo had worked on several major incidents I had commanded and I knew that she had the same absolute trust in me that I had in her. I told her about Anne Beedham’s complaint about Pete Granger, and although her eyebrows raised as her eyes widened, she made no comment. I told her that I had arranged for us to see Beedham at 2pm that day to record her complaint but due to developments in the case, I would not be able to make the appointment, so I wanted her to deliver a message. My gut reaction about Anne Beedham was that she was angry at being rejected – not hurt at being used. She wasn’t outraged at our young FLO abusing his position, just pissed off that he had been the one to call a halt. I would have bet my pension that if someone more “suitable” had made a play for her, young Granger would have been chucked out of her bed without a second thought. It was based on that hunch that I instructed DC Young.

  ‘I want you to apologise that I am unable to attend due to urgent developments in the case. I appreciate that at the minute you don’t know what they are, but you will after the briefing. I want you to act as if you are just a messenger and a very pissed-off one at that, and that you clearly haven’t got a clue about why she and I need to meet. I want you to let her read this note… but do not leave it with her… actually tell her that I want it back.’

  I handed her the typewritten note and she read it out.

  ‘Sorry, Anne, but due to urgent developments, I cannot keep our appointment. Rest assured I am taking your complaint very seriously. Please contact me on 07854 252347 (private mobile), so we can arrange something, although it will be a couple of days. Sorry to let you down but I will explain when we meet.’

  She handed me the note back, shaking her head in mock disgust and I sealed it into a blank envelope.

  ‘Am I reading her right? Will that last sentence intrigue her? I’m just trying to buy some time while I figure out how to look after young Granger.’

  ‘I reckon if I act a tad jealous and seem interested to know what’s in the note, she’ll be well and truly hooked,’ she laughed, clearly looking forward to this somewhat irregular errand.

  ‘But, Jo, if asked, you never delivered a note. You just cancelled our meeting, as I was busy.’

  Jo Young is one of the smartest coppers I’ve ever worked with and can read people and get them onside better than most. I knew she wouldn’t fail me on this occasion.

  ‘Note. What note?’ she grinned.

  As she left the nick, I grabbed Ridey and showed him the photograph of Grantmore and the car at the Silver Cod. Ten minutes after Jo had left the nick, he was heading for the photo lab at Beverley Police Station.

  I then took Pete Granger into one of the interview rooms and put the finishing touches to the young man’s introduction to noble cause corruption as the media like to call it, or – as I prefer – getting justice done.

  *

  At one o’clock, I faced my assembled team. The room was buzzing with anticipation. The inquiry was now almost two months old and had entered a stage that had become dull and routine – a process-driven trudge. I had learnt the hard way on previous long-running enquiries that by and large, coppers have the attention span of goldfish. We were at the point where some of my team would start to switch off and begin to yearn for a new incident, new excitement and new chances for personal glory – as well as more bloody overtime. So for me to call for an urgent briefing mid-week was a clear signal that something was about to break.

  I knew the next hour was when I would either rev up the team to work longer and harder and more confidently towards a result, or lose them altogether with what they viewed as just another phony lead that would fizzle out. Without doubt detailed regular briefings are one of the necessary components of a major investigation, vital for keeping a team up to date, sharing information, debating potential lines of inquiry, dissecting witness testimony and planning the future direction of the case. For me, it was all that and more. A vital ritual, but something I had practised hard in choreographing whenever necessary to build tension, anticipation, outrage, anger, sorrow or whatever emotion would inject passion and energy into the team. That afternoon, the sequence of my disclosures was designed for such impact.

  I intended to portray the photograph of Grantmore with our suspect vehicle as the break the inquiry deserved – no doubts or worries – the shit or bust lead. Grantmore was to be the key to unlock the case. At this stage, I did not want to debate contrary arguments from the team that it could all be coincidence. I needed them to believe that we were going to nail Grantmore and our murdering robbers.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gents. Hope you’ve all got a drink.’ I looked around. Most nursed a mug and had pens and notebooks poised.

  I nodded to Ridey, who stuck the photograph on the whiteboard behind me. Now blown up to A3 size, it was easy to see in the small incident room.

  Most clocked the car number straight away, sparking a murmur of discussion.

  ‘Come on then. Who are these two?’

  The photograph’s clarity had not improved by being enlarged and in truth would never be useable in evidence to identify either of the two men.

  ‘No way you can ever identify anyone from that,’ said a young DC from Bridlington.

  ‘But what
can we get from it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the Silver Cod, so it puts the car in Hull. Also, it’s snowing hard and it snowed like that a couple of weeks before our job,’ volunteered Jo.

  ‘With what do we associate the Silver Cod?’ I asked expectantly.

  ‘Great beer and… and football,’ someone chipped in. ‘Before and after each Hull City game, supporters gather there.’

  Graham Beatty stood up and walked nearer to the photograph, paused and then turned around to face the rest.

  ‘The big guy getting out of the car is wearing a Sunderland scarf. It’s the fucking north-east connection, the recovered money and the job last night where the young lad got shot.’

  A buzz of excitement.

  ‘And guess what date the Sunderland cup game was?’

  My strategy was working. The room was alive with the sound of brain synapses firing.

  I paused for dramatic effect but Tony Ride, an avid Hull City supporter, already had his Tigers diary out.

  ‘Saturday, 28th of November, and it snowed like hell… and we lost 2-1.’

  Each turned to their partner and the room was enveloped in a hubbub of speculation and excitement. I let it continue for thirty seconds – this is what I wanted and the investigation needed.

  ‘Okay. That car is connected to our job. We assume for now that these two are involved in our job. Who are they?’

  I looked round as if the answer was obvious. Nobody spoke and the euphoria dropped a notch.

  ‘The one waiting by the car is Sean Grantmore.’

  Perfectly on cue.

  All eyes turned to the only uniformed officer in the room. The talk all morning had been about how the hell PC Granger was still at work after smacking a uniformed sergeant. That titbit of gossip had arrived in the incident room the previous day and had been quickly confirmed. Granger’s street cred had shot up immediately, as Knaggs was not a popular man.

  ‘Where’s this photo come from?’ asked one of the HOLMES indexers.