The question I did not want to answer and had not yet figured out how to explain.
‘Our young uniformed colleague here has got himself an informant. The informant took the picture and he has told PC Granger it’s Grantmore.’
Another pause for dramatic effect.
‘It bloody well is,’ said DC Beatty. ‘I’ve had loads of dealings with him and now you’ve said it’s him, I can recognise him. It’d never stand up in court, though.’
A couple more muttered their agreement and claimed to recognise him. I felt the first stirrings that the photograph may truly be the key to the case.
‘Tactics then, folks. How do we proceed?’ I asked.
Although I knew exactly what we were going to do, I wanted them involved in coming to the same conclusion – thus having a stake in the outcome.
‘We only got the photo yesterday and later on today I will get the informant formally registered and hopefully get more info, but I want to move on this now. Tony, have we had any more information from the CID in Newcastle about the murder of the young lad last night?’
‘Nothing fresh, but they have recovered the bullet at the post-mortem, so we might get a match with ours from Emmerson. They also used a BMW, just like on our job. I briefed everyone on the details we do have this morning, so everyone’s up to speed. With this photo as well, it’s got to be connected, boss.’
‘PC Granger, tell us what else you’ve found out, please.’
I beckoned the lad to step forward.
The experienced detectives would hate that this young uniformed copper had cultivated an informant and obtained the photograph and now – they were presuming – another nugget of information. They liked the lad and already admired him for chinning Knaggs – they’d really have loved him if he’d told them how he’d been shagging Anne Beedham. But now I wanted them to start getting pissed off. I wanted them fired up for action.
PC Granger faced the team and looked suitably cocky, as I’d instructed.
‘When I saw the photograph and my informant told me it was Grantmore, I did some digging on the Criminal Intelligence System. He is a known associate of David Emmerson. He has acted as “muscle” at Nicole’s and Cleopatra’s for Grantmore.’
More excited mutterings.
DC Beatty asked, ‘Why has the snout taken this photo?’
I knew that awkward question would be asked but used Granger’s information about Emmerson and Grantmore’s association to deflect it.
‘Never mind about that. How have we missed the Grantmore and Emmerson connection? I thought we were working through Emmerson’s associates.’
Ridey banged the keys on his computer. ‘We haven’t missed it. We created over a hundred actions on associates and we’ve focussed upon those with firearms and robbery markers for interviewing. Grantmore doesn’t fit that profile, so he wasn’t interviewed. DS Naylor wrote the action off without speaking to Grantmore, based on that intelligence.’
‘I suppose that’s fair enough,’ I mused. However, I shot a look at Naylor, which clearly suggested he had made a mistake. He looked around his colleagues for some support but none came.
Truth was, I didn’t rate Naylor and he was not popular. He’d been on a few of my enquiries and was one of several detectives that seemed to rotate from one major inquiry to another, as their local bosses didn’t rate them either, so constantly offloaded them whenever the chance arose. He, on the other hand, had a high opinion of himself, just seeing his experience on major crime enquiries as proof of his worth.
At any rate, my deflection had worked. No one re-raised the issue of why the informant had taken the photograph. But this would only be a temporary reprieve. So I gave a stalling explanation.
‘I don’t want to discuss the whys and wherefores until the informant is formally registered. All I can share at the moment is the photo and the fact… I stress… fact… that the man next to the car is Grantmore. You know everything that’s relevant for now. The date the car was in Hull, the Sunderland scarf and the Emmerson connection are enough for me. Grantmore’s involved and is the key to the job. I want him locked up this afternoon.’
As I’d earlier agreed with him, Tony Ride played devil’s advocate. ‘But it’s all circumstantial, boss. He’ll never cough. Grantmore’s been locked up more times than the Beatles were number one. He’ll say nowt and there’s nothing to hold him on.’
‘We’re going to do this the old-fashioned way. Rattle his cage, shake him up, and see what falls out. Let him know we know… and then see what happens.’
‘But, boss, he’s not even in the bloody car,’ Ridey continued.
‘And we’re not even going to use the photo in interview. I’m hanging on to that for later. We use the connection to the car and Emmerson, that’s all. We tell him we’ve got information he had connections to that car and we know he employed Emmerson. See what shakes out. He’ll admit nothing… but he’ll know we know.’
I looked around as if to challenge any dissent but saw none. Everyone wanted some action, to get the job moving. To make something happen.
But then DI Baldwin, always careful and thoughtful, raised a valid point. ‘Are we discussing this with Northumbria, boss? If the jobs are connected… and I’d bet they are… we could be treading on their toes. What evidence have they got? Any suspects?’
‘Excellent point, Mally, and thanks for raising it. I have discussed our intended action with their SIO, Tom Corrigan, and at this stage of their inquiry, he’s happy for us to proceed.’
The team looked relieved that the DI’s objection wasn’t going to halt the action.
‘DS Naylor and DC Beatty, I want you to interview him. We’ll discuss an interview strategy after the briefing.’
As was my intention, Naylor visibly brightened at being chosen to do the interview. It got him back onside and showed I’d forgiven him his lapse. To be fair, he couldn’t do any damage, as the interview was something of a paper exercise, intended only to rattle Grantmore and hopefully lever out further information. Beatty was a good interviewer and would make sure all that needed saying – and no more – was said.
I turned to DI Baldwin. ‘Mally, organise search and arrest teams, find him and bring him in. I want his home and both massage parlours searching… thoroughly. We’re looking for cash, the gun, anything that links him to the Hardstone Building Society, the Vauxhall Vectra, Anne Beedham, Janice Cooper, links to the north-east, Ponteland… you know the score. Let’s see if we can get him in custody this evening.’
Chairs scraped back. Officers moved quickly towards Mally Baldwin to volunteer.
Investigative velocity.
Thirteen
The Next Day
08:50 Wednesday, 3rd February 1999
I sat in the greasy spoon café, nursing as opposed to drinking a cup of lousy instant coffee as I watched the entrance to Cleopatra’s Exotic Massage on Spring Bank, close to Hull City centre. Yesterday’s arrest and interview of Grantmore had gone as well as could be expected and more or less as I had planned. He had admitted nothing, laughed at our lack of evidence and been released about three hours after he’d arrived, full of righteous indignation at our “fishing trip”. The searches at his home and the massage parlours had revealed nothing. After the interview, DS Naylor had expressed his doubts to me that Grantmore was connected to our job, as he had not seemed in the slightest bit worried that we had connected him to Emmerson and were alleging he had access to the car. I later heard that Naylor had since been criticising my tactics to anyone that would listen, saying if we were sure he had used the Vauxhall, we should have waited for the informant to come up with something more concrete, but as it was, we’d shown our hand. Also having failed to get anywhere in interview, he deployed the face-saving explanation that the suspect was innocent. When I had to cut staff, he’d be gone.
I hadn’t expected him to
get anywhere in interview. I knew we had nothing concrete to put to Grantmore, and what we had was hardly on a firm evidential base. Half the team would be thinking we had overplayed our hand by arresting him – in essence, agreeing with Naylor. Others like Ridey and Jo Young would be guessing I had something else up my sleeve and the arrest was just a means to an end. The arguing and discussion between the two groups would ignite everyone’s curiosity and maintain that investigative velocity – but only for a short time. I now had to make something happen and had set wheels in motion last night after his release and was now about to grease those wheels. As far as the team were concerned, I was at HQ on other business.
As I sipped at the manky coffee out of an equally manky mug, I spotted Grantmore stride into view. He was heading towards Cleopatra’s, the flagship of his seedy empire, from the direction of the city centre, wearing his signature black leather bomber jacket, black jeans and Rockport boots. He pressed the intercom set in the wall at the side of the garish pink door, stooped to speak and was quickly admitted. I waited ten minutes and then crossed the road, pressed the intercom and looked directly into the CCTV camera set above it.
A bored-sounding female voice with a strong Hull accent responded.
‘Hello, love, have you got an appointment?’
‘Oh, I didn’t know I needed one.’
I tried to sound like a man whose sexual hopes were dashed.
‘Hang on, love, don’t worry. I’ll fit you in.’
The door buzzed and I pushed it open to reveal a dingy four-foot-square stairwell. The same female shouted from upstairs, ‘Come up, luvvie.’
I trotted up the stairs, which were carpeted in a pink shag pile that had seen much better days, and emerged into the reception area that was your stereotypical tart’s parlour. I was taken aback by the appearance of the receptionist who’d have looked more at home on a Tesco checkout than fronting a quasi-brothel. Spotting my surprise, she quite politely put me out of my apparent misery.
‘Morning, love, don’t worry. You won’t be getting me… I manage the businesses not do the business. The name’s Pauline. Take a seat. Lulu won’t be long.’ I looked around the room at the slightly cleaner pink carpet, purple and black wallpaper and old battered black leather sofa, strewn with well-thumbed copies of Mayfair, Fiesta, Knave and other sundry contemporary classics of the porno-mag genre.
She pointed me towards the battered leather sofa that was overloaded with – you’ve guessed it – pink fluffy cushions. No way was I sitting there. I confirmed that there were only two doors leading from the office, the one leading to “Paradise Parlour” was ajar and the room beyond seemed empty, but judging from the sounds coming from behind the door of the “Kontiki Room”, it most certainly wasn’t. I tried to imagine the sheer desperation of a man waiting out here while contemplating a sexual act with who I assumed was Lulu and being able to hear his “sloppy seconds” actually being prepared! The moans from behind the closed door were reaching a stomach-churning crescendo, so I thought now was a good time to say hello to Grantmore, who I now knew I was going to find in a somewhat less than welcoming mood. Exactly as I had hoped.
‘Sounds like she’s nearly done to me.’
I smiled genially, flipped open my wallet to reveal my warrant card. ‘Stay out here.’
As I opened the door, Pauline muttered, ‘Black bastard,’ and I saw I had timed my liaison with Sean Grantmore to perfection.
‘Morning, Sean. Hard at it already, I see,’ I sung out cheerfully, as if greeting an old mate down on the allotment.
Delicacy prevents me from describing the scene that confronted me but needless to say, Sean and Lulu were well beyond the point of no return – but on seeing me, return they did. There followed grunts and squeals, some wild flapping of limbs, leaps for towels and dressing gowns and no doubt a rapid cooling of ardour.
‘Darnley, you bastard, what the fuck do you think you’re doing bursting in here?’
‘Sean, who is this pervert? You fucking sicko,’ screamed Lulu as she clutched a bright pink fluffy towel to her chest.
‘Morning, love… Lulu, I presume. Police raid. Step outside, would you, and keep Pauline company.’
I again flashed my warrant card and indicated she should leave. She picked up her discarded clothing from a chair and with my second ‘Black bastard’ of the morning, stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Grantmore had meanwhile covered his embarrassment by slipping on what was obviously Lulu’s pink silk kimono – yes, everything was pink. He stood desperately trying to cover his embarrassment by standing with his hands across his crotch, while trying – but failing hopelessly – to look aggressive. His one good eye glared from an extremely red and sweaty face and the jagged, still livid, scars that marked his ruined eye stood out in vivid and horrific relief, just as I am sure his attacker had intended. He must have been desperate to get dressed and save face, but I had no intention of showing such courtesy. In his place, I would have calmly removed the kimono and slowly got dressed in an effort to show I wasn’t intimidated, but for all his violence and bullying I knew he was a coward and that I had, and would now keep, the upper hand.
‘Fuck me, Sean, you look a right state. God, your eye’s a real mess… real shame. Thought of trying an eye patch? Sorry to barge in but I needed a word about yesterday. “No comment” isn’t going to work, so I’m here to give you another chance.’
‘Fuck you, Darnley, you aren’t gonna get away with this… I know where you live.’
I stepped towards him and feigned a thump to his face, which made him raise his hands to protect himself, allowing me to grab his bollocks through the thin kimono, which thankfully remained in place preventing actual bodily contact. I squeezed. Hard. I actually chuckled to myself, thinking how poor old Grantmore’s nuts had really taken some punishment these last few months.
‘Big mistake, Sean. This was going to be a civilised discussion but you’ve just blown it.’
I squeezed for emphasis. He grunted in reply.
Using my grip to steer him, I forced him backwards and with a final twist and tweak released him, pushing him back into a chair that had his clothing strewn across it. I stepped back so as to be able to repel any retaliation. None came. His hands again covered his crotch as he groaned and rocked with his head bowed.
‘Bloody hell, Sean, I can see your bald patch from this angle. Life isn’t going your way lately, is it? And I’m here to make sure it gets a whole lot worse… unless you wise up pretty smartish.’
I grabbed him by the front of his hair and roughly pulled his head back and thrust the photograph that Morley had taken outside the Silver Cod into his line of vision – or should I say half vision?
He stopped rocking – and groaning. I knew he knew I knew.
From the moment Grantmore had threatened me – and as I interpreted it, my family – I had stepped out of character, relying on violence as opposed to wit and wiles. I concentrated on calming down. I let go of his hair and waited while he composed himself, then told him to get dressed. Leaving the door slightly ajar, I joined his two employees, who together questioned my ancestry, sexuality, dress sense, choice of aftershave and anything else they could think of, in the most colourful language. Once dressed, their boss came into the reception area and immediately made an effort to reassert his position.
‘Shut up, Lulu. Get back in there and get ready for your ten o’clock.’
He followed me downstairs across the road and back into the café. I motioned him to take a seat while I bought two more chipped white mugs of crap coffee then joined him at the table he had selected in the darkest recess of the place. No way did he want to be seen in public, hobnobbing with the filth.
I placed the photograph on the table. I said nothing. He stole one quick glance at the photo. He sipped his coffee, trying to look cool, but he had to use two hands to stop the mug
shaking, so I knew I had him. Neither of us had spoken since we’d left the massage parlour and I didn’t want to be the first. But neither did he.
After a good five minutes of coffee-slurping on his part with not even a grimace at the taste, nor as much as a further glance at the photo, I was beginning to get bored – but confident I was onto a winner; otherwise, he would have walked out. I was about to lose the “who’s going to speak first?” contest when a chap at the next table got up to leave and tossed his newspaper onto the table as he bid farewell to the guy behind the counter. We both instinctively glanced across as the Sun newspaper landed with a slap. Under the banner headline SLAUGHTERED: Mum appeals to robbers was the handsome face of the young man murdered in Northumbria, Ryan Harrod. I couldn’t believe my luck. I looked Grantmore in the eye, fascinated by how his empty eye socket was twitching, and nodded towards the headline.
‘Darnley, what the fuck do you want from me?’
I just tapped the photo I had brought with my finger.
‘That’s you. Who’s the other guy?’
‘That’s not me.’
‘Stick to that crap then… but let’s see what this other chap thinks when this photograph appears in the national press with an appeal for the identity of the two men… in connection with the murder of Ryan Harrod,’ nodding towards the Sun and its headline.
‘You’re full of shit, Darnley. No paper’s gonna run that. You can’t tell who either one of them blokes are. There is no connection and you know it.’
He came across super confident but his empty eye socket was now jerking madly – his days as a poker player were definitely over.
‘Listen. Carefully. You are going to get one chance. I am now going to tell you what you already know. At the end of this, you will agree to help me. If you refuse, I am pretty sure you will be a dead man before the week is out.’
He snorted in derision.
‘The car in this photo was used to visit a house in Atwick, from where a gang from the north-east got the keys to rob the Hardstone Building Society in Beverley. One of your old mates David Emmerson was on that job, and the gang shot him when he fucked up by leaving his DNA on the victim at the building society. That same gang killed that young lad the night before last, up in the north-east.’
A Duty of Revenge Page 12
