A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  Marjorie’s anger rapidly dissipated. She was transfixed in the doorway of the garage, her hand still on the light switch as her mind assimilated what she was seeing. Then she burst into immediate action.

  She switched off the light and shut the garage door, quietly closed the side gate and returned to the kitchen. She tidied away Noel’s pots, put the kettle on and sat and looked at the kitchen clock, working out the optimum time she should leave before going to the garage and finding her husband dead – and presumably finding the note explaining why he had decided to kill himself.

  *

  Just as Marjorie’s kettle boiled, Janice Cooper collected her post off the front doormat at her bungalow in Atwick, carried it through to the kitchen and placed it on the tray that she had just prepared with breakfast. She climbed the stairs carefully, balancing the tea and toast on the tray and calling, ‘Sit up, lazy bones, here it comes.’

  Constable 1471 Harry Willis stretched luxuriously under the Laura Ashley quilt. The same quilt upon which he and Janice had first “embraced” as he saved her life. He pulled himself up into a seated position, plumped up the matching pillows and smiled broadly as Janice entered the bedroom.

  ‘Morning, gorgeous,’ he grinned.

  ‘Granary, real butter and marmalade… just as you like it,’ beamed Janice as she placed the tray on Harry’s lap before tenderly kissing his forehead.

  It was only about ten short weeks since Harry had found Janice bound and gagged in this very room. In those weeks, Harry had told Janice, at least a hundred times, that she had saved his life just as surely as he had hers. In the days following his rescue, the force press liaison officer had literally pushed the two of them into each other’s arms – staging good-news stories at the demand of the Chief, who was beside himself with delight at the success of his idea. Janice and Harry had needed little encouragement. Harry initially loved the idea of being a hero, ignoring the jibes of his colleagues and concentrating instead on the plaudits from his neighbours, the milkman, at the newspaper shop, the Co-op – all those who’d seen him on the news. He soon grew to enjoy hugging this plump, homely woman with such an indomitable spirit. Expecting her to be physically and mentally shattered by her ordeal, Harry had been amazed to see her shrug it off, overcome by an overwhelming gratitude to have survived. Janice was the best therapy he could have ever had. If a middle-aged woman who had always been alone could possess the strength of character to overcome such an awful experience, surely he could shake off his years of despondency and uselessness.

  For Janice, it was much simpler. This man had saved her for a purpose. It was obvious. It was meant to be. He was the one. She knew the initial hugs were stage-managed and he was only doing what he was told by his bosses. But she hugged him for longer than was strictly necessary and he soon began to squeeze back in equal measure. As Christmas approached, they had their first night out and agreed they were officially dating. By mid-January, he had moved in. Janice had decided to exorcise the demons of her ordeal and her former lonely existence by declaring the upstairs “guest” bedroom as their bedroom. It gave her immense pleasure to think that this lovely man made that cold, inhospitable room the warmest in the house.

  She climbed into bed beside Harry and they shared the pot of tea and toast, while she opened the post. Suddenly with a gasp her hand flew to her mouth and she thrust the letter she’d just read into his lap.

  Harry saw it was a handwritten letter on the headed notepaper of the Hardstone Building Society.

  7 February 1999

  Dear Janice,

  I cannot live with the shame of what I have put you and Anne through. It is my fault that those evil criminals knew you two had the keys. It is my failure to institute adequate security precautions that led them to your door and you having to suffer as you did. Anne is quite rightly seeking compensation from the Society and I know the Board will agree, pay her and see that the fault lies entirely with me. After such a long career with the Society, I cannot face the humiliation that will surely follow my censure. I know I am not popular at work or within the wider organisation and would be unable to bear the glee with which many will greet my disgrace. I have sent you this letter as I feel you alone at the Society do not judge me and may feel some sorrow at the misfortunes I have suffered in this affair. I needed a sympathetic audience for this message.

  The police will need to see it.

  Please try and forgive me.

  Yours Faithfully

  Noel Priestley

  Manager

  Harry’s somewhat inadequate police brain took in the first class stamp on the envelope and the previous day’s date at the head of the letter.

  ‘That’s nice of him, Janice. He clearly likes you. Okay, it’s taken him a couple of months to say so but at least he’s said sorry. He’s ruddy upset about it all, though. I reckon he’s going to resign.’

  He turned to smile at his bedfellow, who still had her hand over her mouth and was shaking her head violently at a now somewhat bemused Harry.

  ‘It’s a suicide note,’ she groaned.

  Harry rapidly reread it.

  ‘It’s not… is it?’

  ‘He could never say such things and face Anne and me again. I know him. I think he’s killed himself… or is planning to.’

  ‘But it’s more like a business letter. It’s so formal.’

  Janice jumped out of bed. She had just noticed the date on the letter.

  ‘Quick. Ring the police. Alert somebody.’

  For the second time in those few short weeks, Harry leapt into action.

  *

  On this occasion, however, the newly decisive and confident PC Harry Willis was too late.

  I had just arrived at Driffield with the resolve to contact Grantmore. Our agreed twenty-four-hour deadline was long passed. I hadn’t rung him, as I was still trying to figure out how to proceed without agreeing to his proposal. I was surprised that he hadn’t got in touch, demanding an answer, but assumed it was pure brinksmanship. My second job was to get hold of Russ Holland and warn him off but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of the best way to approach him, or anticipate how he’d react. My third priority was keeping the ambitious reporter onside, and finally there was Anne Beedham. What a bloody morning I was in for.

  Before I could even get my coat off, Tony Ride burst into my office.

  ‘We’ve got another body, boss,’ he bluntly declared with a most inappropriate grin on his face.

  My immediate and horrified reaction was that Holland had got Grantmore.

  The DS, keen to keep centre stage, paused for dramatic effect, only adding to my tension.

  After what seemed like an age, he announced, ‘Noel Priestley.’

  My relieved brain flicked rapidly through its filing cabinets. This incident now had a nominal index of over 2,000 people and I could never remember them all. But the outstanding action to re-interview the building society manager when he recovered, emerged from the morass.

  ‘Suicide by hosepipe from the exhaust… in his garage. His missus found him about an hour ago,’ Ridey blundered unfeelingly on.

  My brain was now fully engaged. The cogs were whirring. ‘So that’s where our leak about the keys came from.’

  I’d remembered DI Baldwin’s report and the “loose end” of the manager. I had quickly added two and two and made ten.

  ‘My thoughts exactly… but read the suicide note.’

  I saw he was holding a sheet of paper, which he explained was a faxed copy of the original, which had been posted to Janice Cooper at her home address. The actual letter was in the hands of the officers investigating what would, at this moment, be classed as a suspicious death. They had soon realised the potential link to our job when they spoke to Mrs Priestley and had promptly faxed us a copy. It would be do
wn to that investigation, a coroner and an inquest before a suicide could be formally determined.

  ‘I’ve read the incident log and the post was delivered at about 7.45am this morning. Janice Cooper opened the letter at about 8.30am and… wait for it… PC Harry. Bloody. Windy. Willis rings it in at 8.35am. He just happened to be calling on Janice, checking on her welfare, according to his account. He’s giving her one, boss… the old sod. Who’d have thought?’

  Briefly acknowledging the likelihood of such a liaison, I focussed upon the content of the note. We then discussed its strange nature and likely implications. We agreed that he was most unlikely to have killed himself just because he had dropped a bollock with the security arrangements and concluded he was now our best bet for the inside leak. But why risk everything? A share of the proceeds? Or coercion? What was his connection to the robbers? Was the heart attack real? I instructed Tony to get hold of DI Baldwin and fast-track the actions necessary. This was surely another break and I wanted forward momentum.

  Rereading the letter, it suddenly struck me how I could perhaps use it to resolve at least one of my dilemmas. This morning’s lowest priority became my first. I grabbed my coat and after telling Tony I’d be in Beverley for an hour, I drove to the building society. It was obvious as I walked in and introduced myself that the news about their boss had not yet reached them, and now with the element of surprise, I asked to speak to Anne Beedham. A young lady from the counter rang her and then showed me into a small interview room usually reserved for customers seeking a mortgage.

  It had clearly been Anne Beedham’s tactic to try and discomfort me by keeping me waiting – or maybe she had just wanted to freshen up her hair and make-up. After about five minutes, she burst into the room. Full of anger and righteous indignation, she still managed to look damned attractive. Momentarily, I thought of Granger’s escapades with envy.

  ‘At last! Supercop actually finds time to speak to me. No pretty little messenger today then?’

  She fixed me with an icy glare and remained standing; hands on her hips. In this small room, this meant she was only about three feet away, and her fresh spray of perfume was a bit too strong. It was obvious the outrage was an act and that my letter, delivered by DC Young, had worked; she was expecting me to eat humble pie and then sweet-talk her – and whatever else.

  Well, I too can act. I looked shamefully at the floor and shook my head, as if about to embark on the first stage of my act of contrition. As I looked up, she took her hands off her hips and folded them purposefully under her bosom, using her hips to swing her weight from one foot to the other, the black stiletto-heeled shoe of the leading right foot softly tapping the carpeted floor in a gesture of annoyance and impatience. She looked bloody magnificent.

  ‘Mrs Beedham, lovely to see you again and don’t worry, we will discuss your relationship with PC Granger in a moment—’

  She interrupted me angrily: ‘Relationship! It was not a relationship! He was abusing his position. I want him sacked and if you—’

  It was now my turn to interrupt. ‘I could of course say it takes two to tango.’

  I held up my hand to stem another outraged outburst and continued: ‘Before we discuss PC Granger, I want to discuss some developments in the inquiry that concern you. It is important, so please just concentrate on this before we turn to Granger.’ I motioned to her to take the other seat.

  She was intrigued. Bit her tongue and did as I had bid.

  ‘Are you in the process of seeking compensation from the building society for your ordeal?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ she replied indignantly, but looking puzzled at the direction of the conversation. ‘Those bastards should never have known to have come to mine, or Janice’s house for the keys. Your DI Baldwin even had the temerity to suggest I had something to do with it. My family and I have been traumatised and I think compensation is appropriate.’

  ‘So you think it is the building society’s fault?’

  ‘Most certainly. Specifically Mr Priestley’s fault. I told him that I was holding him personally responsible and surprise, surprise, he feigns a heart attack the very next day… and he’s still off sick. I’ve worked here longer than he has and I know several of the board members. I’ve no doubt they will support my claim, as the security arrangements were pathetic… just like him.’

  ‘Well, he has certainly taken personal responsibility.’ I paused – purely for dramatic effect. ‘He killed himself this morning.’

  She just sat there, her eyes wide open with shock.

  ‘I’m sorry to bring you such sad news but in view of the apparent motive behind his suicide and thus your potential role as a witness at his inquest, I thought you had a right to know as soon as possible.’

  I leant across the small table and took both her hands in mine, giving them a comforting squeeze. ‘He left a note and it spells out how badly he felt about what happened to you and Janice. He couldn’t live with it.’

  I took the folded note from out of my jacket pocket purely as a prop. I had no intention of showing her the letter, as it was clearly open to interpretation, but as soon as she saw it, she burst into tears.

  ‘No. No, I don’t want to see it.’

  Needless to say, I did my duty and put a comforting arm around her and made all the right noises about how she shouldn’t blame herself. I slipped in how his suicide, if indeed that was what the coroner’s court determined, would surely help her compensation claim. When I asked if Janice was also seeking compensation, she sobbed even harder, then admitted that Janice felt no ill will towards the Society or Noel Priestley.

  She asked a little about what would happen at the inquest and enquired after Mr Priestley’s wife, and I could tell that she was already shelving the compensation claim. Her guilt would not allow her to continue. Once that point had been reached, I began to tackle the real reason for my visit.

  ‘Anyway, Mrs Beedham, on to other matters. The police inquiry into poor Mr Priestley’s death will continue and the inquest process will be a few months away yet. But what are we going to do about PC Granger? I can’t believe how many casualties the robbery here has caused. It’s a tragedy.’

  ‘I can’t think about that now. I’m too upset.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I need to take some action now. I’ll need a full statement, as there will be a disciplinary hearing and he’ll most likely be sacked for taking advantage of you in this manner.’ I shook my head, showing my distaste at his behaviour.

  The next stage in my strategy was to ask if her husband knew about her fling with the young PC, as he was now bound to find out. Before I had to go that far, she stood up and with a touch of her old spirit said, ‘Forget it. I’ve had enough. It was my fault as much as his… more. My God, what a mess. Tell him I’m sorry.’ Then she broke down all over again.

  Twenty minutes later, I left the building after informing a gathering of the staff of their boss’s death. One of my problems was now behind me and I almost felt sorry for Anne Beedham. I drove back to Driffield wondering when and how to break the good news to young Granger.

  Twenty

  10:15 That Same Morning

  The initial surge of satisfaction provided by exacting revenge had long since dissipated and Russ Holland was now consumed by the same feelings of anger, frustration and powerlessness as when his daughter first told him about being raped. He’d experienced the self-same pain when Grantmore was acquitted. The action necessary in planning and executing his attack on the man responsible had cooled those emotions. But the relief lasted only days and the same feelings soon bubbled up again.

  They were raised to boiling point when he and Lisa were arrested.

  His state of mind was damaged further when he realised that she was horrified to even contemplate that her father had committed such an act and he was thankful that he had never admitted it, even to her. When he was not charged, she seemed
eager to believe his explanation that a criminal rival must have blinded Grantmore using the publicity surrounding the rape trial as a smokescreen. He’d argued that it was obvious that even Detective Superintendent Darnley and DC Young did not believe he was behind the attack.

  In the days that followed their arrest, Lisa seemed to make great strides in her recovery. She was seeing a counsellor and was now refusing to allow herself to become a victim. She had gone back to her sixth-form studies and was slowly but surely regaining her confidence and previous joie de vivre.

  There was no such improvement for Russ Holland. All the feelings now enveloping him he had experienced before, and he was terrified about sliding back into the long, dark months after the Falklands War. His daughter knew nothing about his life as a Para and his previous identity that Graham Morley had uncovered. She had been born to Russ Holland, the Hull-based self-employed electrician. Like so many war veterans, Holland had developed post-traumatic stress disorder shortly after being lauded for his act of bravery. When his wife, Caroline, found she was pregnant, they decided to relocate and start a new life, with new names, in Kingston upon Hull. The birth of Lisa, a pink and chubby bundle of joy, acted as the final antidote to the fear and horror he had endured, and lifted the terrors that gripped him. Caroline had been killed in a car crash when Lisa was only three, and Russ had never seen a reason to burden his beloved daughter with his past life. The responsibility of bringing his daughter up alone had somehow kept his demons at bay, but now they were fast encroaching into his life again and he couldn’t extricate himself.

  He was neglecting his successful business and losing money fast, as he sat for long hours, motionless, thinking, scheming and plotting. This time, his pink bundle of joy was unable to break the spell. He had tried to tell himself that Lisa was recovering, she was going to be okay, she was moving on. But nothing would work for him. In his heart, he knew that the only way of breaking this downward spiral was by exacting retribution. He craved revenge. He was not even sure if Grantmore’s conviction for the rape would have secured that – but that chance was lost. He had believed that the symbolic destruction of his eye would have been enough but here he was, less than four weeks after his attack, back at square one. He wanted – needed – to kill him. Although it was obvious that Darnley had not pulled out all the stops to link him to the attack at Nicole’s, he knew there would be no such grace if he killed him.