A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  ‘The police might come here looking for me while I’m out. I don’t think they will, but if they do, you don’t know me. Okay. Just put them off… you don’t know me.’

  Debbie played her part. ‘But I do know you. And why would they come here?’

  ‘You soft bitch,’ he said gently. ‘Pretend you don’t if… and it’s a big if… the coppers come looking for me.’

  ‘What have you done? Why are they looking for you?’ seemed to be the obvious questions he would expect.

  ‘Never you mind.’

  Now his impatience began to show and he turned and took hold of her face and squeezed tightly, turning her head to look directly into her eyes.

  ‘Just do as I say… if the cops come knocking, you don’t know me. Then we’ll be just fine, you and me.’

  He let go of her face and winked at her, suddenly friendly again.

  ‘Peter Frame? No, never heard of him,’ she giggled.

  Daft bitch, silly cow – she could play the part. The bastard.

  ‘That’s a good girl. Before I come back, I’ll ring you just to check. It’ll be about four… so make sure you’re in,’ delivered as an order.

  ‘I’ll be here, don’t worry. Fancy a nice juicy steak for your tea?’

  ‘That would have been lovely, but I’ll probably just be in and straight out again. Tomorrow night would be great, though… it’s a date.’

  He kissed her on the cheek, climbed off the bed and with a cursory wave, he was gone. She heard the front door slam.

  She leapt out of bed and carefully looked through the side of the closed curtains onto the street below. Frame walked purposefully away from the house through the heavy rain and climbed into the front passenger seat of a dark blue Jaguar saloon parked about fifty yards away. The car pulled away from the kerb and past her house, enabling her to recognise the driver as Mick Keegan. While repeating the car’s registered number to herself, she withdrew the notebook from her drawer and after the name Grantmore she’d written the day before, she recorded it.

  Desperately trying to quash her mounting fear, Debbie set about getting her kids up, washed, dressed and fed. As she prepared to leave the house to drop her eldest son at school, she saw it was still raining heavily and both kids needed their boots, which were kept in the large walk-in cupboard next to the back door. She leaned into the cupboard, searching with her hand for the light switch hidden beneath layers of coats. She flicked it on. Nothing. She looked up at where there should have been a bare bulb hanging, but it was missing. She shoved the vacuum cleaner aside, moved the ironing board and groped amongst the other cupboard contents for the small brightly coloured boots. Her hand came up against an object that shouldn’t have been there. On the floor at the very back of the dark cupboard Debbie felt the shape of a large canvas holdall. It wasn’t hers. She dragged it out of the cupboard, bringing with it the kids’ boots. She tossed the boots into the kitchen, instructing Josh to help his younger brother to put them on.

  She knew it must be Frame’s. He must have hidden it at the back of the cupboard and taken the light bulb out. With the holdall on the kitchen floor, she knelt and unzipped it. It was stuffed to capacity with what appeared to be clothing – rough navy-blue overalls. She pulled it open wider and saw a balaclava and several gloves. Wary about pulling anything out of the bag in case Frame saw that it had been interfered with, she carefully pushed her hand beneath the clothing. Along the edges of the base of the bag, she felt the unmistakeable shapes of two metal baseball bats and between them in a soft bag, another object that instinctively made her withdraw her hand as if it had burnt her. A handgun.

  *

  The Jaguar sped south on the A1 with Keegan utilising the cruise control so as not to exceed the speed limit. As soon as Frame had climbed into the car, he’d given his instructions, as if he was still the major and Keegan the corporal. He’d told him twice while they were still in the town that he was speeding and to slow down, and once they hit the motorway, he had, most unusually, lost his temper, swearing at the older man when he’d seen the speedometer nudge eighty-five. The last thing they needed now was to get pulled by the police for speeding, he had raged.

  When he, Frame and Pike had met up again after their discharge from the army, Keegan had been all too grateful for his old senior officer taking charge but now he was heartily sick of it. As each day passed, he grew to hate Frame more and more, but the truth was, he was now too afraid to extricate himself from the relationship. He was scared shitless of Frame, worried that he was planning a similar fate for him as befell Billy Pike. He was perhaps even more afraid of going to prison. Last night, when Frame had told him how a still-serving army officer working in the personnel section at Catterick had tipped him off about Northumbria Police requesting their army records be located and set aside for the police to collect, he had immediately panicked. Although he and Frame were not due to meet that evening, he had demanded they did – he needed reassurance. However, Frame had been very guarded and seemed reluctant to meet up, telling Keegan everything was in hand and they should proceed as planned. When he had insisted, Frame had eventually agreed but gave him the name of a pub on an estate he’d never even been to, where they should meet.

  While they sipped their first pint, Keegan began to feel reassured by his old boss’s calm attitude – he wasn’t panicking – everything must be under control. Frame confidently reiterated their plan. Ever since the job in Beverley – and the unplanned murder of Emmerson – the idea had been to do a couple more jobs and then leave the country. Frame had secured all three of them a lucrative contract in Nigeria providing security to a rich local businessman involved in the oil industry. With that and the money they’d made from the robberies, they would be sitting pretty. Frame had told the African that they were now only two, but the businessman was quite content, as it was always the ex-Sandhurst officer that had been the attraction – but he could afford the additional firepower. Keegan had no local ties left, had never been married, the trawler was only rented and his idea of earning his living fishing had turned out to be just a pipe dream. That was why Frame’s inducement to give crime a try had been so appealing all those months ago. After they’d had a couple of pints, Keegan felt more relaxed. His major had kept him out of the shit in Bosnia and he’d do the same again now.

  But here he was just a few hours later, once again on the edge of panic, and he couldn’t help asking questions to which he already knew the answers.

  ‘Why the fuck are we using this bloke Grantmore has supplied? What if he’s as useless as Emmerson and lets us down?’

  Frame inwardly groaned at the building anxiety in Keegan, and the building anger in himself, but he knew he had to calm the man down if everything was going to go to plan. He turned in his seat and looked at him. Trying to exude calm and confidence.

  ‘The job needs three of us. He’s just extra muscle. No brains required. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘Do we have to kill him?’

  ‘We’re already in line for three murder charges… what’s one more? We get him to drive us back to the boat, with him thinking he’s away free from there. I’ll take care of it from there. More money for us.’

  Keegan lapsed into silence, mulling it all over yet again.

  ‘Listen, Mick, we’ve planned tonight’s job well. It’s tight. Getting on for a hundred grand, I reckon, to add to what we’ve already got. That will go a long way in Africa and you’re going to be on forty grand a year… tax-free. We’re laughing, my old buddy… laughing.’

  ‘But bloody hell, Pete, they must be on to us… they ain’t asked for our army records for fun.’

  ‘No panic there. I’ve arranged with my contact at Catterick for them to be mislaid for a couple of days. I accept they’re looking at us but we’ll keep out of the way until we do the job tonight and we’ll be out of the country straight after. Bob across to Holland, dropping ou
r Yorkshire friend off en route and flights are booked from Schiphol. Next stop Africa.’

  ‘But what if they’re already coming for us… watching the boat… airports are warned…?

  ‘Mick. We’ve been over this time and time again… we are home and dry.’

  Frame turned away and looked ahead at the traffic, signalling that the conversation was over. He subconsciously tapped the false passport that sat in the chest pocket of his jacket. Well, his flight was booked anyway.

  Thirty

  09:50 That Same Morning

  Yet again, I picked up my mobile and checked I hadn’t missed a call from Russ Holland. He should be just about to meet Frame at Ferrybridge so why the hell was I expecting a call? He’d have nothing to tell me yet. Wishful thinking, I suppose. The need to have some answers before my interrogators started with their questions. I was hardly going to be in any position to take a call from him once the review got underway in a few minutes.

  And I’d heard nothing from Granger about Morley. So no answers there either.

  I had rehearsed the arguments I’d use to hopefully get everyone on board with using Grantmore and was as ready as I could be. But this case had thrown up surprise after surprise, and the potential pitfalls facing me were gnawing at the confidence I’d felt only a few hours ago. The successes I felt I’d achieved with the inexperienced copper and the trainee reporter paled into insignificance alongside the challenges remaining. Did I really have any control over the career criminal Grantmore? Could my deal with Holland really work? Where the hell was Morley?

  I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths and prayed for some good luck. As I stood up, intending to get a coffee before everyone arrived, there was a knock on the door and DC Beatty entered my office.

  Without preamble, he said, ‘You are going love this, boss. I’ve just taken a call from an anonymous female with a strong Geordie accent. She asked if there was a reward for information about the murder of Ryan Harrod… and… get this… the bloke from Hull that was shot just before Christmas.’

  Both forces had agreed not to link the two crimes in the media, waiting for today’s review to make that decision. So for this female caller to make the connection was extremely interesting. Her accent made it doubly so.

  ‘I hope you said there is a reward.’

  ‘I did, boss… but to be honest, I was thinking on my feet and reckon I was too slow… I think she twigged I was lying. But there’s more. She said it’s two ex-army mates and they’re going to pull another job tonight.’

  ‘Tonight. Shit. Two ex-army mates? Thought there were three? But bloody hell, this sounds really promising. She’s not bullshitting. But another job tonight… shit. Anything else?’

  He glanced down at notes he had made. ‘She said the job isn’t going be in Hull… but up here.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘Up here… and tonight?’

  ‘Yeah. But where the hell is up here? Northumbria? Newcastle? Sunderland? She wouldn’t give her name or a number but I begged her to ring back and my gut tells me she will. She sounded scared. I gave her my name and my mobile number.’

  ‘See if we can trace the call… that’s a start.’

  I thanked him – but needed him gone so I could absorb this latest pitfall, but at the door he paused.

  ‘DS Naylor isn’t going to get to know I told you about Kingston finding out he was fiddling his expenses, is he?’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate. As far as Professional Standards are concerned, it was me that got that ball rolling. It’s just another charge he’s looking at and it’s all rolled up in this mess with Kingston, the leaks to the press and the bloke dead in the ditch up near Pocklington. Your name won’t feature, so don’t worry.’

  He looked reassured and left.

  Damn. I had no time to process this latest twist. I could hear people arriving for the review. The anonymous caller sounded genuine; she’d connected the two crimes and knew about the army angle. So there was no way I could ignore what she’d said about another crime happening tonight – and not in Hull.

  I rang Grantmore but there was no answer, so I left him a message demanding he contact me straight away.

  I wanted to text Holland. Tell him to abandon. But he had impressed upon me that all contact must come from him. Only he would know if contact was safe at any given moment. But this was an emergency and my fingers hovered over the keys. But it was just too risky. He’d be with them.

  I now knew that two, or was it three, possibly armed men were at this very moment at Ferrybridge Services where the A1 meets the M62 in West Yorkshire Police area – only about forty miles away from where I sat. We’d been told they were planning what I surmised would be another violent robbery – today. Doing nothing was not an option. I had no choice but to intervene now and try and have them arrested. The reality, however, was that all we had was names – and I could hardly give them Holland’s. But I could see no alternative.

  I would have to claim their whereabouts had come from Grantmore, so I picked up the phone and rang the Command Centre. A couple of minutes of rapid explanation from me and I left them organising an urgent firearms response between the two forces. They would keep me updated as events unfolded.

  I just couldn’t process all the implications.

  There was no way now there could be a formal review – all my planning was in tatters. This was now a dangerous incident in action. Investigative velocity I didn’t want.

  I gathered my papers and walked out into the incident room to find the team all seated and Crabbe and ACC (O) Jane Greenhall just arriving. As I welcomed them, the contingents from NCIS and Northumbria also arrived and with the room packed and buzzing with excitement, I kicked things off with the bombshell from our anonymous caller followed up with the firearms intervention being organised between the two forces at Ferrybridge, initiated by a call from Grantmore. The Command Centre rang me back to confirm the operation was now live and there was a containment team due to arrive within five minutes.

  We could do little but sit and await the outcome. My plans had been blown out of the water, with my presentation redundant and my mind unable to compute where the hell this went next. The only glimmer of light was that we just might arrest Frame and Keegan, without anyone else getting hurt and I could claim my arranging Grantmore bail had allowed him to tell us where they were – as I’d planned all along.

  But Holland?

  *

  Debbie Pike sat slumped on her couch nursing a cold cup of tea in an agony of indecision. She had spotted the detective’s lengthy pause when she had asked about a reward. There wasn’t one. And that was all she had intended to ask about. So why the hell had she gone on to half-heartedly grass Frame and Keegan up? What good had she done by giving the coppers just a bit of the story? Her mouth had just run away with her. She was as good as dead – and God help the kids.

  Before she’d rung up, she had searched through the holdall and realised it contained evidence to help convict the smooth-talking bastard and his surly mate – and probably Billy too, were he not dead. But what could she do with it? The one thing she did know was that Frame had told her that the police were likely to come calling and there was no way she wanted the holdall being found in her house so she had to dump it. But where?

  Suddenly it was obvious. She’d guessed from the overheard conversation that the money from the robberies, or at least some of it, was stashed on board The Blaydon Races. So if she dumped the bag there and rang in anonymously again, the evidence to put Frame and Keegan away – and away from her – would be stacking up. Five minutes later, she was in a taxi clutching the heavy holdall. After dropping her youngest at her mother’s, she was soon en route for the docks.

  She observed the trawler from the same vantage point as when she had last seen Billy. It had only been six days ago but it felt like months, so much had happened. After a
few minutes, the area around the trawler quietened and she was onboard. She pulled on some washing up gloves and then using Billy’s keys, she entered the cabin and went below, having already decided to hide the bag in the crew’s quarters, so as to make it more realistic when the police searched. There were no obvious hiding places, so she had little option but to shove it under one of the bunks. She dropped the bag on the floor and tried to force it under one of the lower bunks but the holdall was too fat. She knelt on the bag flattening it slightly and then shoved hard, but it still only went a short way under. She pulled the bag away and looked beneath the bunk to see if there was something in the way. Attached to the frame in the centre of the bunk, and hanging to within about three inches of the cabin floor, was a large wooden box. She could see that there was a bigger space for the holdall further along towards the head of the bunk, so she shoved again and this time it went in easily. She had to lie on the floor to push it right into the back of the space, up close to the bulkhead so it was well hidden. As she dragged herself out from under the bunk and regained her knees, she saw that there were now three twenty-pound notes on the cabin floor that she must have dragged out of the space with her. She quickly pocketed the sixty quid then looked to see if there was any more. The corner of a banknote was protruding from the top corner of the wooden box structure that had prevented her from secreting the bag initially. She pulled at the note, which slid out easily. She sat cross-legged on the floor and looked at her watch. She felt she had plenty of time.

  She pulled up the mattress on the bunk and saw that the box was just sitting in the bunk’s frame and looked like it could be lifted out. With a bit of a struggle, she soon had the box, which was about the size of a small suitcase, on the floor in front of her. She knew what she had found. She quickly checked the other three bunks in the room and each had a similar box – or as she now thought of them – moneyboxes.

  She slid off the lid of the box she’d removed; amazed that it was not even locked. It was stuffed tight with banknotes. There must have been thousands of pounds in tens and twenties. She stuffed as much cash into the pockets of her anorak as would fit, then filled the pockets of her jeans and added extra inside her blouse, before spreading the remaining cash evenly around the box. She slid the lid back in place, replaced the box in the frame and dropped the mattress.