A Duty of Revenge

by Quentin Dowse

  ‘Spain. We already knew he’d entered Spain from basic passport checks but this morning, Jo here has unearthed a little gem from the widow of our inside man, Noel Priestley.’

  DC Young stood to enjoy her moment in the spotlight.

  ‘Thanks for the opportunity, Sarge.’ She grinned at a bemused Tony Ride, savouring her little taste of revenge.

  ‘In a nutshell, she knew full well about her husband’s visits to Nicole’s and Cleopatra’s but never confronted him. She despised him and has done for years. She’s actually glad he’s dead. I can’t explain it but it seems that for her to know all about his shortcomings was just more power to her elbow… just another reason for her to make his life a misery. Anyway, that address I’ve given you is a small house in a village called Totalan up in the hills, about twenty miles behind Malaga, which the Priestleys have owned for about fifteen years. She occasionally goes there on her own… to get away from him… and about a year ago, one of the Spanish ladies she knows there, asked her who the young woman was who had been staying in her house. To cut a long story short, Mrs Priestley found out it was Janine from one of the parlours. She did nothing, but asked the Spanish neighbour to let her know about any other visitors. Janine’s been there twice more since, and so she reckons Janine must have been blackmailing her hubby for free holidays. But now the good news… she got a call yesterday from the Spanish neighbour who told her there’s a chap there now… with one eye and terrible facial scars.’

  Jo sat down, looking smug.

  *

  I pulled the car into my drive. It was nearly midnight and I was shattered but exuberant at the same time. The press briefings had gone well and I was so glad that I had decided not to include any mention of the missing Grantmore at this stage. I had agreed with Tom Corrigan and both ACPO teams that we would initially focus only on the good news. My motives at the time were purely to keep the fact that he had fled justice away from Holland, but now I realised that if the media had been given the “wanted” story with accompanying photographs of him, it may just have spooked him to leave where we hoped he was now still in hiding. I had set the wheels in motion with Europol and the Spanish police and had been promised immediate action, and that I would get a phone call within a few hours, one way or the other.

  I was still desperately worried about Holland. When I’d read the statement taken from the receptionist at the casino, I realised he must have rung me on the mobile he took from her. I thought briefly about trying it, but judging by how efficient he had been at the casino, I knew he’d have ditched it straight after ringing me. I’d long given up trying his original mobile number. I resolved that I had no option but to call round at his home if the Spanish police did not get Grantmore that night. I needed to explain my position and reassure him – and bloody thank him. I knew that he’d have heard or read the current news and seen that there was no mention of Grantmore being charged alongside Frame and Keegan, and I’d bet my pension he was now thinking I’d done a deal with him. He would be furious and bent on revenge. I knew that until Sean Grantmore was locked up, back in England, charged and in prison, Holland was a continual threat. Looking back, I’m not proud of the fact that all I wanted was to be able to tell the media the next day that Grantmore was in custody and would be extradited on suspicion of serious crimes. I gave not a thought for Graham Morley – I was just obsessed with being able to charge Grantmore with his murder in order to protect myself.

  I’d nervously read Wilde’s statement at the first chance I got – and it was perfect. It was obvious that he was fully onside and well aware of the implications of what he knew. I found the time to ring him and thank him for his discretion. He was just excited at being so closely involved in a murder inquiry – a key witness – and described his boss’s positive reaction to that news. We agreed that if the Spanish police arrested Grantmore that night, he would get it in the paper tomorrow, with a story clearly linking it to the murders and robberies and strongly suggesting Grantmore was suspected of additional serious crimes.

  If I could follow that as quickly as possible by media coverage of the charges laid against him, Holland would know I’d kept my side of the bargain. Then I’d never contact him again. His lust for revenge would be fulfilled. I’d be safe.

  Thirty-Seven

  Three Months Later

  Wednesday, 19th May 1999

  ‘The end of a brilliant investigation, Matt,’ said the Chief, exuding bonhomie. ‘Can we agree that the MIR at Driffield can now go down to skeleton staff?’

  I smiled to myself. How times change. I was rehabilitated. Crabbe calling me by my Christian name – and even abbreviated. No more just ‘Darnley’ – for now at least. Too bloody right after all the good publicity the force – and thus him – had received over the last few months, courtesy of yours truly. I’d even been invited to Strategy Team to finalise my reports – and bask in the glory.

  The initial media splurge about the charges levelled against Frame and Keegan, across four police force areas, had quietened, as sub judice applied until their trial started. But the Spanish police did arrest Grantmore that night. I ensured there was immediate publicity. We couldn’t name Grantmore, as until he was returned to England and charged, that would be viewed as prejudicing his trial. However, Wilde did me proud. Our carefully worded press release, coming the day after the publicity about Frame and Keegan, would have left Holland in no doubt as to who it was – and that I had fulfilled my part of our deal. He would know his daughter’s rapist was soon to face justice.

  I still wanted to contact him – I craved total reassurance. I’d driven past his house, even then in an agony of indecision, but it was clearly empty. That unnerved me afresh, and I had made discreet enquiries trying to trace his whereabouts without even a sniff of success. As the weeks passed, I concluded he and Lisa must have opted for a fresh start, somewhere new, and I began to relax.

  Grantmore’s extradition was expedited and about four weeks after the initial media release, he was charged with the murder of Graham Morley, and jointly with Frame and Keegan with the Beverley and Bridlington robberies. Another blaze of local and national publicity followed.

  I was confident that Holland’s thirst for revenge would now be slaked.

  I never heard from him again.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Skeleton staff it is… a DS and three. I’ll keep popping in but we’re about done.’

  ‘Are all the searches for Graham Morley’s body exhausted?’ asked the ACC Ops.

  ‘High-profile media appeals and dozens of interviews with people who knew him have drawn nothing. We’ve searched a huge area around where Grantmore attacked him, but in truth we have no concrete information about where to focus the search for his body. The public’s response has been fantastic… someone vanishing without trace is everyone’s worst nightmare. As you know, Grantmore has made “no comment” interviews throughout… his usual approach. My guess is, he’s waiting for trial to see if we find the body. If not, he’ll admit that he attacked Morley… he can do little else with the photos and Morley’s blood on his shirt. But with no body, he can claim he left him alive. However, we may, of course, still find it. But from all we have learnt about him he seems to have been incapable of “disappearing” of his own volition. We can present evidence from those who knew him that make it clear he must be dead. So I’m happy… as are CPS… that the murder charge, although largely circumstantial, will stick. It’s actually one hell of a sad but convincing tale. A jury will love it.’

  Throughout the numerous interviews with Grantmore, I had waited for him to start making allegations about our various conversations, particularly about him planting my driver and setting up the potential crimes in Hull. But the bombshell never dropped, as he only ever said “no comment”. Of course, for him to make allegations about me involved him digging himself in deeper with Frame’s planning – so why would he?

  Three months
on, however, Graham Morley’s ghost was quite literally haunting me. I had discovered a conscience. Together, Pete Granger and I had agonised over Morley’s disappearance. We both felt partly to blame. It was sadly ironic that the photograph he had taken of the Vectra outside the Silver Cod that had opened up the case would now be used in evidence to help prove his murder. At the trial, PC Granger would describe Morley’s obsession with Grantmore, using his file of photos and notes to explain why he was in the alley taking the photographs of the bully who ruined his life. Richard Wilde would appear as a witness, proving Morley had taken photographs of Grantmore from the very alley in which we would state he died. As I’d said to the Chief, this was one hell of a sad yet convincing circumstantial murder case that a jury could believe in. So although Granger and I both badly wanted to find his body, it wasn’t just to strengthen the case. We needed to know. We felt we owed him that much. There was no one mourning his death. No one needed closure apart from us. I honestly could not believe how sad it made me feel.

  I realised I had lapsed into silence, lost in my maudlin thoughts.

  Our new Head of CID – Steve Proctor – bailed me out: ‘I honestly think we’ve exhausted all avenues to find him.’

  Chief Superintendent Sharples interjected: ‘How about finding the third man… the driver on the casino robbery? That’s a bloody mystery… he could tell us some useful stuff.’

  Steve Proctor again jumped in: ‘Our mysterious… and seemingly public-spirited Steve Long. Keegan is still insisting Grantmore supplied him, and it would be great to tie Grantmore into the casino robbery, but at the minute we can’t link him.’

  ‘We’ve run out of options at the minute. We’ve interviewed nine of Billy’s ex-army colleagues who in theory could fit the bill, but to be frank, none even look likely.’ I was keen to close off this avenue of debate.

  As ever at Strategy Team, someone always wanted to score points, and Paul Jones ACC (Personnel) had a go: ‘I bet Billy Pike’s wife knows. She seems to be stuck right in the middle of this… but no charges, I understand, Detective Superintendent?’ Heavy sarcasm was evident.

  Steve Proctor again stepped in: ‘I’ve reviewed all the evidence across the inquiry at Matt’s request. There’s nothing to show Debbie Pike assisted her husband or the others. She was afraid. She’s given valuable evidence. She’s done nothing wrong.’

  Jones ploughed on: ‘For God’s sake, she damn well slept with Frame, suspecting he’d murdered her husband.’

  He was silenced by the Chief’s withering look. I chuckled to myself, wondering how he’d react to the exposé that Richard Wilde was planning after the trials. With my blessing, he’d approached Debbie Pike and come to an agreement to tell her story. He would then syndicate it around the plethora of women’s magazines that would lap up the tale of love, sex, crime and violence told by a very pretty woman with plenty of that Geordie charisma. The media would love her. I was already picking up vibes from other contacts in the press that Wilde was highly likely to be snapped up by a national. I knew his loyalty was secure.

  I confess Tom Corrigan and I had briefly discussed the idea of the beautiful widow having helped herself to the supposedly missing thirty grand off the trawler; after all, she knew it was there. By some tacit agreement, we never took it further. We didn’t want to know. I guess neither of us wanted to blow our star witness out of the water. But if I’m honest, a little bit of me half hoped she had taken the cash – a measure of revenge for what had happened to her husband.

  I sensed Paul Jones had not finished. He was shuffling through papers, red in the face and determined to get one over on me, unable to hide his contempt, at me – the dinosaur – for the moment at least, being top dog.

  ‘In my role as head of all personnel issues, I also want to raise the issue of PC Peter Granger and demand to know why no disciplinary proceedings have been taken for the assault… in public… upon Sergeant Knaggs back in January.’

  ‘It was my last action in Professional Standards actually. He was disciplined. I have posted him to Scunthorpe.’ Steve Proctor again stepped in.

  My old mate Steve Proctor, back in the CID where he belonged. He had been the obvious choice to replace Kingston, who had initially been suspended over the debacle exposed by Richard Wilde. Steve’s first job had been to reinvestigate the mysterious death of Keith Donavan at the centre of that affair, and he quickly and easily established that his wife’s boyfriend had murdered him. After the charge, Donavan’s family renewed their publicity campaign, once again supported by Wilde and the Hull Daily Mail, and Kingston, along with his underling, Naylor, was dismissed from the force.

  Then when “Wizz” Wilson retired, Steve fulfilled his ambition – Head of CID.

  The Chief stepped in: ‘I approved the posting. The lad made a mistake. Even the sergeant accepted his role in the sordid affair. Granger’s done an excellent job for a young officer. He’ll be commended after the trial, I’m sure. To be honest, I was moved to help him when I received a letter from the woman who was almost raped by the gang member who was shot. She was overflowing with the deepest gratitude for all he did for her.’

  I chuckled to myself again at how a cooperative Anne Beedham had written the letter at my request and without doubt swayed Crabbe to agree with Steve Proctor’s recommendation – over Jones’s head.

  ‘Have we got a trial date yet?’ asked Jane Greenhall.

  ‘No, ma’am, I expect it’ll be about the end of the year, or early next year for the joint charges and the murders of Emmerson and Harrod. But Grantmore will go for a separate trial for the murder of Morley and that will be well into 2000.’

  The agenda then moved on into that new millennium and plans to tackle the so-called millennium bug. Plans to tackle bad things that might not even happen.

  I had spent the five months since I first saw Russ Holland in Hull Crown Court, planning to prevent bad things happening to me. In so doing, I had “crossed the line” – a legally drawn line. Gone far further over it than I had ever gone before, or ever wanted to go. But planting Holland had worked. No one got hurt that night – other than Frame – and we’d detected three murders. I’d never know if I didn’t need to have done it; let’s face it, fate just seemed to take over and deliver me good luck at every turn. Somehow, that good luck made me feel morally vindicated. I must have been right. Justice was now going to be served on three evil men. The more time passed, the safer I felt.

  Millennium bug? Not for Matt Darnley.

  Or was there? My guilt about Morley persisted. Was it my fault he was dead? I had even failed to find his body. He couldn’t even be here to see justice delivered for him. I was shocked at how much like Holland I’d become; I had increasingly begun to believe justice wouldn’t ease my pain.

  Thirty-Eight

  Seven Months Later

  A Year Since the Beverley Robbery

  Thursday, 9th December 1999

  I pulled into the car park of Full Sutton Prison and found a space. I felt reluctant to leave the warmth of the Honda, not just because it was bloody freezing outside, but mainly because I have always hated prisons. Having spent my career trying to put people into them, I couldn’t help but see them as breeding grounds for criminality and violence. Accepting that while criminals were in there, the public at large were safer, the vast majority came out more effective and committed. Paradoxically, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the inmates in the God-forsaken hellholes. As a detective, I’d often had to visit such places and their “guests” and it always freaked me out. Full Sutton Prison was a category A establishment – only for the most dangerous and high-risk, so I was readying myself for the shock to my delicate system.

  I remained in the warm car and reread the letter I had received from Sean Grantmore a couple of weeks previously. He’d asked for a one-to-one meeting, promising me some information. Surely that could only be the location of Graham Morley�
�s body?

  Following the usual protocol with such a letter, I had first sent DCs Beatty and Young to see him, but he had refused, repeating that he would only talk to me on my own. Initially, I’d determined not to go, thinking to myself that the next time I would see him would be at his trial. Such thoughts had taken me back to the last time I’d seen him in court when he was acquitted of the rape and Russ Holland had attacked him. That case had also seemed solid – but he had got off. I knew the murder charge was pretty strong but it had the huge deficit of no body, and I couldn’t help but have nagging doubts. I tried not to think about what the hell would happen if he were acquitted this time. I had still not seen or heard from Russ Holland. I was letting sleeping dogs lie. But what if Grantmore was acquitted? Would Holland renew his quest for revenge? Would both men speak out? What a bloody nightmare.

  But it wasn’t just self-interest that drove me to come and see him.

  Much stronger was the need to fully complete the investigation, solve the mystery, find the body and thereby, I hoped, assuage my still growing, gnawing guilt. I’d kept in touch with Pete Granger since his posting to Scunthorpe, my intention being to get him into the CID, and I knew he still felt terrible about not having been able to better protect the troubled young man. We both wanted Morley to at long last get his revenge. My guilt was made worse by the reality that it was Morley in effect that had solved the catalogue of crimes, while it was me basking in the glory.

  I guessed Grantmore would be after yet another deal. I’ll tell you where the body is if… He’d just received fifteen years for his part in the Beverley and Bridlington robberies, and seen his accomplices get life with a minimum recommendation of twenty-five years. If convicted of killing Morley, he too was looking at life, with a similar recommendation. He had nothing left to lose. He was desperate. I assumed he was hoping to strengthen his hand in such a deal by threatening me with exposure as a corrupt police officer during his forthcoming trial.