A Duty of Revenge Read online

  Copyright © 2021 Quentin Dowse

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  ISBN 9781800468894

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, buisnesses, organisations, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To all those friends and colleagues

  who played real parts in the story

  of my thirty years of policing

  Contents

  Foreword

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Foreword

  Food for Thought

  By the time any police officer has twelve months’ service under their belts, they will have a handful of sad, funny, frightening or just downright crazy tales to tell. By the time they retire, they’ll have hundreds – and they love to tell them. A large proportion of these tales extol the positive virtues of the central character as daring, astute, tough, cunning, funny – an amazing array of traits can help describe a “good copper”. Other tales, however, get repeated because the main player was useless, frightened, cynical, thick, a drunk, a bully or bent.

  The stories always start in the relatively small geographical area where “it happened” – in or near the local nick. The best stories spread more widely – throughout several stations, the division, the force and further. They are recirculated over and over again – literally for years, subtly changing as things are added, new words said or even different people appear. Fiction built on fact. A few stories become part of local police folklore and their main characters legends, helping create a local policing culture. Ask any copper who has moved around stations and departments how many different cultures they have had to adapt to.

  Then we come to a second set of stories.

  These are played out in the endless diet of high-octane cop shows on TV, and in films and books. Many officers can’t bear to watch their TV counterparts, or if they do, ruin the experience for their families with a running critique of the shows’ plot holes and endless comments such as – “That would never happen.” The stereotypical modern TV cop, far removed from Dixon of Dock Green, may tarnish their own image of their chosen career – fashioned by that local folklore and culture. A few others actually identify with and mimic their TV heroes. Whatever the effect on serving officers, there is little doubt that this drip-feed of fictional crime, criminals and cops fuels a wider cultural view of policing.

  Finally, there’s a third set.

  Stories that can only be told by the people who actually played a part and who must promise to “tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth”. The storytellers are even cross-examined to ensure accuracy. A story recorded word for word, backed up by sworn documentary evidence and scientific fact.

  These stories appear in the newspapers, on the radio and TV news, with some even ending up as documentaries or films. For the most controversial, only a public inquiry can be seen to get to the “whole truth”. Think of the Yorkshire Ripper, Brady and Hindley, Fred and Rosemary West – an endless list of true crimes, with a cast of real characters etched into the nation’s subconscious.

  These stories help shape the nation’s view of our police officers and their forces. Who hasn’t formed a view of The Met through the murder of Stephen Lawrence, or of South Yorkshire through the Hillsborough Disaster? But even under this intense scrutiny, we are always left with question marks. What really happened? Where is the body? Who gave the order? Why didn’t she speak up sooner? Was the “confession” lawfully obtained? Whose fault was it?

  In reality, is it even possible to answer all of the questions? Where do the answers lie?

  In any well-investigated, serious and complex crime, there will genuinely be some unanswerable questions. Not every conundrum can be explained. But sometimes the truth is deliberately hidden. Dodgy deals and sordid secrets do exist. Those “secret” parts of major crimes are told – but only in hushed tones amongst trusted friends.

  True justice can only be delivered within the rule of law and in my experience nearly always is. But this story is about revenge – justice taken, not delivered. As you will see, even the main characters involved never knew “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth”. Only I did.

  Matt Darnley

  Detective Superintendent (Retired)

  One

  That Night

  02:00 Thursday, 10th December 1998

  Spitting did not come naturally to Anne Beedham. Her initial idea had been to try a head-butt, but even in her panic she’d worked out that would hurt her more than her attacker. Spitting was the only form of attack left, as she couldn’t move her arms or legs. Her spittle landing on the only part of the man’s face that was visible, his eyes, gave her a momentary sense of satisfaction, but the stinging slap that followed jolted her back to reality. Anne Beedham was a suburban, middle-class wife and mother, and being struck was as alien to her as spitting, but within the last hour she had found herself in a world she had only ever seen on the TV or films.

  The man wiped his eyes with his free arm and then resumed where he had left off before she had decided she had had enough of being a placid victim. Pushing her back against the desk, he roughly thrust his right hand beneath the hem of her skirt and between her thighs. In doing so, he lowered his gaze to check out the action, allowing a now enraged Anne to sink her teeth into his right cheek and channel all her anger into trying to bite through it. Her jaws locked and the man ho
wled as she flung her arm around his neck and pulled him closer, determined he would not escape her already aching jaws. Just for a moment, despite his size and strength, Anne had him overpowered and was on the verge of tearing half his face off.

  Through her fury and his screams of pain she heard footsteps pounding up the stairs before a second masked man burst into the room. Anne growled like a cornered animal and ground her teeth yet more tightly, encouraging further screams of rage and pain, and watched the tall, powerfully built man she had already identified as the leader of the gang take stock of the situation. He pulled a handgun from the pocket of his blue overalls as he strode across the small office towards them and then viciously grabbed a handful of Anne’s dark hair. Instinct made her bite even harder.

  Then came a command in a tone that was incongruously calm and polite in such a situation: ‘Let go… Now.’

  The barrel of the handgun was then placed gently against her temple. The refined delivery of the instruction made the implications of not obeying all the more menacing.

  The man with the well-chewed cheek howled again as Anne delivered her final effort to make her teeth meet before letting go. For the second time in ten seconds she spat – a mixture of the man’s blood and wet fibres from his balaclava. He staggered unsteadily away from her, clutching his face, growling with his pain and anger, while keeping his eyes on the man with the gun. Anne was similarly transfixed, seeing the armed man as her saviour and seeking a message from the narrowed dark eyes staring through the slits in his olive-green balaclava. He waved the gun to indicate that she should sit in the padded leather chair behind the desk. She did as instructed, continuing to dare to look him in the eyes, scarcely able to believe how defiant she felt. Now judging her to be compliant, he turned to his injured accomplice and brutally thrust the muzzle of the gun into his injured cheek.

  ‘Stay here. Do not touch her again,’ he commanded in the same calm, cultured voice. He then strode from the room.

  The injured man cringed like a whipped dog, leaning heavily against the wood-panelled wall of the office, cradling his damaged face in his gloved hand.

  ‘Not so tough now, are you?’ she sneered at her captor. ‘He’s got you shit-scared.’

  Emboldened by the adrenaline that coursed through her, Anne felt anger more than fright, although her head and her heart were pounding. For the last hour she had been terrified, but now she felt inexplicably aggressive, with every emotion, nerve and sinew seemingly on high alert.

  Reacting to her scorn, the man moved towards her, clearly aching to teach her a lesson, but rather than cringe away Anne felt herself bristle with rage, ready for “fight” not “flight”. But the man stopped short, glaring at her from the other side of the desk, still nursing his damaged face. She knew he would obey the man with the gun. For the time being, she was safe.

  He flopped down in the hard chair that the manager of the Hardstone Building Society kept especially for his staff, when they made it past his secretary and into his office. Anne was one of the ninteen employees that all worked at its branch situated in Wednesday Market, Beverley. For her to be sitting behind the desk and in the chair of its unpopular manager, Noel Priestley, was a further novel experience. Her emotions unravelled further as she imagined the pompous little git’s reaction to the robbery and her “role” in it – she wanted to laugh out loud.

  Footsteps mounting the stairs dragged her back to reality, and her earlier saviour, accompanied by a third masked man, entered the office. Was it only an hour ago they had led her from her home at gunpoint, leaving her husband and son bound and gagged, before using her keys to disarm the alarm and enter the building society? He was now carrying a navy blue holdall with the gun in his other hand. The third man came around the desk and took hold of Anne’s upper arm, pulling her to her feet, while the gunman motioned to Anne’s attacker to leave the office. Without a word, the four of them descended the stairs and left the building by a rear door, into a small staff car park. A heavy drizzle driven by an icy cold wind quickly soaked through Anne’s thin blouse as they walked silently towards a BMW parked in a dark corner, hiding it from the casual glance of any passerby. Anne was pushed into the rear seat and then joined by the gunman, while her attacker, still subdued and nursing his injury, climbed into the front passenger seat. The third man did the driving, pulling silently onto Lord Roberts Road and through the quiet rain-soaked streets of the market town. Within minutes, they had passed the racecourse and were heading along the A1079 towards York.

  Anne no longer felt aggressive and angry. She was shivering uncontrollably, her mind a blur of panic and dread, convinced the men were now intending to kill her – dispose of the witness – after doing God knows what else to her. She knew she would never see her son and husband again and prayed they would be safe. When, about ten minutes after leaving Beverley, the car pulled into a long, dark lay-by hidden from the road by a deep stand of trees, Anne was so traumatised she could only stammer, ‘Please… no… please.’

  The gunman reached down into her footwell and removed her shoes before leaning across and opening her door. He motioned her with the gun to get out of the car. Still expecting to be shot, she did as she was told and then just stood with her back to the still-open door. The door slammed shut followed by the powerful purr of the BMW and the crunch of loose gravel as it sped away.

  For ten seconds, Anne Beedham did not move. Then she looked up into the sky, feeling the cold drizzle on her face. She laughed out loud as she felt the warm urine dribble down her thighs and then warming her bare feet. She hitched up her skirt and began to run. Ignoring the abrading pain of the lay-by’s gravel, she soon gained the smoother tarmac surface of the A1079 and at a steady jog headed back towards Beverley.

  *

  An Hour Earlier

  Janice Cooper had always found the guest bedroom at her neat bungalow in the village of Atwick, near the East Yorkshire seaside town of Hornsea, to be cold. It had been added as a loft extension a few years earlier, but the builders had never warned her how cold such rooms could get, particularly facing eastwards towards the North Sea coast less than a mile away across the flat exposed farmland. It was ironic that not a single guest had ever stayed in the room, but tonight she had unwillingly become its first ever occupant, and it now seemed highly likely that she was going to die in it.

  As her chest heaved with the effort of trying to keep breathing, her mind escaped to those summers back in the 1950s when her parents had taken her and her younger brother to stay at the Fresh Fields Caravan Park on the clifftops between Hornsea and Atwick, to escape the industrial grime of her native Barnsley. As her lungs burned, her mind raced forward through the years to when she eventually realised one half of her childhood dream – a bungalow near the sea. A new job at the Hardstone Building Society in Beverley, only about ten miles from the rapidly eroding but still beautiful east coast, had been the opportunity. Proudly settling into her new home at the age of thirty-five, she’d reluctantly accepted the fact that the complementary half of her dream would never be realised. Janice had never even had a steady boyfriend, let alone an offer of marriage. Janice’s work colleagues were her only real friends. They admired her stoic yet cheerful disposition, while at the same time at a loss to understand why she hadn’t attracted a man – after all, she wasn’t unattractive, albeit being what they would kindly describe as “homely and comfortable”. Several seemingly suitable customers had been steered, sometimes less than tactfully, towards asking her out, and despite several dates, not one had asked twice.

  Janice wriggled in the hard kitchen chair, trying to relieve the cramp in her arms and shoulders. She remembered how she had gradually shrugged off the disappointment of having no one with whom to share her dreams and taken comfort in the knowledge that when the extra bedroom was finished, Mum and Dad would come to stay. She hoped that her brother and his wife and their three children would also be regular visitors. Thos
e dreams had also shattered when her dad died of a heart attack just three weeks after the bedroom was finished and Mum had slipped effortlessly into the role of professional widow, refusing to be happy and viewing a holiday by the sea as somehow unseemly. Her brother and his family had visited her a few times after Dad died but they never stayed the night. Janice eventually accepted that his wife viewed her spinster sister-in-law and her seaside retreat as both boring and embarrassing, and only came under sufferance.

  Janice wondered why, in this cruel situation, she was now allowing herself to admit how lonely and unfulfilled her life had become, constantly hiding her sadness beneath a facade of outward jollity and practicality, which her work colleagues, totally unbeknown to her, so often discussed and admired. Now faced with death, the walls she had built to protect herself suddenly crumbled, releasing the tears she thought she’d forgotten how to shed. She choked at the irony that it would be this long denied weakness that would kill her.

  She felt her tears start to flow. The tape binding her wrists tightened the more she struggled to get comfortable, and her tears turned to sobs. Her sobs became frantic gasps for air and became shallower and shallower as she struggled to breathe. The thick woollen sock cruelly stuffed into her mouth and held in place by a length of broad black tape only allowed her to breathe through her nose. Not a problem for most, but as a chronic asthmatic, Janice had started to panic the moment the man forced open her mouth and rammed in the sock. Years of managing her condition enabled her to calm down when she felt sure the three men had left her house, taking with them the keys for the building society’s safe. She told herself not to panic. Panic would be fatal. But as the minutes dragged on and she grew colder and sadder, she began to wonder just how long she must sit immobile, bound, gagged and unable to breathe properly. The rain hammered onto the bedroom window driven by an onshore wind, forcing a cold draught through the cheap double-glazing, ruffling the thin net curtains, penetrating her cotton nightie and further chilling her body. Despite Janice’s best efforts to block them out, her thoughts continued to drift into the past, dredging up uncomfortable memories and emotions. After what seemed like hours since the men had forced their way into her house, those emotions brought the tears, which sparked the panic she had fought so hard to quell. That panic and the tears brought on an asthma attack that only her inhaler could now stem. Janice Cooper slowly began to suffocate. As an almost welcome haze of unconsciousness slid over her, she wondered if whoever found her body would be kind enough to lay her on the unused double bed atop the weekly laundered but also unused Laura Ashley quilt.