A Duty of Revenge Page 2

  *

  Constable Peter Granger had a lot on his mind. Married for only three months, he was convinced that his wife, PC Amy Granger, was already having an affair with her sergeant, Dave Knaggs, some fifteen years her senior. In fact, from what he had recently gleaned, albeit from a dubious source – overheard gossip between Betty the cleaner and Frank the civilian property officer – she had been in this relationship for the four years she had been on Knaggs’ shift. This was longer than he had even known her. According to Betty, Amy was a hot arse who couldn’t keep her knickers on, and she’d only married that nice PC Granger because his dad had just died and left him a house and a handsome cash sum. Apparently the affair was particularly active when her young husband was on nights. The actual eavesdropper, PC Lynne Stubbs, had relayed this verbatim conversation to him two nights previously while they shared a patrol car for a few hours of the shift. Peter had been dubious about Lynne’s motives in disclosing this shocking news from the outset. Known as the “station bike”, Lynne had tried to ensnare him when he was a naïve new probationer only two years earlier, and he had tactfully rebuffed her in favour of Amy. Her probity as a witness had suffered a further setback when within ten minutes of breaking the news of his wife’s infidelity she had offered him a blow job as a means of comfort!

  Not wanting to believe it, Pete had spent the last two nights at work in an agony of doubt, unable to dispel the image of his Amy at this very moment getting shagged by Knaggs. In their new bed. In their brand-new, detached, four-bedroom Barratt show home. He had to find out the truth.

  He resolved to do it now, while it was quiet. The radio was dead, the drizzle and the cold wind having quietened Beverley even earlier than usual. He’d venture off his car beat, nip home and catch them. He’d not worked out what he would do if he caught them – but Amy was always nagging him to be more spontaneous.

  ‘Control to PC Granger, PC Granger, are you receiving?’ the radio demanded.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he swore. Sod’s law. He intended to ignore the message and wait until they called someone else.

  ‘Control to PC Granger, PC Granger.’

  Despite himself, he reached for his radio – a Pavlovian response after four years of police service.

  ‘PC Granger receiving. Go ahead.’

  ‘PC Granger, straight away to the phone box on the A1079 in Bishop Burton village. A Mrs Anne Beedham is waiting for you there. She reports being taken from her home in Dunswell at gunpoint and being forced to help rob the Hardstone Building Society, where she works. More information to follow.’

  Already driving at speed towards the location, PC Peter Granger forgot his personal problems. Guns and robbery? In Beverley?

  ‘On my way. Do we know if the offenders are still in the area?’

  ‘She reports her three attackers have driven off in a dark BMW 5 series towards York. You are safe to approach.’

  The criminal use of a firearm in these parts was as rare as rocking-horse shit, and on a rainy night in December, nothing much was happening anywhere. So this radio message woke up every keen copper who even had a sniff of getting in on the action.

  As Pete Granger sped towards Bishop Burton, he heard another officer being dispatched, to the home of the woman he was en route to meet. The officer was told he would there find her husband and son bound and gagged in an upstairs front bedroom. An ambulance was also en route. Traffic units patrolling near the A1079 were directed to search for a dark BMW 5 series containing three armed men. With no audible sign of irony, the controller explained that at least one of the men was carrying a handgun and that these unarmed officers should take care. It still amazed him how most police officers rushed towards anything that was remotely exciting – even if dangerous. The nearest of the two armed response units covering the force was deployed, but it was currently in East Hull, miles away from ever being able to confront the BMW before unarmed officers, if it should be sighted.

  The next call directed a Hornsea-based officer, PC Harry Willis, to The Bungalow, Cliff Lane, Atwick in the same urgent but quietly controlled tone.

  ‘PC Willis, we are told we have another female victim at this address. Janice Cooper, forty-five years. Our information is that she is severely asthmatic and may be bound and gagged. We are organising an ambulance and another unit is en route from Bridlington.’

  Granger imagined the collective groan as units heard that “Windy” Willis was being sent on such an urgent task. In his mid-forties and massively overweight, Willis was the classic uniform carrier, off work sick more than he attended – and bloody useless when he did.

  ‘PC Willis to control, I was out of my car on foot, so it will take me fifteen, that’s one five, fifteen minutes. How do we know the armed men haven’t gone back there?’

  Everyone listening knew he would be spinning it out, hoping someone would get there before him. Out of the car? He never got out of the car – only to get fish and chips.

  ‘PC Willis, attend as quickly as possible and effect immediate entry to the house. Do not wait for backup. The offenders were last seen heading towards York… now put your foot down!’ Even the controller twenty miles away in Hull had got the measure of PC Willis.

  *

  Harry Willis rarely left the security of the streetlights of Hornsea when he was working nights – and he did his utmost to avoid night shifts. In the job for twenty-five years but frightened by its demands, he longed for his pension that was still five years away. Following an acrimonious divorce and painful separation from his two teenage children, he had fallen into depression, taking long periods of sickness. He’d piled on the weight and lost all interest in police work, and life in general. He took every opportunity to take as much time off sick as possible – especially on nights – using the classic skiver’s excuses of back pain, upset stomach and flu. His supervisors were closely monitoring his sickness, so not every set of nights could be avoided. So here he was, alone, at almost three in the morning, driving through drizzle and a coastal fog in the pitch-black towards God knows what. He just hoped that the ambulance crew would get there first, and to help make that happen, he drove at barely thirty miles an hour down the deserted country roads.

  Harry knew where he was going. He’d been to the bungalow before. About two months previously, Janice Cooper had reported a suspicious caller, efficiently recording his car number and description. By the time Harry had arrived, the man had long gone, but over a cup of tea she had passed the information over to Harry, even though she could see he was completely disinterested. He’d spent about an hour with Janice chatting over a cup of tea, recognising the similarities in their lonely lives but at the same time envious of her outward optimism and friendly nature. Harry had momentarily felt ashamed of his own gloom and mean-spirited nature, which he knew his work colleagues despised and ridiculed behind his back. By the time he left the bungalow, that envy had turned to dislike for the jolly outgoing spinster and he had stereotyped her as a nervous nosey parker, not worthy of his help. He made no further enquiries about the man and the car, writing the incident off as a non-event and including only a vague description of the man on the incident log.

  However, whatever else he was, PC Willis was not stupid and as he drove towards the bungalow, his mind made the potential connection between the suspicious man and tonight’s obviously serious events, and he began to worry. She was just the type to mention the man and his car – and he’d taken no action. He slowed down further and tried to think, but Atwick was only a five-minute drive and all too quickly he was outside the bungalow.

  Harry knew he couldn’t just sit there, so switching on his torch he stepped out into the mist and drizzle and approached the house, frightened by the dark, the isolation and what he might find – and how he may well be in deep shit. He’d been told to force an entry if necessary but knew his fat backside would not pass through any of the double glazed windows, even if he smas
hed one, so he tried the back door. Trembling with apprehension, he shook the handle, fully expecting it to be secure but the door opened, almost causing him to fall into the opening. The house was in darkness and totally silent. He shone his torch through the doorway to reveal a small, neat kitchen. Now almost desperate to hear the ambulance approaching, he stood still and listened. Silence.

  ‘PC 1471 Willis to control, I’m at the scene and the house is insecure. I am about to go in.’

  Still afraid but rationalising that there was probably no one in the bungalow but a bound and gagged middle-aged woman, PC Willis transferred his torch to his left hand and took his ASP from its belt pouch and with a swift downward flick of his wrist extended the weapon. Peering into the kitchen, he spotted a light switch within reach. A fluorescent tube fizzed and flickered overhead before starkly illuminating the room, making Harry brave enough to shout.

  ‘Hello. Anyone there? This is the police and I’m coming in.’

  With that, he stepped over the threshold, ASP raised as if he were the SAS about to storm an enemy stronghold.

  Having committed himself to action, he moved quickly through the kitchen, finding himself in a narrow hallway off which he first found a small bathroom wedged beneath the stairs. Empty. He moved further into the house, knocking down two switches that lit up the hall and the upstairs landing. Quick glances into the front room and two downstairs bedrooms left only the upstairs to check. He cautiously climbed the stairs. As his head became level with the upstairs landing floor, he looked to his right between the spindles of the banister and through an open door into the only room. A bright security light from outside diffused through the thin curtains, creating a silhouette of what Harry had been led to expect. Janice Cooper was sitting on a dining chair, directly facing the open door. Her head and shoulders were slumped so far forward towards her knees that without her restraining bonds, she would have fallen forward off the chair. Harry exhaled his pent-up breath in an involuntary gesture of relief as he realised not only that he was in no danger but also that his failure to investigate Mrs Cooper’s suspicious caller would not now be exposed, as the woman was clearly dead.

  Well practised at watching his own back while avoiding work, his immediate thoughts were about how he would be able to look good by suggesting the suspicious caller could be connected to tonight’s events. There would be no Mrs Cooper to throw a spanner in the works. He gave not one passing thought to either the fate of the poor woman, how his developing plan might actually damage any future investigation, or even consider that if the two events were actually connected, he had failed in his duties to record an accurate description of the suspect or his car.

  Feeling much more confident, he moved on up the stairs and into the bedroom and put on the light, taking in the tape used to bind Janice Cooper to the chair. Even a lazy copper has seen plenty of dead bodies in twenty-five years’ service and a good proportion are in strange, suspicious and downright weird scenarios, so Harry was unmoved by the presence of the body. He felt at the neck for a pulse to confirm life extinct, as it wouldn’t be the first time a copper had been in the presence of a “body” only to find it was no such thing – and it wasn’t the last – Harry felt a weak but definite pulse.

  Ten years of trying to avoid police work were forgotten and PC Willis went into autopilot. He tore the tape from Janice’s mouth and moved to clear her airway, finding the sock and throwing it to the floor. He scrambled for the Swiss Army knife on his equipment belt and cut through the tape, actually thinking about the forensic potential of fingerprints, hairs and fibres from the criminals adhering to the tape. He laid her gently on the bed, tilted back her head and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  By the time two ambulance staff were running up the stairs, Janice had regained consciousness, and as they carried her out of the house, PC Harry Willis sat on the bed, grinning. He felt better about himself than he had done for years.

  Two

  10:30 That Same Morning

  ‘This is a fantastic opportunity, Darnley. We cannot afford to let it pass. A middle-aged uniformed police officer saving the life of a similarly aged female in the dead of night. It’s community policing in action,’ Chief Constable Miles Crabbe enthused.

  Community policing – the Chief was on his usual soapbox and once again I marvelled at how his enthusiasm never waned, even though he must know that I was thinking he was talking crap. But he was invigorated by his own credo, his bug-like eyes wide and his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in time with the nods of his head. Crabbe was a firm believer that enthusiasm was like the clap – highly contagious – and if he voiced his ludicrous ideas often enough and with appropriate gusto, all his cynical, and in the main, more realistic and practical, workforce would catch a dose. The problem was, I really liked the bloke and would have hated to upset him, although most of his senior officers agreed that he was so intelligent, so far removed from reality and so wrapped up in his own vision of modern policing that he was probably impervious to insult.

  ‘The actual crime is less important, we can do far more for the reputation of Humberside Police through this human-interest story than we can by detecting the crime and apprehending the villains… unfortunately,’ he added as an afterthought

  ‘Absolutely, sir. I’ll get the press office on it straight away… but I wanted to talk to you about setting up an incident room and getting it on the HOLMES system.’

  His enthusiasm evaporated in an instant and he sat back in his chair with a look that a father would give his naughty son with whom he is regularly disappointed. I’d seen the look dozens of times before and had expected it, so I ploughed on, talking rapidly to avoid the interruption I knew was coming.

  ‘There’s a good chance that last night’s job could be linked to the Post Office raid carried out in Bridlington in September. Last night’s was slightly different in that they tied the families up and left them, rather than leaving one of the gang to guard them.’

  Such crimes are indeed very rare and known as tiger kidnaps, involving short-term hostage taking, often of family members of someone who has access to cash or other valuables.

  ‘I can’t believe the jobs aren’t connected… we need a thorough investigation. Robberies and kidnaps like these are as rare as hen’s teeth nationally… and that’s two in four months in the bloody East Riding. And the level of violence used last night makes the crime even more worrying. As you rightly point out, sir, the woman at Atwick nearly died, and the other employee taken to the building society was close to being raped by one of the mad bastards.’

  ‘Yes quite… but I’d like you to do the press interviews, not the press office.’

  He was bloody ignoring me.

  ‘Get the PC from Hornsea… what’s his name… Walters… Witters… and the woman he saved on the TV with you. Don’t think we need an incident room. A standard divisional investigation will suffice. No one died. We don’t know the cases are linked and I want most of the CID out on the streets in uniform in the run-up to Christmas.’

  Same old bloody rigmarole – Bobbies on the beat in fluorescent jackets – he was obsessed. However, l had fought this battle several times now and had figured out a winning strategy, but it galled me each time I had to appear to toe his party line, when what I really wanted was a damn good argument.

  ‘Excellent idea, sir, but you should front it, or the local chief superintendent. Get the uniform on the TV and in the papers. Otherwise, it smacks of the CID being in charge… not an image we wish to portray.’

  ‘Quite right, Darnley… spot on… glad you can see that we need to break down the media-led myth of the CID being the brains in policing. I’ve no truck with elitism.’

  He gave a couple of blinks, couple of nods, and then just stared at me, grinning, oblivious to the fact that he had just rubbished the bulk of my twenty-eight-year career. I recognised the abrupt halt to the conversation, accom
panied by the stare and grin as my dismissal, but I continued with my well-used strategy.

  ‘You’re right about the incident room as well, sir. We need the troops out on high visibility patrol. I guess we won’t get another robbery with a kidnap in our area. Richer pickings in West Yorkshire and softer targets in North Yorks. I suggest that when you hold your press conference, you should reassure the public that they’re unlikely to strike a third time here.’

  ‘Mmm… that could sound complacent rather than reassuring.’ Eyes now narrowed and head still. This meant progress.

  ‘Not at all… if nothing else happens. You front the story and give your personal reassurance as to how unusual such crimes are in this area. How gun crime is a big-city phenomenon and kidnapping is only the stuff of TV drama. Emphasise the fact that the lady only survived because our brave officer was out and about on uniformed night patrol. The press are bound to ask if the job at Brid is linked, but I would say not at this stage and then we can keep our fingers crossed we don’t get another job. You’re spot on, sir. The chances of another job happening here… and it going horribly wrong… and someone actually getting shot are miniscule.’

  Optimistic enthusiasm was now tempered by self-preservation. Nobody gets to the top job in policing without keeping him or herself out of the shit. He slowly leaned even further back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, hands brought together on his chest in a position of prayer, his neck stretched taut with his Adam’s apple like a misshapen marble, stationary on an impossible incline.