A Duty of Revenge Read online

  The DI was right. I would do no good poking around in the dark and could mess up any forensics. But this granny wanted to get this particular egg sucked. Curiosity conquered professionalism. If I had to wait until tomorrow to check my hunch, I’d never get to bloody sleep – and as he said, I was the boss.

  ‘You’re dead right to tell me, Mally… but I need to check something. Record in the log that I entered the scene and looked at the body. Lend me your torch.’

  His torch was virtually out of batteries and as dim as a half-starved glow-worm, but I bobbed under the tape and stepped carefully towards the body. Standing still, I tried to soak in the detail of the scene. There wasn’t much to see. This was an execution – plain and simple. I bent forward and gently moved the long grass away from the corpse’s head. Bingo. I could see the nasty bite mark on his cheek. She’d nearly ripped half his face off.

  I ducked back under the tape, knowing the two men would be discussing what a knobhead I was for doing what I’d just done.

  ‘Come on then, Ridey,’ I said, rubbing my hands together, half to keep warm but also to help me keep calm. ‘Who’ve we got here with a bullet in the brain?’

  ‘How do I know? You’ve just had a look… did you recognise him? Must be connected to our job, I don’t believe in coincidences.’

  ‘Never seen him before in my life. Come on, mate. Work it out.’

  Ridey walked off a few yards. ‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me… give me a minute.’

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s not charades,’ laughed Mally Baldwin.

  You could almost hear his grey matter grinding.

  ‘Fuck me, it’s the bloke she bit! You’ve seen the bite mark… but how did you know?’

  I knew he’d work it out himself but I wanted to look like the ace detective – all SIOs have big egos that need regular nourishment.

  ‘Same as you, mate. I don’t believe in coincidences. While we were driving over here, I went through some possible scenarios and this was the only thing that made sense. Anne Beedham got covered in his blood, so we get a DNA sample and quickly identify one of the villains. She says that the bloke who seemed to be in charge was really pissed off with the bloke she bit and threatened him with the gun. I reckon they’ve took him out the game to stop him leading us to them.’

  Ridey fell silent, weighing up this scenario.

  ‘Which is pretty damn calculating. They’ve executed him. I wouldn’t mind being on this job, boss… any chance… need a DI?’ Mally asked.

  Before I could reply, Ridey continued, ‘Christ. Who the hell are we dealing with? We don’t get jobs like this in Humberside. Why not just try and get rid of the blood from her? Or why not bump her off?’

  ‘That’s what I find worrying. It looks like they’ve weighed up those options while travelling between Beverley and the first lay-by. Even if they’d taken all her clothes, they’d have missed some blood on her body, or in her hair. Not practical to keep hold of her until they could shower her down. They could have killed her and burnt the body, I suppose, but I reckon the boss man has made up his mind what he’s going to do before they’ve let her out of the car. Fifteen minutes further up the road and they’ve literally destroyed the potential link to them and the job… as they say in the movies, “dead men don’t talk”. You’re right, Mally, they are fucking calculating… and that’s scary… they’re good. They’ve even thought to take his clothes in case there was trace evidence on them.’

  We were all quiet for a moment until Ridey said, ‘His DNA is going to be on the database. They knew we’d get him. They shot him in case he blabbed.’

  I’d already got there but let Ridey have his moment of glory. I was already thinking of the next day’s efforts I’d need to put in with the Chief Constable to staff up the incident, which was now a murder inquiry, as well as a robbery and kidnap. One thing was for sure: the Chief would now be bloody glad that it had been “his idea” to set up an incident room.

  We were quiet for a moment, thinking things through.

  ‘Another possibility why they didn’t shoot Anne Beedham is that she is the source of their information. She’s in on it,’ I thought out loud.

  ‘But this bloke attacked her, tried to rape her, and she’s definitely bitten him. It doesn’t make sense for her to be involved. It doesn’t fit.’ Ridey shook his head, dismissing the notion.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t even know she was involved. He just got carried away. A scenario with her involved resolves the questions about how they knew who had the keys. Another discussion for briefing tomorrow.’

  There was little more I could actually do at the scene and I was dog-tired, but there was no way I could go home yet. I gave DI Baldwin a number of actions to complete using local staff and then told him to join the inquiry in the morning. I thanked the doctor, had a quick word with the policewoman left to guard the scene and confirmed arrangements with the Command Centre. I asked them to arrange for a Home Office pathologist and forensic scientist to meet me at Pocklington Police Station at seven thirty in the morning and for the policewoman to be brought a flask of coffee. Then it was back to the MIR. I needed to get my head in gear. The next day’s priorities had shifted.

  Ridey’s raid on the force’s overtime pot was further assured and as we drove back towards Driffield, I put the heater on full blast and asked, ‘Well, mate, what do you reckon?’

  ‘To be honest, boss, my head’s spinning. It’s been a hell of a day, one revelation after another. Once we get set up and start piecing today’s events together, I reckon they’ll have made loads of mistakes. There are plenty of lines of inquiry… but we’re going to need some bloody staff. Crabbe’s Christmas plans for all the CID in uniform are looking a bit doubtful… what a shame.’

  ‘I hope you’re not taking the piss out of our illustrious leader,’ I laughed. ‘Seriously, though, they made a mistake turning a kidnap and a robbery into a murder. The dead bloke will have had mates and we’ll let them know how he died. Someone will know who he was running with and they’ll grass ’em up. Then we need to look at the staff at the building society… especially our lovely Anne. I’ve got a feeling about her… she’s trouble.’

  I felt confident the job would open up quickly, as there were so many angles and opportunities for evidence, and I was looking forward to the challenge ahead. If I had known then how things would turn out, I’d have asked the Chief if I could lead his Christmas high visibility campaign personally – in an elf’s outfit, never mind a uniform – and left this job to some other sucker.

  Four

  Five Days Later

  Tuesday, 15th December 1998

  The foreman of the jury looked slowly around the packed courtroom, puffing out his chest in a gesture of self-importance before slowly bringing his eyes back to focus on her Honour, Judge Jane Sanderson.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘What the… ’ gasped DS Gavin Braggs.

  DC Jo Young sat back sharply. ‘Rubbish.’

  I looked across the crowded courtroom to the dock where the defendant, Sean Grantmore, was now wildly punching the air and grinning like a demented schoolboy at his adoring family and friends. He suddenly stopped his celebrations as if remembering his manners and turned solemnly towards the victim in the case and gave her a lascivious wink. The object of his gratuitous show of derision slumped forward in her seat and thrust her hands deep into the roots of her long dark hair in a caricature of despair.

  Lisa Holland had just turned seventeen and barely started her A-levels when she had met Grantmore in Spiders nightclub in Cleveland Street, Hull. He had given her a lift home and then raped her as payment for his petrol costs. In his book, this was a good deal – cheaper than a taxi – and the lucky virgin got to sample one of Hull’s superstuds.

  A commotion behind me diverted my attention from Lisa’s anguish and I saw a man I recognised as her father clambering
from his seat in the row behind me and over the back of the bench on which I and my two police colleagues were seated. He roughly pushed his way between DS Braggs and a man sitting next to him, then vaulted the low wooden divide separating the public gallery from the main body of the court. Looking back, one of us should have made a grab for him, and slowed if not halted his progress, but I think my subconscious had registered where he was heading – and was quite content to see him make it. He hurtled forward, a pent-up ball of fury intent on instant retribution, barrelling Grantmore’s defence barrister aside. The loud exhalation of the skinny barrister’s breath served to galvanise Grantmore, who began to climb out of the back of the dock towards the now open arms of his mother, the infamous Tracey Grantmore.

  Sean had managed to get one leg over the back of the dock when my hero of the moment launched himself head first towards the six-foot-high dock by using the court usher’s chair as a springboard. He landed squarely on his target’s back, and every male in the room gave a sharp intake of breath, as the four-inch-wide beech-veneered dock edging became the resting place for Grantmore’s bollocks.

  Meanwhile, the furious father’s forward momentum ensured he rolled off Grantmore’s back and on into the public gallery and the open arms of Tracey Grantmore. Tracey, and her other two sons, who were either side of her, then disappeared from view behind the dock along with the human missile, and a ferocious scrap ensued.

  Less than twenty seconds had elapsed since the verdict had been announced and it was only the desperate banging of the judge’s gavel that snapped me out of my inaction. My two colleagues had been similarly transfixed and it was only when I poked DS Braggs in his ribs that he burst into action with DC Young hot on his heels. As befits my rank, I remained seated and began to mentally prepare my response to the forthcoming inquiry about how three police officers failed to prevent a man who had been sitting behind them, carrying out very appropriate summary justice on the “innocent” man his daughter had accused of rape.

  The details of how Russ Holland was subdued and arrested, Grantmore removed by ambulance and order restored in Hull Crown Court are unimportant, but my subsequent response to what I had just witnessed would lead to the most challenging months of a most challenging career.

  *

  ‘Come in, Detective Superintendent.’

  Her Honour the Judge, wig removed to reveal what I guess you’d call “wig hair” – a matted and flattened bleached blonde tangle – was sitting behind the leather-topped desk in a most un-judge like posture – leaning back in her chair with her bare feet on the corner of the desk, revealing a pair of calves that would have looked more at home supporting a billiard table.

  ‘What a cock up, Darnley! Not only did the arsehole get off, but also the victim’s dad manages to emasculate him in front of judge and jury while three bloody coppers sit watching. If that wasn’t enough, there was a reporter from the Hull Daily Mail in court.’

  I should explain at this point that Crown Court judges do not normally present themselves in such a fashion, make derogatory comments about jury decisions or describe defendants as arseholes in conversations with police officers – whatever their rank. However, Jane Sanderson and I go back, as a chivalrous man like myself would say. Crown Court judges have all been lowly junior barristers, just as detective superintendents have been beat coppers. The passage of time – and wives and husbands – had long cooled the ardour we once shared – but not our friendship, built in the combat zone known as the Criminal Justice System.

  ‘Sorry, Jane, but I was that gobsmacked at the verdict, I just didn’t react quickly enough, but neither did young Braggs and he loves a good scrap. To be honest, I was pretty impressed with Mr Holland. I hope it takes a month for Grantmore’s knackers to drop back into place. We’ll be okay with the Mail ’s reporter, he seems a good lad… I’ve had a word.’

  Jane pulled her feet off the desk, stood and walked to a grey metal filing cabinet. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks. I’ve got a briefing to do at six back up at Driffield.’

  ‘Is that the robbery at the building society in Beverley… and the shooting? I presume they are connected, despite your very guarded media snippets so far?’

  ‘Definitely. We’re working on the theory that the dead chap was basically executed because the woman who they kidnapped bit him and got covered in his blood. His DNA could lead us to the rest of them. We’ve also found out that they’d done some very careful preparatory work. The building society rotates key holders pretty regularly. One worker has the door and alarm keys with a second having the safe keys. We already believe they’d sussed out one of their addresses a few weeks earlier by calling and asking if they wanted their drive repaired. The woman who nearly died while bound and gagged reported the caller as suspicious at the time—’

  ‘I saw her on the TV with the copper who saved her. Shit, she was lucky. You nearly had a double murder,’ interrupted Jane, pouring herself a large whisky.

  ‘Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it but our hero copper was the one she reported the suspicious caller to back in October. He’s bloody useless and didn’t bother to do much with the information, not even write it down, but luckily she’s come up with a brief description of the bloke, and she had written down his car make and number on the back of her telephone directory and still had it. But then our luck ran out, as the car’s been sold on through the auctions and we’re having trouble backtracking to the owner at the time, but it’s early days yet.’

  ‘Do you know who the dead bloke is yet?’

  ‘Yeah, one of the DCs on the incident recognised him as a local toerag off the Bransholme estate called David Emmerson, who, according to his form, was completely out of his depth. We can’t find anyone willing to identify him as yet, no family locally and now suddenly no mates. They’re all shit-scared. But we’ve confirmed his ID with fingerprints. The DNA will confirm his link to the job but we’ll be waiting a bit for those results, so we’re looking at likely associates, but up to now, none of his local mates are up to a job like this.’

  ‘Getting all the support from the Chief Constable that you need? I’m seeing him tomorrow at the Criminal Justice Forum in Leeds and I just love winding him up about public confidence levels and that stuff he spouts on about.’

  ‘Aye, have a go at him for me about how vital it is for public reassurance to solve serious crimes. He’ll rattle on about community bloody policing, reflective jackets, Bobbies on bikes and community consultation until the cows come home… but major crime is just old hat now. Anyway, that’s enough of me on my soapbox, I’d better get back to the incident room. I only popped into court to catch the Grantmore verdict. I wasn’t involved in the case but I’ve wanted to see that bastard get sorted for ages.’

  ‘Yeah… what were the bloody jury thinking?’ Jane downed her double whisky in one gulp.

  ‘Like poor Lisa Holland, they were conned. I knew there were weaknesses in the case, but I didn’t think a jury would believe his two mates, claiming she was drunk and acting provocatively.’

  ‘They stuck to their story in the witness box and of course she never reported the rape straight away… waited until after she told her dad in the morning.’

  ‘The jury swallowed Grantmore’s act… good-looking, blue-eyed Jack the Lad, with the gift of the gab and an eye for the ladies. They believed him… and his two bent mates… not her.’

  ‘But to wink at her like that after the verdict, just like she claimed he’d done in the club and after the rape. What a bastard. Anyway, what are we going to do with Mr Holland? He’s still downstairs, cooling off in a cell. You’re going to have to charge him with assault.’

  I didn’t respond but my face told her that was not my intention.

  ‘Darnley, you will be charging Russ Holland with assault. An assault committed in front of a judge and jury, three coppers and the press. Not to mention the victim’s f
amily and friends – and Smythson his barrister. Even you can detect that one.’

  ‘I’m going to have him cautioned. He fits the bill… never been in trouble before and not likely to be in the future.’

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise and poured another double. ‘But Grantmore will complain for sure. And what about Smythson? Poor little bugger has probably only just started breathing normally again. He was flapping about on the floor like a landed fish.’ Despite herself, she laughed.

  ‘Grantmore won’t complain. He’ll know he’s been bloody lucky and want to keep a low profile. As for Smythson, I’ve already had a quick chat and he’s too embarrassed to complain. He just wants his moment of ignominy to be forgotten. No, in my book, the Hollands have suffered enough. We’ve not seen justice delivered today and I’m damned if I’m going to add to their misery.’

  Jane nodded her reluctant agreement. ‘Poor girl, not enough to be raped at her age by a thug like Grantmore, but having had the courage to come forward and report it, knowing he’d claim consent, and then a jury believe him. Sometimes I hate the jury system.’

  ‘Aye. You can’t blame her dad. Many men would react the same way. I’ll go downstairs and arrange his transfer to Central, get him cautioned and on his way home. Don’t worry, the press will be fine, and Grantmore won’t create waves but if he does, I’ll personally take the flak.’

  Jane drained her whisky, put down the glass and rubbed her hands through her hair in a belated effort to fluff out her “wig hair”.

  ‘You’re right, Matt. The family’s had enough. Just let me know if the shit’s going to fly… and I’ll send it your way. Let’s face it, you dinosaur, it won’t hurt you. With this Chief, your career’s peaked.’

  Five

  16:30 That Same Day

  Thirty minutes later, I was back at Queens Gardens Police Station, or Central as both the public and the force knew it. I ran up the stairs to my office on the third floor, tossed my coat onto the spare chair in the corner and dumped my briefcase amongst the untidy piles of papers on my desk. It was already dark as I looked out onto the public gardens that gave the police station its name, my mind trying to compartmentalise the events of the afternoon and leave them behind so I could prepare for the briefing later that evening.