Authors: Roger Forsdyke
The Perfect Crime
Copyright © Roger Forsdyke 2015
Roger Forsdyke has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
03:45 hours, Friday 15th February 1974
The small, wiry figure stood silent and motionless in the freezing, windswept darkness, every sinew taut, looking and listening. The few stars visible above him gave little light. Dressed completely in black, two slits cut in his balaclava blinked pink every few seconds.
He preferred working in urban areas, so that any small noises he might make would be covered by the normal soundtrack of the town. Tonight, even the weather conditions were favourable. January had seen constant rain and gales – and whilst a certain amount of external air movement could provide some cover, high velocity winds might suddenly push up the air pressure within the building as he gained entry. That, in turn, could generate sound levels above optimum and with it the possibility of disturbing the occupants.
He took a strange device from his pocket and pushed its point firmly up into the wooden window frame. He’d invented it himself; a steel bit clamped into a cross-piece handle. It worked like a gimlet, but cut a much wider hole. Two holes were usually all that was needed, although sometimes if he did not position the first carefully enough, a third might be necessary. Penetrating the frame for the second time, he produced a length of wire from another pocket. He inserted it as a loop through the aperture and with practised fingers, deftly pulled to release the latch above. Slipping into the darkness of the building, he closed the window carefully and quietly behind him, in case a police patrol should see it ajar.
In the comparative warmth of the Little Wonder pub on the opposite side of the road, two boxer dogs growled a restless warning, but human body temperature drops to its lowest at this time of morning and the people of New Park, in their deepest slumbers, did not hear, nor stir.
He waited in the hallway, again listening and giving his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. He knew from night-time sorties in the army that he would see more without his torch. Shining the light about would only announce his presence and restrict his field of vision to the area covered by its beam. Eventually, satisfied that no one was awake, he started hunting for the keys to the safe. After several fruitless minutes he crept carefully upstairs. He searched the first bedroom. Nothing. He pushed open another bedroom door, approached the bed and reaching down, shook the sleeping figure. Richard Skepper stirred, murmured, turned over and stayed asleep. The black figure turned on the flashlight taped to the barrels of his shotgun and shook the lad again. Waking from deep, deep slumber, Richard squinted in blank disbelief at the little man, the sawn-off, its squat black barrels inches from his face.
Shock ripped through his chest and clamped hold of him like a man trap. He licked sleep-glued lips and mumbled, “What d’you want?”
The man whispered, “No noise. Where are safe keys?” He switched off his torch. “Keys. Safe keys. Where are they?”
He knew his father hid the keys in various locations, but his mind rocketed into overdrive. Should he refuse to give any information? Shout to warn his parents – but what could any of them do against this armed apparition? He started trembling with fear and cold. The man jabbed at him with the gun barrels.
Richard blurted, “Under the stairs, in the cupboard.”
He was pushed down onto the bed, tied and hobbled with string and his ankles fastened to the foot of the bed.
“Go back to sleep.”
He heard the man pad softly away. Immediately he attempted to free himself, but the string was strong and being thin, cut painfully into his flesh. For some minutes he persevered but then, to his horror, he heard quiet footfalls returning. The door knob rattled slightly as it turned. He pretended to be asleep. His heart pounded fiercely as the man came to him holding a knife, its needle sharp point thrust dangerously close to his face.
“Can’t find keys. Where are keys? You come, show me.” He cut the ties binding the lad’s ankles to the bed and made him stand up, jabbing him with the shotgun as they went downstairs. The man was right, they were nowhere to be found. The lad snorted and grunted at his captor through the sticking plaster. The man prodded him into the kitchen and ripped off the gag.
“Dad’s very security conscious. He hides them in different places.” He shrugged. The man stood there, waiting, gun barrels pointing at Richard’s chest. “The only other place I can think of is in the dressing table drawer in Mum and Dad’s room.”
The gunman continued in his odd, stilted manner, “You go. Get keys for me. Me watch at door. No noise.”
Richard’s eyes widened, he shook his head. “They’ll wake up if I go into their room. It’s impossible not to wake them.”
“You go.”
Richard crept into his parents’ bedroom, the hooded figure remained concealed in the darkness of the landing.
His mother, Joanna was already awake, disturbed by the creaking stairs. As he went into the room, she said, “Richard, is that you? Are you all right?”
“Not really.”
His father Donald, a heavier sleeper, was gradually surfacing. He sat up.
“What’s the matter?” He fumbled for the bedside light switch. “What’s going on?” The sudden searing brilliance after the night time darkness made them blink and screw up their eyes. Then, for the first time they saw the evil looking, black clad figure in the doorway. He sprang into the room waving the sawn-off. “Turn that light out.” He snarled.
Donald Skepper ignored the order. “What’s all this? What do you want?”
Richard said, “He wants the safe keys.”
“Does he indeed.”
He paused for a second, “Is he by himself?” He sprang out of bed and thundered the best rallying cry he could summon in the circumstances, “Let’s get him.”
The gunman already had his right index finger crooked around the triggers. It took him just three tenths of a second to apply sufficient pressure to operate them. Less than one tenth of a second after that, more than one hundred and twenty lead pellets heated by the explosive charge and compressed with hot gases, seared and ripped their way through the postmaster’s ribcage. Skin, muscle, bone and soft tissue were torn brutally asunder. Blood spumed and spurted, a soft mist of red droplets whirled and eddied. His knees buckled and muscle tone now completely lost, his body crumpled inelegantly, thirteen stone of dead weight punishing the mattress. The bedsprings squealed and the frame threatened to collapse under the sudden, violent bouncing impact. One limply flailing arm destroyed the bedside light, plunging them back into stygian blackness. Brief, cruel seconds after his heroic cry, Donald Skepper lay dead.
Joanna screamed, a keening, wailing ululation that lent an eerie, macabre descant to the fast fading echoes of the gunshot. Richard roared and cried incoherently, shaking with shock, temporarily unable to move or even think.
Forgotten now and unseen, the gunman disappeared as quickly and silently as he had entered.
Joanna, crying and drenched in her husband’s blood, held him in her arms and tried to give him the kiss of life. Looked towards where she could hear her son still bellowing hysterically, shouted, “Richard.
Richard
. Get an ambulance, the police.” She screamed at him, “
Do
something
.”
Shaking himself out of his immobility, Richard forced unsteady, reluctant legs to carry him to the phone. Still trembling uncontrollably, he frantically dialled 999.
Outside, the empty handed thief was occupied with one of the activities he found most satisfactory. He collected his gear and yomped across the fields away from the rear of the Skipton Road post office. Disappearing back into the freezing obscurity, unseen by anyone and nowhere near roads to be stopped or checked.
In the bedroom, the smoke was clearing, but their ears still rang with the tinnitus of that dreadful shooting. The ferrous odour of several pints of blood, now pooling on the coverlet mingled with the reek of cordite. Joanna sat staring sightlessly, silently rocking to and fro, cradling her dead husband. Eventually blood seeped through and dribbled onto presents still untouched, under the divan.
Today they should have been celebrating her birthday.
The demimonde exerted a curious fascination over many policemen. Detective Sergeant – currently Acting Detective Inspector – Groat being no exception. At training school, the old uniformed sergeant, their tutor warned in tones grimly laden with fire and brimstone, of ‘The Three Ps.’ The dangers of carelessness where Prisoners, Prostitutes and Property were involved, determinedly hammered into his probationers.
Never, ever were they to mistreat prisoners, or fall foul of procedure in any way where they were concerned – and god help any officer who ever actually let one escape. They were issued with small receipt books, for the occasions when they were handed lost property out on the streets and were told that one of the easiest ways to get sacked – and for a police officer this was almost unheard of – was to lose, purloin or otherwise mishandle property.
As for prostitutes… they held many policemen in thrall. Like the demon drink – especially on duty. Over familiarity was to be avoided at all costs and if you were ever offered a freebie… a dose of the clap would be the least of your worries.
Groat had imagined, in his naïvety (predictable, but still surprising, given his occupation and experience) a darkly glamorous world of young, good looking girls in miniskirts, willingly turning tricks for punters and making enough money to retire by the time they were thirty. The luckier ones might snare some wealthy but unwitting city gent and everyone would live happily ever after. In truth, the girls walked the streets in all weathers and few had anyone looking after their interests. Most were beset by problems. If it wasn’t an abusive background or a children’s home, there were other issues, or a habit to fund. And those who did possess some sort of protection, would be forced to hand over an excessive percentage of their earnings and would as likely suffer violence at the hands of their pimp as they were to get the odd beating from a client.
Once he’d been involved in one or two jobs, experience inevitably modified his opinion and he now considered the work about as much of a turn-on as finding a used rubber johnny in the gutter.
He wondered what it was about the human condition that allowed one to want something, even yearn for it, yet with scarce true knowledge of what it was. He’d wanted to get married, but hadn’t a clue what he was letting himself in for. He rushed headlong into joining the police, on a whim, inspired by a chance encounter with Sidney ‘Bonehead’ Bulstrode, a former schoolmate and erstwhile colleague. Fortunately those turned out to be some of his better decisions.
Some time ago he reached the conclusion that the sexiest aspect to vice work was the amount of overtime it earned him. He already worked unsocial hours in the CID, but no matter how long and hard they toiled, the prospect of ever making serious inroads into the activities of the toms and their clients was remote. Men desired, wanted, needed, craved sex and since forever there were women prepared to oblige.
If the price was right.
That price was not necessarily pecuniary, he reflected ruefully. But however it happened, you would be made to pay.
On the streets you could get a hand job for a couple of quid. The real thing for a fiver. The main police effort was directed towards disrupting and harassing the punters, kerb crawlers and the like, whilst at the same time trying to curb the worst excesses of the pimps and the other assorted undesirable hangers-on of the capital’s sex industry.
Groat had received information about a possible bawdy house. On an otherwise run of the mill, trouble free block of flats off Old Street, residents complained that there was one particular premises where activities were disturbing the neighbourhood: an incessant stream of men and girls about at all hours. People would be disturbed by a knock at the door to be asked, ‘Is this where the girls are?’
Most routine vice work was carried out on an as and when basis, by divisional uniform, but in this case observations were needed. The local plod requested assistance and Groat volunteered himself and a couple of detective constables to oblige. They watched the place – on and off – for a couple of weeks, then, together with a team of woodentops headed up by a uniformed chief inspector, pounced when they reckoned they would net the biggest catch.
One advantage of a raid in these circumstances was that there was no back door to cover. Whoever was in the place when the police went in was stuck there – unless they were desperate enough to jump from a balcony twenty feet up. The door was opened immediately at their knock – after all, visitors were expected – but the welcome became rather muted once they caught sight of so many uniforms. The raiders found a sex party in full swing.
Unable to carry out any research with the other residents during the run-up to the raid in case they alerted their quarry, Groat put himself in charge of house to house enquiries to secure complaints from the neighbours and evidence of routine, system, repetition, that would negate any defence of, ‘it was a one-off, guv, honest,’ to counter the charge of keeping a disorderly house.
He briefed his small team of overtime volunteers. Normally he would not get involved, but decided to make himself useful for once, working his way along the landing from the house party, knocking on doors. He was used to this sort of letterbox rattling, being greeted warily and, depending on the proclivities of the occupants, either with the door opening a crack (or sometimes not at all) and a terse, “What d’you lot want?” or a slight lessening of suspicion and guarded assistance with his enquiry.
At number three thirty-seven, the door was opened wide. The girl smiled and invited him in as soon as he showed her his warrant card. Come to think of it, almost before he proffered his identity – and it was as much of a welcome as an invite. He followed her down the hallway, appreciating the way she carried herself, caught a faint, tantalising suggestion of perfume. He had been in her company for less than forty seconds but felt a cattle prod jolt in his chest and thought,
If
I
wasn’t
married
,
I
could
make
a
complete
fool
of
myself
over
this
one
.
Her name was Olivia. She offered him refreshment, he opted for coffee. They sat and chatted easily over their drinks. Eventually, reluctantly, he wrenched himself away.
“Gotta go,” he said, looking at his watch.
Olivia smiled and her mere good looks became radiant. Groat was certain that the sun broke through at that precise moment.
“OK,” she said as they walked up the hallway, “If I can think of anything, I’ll let you know.” She shut the door behind him and Groat stood on the outside landing and leaned on the guard rail, staring out over the estate, nothing in focus. He realised that the sun was indeed shining low in the sky and that he could not remember a word of what had been said. He took out his note book and wrote, ‘
No
.
337
–
Olivia
Di
Angelo
.
Enqs
–
negative
result’
, and in a dream, knocked next door, thinking that it was as well he would never see her again.
*
Her Majesty’s Prison, Winson Green, Birmingham.
Dr Hugo Milne.
Notes of interview.
Introductions –
How do you want me to address you?
Call me Don.
Right, Don. I am a psychiatrist employed by the Home Office, to talk to people convicted of serious crimes, so that we can attempt to find out how things have happened and more importantly, why. I would like to find out about you so I would like to ask you some questions. O.K?
You want to know what makes us tick?
Something like that.
Fine by me.
O.K. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about your childhood. What’s your earliest memory?
Me Mam cuddling me. Dad were hard. He’d take his belt to us soon as look at us. Mam looked after me, she did.
Are your parents still alive?
Mam died when I was ten. Dad died a couple of year back.
You were very young when your mother died – how would you say it affected you?
Never got over it, really. Situation just got worse with me Dad. Went to live with some neighbours after a while.
How about school?
Hated it.
Why was that?
All those books. And the other boys always got on to me. Because of me being small and my name – Nappey. ‘Nipper Nappey.’ They called me. ‘Dirty Nappey.’ ‘Change your Nappey.’ Twats.
