Authors: Roger Forsdyke
The Perfect Crime (13 page)
Ted studied his collection of crime reports, intelligence submissions, Police Gazette entries, newspaper cuttings and his own, now typed up notes. To date there had been at least fifteen brace and bit jobs, that was if you left out the disputed ‘first’ one that Dee was unsure of – and included the Harrogate job that resulted in Donald Skepper being murdered. The one that Superintendent Dolby would have him exclude because of that awful, final result.
So far, there had been four each committed in the South Yorkshire police area and Greater Manchester, two in Lancashire, one each in Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire and two in West Yorkshire. Both professionally and instinctively he would not have wanted to rule anything out – or in – until there was more information to go on.
At least Superintendent Dolby was good enough to grant him an interview. His attempt to speak to the head of the Lancashire Constabulary CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Joe Mounsey, fell at the first fence. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner’s letter of authority cut no ice over the phone and he could hardly justify a five hundred mile round trip to Preston just to show it to some oik. It would not have got him any further forward and pragmatically – pragmatism being one of Ted’s greatest strengths – it would not have gained him any worthwhile advantage, so – to use a police officer’s dry jargon – that also, was a negative result. Privately, Ted considered that the man really couldn’t be bothered to speak to a mere detective sergeant, about some piffling burglary, no matter what the possible positive outcome might be, or the likely consequences – however dire – if he did not. The fact really upset him, that another, far more senior police officer could be so parochial and short sighted.
South Yorkshire weren’t in any way interested. They’d suffered just three burglaries back in 1971 and one in High Green, the previous January. Nothing since and no reason to talk to a D/S from the Met, with no jurisdiction and no information for them that was in any way likely to detect crimes that were not affecting their current clear-up rate, which was all right, thank you.
On one level, Ted couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but on a detached, professional and cognitive level, completely understood. It didn’t sit any easier with him, nor did it help his cause, nor the fate of the next unfortunate that was likely to be the victim of this cold, calculating, callous burglar turned killer.
Greater Manchester were similarly uninterested. The feeling that being a member of the Metropolitan Police was not assisting his cause grew on him. He wondered what it would take to get these people together and share information, if not resources, to defeat a common enemy.
If he couldn’t obtain co-operation from police forces that had been hit two, three or four times, how much less could he expect anything positive from those that had only suffered a single offence? Dejected, he did not bother contacting Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire, or Derbyshire. Pragmatism will out, so stoically, Ted set about producing a flyer to circulate to all forces. The information was already out there, just not drawn together in one place. Perhaps pointedly reinforcing the mayhem and murder being committed by this one man crime wave would make them sit up and take note. Somehow, on the form experienced to date, he doubted that it would.
*
Dr H Milne – notes of interview.
So was there any one point in time, one particular incident, or spur that made you decide – as you put it – to go for the big one?
Not at the time, no, but now you put it like that, I suppose it were that postmaster in Harrogate. What was that about? Why did he do that? I truly only ever had the weapons with me to keep the advantage, my superiority. I’m only a small bloke after all, like I said. If he hadn’t tried anything, nothing would have happened. Idiot. And there were other things as well, but I’d got as much, if not more from places where I’d managed to find the keys and get out without coming across anyone, or being seen. That woman’s a widow now and all for what? Twat.
So what are you saying?
I suppose that, what I mean is that I could get in to places and come away with £500, £1000 or more without anyone ever knowing I were in there. That bloke rushed me. Really tried to get me. The papers said he was a have a go hero. It wasn’t heroics at all, it did not make sense. He didn’t think about the situation he was in, he just came at me. What did he expect me to do? Anyway, I’d already sussed out a better way of getting far more money, with far less likelihood of anyone getting hurt. I only had to pull it off the once, and then I was set for life. Out of the water, out of the shit, onto dry land and into the sunshine.
Groat stood outside the DAC’s office. He wore the suit he usually reserved for Crown Court. He rehearsed his key words and phrases over and over again –
Public
interest
,
national
security
,
political
repercussions
. Eventually, after a bowel loosening wait, he was admitted into the inner sanctum.
“Detective Sergeant Groat.”
“Acting D/I at the moment, sir – but who’s counting?” He squirmed horribly, hardly able to believe he had actually uttered something so crass – to such a senior officer and worse, someone upon whom he needed to make a good impression. The one – he hoped – that would be able to help him out of his predicament.
The DAC looked at him sharply. “Whatever. You’d better sit down. Now, what’s this all about?”
Groat launched into his spiel. He précised the story about the raid on the Bawdy House and the subsequent house to house enquiries. He did not know what to expect from the big man, but he showed no emotion, reaction or indeed interest when he mentioned the address, so he watched him even closer as he reached the part about knocking on the door of 337.
“A young woman called Olivia Di Angelo.”
The DAC didn’t even blink. He was so cool, Groat couldn’t believe it. Surely the man could not be involved with Olivia and sit there totally without any outward sign, as his guilty secret was about to be laid open in front of him, potential ruin. Groat started to panic. Perhaps he’d got it wrong and was about to blurt out the whole convoluted tale to someone with no involvement and certainly no direct professional responsibility. He was counting on the DAC having a personal, vested interest. He needed someone with huge influence, sufficient authority and pulling power – and overwhelming reason – to help him out of this mess. Without that, he was ruined. His plan a non-starter. No way out. In the shit again, as always. It was only the depth that varied.
Bollocks
.
The DAC said quietly, “Go on.”
He couldn’t pull out now, simply stop. Whatever was going to happen, it was too late, he was already committed. He thought grimly,
in
for
a
penny
… He cleared his throat and launched into his carefully rehearsed version of events. He recounted – relatively truthfully – the manner in which he first met Olivia. Then he was off, out on a limb, saying that she had given him information about goings on in the flats that made him interested in her – as a snout.
“What sort of goings on?”
“Other prossies working, issues like that.”
Careful
.
The DAC nodded for him to continue. Here, Groat embarked upon the fabricated part of his tale. He said that other enquiries revealed that Olivia, too, was a working girl, albeit high class and not one likely to come to the attention of the authorities. Rumour was that she numbered the clergy, MPs, the clergy and some police officers – even of ACPO rank – amongst her clients.
The DAC narrowed his eyes. “So why are you telling me all this? Surely this is something that could quite easily be dealt with on division?”
“Yes, of course, sir, but I was thinking of the public interest. The possible consequences for national security. I don’t know who is involved exactly, but MPs? Could be another Profumo scandal, maybe even bring down the government.” He carefully avoided further reference to ACPO officers. If the man hadn’t got the message first time round, there was no useful purpose to be served in labouring the point. He was either involved or he wasn’t and going on how he was reacting so far, showed no sign that he was. “I’m no political animal myself, sir, but I was concerned that if we dealt with it on division, everyone would know everything about it in no time.”
Hugo Van Lesseps had not achieved the rank of deputy assistant commissioner without being particularly astute. On several occasions, his sharp intellect and finely tuned political sense had saved him from mistakes that lesser mortals would have simply blundered straight across.
He regarded Groat shrewdly. “So what is it that you are not telling me?”
Here
we
go
… “I have it on good authority that she is planning to blackmail her clients. MPs, clergy, everyone.”
Van Lesseps coughed suddenly, swiftly produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, coughed again and blew his nose. “My apologies,” he said in a strangled tone, eyes watering. “Frog in my throat.”
At
last
. Groat thought triumphantly.
Got
you
.
You
bastard
.
Stringing
me
along
like
that
. He had to admit that the man was a consummate actor.
“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“Well, sir, I thought that if we could keep it away from division, we could arrange a sting. If we work it properly, we could catch her attempting to extort the money and keep the names of her clients,” he slowed for emphasis, “especially the important ones away from public scrutiny. Out of the papers and all that, the sort of pickle that we would inevitably get into if we dealt with it as a divisional matter.”
“Mmm. And who, pray would deal with this? Carry out this sting?”
Groat hesitated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t planned this, or didn’t know what he was going to say, he didn’t want to appear over eager, or naïve. Eventually in a careful, measured manner, he said, “Me, sir. If you would give me the proper authority. Me and a small, very carefully selected team.”
“That’s all well and good, but you’re only a detective sergeant.” The DAC sounded dismissive, “It’s a big job for a sergeant – even as acting D/I. Especially with some of the people possibly likely to be involved. Could get a little heavy.”
Groat experienced a leaden sinking feeling. His prize about to be snatched away, baby’s favourite toy out of the boat, swept away by the flood, the Grand National favourite overhauled split seconds before the finishing line. Far worse, horrified realisation suddenly exploded in his brain. If someone else was put in charge of the investigation his true part in it all would be exposed. All this effort, scheming and stress. All for nothing.
Shit
.
Well
make
me
acting
chief
inspector
then
.
He bit his lip. “I’m pretty experienced, sir. Been on the murder squad, several years in CID, as a supervisor, likely to be made substantive D/I any time now…”
“I suppose I could always promote you on a temporary basis, make you temporary Detective Chief Inspector.”
Relief washed over him, leaving him feeling weak. “Yes, sir, thank you sir.”
Temporary
. Even better than acting – it would count as pensionable service in the rank. And they could hardly fail to promote him to substantive D/I if he had done the job in the next rank up.
The DAC fixed Groat with shrewd, dark eyes. “And you – and whoever you choose to assist you – I have to be confident, one hundred percent, cast iron certain of their discretion. Needless to say, the whole operation must be absolutely confidential, no leaks. You report to me and no one but me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“In the interests of national security.”
“Yes sir.”
“Do we understand each other?”
“Yes sir.”
The eye contact was intense. Neither man blinked.
They were in this together.
Ted studied the latest reports. He was gradually learning more about the geography of the country outside his usual stamping grounds of greater London. The next raid had taken place in Sheffield – High Green, to be precise. A couple of minutes before four a.m. one Wednesday, using his usual MO of boring holes in the rear window frame, the man dressed all in black – now dubbed ‘The Black Panther’ by the media – gained entry to the premises and straight into the bedroom where the postmaster was asleep with his wife. He’d switched on the light and ordered them not to move. Then, threatening them with a double barrelled, sawn off shotgun, forced the man to tie up his wife. He then tied the couple together on the bed, took the safe keys and threatened that he would be back shortly. After a terrifying wait, the couple managed to struggle free and raise the alarm. At first it seemed as though the raider had got away with his best haul to date – £4,500, but a couple of days later, £1,500’s worth of stamps and postal orders were found stuffed inside the back of a radiogram. Again, there was no sound of a getaway vehicle.
Ted turned to an intelligence bulletin from Leicestershire Constabulary. The post office at 9, Bradgate Road, Anstey, had been attacked in the usual manner. This time the occupants remained undisturbed, but a total of £2,729 had been taken.
Six weeks later, the office at Radcliffe, seven miles north of Piccadilly in Greater Manchester was attacked. Chapelfield sub post office was entered using the usual MO, but again, thankfully, the postmaster, his wife and their ten-year-old son were blissfully unaware. In the early morning light, they discovered the safe open and £900 cash and other negotiables to the total of over £2500 was missing.
Sheffield, Anstey and Greater Manchester. Always the Midlands and towards the north, but the man was all over the place – if it was one man and Ted was not alone in thinking that it must be. Unless he had started a training school for burglars, or was operating a franchise. Straightforward enough by car, or van – even a motorbike, but always by public transport and always carrying a bag, or holdall capable of containing thousands of pounds worth of notes, stamps and postal orders. No wonder he jettisoned bags of change, especially as he was invariably described as small, short, wiry.
Ted set about preparing another intelligence bulletin, thinking that it was about time they should update Dee with developments. He wondered if she was making any headway with her researches.
