Authors: Roger Forsdyke
The Perfect Crime (19 page)
The Black Panther was in a pensive mood. It seemed to him that the price was always too high. Someone or something always conspired to thwart him; the bar was continually being raised. It had always been the same. When in business – legitimate business – he was happy to complete a job, but then it would be spoiled by people not wanting to pay the full amount, or not even paying at all. If he needed £500 for some work, or project, he would only be able to raise £300. When he applied for a mortgage, he was asked for £900 deposit. There was only £700 in his bank account.
The same pattern extended to his criminal exploits. With little effort or outlay, he could carry out many house burglaries during the course of a week, but would make relatively little profit. Graduating up to breaking into sub post offices proved a mixed blessing. Returns were potentially higher, but the cost in terms of investment in resources, time for reconnaissance, travelling time and the inherent danger in carrying firearms – both to him physically and the possibility of being caught with them, was exponentially greater. Also, paradoxically the more crime he committed, the less he seemed to be making. He had netted less than £2,000 in cash from the last four raids, three of which involved him in having to shoot someone. There were no moral qualms here. He rationalised to himself, had they not come at him, he would not have been forced to shoot. They attacked, he defended himself. The matter was simple, but it formed part of the price and the ever increasing risk to his wellbeing and career prospects.
The revelation he experienced, standing in front of the safe, having accidentally entered a sub post office thinking it was a private house, was about to be repeated, albeit in a somewhat different manner. He read ‘Murder in the Fourth Estate’ by journalists Peter Deeley and Christopher Walker. In explicit detail, the book told how, in 1969, brothers Arthur and Nizamodeen Hosein kidnapped Muriel McKay, wife of the then chief executive of the News of the World, in the mistaken belief that she was Rupert Murdoch’s wife, Anna. It was bungled, from the very start, by all concerned. The Hosein brothers tried to extort £1 million from Rupert Murdoch for someone else’s wife. The police and the papers quarrelled about publicity and both factions continually lied and tried to gain advantage over the other. The investigation turned out to be such a dog’s dinner that Mrs McKay was never seen again and, more to the point, to the Panther’s way of thinking, the ransom was never paid. There was a theory that her body had been dismembered and fed to pigs on the brothers’ farm in Stocking Pelham in Hertfordshire, but whatever the truth of the matter, no trace of her was ever found. The Panther read the book avidly, more than once and decided that he could use it as a form of instruction manual for his next big job. He would learn from the mistakes made by those kidnappers and also from the tactics employed by the police. The question was, who would be a suitable hostage? And when would be best to start the job?
Another nudge in the direction he might take, was an article in Reader’s Digest, in May 1972. The student daughter of a wealthy American property owner was staying in a motel in Georgia. She was snatched in her nightclothes at gunpoint, and taken to a remote wooded area. Here, she was buried underground in a box, with a supply of water and a pump supplying her with air to keep her alive. The abductors demanded half a million dollars. A telegram directed the girl’s father to the ransom note, which told him to drive to a bridge, to a spot identified by a flashing light, where he was to drop the money. The FBI planted an electronic bug in the holdall containing the ransom and their agents began an undercover surveillance operation in the area. However, the father lost his way and when he reached what he thought was the rendezvous, there was no flashing light. He panicked, but not wanting to upset the kidnappers – and place his daughter in yet more danger – he left the money in where he thought was the right place. Shortly afterwards, alerted by suspicious activity, two local police officers – unaware of the kidnap operation – found the bag of cash and took it to the police station. The kidnappers threatened to leave the interred girl to suffocate, but her father pleaded for fresh contact, explaining that intervention by the FBI and police (that last, at least was true) was nothing to do with him. He succeeded with his appeal, another rendezvous was arranged and the ransom was paid. Twelve hours after this, the police received a phone call pinpointing the girl’s potential grave and she was exhumed alive. Two days later, aided by signals from the FBI bug in the ransom bag, a coastguard helicopter homed in on the kidnappers fleeing in a speedboat, arrested them and recovered the cash.
Another
lesson
learned
. He thought.
Sometime later he was to read a Sunday Express article about a West Midlands coach operator…
George Whittle founded a haulage firm at Cradley Heath in 1930. Ten years later, he expanded into coach travel and as they prospered, moved to the picturesque village of Highley in Shropshire. The stresses of running a successful business single handed, took its toll on his private life, however, and after a series of blazing rows, his wife, Selena left him. They married in 1926 and there were no children.
Soon after Selena moved out – suspiciously soon, some said – George’s secretary, Dorothy moved into the family home. They never married, but she changed her name to Whittle and as the years went by, bore George two children. Ronald was born in 1942 and on 3rd May 1957, daughter Lesley arrived. In April 1970, George was admitted to hospital for a routine operation, but complications set in. He died unexpectedly, aged just sixty five. On the positive side, George was a shrewd and foresighted sort, and endeavoured to mitigate against the death duties that he knew would accrue from an estate as valuable as his. He also wanted to ensure that his business would survive intact to provide for his family. In good time and well before he prematurely passed away, he settled gifts of £107,000 on Ronald, £82,000 on Lesley and gave Dorothy £70,000 and three houses.
When the will was published, Selena was furious. For thirty years, her husband sent her £2 per week. She never asked for more, thinking that he could not afford it. She immediately instigated court action, and was awarded a settlement of £1,500 a year for life, backdated two years to the date her husband died.
The court case frustrated and annoyed the surviving Whittles. They felt it portrayed them as a wealthy family oozing surplus cash, but in truth, the figures mentioned in court were capital sums, committed to the family business and difficult to access in any large amount. No mention was made of the fact that at that time, the Whittle coach and travel companies employed sixty people, operated a fleet of fifty six coaches from four depots and provided the only rural bus services in remote areas of Shropshire, Hereford and Worcester. Ronald Whittle said, “We always ploughed our money back into the business. In terms of personal wealth, as opposed to business assets, you could say that we are relatively poor. There is little doubt that there are many families in the area much richer than we are.”
In spite of this, the publicity gave to the outside world an image of Dorothy and Ronald as extremely affluent and Lesley as a wealthy teenage heiress. The fact that her money was held in trust and she was unable to touch any of it until her twenty fifth birthday went completely unremarked.
The decision was made. Once and for all, the Black Panther would disappear. Vanish as if he had never existed. He was going to move on up. One last, big hit and he could leave behind his life of crime and become what he had always sought to be. An affluent, apparently legitimate businessman.
He would kidnap Ronald Whittle.
Fifty thousand pounds. Fifty grand. Fifty big ones. A nice round figure, he thought. It rolled off the tongue, no matter how you expressed it. They could afford it.
It sounded and felt just right.
“Lester, I’m not arguing with you. I’m going.” She fixed him with the look.
Groat was used to coping with strong women; first his mother, now his wife. Other boys, he recalled, revelled in the luxury of the unwavering, unquestioning, loving support of their mother. Not him. He remembered being seven years of age. After a friend’s birthday party, he’d come home, still wildly overexcited. He ran round the house letting off steam, braying silly noises. There were other members of the family there; older people.
After the visitors had gone, his mother rounded angrily on him. “Didn’t you see me looking at you? You made us all look stupid. What’s the matter with you? You ought to know better.”
He was seven. He hadn’t known better. He didn’t know now, but he had long been able to recognise the look. He sighed. “I can’t simply take time off work. I’m busy.”
He entertained some sympathies for the women’s liberation movement – wasn’t so sure about the ‘burn your bra’ brigade – but allowing his wife to jet off to Spain by herself, he considered, was letting matters go too far. Dereliction of duty as her husband and protector. If she couldn’t see the inherent dangers, he could.
Gloria said, “I’m not asking you to come. I’m going out there to see what’s what. I’ve got plenty of discounted travel owing to me – it won’t break the bank.”
“It’s not that.”
“Well, what then?”
“Well, it’s so sudden.” He burned to say, to shout at her –
So
who
are
you
to
make
this
decision
without
referring
to
me
?
Something
as
important
–
new
–
as
this
;
you
should
talk
it
over
.
Not
just
assume
that
you
have
the
god
given
right
to
go
off
and
leave
me
here
.
You
would
chew
me
up
and
spit
me
out
in
little
pieces
if
I
ever
tried
to
pull
a
stunt
like
this
.
And
why
should
I
be
automatically
left
out
,
without
a
by
-
your
-
leave
,
or
thank
you
?
It’s
all
right
for
you
,
but
while
you’re
swanning
about
on
the
Costa
Del
what
the
fuck
ever
,
what
am
I
supposed
to
do
?
He said, “So how long are you going for and where are you going to stay? Have you booked a hotel? And a woman, travelling alone.” He shook his head, “All sorts of trouble.”
The look intensified. “Oh, don’t talk such complete garbage. It’s not as if I’m going to deepest, darkest Africa, or the South Pole. I’m going to Spain, where thousands and thousands of people – families – go each year. On holiday.
God
!” Terminal exasperation. “I ought to know.”
“Yes, but not at this time of year, it’s Winter – right out of season. Everywhere will be closed. What will happen if there’s no accommodation available. What will you do?”
“Lester.” She glared at him like a refractory schoolboy caught picking his nose or putting his knife in his mouth. “I’m a grown woman. I can look after myself. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”
Well
fuck
you
then
.
See
if
I
care
.
He looked at her and shrugged, “Whatever.”
*
The soon to be ex-Black Panther was enjoying himself. Starting to plan his raid, how to winkle his victim out of the house and into a vehicle, where he would keep them until the ransom had been paid and how he would make his getaway with all that money. Crucially, he decided that he would never allow his target to see him. This would have the double benefit of being able to release them unharmed and there being no chance of him, The Panther ever being identified. During the post office jobs, a major part of his strategy was to use public transport, but he was a good driver and enjoyed motoring, so it was a pleasure to be out and about in the sunshine. Even if the reasons underlying his journeys were less than legitimate, you couldn’t get locked up for buying sleeping bags (in Northampton) brandy from Nuneaton, binoculars during a trip to Manchester. He was in his element as his travels progressed and his car boot gradually filled up. A tape recorder and cassettes, a Dymo label maker and tapes. Barley sugar sweets, Lucozade, plastic sheeting, ninety feet of lorry lashing rope. A gallon can of petrol, makeshift mattresses of yellow foam rubber. He also bought a powerful torch and batteries – each purchase in a different town and a different county. He reasoned that if the whole scheme collapsed, the police would have a mountainous overload of minutiae to confuse them and hamper their enquiries.
Far from legitimate, he stole cars, motorbikes and a van. All were stored in lock up garages in disparate locations. Each time he rented one, he would use a different nom de guerre; C. Green, B. Ware, P. Field. He equipped each one with number plates copied from another, identical vehicle that had not been stolen, so even if he was stopped, checked, or seen in circumstances having the potential to compromise his venture, his transport wouldn’t immediately raise any suspicion.
He took a train from Bradford to Nuneaton and recovered one of the stolen cars. He drove to Highley, the first of several visits. He found the Whittles’ house ‘Beech Croft’ and reconnoitred the grounds and the environs. It was a large, white rendered, detached place and over the road was a council estate through which, if necessary, he could gain easy access – or escape. Ronald Whittle no longer lived in the family home, having moved out into a more manageable semi on Ashleigh Gardens, after he and Gaynor were married. Lesley was a student at Wulfrun College of Further Education in Wolverhampton and away from home during the day.
The Panther was soon able to establish a pattern of the family’s movements. Dorothy got up most weekday mornings at 6:30. Lesley would rise around 7:00 after her mother had taken breakfast to her. Monday evenings would see Dorothy out with friends and on Tuesdays she would watch TV with Lesley. Wednesday night was bingo night at the Welfare Hall. On Thursdays they would sometimes have dinner with Ron and Gaynor and Fridays was either TV, or out for a drink at the Ship Inn, down by the banks of the River Severn.
Now there was just the small matter of finding a suitable location to conceal his victim and organising a strategy for collecting the money and getting away, without being caught.
*
Gloria had not been entirely truthful with her husband. One of the reasons she was so confident in flying off by herself – apart from the fact that she and Groat had done it many times on holiday – was because her contact at Spanish Overseas Properties, Mr Boulders, supplied her with the address of the show villa that the company kept for these sort of occasions. He said it was only a taxi ride away from Malaga airport and at this time of year should be available to her for as long as she needed it. There would be a nominal charge, of course, but there would be rebates allowed against this and the cost of her air fare should she purchase a property.
Properties
. Gloria smiled to herself.
Groat proved blasted awkward right from the start about the whole business, so she thought it wisest not to mention the fact that she would be meeting up with a man, when she got to Malaga. He would have gone through the roof, or worse, insisted on going with her, and that simply would not do. This was to be her show. She allowed him to load her luggage into the boot of the Capri and ignored his jibe about enough baggage to last weeks, let alone a few days. They fought their way through the west London traffic and onto the M4 to Heathrow. He dropped her off with her luggage and kissed her goodbye. It was a particularly brief, chaste peck on her cheek and she got the strong impression that there were other issues on his mind. He told her that he could not hang around, as he should be at work, so she’d dismissed her feeling as pure fancy. In any case, there were other things on
her
mind.
Better things. Much more exciting things.
