The Perfect Crime (25 page)

FIFTY NINE

Len Rudd was manager of the Whittle’s coach depot in Highley. The family were so exhausted and fed up with crank calls, hoax ransom demands, enquiries from the media and all and sundry, that he had agreed to have their phone line plugged through to his for the night. They were still trying to run a business, so did not want to have it cut off, or change the number.

It was eleven thirty p.m. He lay in bed, just starting to warm up, when the phone rang. He heard the pips of a public pay phone and was delighted when he heard Lesley speaking.

“Where are you?” He asked, “What’s happening?” He was going ask her if she was all right, but she ploughed on as though she couldn’t hear him. It was at that point he realised that he was not speaking to Lesley herself, but a recording. He grabbed a pencil and made notes.

‘Mum. You are to go to Kidsgrove post office telephone box. The instructions are inside, behind the backboard. I’m OK, but there’s to be no police and no tricks.’ The message was repeated another couple of times, so Len was sure he’d noted it down correctly. He quickly donned an overcoat over his pyjamas and ran to alert his boss. Ron Whittle called Bridgnorth police and within an hour he was being kitted out with a radio under the dash of the Scimitar and another in his jacket pocket connected to a throat microphone. On this occasion there was to be no armed bodyguard, but Frank Lovejoy assured him that they would be with him, listening to him all the way and should he need to make a distress call, assistance would be with him in seconds.

As these preparations were being made, a squad of specialists headed up by the Yard team’s operational controller in the field, Detective Inspector Trevor Lloyd-Hughes was racing towards Kidsgrove.

The suitcases containing the ransom money were placed in the boot and Ron set off. Already well behind schedule, owing to the technical and logistical delays, once again Ron pushed his powerful car to the limit. Unfortunately, travelling as quickly as he did, twice he missed his turn and with fast mounting frustration retraced his route. It was nearly three am when he located the phone box, outside the post office, in Kidsgrove’s tiny town centre.

Those listening in to him in the mobile control van first sighed with relief, then with bitter disappointment as they heard him say, “I am searching behind the backboard of the kiosk. There is nothing. Now I am examining the floor. There is nothing here.”

Thinking that he may have the wrong place, he said, “I’m leaving the kiosk to see whether there is another box nearby.”

There was none. He went back and made another search. Aware that he was already well outside the kidnapper’s given timeframe, he was getting increasingly frantic. Before leaving Bridgnorth, he had been given a special number to call. It was a direct line into the operations room at West Mercia police HQ, where ACC Fred Hodges was keeping overall control of the operation. He had been instructed only to use it in a dire emergency, but lack of feedback from his watchers (his radios were transmit only) and his present dilemma made him decide that time had come. He did not know what else he could do.

“Stay in the phone box, keep talking to us and search again.” He was told.

The situation had not changed, when, fifteen minutes later he again called.

“We haven’t heard or seen anything. There’s been no movement in the vicinity, our only hope is that you find whatever has been left for you in that kiosk.”

Close to tears now and frantic with dread, Ron set about tearing the kiosk apart – as best he could – with his bare hands. All he could think of about was what was likely to happen to his sister if he failed in his task. He pushed his fingers up behind the backboard until he scraped the skin off and he started to bleed, but what was that? He could just feel the edge of something… flimsy plastic… grunting with pain he fished and scrabbled, fiddled and pulled and then… Ignoring the discomfort of his hands and the blood dribbling down his fingers, he read,

‘GO TO END OF THE ROAD AND TURN INTO BOAT HORSE LANE GO TO TOP OF THE LANE AND TURN INTO NO ENTRY GO TO THE WALL AND FLASH LIGHTS LOOK FOR TORCH LIGHT RUN TO TORCH FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ON TORCH THEN GO HOME AND WAIT FOR TELEPHONE CALL’

The instructions took him to Bathpool Park. Formerly an area of mine workings and waste tips, it had been landscaped and turned into an area with football pitches, tennis courts and grass hillocks planted with saplings. Dominating it all was an artificial ski slope. As befitted its former industrial situation, it was not overlooked by houses and was indeed a most suitable place for the Black Panther’s current project. At night it was black, windswept, desolate.

Ron could see little of all this when he arrived at three thirty a.m., in the darkness and the wreathing ground mist, some two hours later than the kidnapper had wanted him to turn up. Once panic has insinuated itself, it never subsides very far, so when he failed to immediately locate a wall (his headlights shone clean over the low parapet wall in front of him) as specified in the instructions, he carried on driving, relaying a running commentary as he did so and flashing his lights every so often. With increasing concern and bubbling frustration verging on panic, he drove around the park and flashed his lights, flashed and drove, but nowhere could he see the promised torch light.

Eventually, there came a point at which he had to give up. He made his way home, deflated, depressed and disillusioned, alone to his mother. Once again, her hopes had been raised – and once again they were smashed, shattered, gone. Gaynor stayed with her mother-in-law, comforting her as best she could. The nightmare they had been living since Lesley had been taken, was taking its toll in different ways, on each of them.

A few hours later, the accumulation of such worry and continual high levels of stress, caused Gaynor to go into premature labour and lose the baby they had so desperately wanted and looked forward to. No longer would Dorothy soon be a proud Grandmother and Lesley would never be an auntie.

SIXTY

Groat gunned the Capri home in high spirits.

Phoned Ted.

“How’s it going?”

He could almost hear Ted frowning at the phone at the other end.

“Fine…” He paused, “What’s up?”

“Nothing, nothing. Drops OK?”

“Only four so far, but it’s still early yet. Anyway, what’s up? I can tell by your tone of voice. Something’s happened.”

Groat told him about the leaflets. “So that’s Bonehead definitely tied in with the flat, the stolen evidence and now the property scam, deal, whatever. Ted,
Bonehead’s
got
Gloria
. Don’t you see? He’s got her in Spain. I’ve got to go and get her.”

Ted’s mind was reeling. He was not someone who liked surprises, even nice ones; even less liked to be taken by surprise. He liked paperwork, procedure, forms. He would say, ‘
A
place
for
everything
and
everything
in
its
place
.
’
When events took off at a tangent, it always left him breathless, uncertain, disorientated. Now, one minute he was on his home ground, both professionally and geographically, jogging along with a well organised operation and here was his best mate, colleague, current boss wanting to leave the safety of well-known ground and suddenly jet off to the Mediterranean. He could understand the man wanting his wife home, but there were proper ways of dealing with matters. Developments were piling up, too fast, too soon, one after another.

He closed his eyes. “What d’you want me to do?”

Staccato, “No. Nothing. No. All right, cover for me.”

Again
?
You
are
nothing
but
trouble
…

Groat was still machine gunning at him, “No, look, I’d go tonight but can’t get a flight ‘til the morning. It’s all right, I’ll get myself down to Heathrow. Tell Mr Van Lesseps what’s happened. He’ll sort it for me. He’ll understand. Got to go, got to get her back. Home. You take care of business here. I’ll have her home in no time, you’ll see. Gotta go.”

He slammed the phone down. Hesitated, actually thought for a moment. Redialled.

“D/S Pearson.”

“Ted, Thanks. I owe you.”

*

The following day he was waiting on the doorstep of the travel agency well before it opened. He collected his tickets and raced across London to Heathrow. He had tossed and turned all night trying to formulate some sort of strategy for finding Gloria. Thought that he should maybe invoke the authorities in some way. The consulate, the Foreign Office, even told the job what his intentions were, but could not bring himself to contact them. He was in a desperate hurry to go and knew if he tried to do things by the book, he would be baulked by everybody at every turn. He was fully aware of how bureaucratic these procedures could be and how much more leaden slow they could get if you inadvertently rubbed anyone up the wrong way.

In any case he knew what would happen, what they would say.

“Oh, come now, she’s a grown woman, Mr Groat. She’s not ill, is she? Mental problems? Marital? Any other reasons? It’s not as if she’s taken herself off without telling anyone. You know where she’s gone, she told you herself. You know why she has gone. She’s got a return ticket. She said before she went that she was not sure how long she would be. Give it a few more days. Don’t worry, she’ll be back, safe and sound, you’ll see.”

Don’t
bloody
patronise
me
.

“But what about the Bonehead angle?”

“Bone head? If there is anything boneheaded about this, Mr Groat, it is you.”

So far his strategy amounted to: Go to Spain, find Gloria, bring Gloria home. He was perilously close to panic.

Thankfully, once he had started physically moving, he also began to calm down a little. On the plane he felt an unusual clarity steal over him and his brain engaged gear. He lit up as soon as the no smoking lights went out and for the first time since discovering the leaflets in the package addressed to Gloria, started to think with some logic and clarity.

*

14:45 hours, Tuesday 14th January 1975, Malaga airport.

After the formalities, he stowed his bag in a left luggage locker and went to work. His Spanish was little better than Gloria’s, but he clutched a photograph that was a good likeness and had soon mastered, “¿Has visto a mi mujer?” Feverishly he showed people the photograph, asking every one he could, if they had seen his wife, the woman in the picture.

He made a note of the various taxi firms that paraded outside the airport and rang each one, asking if any of their vehicles were on duty at the time Gloria would have arrived at Malaga. He approached several of the drivers waiting at the ranks, but only succeeded in upsetting them, by taking up their time when he proved not to be a fare paying passenger. He even tried showing his Metropolitan Police warrant card, but that only elicited raised eyebrows and a shrug, as if he’d shown them a toy pistol.

Eventually, fed up, disconsolate and weary, he became a fare paying passenger, asking the driver to take him to the nearest reasonable hotel.

*

10:30 hours, Wednesday 15th January 1975, Malaga airport.

After a night’s sleep, his resolve was renewed. Gloria must have been here, passing through. Someone on a bus or a taxi must have seen her. He continued showing the photograph and asking everyone and anyone he came into contact with, if they had seen his wife.

He had not been working for many minutes, when a police car made a swooping turn across the traffic and came to a rapid stop at the kerb, half a dozen yards from him. Two officers sprang out and ran over.

One spoke to him in heavily accented English. “Are you the one pretending to be an English policeman?”

Groat understood the question, but it did not make sense. “What?”

The question was repeated.

Groat said, “Yes, that is no. I’m not pretending anything. I
am
an English police officer. What’s the problem?”

The two men looked at each other, shrugged. “Es él. Poner el idiota Inglés en el coche.”

They took hold of him and bundled him, struggling, into the waiting car.

As they drove, he tried, “What’s happening? Where are you taking me? What’s up? Have I done something wrong? What about my luggage?” but they had obviously exhausted their English vocabulary, their ration of camaraderie or attempts at foreign diplomacy for the day.

At the Guardia Civil building, he was peremptorily shown into a drab, sparsely furnished room, propelled towards a seat and told, “Wait here.”

After minutes that seemed like an hour, a tall, dashing young officer swaggered into the room. He looked at Groat as though he was a drunk passed out in an alleyway, lying in his own vomit.

Eventually, “You are English.”

“Yes.”

“You purport to be an English police officer.”

Christ
,
he
speaks
English
with
a
better
accent
than
I
do
. “I don’t purport to be anything. I am an English police officer. Detective chief inspector.”

“Your papers? Your purpose in this country?”

“Papers? Listen, chum…”

He poured out his story. How Gloria had been tricked by an ex police officer – his ex-colleague, her ex-boyfriend, into coming to Spain. How she was – even as they were speaking – being held against her will by this man, someone lately out of prison after serving ten years of a fifteen year sentence for multiple rape. She was here somewhere – he knew not exactly where – and god alone knew what was happening to her. How he had dropped everything and travelled thousands of miles to look for his love, to rescue her and get her away from this defiler and home to safety.

The officer heard him out in silence. When Groat had completed his convoluted tale, he said, “Ahh. Asunto del corazón.”

He waited.

Groat frowned.

“Is OK. Not official business.”

Groat said, “Well, yes – and no.”

“You have a badge? Proof you are police?”

Groat proffered his warrant card.

The Spanish officer took it, examined it, handed it back, a grim expression on his face. “How would you react if I came to England – a Spanish policeman in London, telling no one, with no authority, investigating something, making enquiries of English people?”

Groat nodded, looked down at the floor.

“I would be in trouble, yes?”

Groat grimaced. Wondered what was coming next. “I suppose so. Maybe.”

“Are you a member of the International Police Association? You know, Arthur Troop? Great man. Servo per Amikeco. It can help a great deal. Oil the wheels.”

Groat looked bewildered. “Yes I expect so. I’m not, but I’ll make sure I’ll join as soon as I get home.”

“You do that.” The Spaniard suddenly laughed. “Inspector Groat. It says Detective Sergeant on your card.”

Groat explained about his temporary rank. The Spanish officer laughed again. “You English, so formal, so… stiff upper lip.” He stood up, snapping to attention. Groat wondered whether the Spaniard was going to charge him with an offence, throw him in a cell; whether he also ought to stand up.

“Captain José Fonseca at your service.” He held out his right hand.

Groat scrambled to his feet, accepted Fonseca’s extended hand, gripped it hard. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, “so very, very pleased to meet you.”