The Perfect Crime (27 page)
Authors: Roger Forsdyke
Staffordshire scenes of crime officer, Detective Constable Philip Maskery lowered a ladder through the gap in the bars at the top of the Glory Hole and in gumboots and overalls, descended the first forty feet.
From the bottom of the shaft, a five foot diameter, horizontal tunnel carried away water, a miniature subway along which, stooping, he could walk without undue difficulty. It was dark. There was the sound of constant running water, but he couldn’t detect foul gas at all. The air smelled wholesome and at his feet ran a few inches of ostensibly fresh, clear water. He shone his torch on a pile of debris, wood and scraps of metal pushed through the bars at the top. Then, amongst the rubble, he caught a glimpse, a flash of colour. A Dymo tape machine and a roll of Elastoplast. Wondering whether there was anything that might have been washed downstream, Maskery followed the tunnel for some distance, but finding nothing of interest, regained the surface.
Tracing the direction of the underground tunnel, he walked to the next manhole. A fixed inspection cover this time. The centre shaft descended into complete blackness – but there was nothing to be found. He made his way to the next, only a short way from the park entrance. This was the main shaft, the deepest in the park drainage system. Part of the old Nelson coal mine, it was sixty two feet deep and six feet in diameter. The shaft had been incorporated into the subterranean drainage network when it had been constructed some ten years earlier. The main shaft was divided into sections by three narrow metal platforms, or landings. The first, twenty two feet below the surface, the second, twenty three feet below that and the third, nine feet below the second. There was a seven foot drop from the final landing to the bottom of the shaft where it joined the drainage tunnel.
Mine shaft. A safety check would have to be made for poisonous gases or shortage of oxygen. The local authority were alerted and the air tested. Eventually, given the all clear, Maskery continued his search. Inside the mouth of a dry culvert he discovered a tape recorder. He scrambled on, further down and, shining his torch through the gap on the right of the landing, saw what seemed to be a blue towel. Switching to the gap on his left, his torchlight glinted on a taut wire. Suspended from it was the naked body of a girl.
At last, at least they had found her.
*
No longer could Staffordshire claim, ‘Nothing to do with us’. If the pub fight had spilled out into the road, it now became a fully developed street brawl, major disorder, no holds barred. There was a murder in Kidsgrove, firmly in Staffordshire’s jurisdiction. The murder was more than likely to have been committed by the Black Panther. The Panther was suspected of post office robberies and murders in another five police areas. Mayhem ensued. Who was going to be able to co-ordinate this mess, this shambles of galactic proportions?
It was then, that Staffordshire called in The Yard.
Groat put his shoulder to the door again.
Fonseca looked at him and shook his head. “Remember Los Bandidos?”
“One of my favourite groups.”
Fonseca smiled uncertainly and shook his head again. “You’ll never do it.” He went to the police car and opened the boot, retrieved a long, business-like axe.
Groat said, “Blimey. In England we sometimes carry a broom to sweep up debris after an RTA.”
“Arty… eight?”
“Sorry. Initials. Road Traffic Accident.”
“Ahh.” The Spaniard started to walk around to the back of the villa. “We have also to be fire brigade, rescuers, tree surgeons,” he grinned mischievously, “all sorts.”
Groat made to follow.
Gloria yelled, “Lester. Lester Groat. You’ve taken bloody long enough to get here, don’t you dare go off and leave me.”
“It’s all right, my love, we can’t get in at the front, but we’ll find a way.”
Fonseca disappeared round the side of the villa. Groat followed, then broke into a run as he heard him shout.
“What is it?” Groat, out of breath from the short dash around to the back of the building, made another mental note,
Must
stop
smoking
and
start
exercising
. “What is it?” he said again as he caught up with Fonseca.
“What I’d hoped for. These stupid builders, designers, architects, whatever… Huge, heavy front doors, bars on all the windows, then this.” He was busy pulling away dense creeper from around a pair of double doors at the back of the villa, set down a slight incline, almost hidden. “It will be a garage or workshop of some sort, but look.” He indicated the construction of the woodwork. He continued, “Even if there is another door inside, it will only be another of panelled construction, like these – only the inner one will be even more flimsy.”
He finished pulling at the foliage and started to swing the axe in a practised, workmanlike fashion. He was soon through the first panel and after another couple of blows there was a gap large enough to put his arm through. He felt for the catch on the inside.
“No good,” he said, “It’s locked and there’s no key, no way to open it from the inside. Never mind.” He picked up the axe and renewed his attack. Soon the second panel was through, then the third, soon after, the fourth. He leant on his axe, sweating and looked at his English partner. “Now you can try your sissy English entry technique.” He grinned and nodded at the door, “Aim for the centre section.”
Groat looked at the target. Too low for an effective shoulder barge, even disregarding the downward slope. He ran down the incline. Aimed an almighty kick. He was rewarded by the sound of joinery splintering, starting to give way. He repeated the exercise, twice, three times. Suddenly it collapsed inwards and there was an aperture size enough for them to climb through. José picked up his axe and followed Groat through the shattered woodwork into the dark interior. Readied himself for an onslaught on the inner door.
“Hang on.” Groat said. He had seen too many movies where the hero batters away at some immovable object, exhausting all his luck and strength, only to have some smartarse come along with the easy way through, the cipher, or key. He tried the door handle. The door was securely fastened. He shrugged, “OK, give it shit.”
Fonseca repeated his previous tactic of breaking through the thinner panels, then inviting Groat to complete his butchery.
Gloria was standing there looking at the remains of the door she had thought might lead to a basement, her hands to her face, her expression a mixture of trepidation, hope, cautious relief…
Groat rushed through and held her in his arms.
“Lester.”
“Oh, my dear Gloria.”
Fonseca, ignored, stood there sweating. Eventually, “OK, whatever. I’ll wait in the car. Don’t keep me waiting all day.”
Now that safety was at hand, the strain of captivity, of her enforced twenty four hour a day watchfulness, constantly having to keep Bonehead at bay, suddenly washed over her and she was fainting in his arms.
“Come on, old girl, bear up. Let’s get you out of here. Where’s your stuff?”
Gloria cuffed welling tears and sniffed. “Upstairs. I’ve hardly unpacked. I’ve been waiting for the chance to escape, but I couldn’t. No one comes near the place and there’s bars on all the windows…” Tears gushed. “You think I’m so stupid…”
Groat shushed at her. “Come on, let’s get your stuff and get you out before he comes back. I’m assuming this was, is Bonehead?”
Gloria nodded.
“And where might he be?”
“I don’t know. He goes off all the time. Says he’s going to a business meeting or something, generally.”
They lugged Gloria’s bags out to the police car. Groat introduced Gloria to her rescuer. “Captain José Fonseca. Really good bloke.”
Fonseca smiled, displaying even, white teeth against his tan. “Is a pleasure, Señora.”
If Gloria was not already a little weak at the knees, she would have felt so then. Something inside urged her to touch him, kiss him, thought,
Stupid
,
I’ve
got
the
perfect
excuse
… She shook his hand, then to his surprise, pulled him towards her, hugged him, kissed him full on – and rather more than absolutely necessary.
“Thank you captain, thank you so much.”
Fonseca drove them to the Guardia Civil post, this time in his office, arranged for them all to have a drink and took a statement from Gloria in respect of her ordeal. He and Groat discussed the matter on the journey. They decided that, although the trap had been laid in England, the substantive offence had taken place in Spain. Groat racked his brains and said that he recalled some arcane piece of legislation – probably in the nether reaches of the Offences Against the Person Act, or the Sexual Offences Act – about procuring women with intent to have unlawful sexual intercourse, but the false imprisonment was the easiest to prove, under Spanish jurisdiction. Bonehead was in Spain and if they dealt with him there, there would be no problems with extradition, either.
Fonseca drove them to the airport. They said grateful goodbyes, promised to keep in touch. Gloria took one last opportunity to smother her Spanish rescuer with hugs and kisses.
They sat together in silence. There were few other passengers in the departure lounge. Groat struggled with indecision. Should he ask her about her ordeal and thus demonstrate his care for her, or wait and let her talk to him as and when she wanted to. He vacillated for a protracted period before burning curiosity eventually overcame his natural cowardice.
He said, “So what happened?”
“What? When?”
“While you were locked up.”
“What do you mean?”
This was not going well. “Well? Did he… did you…?”
Gloria glowered. “Did who? Did I what?”
Groat felt embarrassed now, peeved. Wished he hadn’t started, but knew he would have to carry on now he had opened his big mouth. “You know…” he hesitated, “you know… thing…”
Gloria’s hackles rose. She did haughty very well. “Lester Groat, how dare you. How could you. You better not be suggesting I would ever…”
Groat shook his head raised his eyebrows. She was right in his face.
I’m
not
suggesting
anything
about
you
,
you
silly
bitch
,
but
it’s
what
he’d
got
you
there
for
,
after
all
.
He sighed.
Oh
well
,
soon
be
home
.
Home Office pathologist Dr John Brown performed the post mortem at Stoke-on-Trent mortuary. He identified the cause of Lesley’s death as vagal inhibition. This was caused by dangerously high blood pressure in her carotid artery, brought about by the wire cable tightening round her neck. The vagus nerve would have sent an urgent signal to her brain to reduce the blood pressure. The only way for the body to achieve this is a radical shutdown in heart activity. If the situation is not normalised very rapidly, the slow down continues until the heart stops, with the end result that the individual dies. This happens in a matter of seconds rather than minutes and only extremely prompt, effective action would be able to prevent death occurring. The pathologist tried to pinpoint a date of death, but found it impossible due to the length of time elapsed since that had occurred. He found that the girl had suffered minor bruising, but no sign of violence or sexual interference. He concluded from the absence of rubbing marks on her toes or feet that Lesley had not struggled or tried to raise herself. She was very thin and her entire digestive system devoid of food. She had obviously, therefore, not eaten anything appreciable for a minimum of two to three days before she died, although it could have been longer, as in death she weighed under ninety eight pounds.
When he examined the shaft, Dr Brown saw that the snagging had substantially reduced the drop length of the tether which resulted in Lesley being suspended above the bottom of the tunnel. He also noted that her body bore no cuts or scratches from the rusty metal lip round the landing stage where she had been lying. From his report, detectives concluded that she must have been inside her sleeping bag when she went over the edge.
Because of this, a police search party waded downstream to the outlet of the tunnel into a subterranean section of the disused Brindley canal. A yellow and brown sleeping bag, its zip fully closed, still remained afloat. If Lesley was in the sleeping bag as she went over, it would have slid off her into the canal and been carried away by what small currents eddied the usually still waters. The underwater search unit were called and five officers in sub aqua gear searched the murky, silt laden depths. They recovered (amongst other items of interest) a pair of size seven Bata training shoes. A man’s blue Crimplene polo neck jumper (thirty eight chest), a roll of unused Dymo tape, a half full, half bottle of brandy, dark blue corduroy trousers, waist 32” and 29” inside leg, a vacuum flask containing chicken soup, various strips of elastoplast and a pair of women’s’ slippers. They really struck gold on a small dry culvert leading to the second landing. A writing pad, still bearing the impression of a message written on the page above – ‘Tell them to come to Kidsgrove post office telephone box. Instructions inside. Tell them you OK tell them no police no tricks.’ Even better, they found a Woolworth’s Winfield Reporter’s Notebook. Inside the front cover was a partial fingerprint. It was not Lesley’s and the investigation team could only come to one conclusion.
For the first time they possessed a fingerprint belonging to the Black Panther.
Immediate priority searches of all fingerprint records in Britain were ordered. The resultant operation was one of the most massive and comprehensive searches ever carried out in the country. Scores of fingerprint experts trained their loupes over millions of prints, day after day, week after week. At New Scotland Yard and in regional criminal record offices throughout England and Wales, routine business gradually ground to a halt, ignored. It took them four months to complete.
It brought them precisely no progress whatsoever.
*
The call had been made. Staffordshire, as was their custom – and right – had applied to New Scotland Yard to assist them with the investigation into the murder of Lesley Whittle. Normally, the duty officer whose name appeared at the top of the roster of detective superintendents forming the Murder Squad would have been dispatched. Instead, after urgent and intensive discussions with Staffordshire, Scotland Yard took the unusual step of sending the supreme head of the Squad. Commander John Morrison.
Morrison was not pleased – and that was before he got anywhere near the nightmare that was to rule his life for the next nine months. He had seen it coming, but was as powerless to prevent the outcome as if he’d seen a thundering express starting to derail. He had been asked to investigate the murder of Lesley Whittle in Staffordshire, but now the connections had been made linking the Black Panther with the post office jobs, the kidnap and the murder, he would need leads and evidence pertaining to all those crimes if he was to stand a chance of succeeding in his primary aim, that of avenging Lesley and her family.
He met with Bob Booth and Cliff Taylor in the chief superintendent’s office. Of course he could have access to the kidnap paperwork, but under no circumstances would it be taken anywhere off West Mercia’s territory – it was needed for Booth’s investigation into the kidnap and Morrison was not investigating that, was he? Mr Morrison had no desire to take over everything, even if he could. As he already knew, that was around eighteen aggravated burglaries and armed robberies, a kidnap, an attempt murder or two and four murders… He also knew, as a matter of fact, that as there was only one on duty police officer to every two thousand members of the public, policing by consent was the order of the day. So it would have to be with his job in hand. He could not force Booth to cooperate with him, he would have proceed with all the considerable diplomacy, tact and formidable negotiating skills he possessed.
There were no such difficulties with the Freightliner shooting and the Langley murder. The chief constable of the West Midlands, Sir Derek Capper was a former Metropolitan Police officer. He assured them that West Mids would cooperate fully with Commander Morrison’s enquiries.
Morrison thought he had the job cracked – as far as force cooperation went, at any rate – when a few days later, the heads of the forces most involved held a tripartite meeting. Derek Capper and Chief Constable of West Mercia, Alex Rennie met with Arthur Rees at his Staffordshire HQ. They agreed that John Morrison should take full control of the murder investigation and the kidnapping. Furthermore, they decreed that all interviews and press statements would be issued with the consent of the Commander only.
It seemed that Bob Booth would now have to toe the line. He was an extremely competent and successful officer with a personal record of approaching a sixty five percent clear up rate, fully twice the rate of some forces. Why then he chose to be so parochial and such an obstructive nuisance, was hard to understand. He had his own ideas and within hours and totally against his orders, called a press conference, where he announced to the amazement of the assembled media and the consternation of the other police officers present, that he was confident that an arrest would be made within twenty four hours.
Morrison was incensed and utterly confounded. He was certain that Booth did not know any more than he did about the identity of their quarry and this announcement could only bring further diversions to his own enquiry – and ultimate embarrassment all round, when their man – as he was certain he would not be – was not arrested. He immediately invoked thunderbolts from on high. So it was that Booth found himself transferred to a uniform post in the remote, rural Malvern division – the first time he had been out of his beloved CID for twenty five years.
