The Perfect Crime (30 page)

SEVENTY

Ted cajoled and pleaded with Groat to go with him to Kidsgrove. He possessed a good, basic grasp of the process and the information Dee had given them, but was desperately lacking in confidence. He felt acutely that he would be unable to put it all across and answer the inevitable barrage of in depth questions that Commander Morrison would fire at him. It was not as if he was propounding or even developing some established police theory, or well-known and accepted way of working. He was uncomfortably aware that police officers were typically fanatically conservative. Procedural inertia had forever been the order of the day. Before he could even start to tell them any results of the research, he would have to expound to them the principles behind it and explain the system. He felt that he was not clued up enough to do that, even to someone at his own level. But this was ten, a hundred times worse. It meant he would have to put it all over to some very senior officers – and most of them not even from his own force. He felt sick with worry. He could feel the antipathy, the embarrassment of failure now, imagined the roasting he would get when it all backfired. Groat had got him into this, he would have to help him out, now.

Groat, however, remained adamant that he would not, could not go. He put forward several good reasons. Ted was a member of the Murder Squad – he was not. Only recently been promoted detective inspector on area, he could not simply leave his day job and swan off, up north. He could imagine the response he would get from his boss. He would not even ask. Privately, he thought that helping out an old friend was one thing, actually stepping into the line of fire with him was another. He did not know Commander Morrison, but he might aspire to a senior post on the murder squad one day and would not want to queer his pitch before he even got close.

His phone rang. “CID – D/I Groat.”

It was Mrs. Isaacs, in control from the very start. “Mr Van Lesseps wants to speak to you. Hold the line, please.”

Now
what
? He had envisaged at some nebulous, undetermined moment in the distant future, that he might contact the DAC. He had not thought this through in any detail, but it was comforting to have his ‘get out of jail free’ card, metaphorically speaking. It sat there, at the back of his mind, reminding him that he had a guardian angel, insurance, some real pulling power on high, that he could call on if ever the situation got hot enough, or sufficiently important to warrant it. But it had not been long since the man had given him the gypsies warning, not to call on him every two minutes and now here he was, calling him.

“D/I Groat?”

“Sir?”

“I’ve had a call from Commander Morrison of the Murder Squad. He’s working a serious, complex case up in Staffordshire.”

Groat’s brain started emulating the proverbial dervish.
What
?
I
know
all
about
that
.
Far
more
than
you
do
,
probably
,
but
what
?...

“Sir?”

“He wants you up there ASAP.”

Groat started squirming in his seat. Wanted to say, ‘Why? I’m not even on the Murder Squad,’ or, ‘He’s not even my commander…’ ‘My DCI wouldn’t let me go…’ ‘I’ve only recently been promoted. Got to get my feet under the table on area before I go swanning off anywhere...’ Then, sudden realisation.

Ted
,
you
bastard
.
I’ll
bloody
well
kill
you
.

The DAC continued, “I’ve cleared it with area. You’re OK to go.”

With unusual presence of mind, Groat said, “Sir – if I’m correct, this is about some research that D/S Pearson and I have been doing. Is it all right if I take our research assistant? What I mean, do I have your authority to take her with me?”

He could almost hear the DAC frowning at the other end of the line. “I suppose so,” he said. “As long as she can pass all the security checks and so on.”

And so it was that Dee, with Groat and Ted, came to sit in the conference room at the new police station in Kidsgrove, with Commander John Morrison and senior officers from the three affected forces.

“This better be good.” He said.

SEVENTY ONE

The Black Panther struggled with indecision. The plan was to stop. First, Panther had to go, finish, disappear as though he had never existed – with no possible chance of anyone connecting him with his alter ego. Then, with the one big, final job under his belt, he would have been able to retire completely and leave his life of crime behind, become the ostensibly blameless, successful businessman he had always aspired to be. But now, life was unravelling around him. He had put months of preparation and planning into the kidnap and through no fault of his own (he told himself) it had all gone terribly, terminally wrong. He was forced to lie low for a long, uncomfortable, fretful time, in case anyone cottoned on to him, but now things would have to start rolling again. Once again, he would have to start from scratch. At some appropriate juncture, the possibility existed that he might have another attempt at the big time, but he had earned little or nothing for months now and had not dared expose himself by committing more crime.

He felt that a sufficient period had elapsed to chance getting to work again. It was fast approaching his preferred time of year, when he would have plenty of night time cover. He was also desperately short of cash.

It was time.

*

“Where do you want me to start?” Dee asked.

Mr Morrison regarded her severely. “If – and I repeat,
if
– this is ever going to get us anywhere,” he said, “It’s got to be good. No, better than good. I’ve never heard of this, this profiling, so it’s going to have to be rock solid. Not one chink, not one fault. God knows how we would ever put it before a court. Never mind, I’m jumping the gun. What I’m trying to say is this. Let’s start from the word go. We’ve all got to be one hundred percent with it, up on it, so let’s hear it in words of one syllable, right from the beginning so that I can see where we are, how we’ve got to where we are today – and how we might possibly use it.”

Dee explained about Lionel Haward and his system. She told them about the circle hypothesis, the statistics and mathematics involved and the results of her research into the house burglaries.

She said, “The easiest bit is where he lives.” She paused, “I am ninety nine percent certain that he lives on Leeds Road, Bradford, within an area contained by a circle, no more than a quarter of a mile radius from the junction of Leeds Road and Dick Lane.”

Morrison frowned. “Why haven’t you come forward with this before? Why haven’t you told us?”

Groat said, “There’s one big unknown, or uncertainty here. Sir.”

“Go on.”

He explained about the originally calculated location being Burnley, before the introduction of the house burglaries.

Morrison frowned. “Well, who suggested he committed house burglaries? Where did they spring from?”

“From you sir, originally.”

“What? Me? I never said… How’s that?”

Groat reminded him that one of the first things he had said to Ted, was that the post officer robber had graduated to killing the postmasters.

Dee broke in, “It’s one of the features of the circle hypothesis, as I explained to you, if you recall. As they get more experienced and grow in confidence, not only will they travel further to commit their crimes, but they will develop and refine whatever MO they are using. The question we asked ourselves was, ‘if he’s graduated from aggravated burglary to actually murdering his victims, what did he graduate from, when he started committing aggravated burglary?’”

Commander Morrison said, “And what did you find?”

Groat replied, “Well, he’s a burglar. All right, he’s moved on to aggravated burglaries and now armed robberies and so on, but the only real difference there is the introduction of the firearms. He’s still basically breaking into premises and stealing. And as you know, sir, it’s generally accepted that once a criminal has discovered a way that he can successfully commit crime, he usually sticks to it. I mean, you don’t hear of many rapists becoming expert safe breakers, or shoplifters carrying out long firm frauds. So we contacted all the collators we could, in areas he was known to commit crimes. We asked them all if they had any series of undetected burglaries, preferably with a common, very specific MO and only taking cash – because that’s mainly what he gets from the post offices. Cash and occasionally postal orders. The point here being, that he has never been known to take anything that would necessitate the involvement of a third party. A very specific MO that we could tie down pretty tight.”

Morrison said, “So basically, we have no evidence, no confirmation in any way whatsoever, that our man even committed these offences?”

“No sir, I suppose not.” Ted replied and looked down at his feet.

“Worse than useless.”

Dee felt that her reputation was being impugned, not to mention her long hours of hard slog being discounted as worthless. “No sir.” She said sharply, “Not useless at all.”

Her tone brought them up sharp. Groat cringed. Ted looked at her with respect.

Morrison frowned and raised an eyebrow, “What then?”

“This is not how it works.” She said. “Nothing here is cut and dried. There will never be any, ‘beyond all reasonable doubt’ type of evidence from this sort of work. But what I can do, is produce some sound pointers, signposts if you like. Maybe we can’t produce a forensic standard of evidence that our man committed the domestic burglaries, but if you lower your sights a bit, say, to the civil court burden of proof, to balance of probabilities, I think it is reasonable to extrapolate – and hypothesise that it is likely – on balance of probabilities – and for all the reasons we have given you, that he was responsible for those burglaries.” She paused.

Morrison said, “Go on.”

“And if you accept that, you have a signpost that helps point you in the right direction. Once you have reached as far as this sort of evidence can take you, even as far as indicating a possible suspect, or suspects, then you can concentrate on getting the evidence you will need to actually get him to court.”

She shook her mane of dark, coarse, curly hair and sat down. Groat also regarded her, now, with growing respect. Ted felt like giving her a round of applause.

Mr Morrison, obviously taken aback, nodded thoughtfully.

“I apologise if I sounded dismissive.” He sighed, “I’m getting old and set in my ways. I think I can see where you’re coming from, now. Please carry on.”

Dee stood up again and looked around. “Hardly even started yet.” She favoured her audience with a brief smile and turned to her flip chart, already divided into three, neat, vertical columns.

By the time she had finished, they had a comprehensive picture of their man. Aged around forty, white, 5’6” tall, wiry build, with short, dark hair. An able planner, forensically aware and probably with no previous convictions. Clean shaven, piercing eyes, agile, even athletic, walking with a military bearing. Intimate knowledge of guns and ammunition and well versed in unarmed combat, so more than likely with a service background. Size seven feet and a thirty eight inch chest. They even knew his inside leg measurement.

And they knew where he lived.

SEVENTY TWO

Groat had pressing business waiting. He hung back until Mr Morrison was content he had as much information as he was likely to gain from Dee and asked if he could take her back to London. On the journey, she said that the commander had told her he was impressed with what she had come up with and, that it would not be long before a substantial team of detectives descended on Leeds Road, Bradford. He quizzed her hard and long about the quarter of a mile radius and although she had been as firm as she could be, felt that he would probably extend it a little. That was, of course unless they made a breakthrough before that, but how likely was it, on current form?

*

Groat walked nervously towards the left luggage lockers at Waterloo station. He felt totally exposed, naked, worse than his first day on foot patrol, convinced that everybody was looking at him – and this time with no cover. If he had been in uniform, no matter what he did, no one would have taken much notice.

‘
It’s
all
right
,
it’s
a
policeman
.
’

But now, in plain clothes and acting so suspiciously…

I
just
knew
it
.

There were two sets of benches near the lockers. Which one would have the key taped to it? If either? In any case, it was too long since the drop had taken place – even if one had ever been made.

Somebody
will
have
found
it
already
,
bet
your
life
.

The choice of which bench to try first was easy. An elderly couple sat on one; he took the other.

This
is
why
the
very
notion
of
burying
treasure
is
a
non
starter
.

He started feeling under the bench, attempting to look as innocent and nonchalant as possible.

If
something
as
simple
as
a
key
taped
under
a
bench
in
a
specific
location
is
difficult
,
how
much
more
impossible
would
be
‘
twenty
paces
east
from
the
old
oak
tree
,
then
ten
paces
due
south
and
dig
down
six
feet
…
’
You’d
never
do
it
.

He grimaced as his fingers traversed the underside of the seat. Old, hardened pieces of chewing gum, snot, other, unspeakable, unidentifiable sticky messes, but no key. He eyed the station platform, ingrained with many years of dust and dirt, trodden there by hundreds of thousands of daily commuting feet. Thought about the smart, bespoke, dark blue pinstripe suit he was wearing, only recently bought and not cheap either. He looked around, wondered if he could chance taking a look without getting locked up. He screwed up his determination. There were no station staff or British Transport Police in obvious proximity. He dropped to his knees, stuck his head under the bench, quickly scanned.

No key.

Wrong
bench
,
or
,
much
more
likely
,
someone’s
beaten
me
to
it
.
I
bet
someone
saw
him
put
it
there
.

He waited until the couple left the other seat, walked towards it, but as he closed with his objective, a woman with a small boy and a girl installed themselves. He swore under his breath and took the necessary evasive action.

I
could
be
here
all
day
at
this
rate
.

Fortunately for his rapidly fraying nerves, they did not linger for long. The woman consulted her watch, looked up at the station clock and spoke to her children. They stood up and walked away. This time, no hesitation. Groat felt that dust and dirt on his suit and any subsequent cleaning bill was preferable to feeling along all the Braille horrors of the under bench scene. He didn’t even bother sitting down first.

Knees.

Down.

Scan.

Key!

He jumped up, heart thumping, shoved it in his jacket pocket and sat on the bench attempting, ineffectively, to brush the filth off his trouser knees and jacket sleeves. He looked around. Nobody seemed to have noticed. Perhaps they were all blind, or inured to this sort of eccentric behaviour, a grown man flinging himself down and rolling about on a station platform. He waited quietly, consciously trying to regulate his heartbeat. Finally, he was content that no one was taking any obvious notice of him. With much trepidation, he got to his feet, approached the lockers, located the correct one and fumbled the key into the lock. In the dim interior was a Marks and Spencer carrier bag. His hand trembled as he lifted it out. The package inside was larger and heavier than he thought it would have been. Nervously, he clutched it to him and making sure that nobody was following, made his way back to the Capri.

He desperately wanted to look in the bag and examine his find, but figured that he was in too public a place. He started up and pulled out into the afternoon traffic. While driving, he was thinking. Realised that he had assumed that there would not actually be a drop to pick up and as a result, had not paid any consideration to what he might do if there was one. What
was
he going to do? The sting was complete. Olivia was in Holloway, on remand. The DAC had said that he was never to mention it to anyone, ever again. He wanted the job to be buried, invisible. As if it had never happened. He worried; gnawed at the problem, needed time to think. Saw a phone box. Pulled up, called the office.

“Not feeling too good. Going to take a couple of hours off. See you in the morning.”

He was home by four, plenty of time before Gloria would be back. He sat down, worked the string tied, newspaper wrapped packet out of the carrier bag, onto the kitchen table and carefully, fearfully started to open it. He recalled sitting in Olivia’s flat, discussing how much she should demand from each of her gentlemen. Apart from one MP, a millionaire of independent means – who they had tapped up for five grand – the rest had been all around the two thousand mark. The Bishop of Brixton, they had decided, was amongst those least likely to have an over bountiful supply of cash, so they’d hit on fifteen hundred.

Eventually, after much finger licking and piling up the notes in bundles of five hundred, Groat finished counting.

Silly bitch couldn’t even count her noughts.

Fifteen
thousand
pounds
.

With a heavy heart, Groat rewrapped the notes in the newspaper and replaced the package in its carrier bag. He taped the bag closed, wrapped it in a bin liner and taped that up as well. Then, against all his instincts, experience and previous reasoning, carried the parcel out to his shed, carefully removed a couple of floorboards and stowed the loot under the floor.