Authors: Roger Forsdyke
The Perfect Crime (31 page)
Thursday 11th December 1975.
In his office at Leman Street, Groat was, once again, attempting to settle into the routine as an area detective inspector. The attempt – and the routine – didn’t last long. The phone on his desk chivvied at him.
“CID – D/I Groat.”
“Hi. PC Smith. Steve Smith, collator at Mansfield – in Nottinghamshire.” There was a hesitant pause. “Spoke to you last year about those series of undetected burglaries you wanted to know about.”
Groat blinked and struggled momentarily to place himself in space and time. Rather a lot had happened in the intervening period. Then,
CLICK
. Connection.
“Oh, yes. Thanks for your help. What can I do for you?”
“I reckon they’ve started again.”
The words hung in the ether, their import initially failing to make proper impact.
Eventually, “What? What do you mean? The same person? What exactly?”
“Not really sure. There were those series we reported to you last year, then a gap, several months at least. Now they seem to have started again. Peculiar, tricksy MO – always pulls out a kitchen drawer and drops the contents on the floor, for no apparent reason. Only ever takes cash. Thought you might want to know.”
The hairs on the back of Groat’s neck gradually, painfully erected. He winced.
“Jeeesus.” He said, eventually, “Any suspects?”
“None whatsoever.”
“How many?”
“Upwards of fifteen.”
“More tonight?”
“Possibly. But he suddenly stops, doesn’t he.”
“What duty are you on today?”
“Two to ten.”
“I’ll be right up.”
He called Ted. Apprised him of the situation. Told him to brief Commander Morrison. “Tell him to get me clearance to operate in Nottinghamshire from tonight. Highest level. Don’t care what it takes, I reckon we’re closer than we’ve ever been.”
By eight thirty p.m. he was in Mansfield, having spoken to the area commander, who had received his orders from Rex Fletcher, the chief constable. Groat was to be afforded every assistance – anything he asked for, he was to get. He’d brought with him briefing sheets, including, vitally, a detailed description of the man they sought. He met with PC Smith, surveyed the list of burglaries he had prepared.
It’s
got
to
be
him
.
A determinedly agnostic person, Groat said a small prayer.
Please
,
please
,
let
it
be
him
.
Before the night shift personnel were deployed in the county that night, they were all on full alert for who and what they were looking for.
*
Tony White was the beat bobby for Mansfield Woodhouse, working ten to six nights, patrolling on foot, solo. PC Stuart Mackenzie was single crewed driving Panda Six, a two door, Mark II Ford Escort covering a large area on the northern outskirts of Mansfield, including Woodhouse. They met by prior arrangement on Stainforth Street. Strictly speaking, against force rules, but common sense and experience advised safety in numbers and two were better than one responding to a pub fight – especially where miners might be involved. Their current location was a favourite place for patrols to park up, as it was a quiet side road, but from there, they could keep an eye on the busy A60, known to be used by thieves, burglars, travelling criminals and various other categories of ne’er do wells. On the run up to Christmas, drink drivers and rowdy revellers were likely, as well.
They chatted, PC White enjoying the warmth from the panda’s heater after the chill of the December night. As they watched, a small, wiry figure marched smartly across from left to right on the far side of the main road. He was carrying a holdall. As he hurried past the mouth of Stainforth Street, he averted his face. Even without the extra briefing, they would have decided to turn him over. Panda Six started up and turned right onto the main road. Rapidly overhauling the pedestrian, without getting out of the car, having only started to warm up and mindful of the long, freezing hours ahead, PC White wound down his window. “Good evening, sir. At this time of night, we always check out strangers. Would you mind telling us your name and address and where you’ve been?”
The man mumbled something that neither officer could properly make out.
PC Mackenzie leaned over from the driver’s side and took a more direct approach, “Can you tell us your name, date and place of birth, please?”
“John Moxon. Chapel en le Frith. Thirtieth of January nineteen thirty seven.”
PC White continued with their check, “And what are you doing round here?”
“I’m a lorry driver. Just finished work.” He dropped his holdall, bent down and the next second came up with a double barrelled sawn-off shotgun, pointed at PC White, barely an inch away from the tip of his nose. “Don’t move.” He snapped, “In the back. No tricks or you are dead.”
White went to open the door so that he could put the seat forward and do as he had been told.
“No time for that.” The man growled, “Climb the seat.”
White scrambled into the back as best he could, as he was well over six feet tall, but did as he’d been instructed, huddling in the corner behind the driver. The gunman jumped in and slammed the door. He pushed the shotgun roughly into PC Mackenzie’s left armpit. “Drive.” He said tersely.
“Where to?”
“Just drive.”
The two officers were not friends, nor even close colleagues. They knew each other from working on the same roster, but there was no bond that might have enabled them to communicate unobtrusively somehow and act in concert to overcome their aggressor and avert the looming tragedy. PC White suddenly thought of his wife, his toddler daughter and baby son.
PC Mackenzie’s concentration was totally taken with the pressure of the shotgun barrels against his armpit. Undoubtedly, the man would have his finger on the trigger, so what would happen if they went over a bump, or it was a hair trigger and only needed the very slightest of spasms to set it off? He drove as smoothly and gently as he could.
“Switch off police sign on roof.” The man suddenly said.
Mackenzie frowned, but did as he was told. They drove in silence for another mile.
“Take us to Blidworth.” He pronounced it ‘Blidduth’ like a local.
This caused Mackenzie more anxiety, as they were heading in the opposite direction. He said, “Yes, of course, sir. The snag is we’re going the wrong way, sir. We’ll have to turn round, sir. Is that all right, sir? Thank you sir.”
Mackenzie gingerly executed the finest three point turn of his life and set course for Blidworth.
In the back, PC White felt unable to sit still and do nothing. He had six commendations for good police work and would rather take a beating than give in to intimidation, but this was different. He was not facing some miners after they’d had a few pints. This was major league. In any case, it wasn’t him that would get it first, so he dared not move, in case it brought precipitate action on the part of the gunman.
He said, “Look, sir, I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got a wife and three kids.” He racked up the number of offspring for effect.
“Shut up.” Then out of the blue, “Have you got any string?”
String
?
What
on
earth
does
he
want
string
for
?
Mackenzie said no, but PC White said, “There may be some in the back, here, but I’ll have to have a look round. Is that all right, sir?”
“OK, but any trouble and he gets it.”
There was no string, of course, but the looking around enabled PC White to manoeuvre himself onto the middle of the back seat, where he was able to make eye contact with his colleague in the rear view mirror.
“No string, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Just shut up and sit still.”
Panda Six left the main road on the way to Blidworth, now travelling at barely twenty miles an hour, with PC Mackenzie assiduously avoiding bumps and potholes.
“How far can you go in this car without arousing suspicion?” He asked.
“Not far, sir.” Mac responded, “In fact we’re getting off our area as it is.” He continued, “Why don’t we get you a traffic car? A big patrol car which can go anywhere in the country without suspicion?”
PC White joined in, “He’s right, sir. With one of those, you’d be safe.”
Reinforcements
.
The gunman paused, also thinking. “No. No. Keep going.”
They were now approaching Sherwood Forest, in the deepest parts of which, anyone trussed up and unable to move, at this time of year, would suffer a long, agonising death from exposure and possibly not be discovered for months. Always assuming they were not shot first, of course.
*
In the comfortable warmth of the control room in Mansfield, alive with nervous energy, Groat paced incessantly.
“What have you got in the way of transport?” He asked the control room sergeant. “Can we get a traffic car on standby?” He wasn’t sure why he might need one, but being here, waiting, feeling as though he was doing nothing, offended every fibre of his being. He needed action, anything. He knew, professionally, that he should stay central, in a position to direct the action, or go – should he be needed – at a moment’s notice, but his instincts screamed at him to be out, on the move.
“On second thoughts,” he said, “A traffic car might scare him off. How about a CID car?”
The sergeant smiled. “Got something even better, if you want it, sir. Traffic have got a plain vehicle that they use to trap unwary motorists. Green, three litre Granada. Won’t be using it this time of night, I know.”
One of the control room operators was waving a hand at the sergeant. He pushed his headset off one ear, “Got a burglary come in, sarge, on Tennyson Avenue. I’ve called Panda Six, but he’s not answering.”
“Give Tony White a shout. It’s a bit off his beat, but he can go. It’s not that far.”
Groat walked over to the operator, who was busy calling PC White. He let him finish, then said, “This burglary – anything taken?”
“Just some cash, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Just cash, like I said, sir.”
“No, what I mean is, was there anything – unusual – about the job?”
“Not really, sir, unless you count the knife drawer in the kitchen. Pulled out and dropped. Knives and cutlery all over the floor, everywhere. You wouldn’t think that someone after cash would bother looking in the knife drawer, would you sir?”
But Groat was nowhere to be seen. He had already embarked on a desperately urgent errand to find a three litre, unliveried Ford Granada. As he fled the control room he heard, “Can’t seem to be able to raise PC White, sarge…”
Every patrol in Mansfield town was alerted to the fact that neither Panda Six, nor PC White was answering the radio. The control room sergeant flew up, two stairs at a time, to the equipment room in the attic of the station and threw the talk through switch on the UHF transceiver, so all units would be able to hear not only the control room, but also what every other mobile was saying. As a result, traffic patrols circled and darted like sharks hunting and every rural mobile within radio range converged on the area with grim intensity. They soon had one further addition, in the form of Metropolitan Police Detective Inspector Groat, in the plain green Granada driven by an expert Nottinghamshire Police traffic sergeant who, as Groat quickly established, could not only drive like the clappers in seemingly perfect safety, but also knew every highway, byway, track and back alley on his patch.
For a while, all was quiet, then, another foot patrol reported seeing a Panda without its roof light on, on Old Mill Lane, driving through Forest Town towards the A617.
The control room sergeant came onto the air. “Units in the area report.” He said. “All other units stand by. I don’t want everybody and his dog converging on something that could be a wild goose chase.”
Groat’s driver said, “He’ll be on Oak Tree Lane by now, probably heading for Southwell Road. Wanna go?”
Adrenalin now well up, Groat nodded. “You bet.”
Rock Hill, where they were at that moment, led straight on to Southwell Road. It was now well past eleven thirty at night, so traffic was sporadic. Even so they seemed to be travelling near the speed of light and Groat held onto his supper with difficulty. They passed a turning on the left.
“That’s Oak Tree Lane,” grunted the sergeant. “We’re coming up to a roundabout, then a little way after that, a bigger roundabout, junction with the A617. I’ll go straight over the first one – it’s only industrial estates – but what about the next one?”
Groat didn’t have a clue.
They negotiated the first junction cornering with a ‘G’ force that wouldn’t have shamed an astronaut in training, then, as they closed with the A617 roundabout Groat slammed his hand on the dashboard and shouted, “Slow down, slow down.”
In the distance he could see the red rear lights of a small car with something square on its roof.
“See?” He said, “See?” He gesticulated wildly.
“Bloody hell.” The sergeant said. “What now?”
Groat fumbled for the radio. It wasn’t simply that he was unfamiliar with the set up of the equipment in a vehicle belonging to another force; all police vehicles had their equipment installed as if on a whim, at the mercy of the police fitters and how they felt on any particular day. He was used to that, but now he trembled, perhaps as a result of the Formula One drive he had been subjected to, or the adrenalin, or both.
Picking up the handset, he realised he hadn’t even asked for, or been allocated a call sign.
Shit
.
“Control, a message, D/I Groat, over.”
“Go ahead, D/I Groat.”
Relief flooded over him. “We have the panda in sight, on Southwell Road, towards the junction with the A617. His roof light’s out and he’s travelling very slowly, but apart from that we have no idea what he’s up to. Over.”
“He’s well off his patch and heading further out, Something’s up. Do you require back up?”
Groat consulted briefly with his driver. “Not at the moment. Let’s see where he goes at the roundabout, then we’ll let you know.”
They hung back as the panda in front of them slowly negotiated the roundabout, then closed up as they carried straight on, onto Southwell Road East. Past the junctions with Blidworth Lane and Helmsley Road; Groat still clutched the radio handset, gaining comfort from the feel of it in his grip. He called again, “Can we have a couple of double crewed units at the roundabout on the A617. We’ll give you a shout when we see where he’s going next.”
They continued their follow at a discreet distance.
Inside Panda Six, Mac kept looking at his colleague in the rear view mirror. He flicked his eyes towards their captor, signalling his readiness to have a go, but PC White closed his eyes momentarily and briefly, barely perceptibly, shook his head each time, thinking that any rash or hasty move on their part would end with his colleague dead, or arguably worse, horribly mangled and disabled for the rest of his life.
As they rolled down the hill into Rainworth, another mining village, they approached a ‘Y’ junction. Left was Kirklington Road, Rugby Road branched off to the right.
The atmosphere in the small car was undergoing a subtle metamorphosis. Whether it was because they were driving in an area with street lighting again, or that after the well lit streets, they would be out in the rural and into the darkness and the far reaches of Sherwood Forest, they would never be able to say.
As they passed the Robin Hood pub, Mac looked ahead and said, “Which way, sir – left, or right?”
At the same time, he steered slightly left, then veered right. From the back, PC White muttered, “Don’t do anything daft, Mac.”
For the first time in their twenty minute ordeal, their abductor took his eyes off the two officers and glanced ahead. Both men saw the gun barrels move slightly, away from Mac’s chest. With all his might, he stamped on the footbrake, White threw himself at the gunman, wrenching the shotgun upwards and away from his colleague. There was a deafening, eardrum splitting crash as the weapon discharged through the roof and driver’s window. PC Mackenzie disappeared out of the driver’s door and PC White felt searing pain in his head and right hand. The shot had gouged away a chunk of flesh from his hand and hot, ricocheting pellets peppered down on his head.
He yelled, “The bastard’s shot me.” He kept his left arm in a stranglehold round the gunman’s throat and, hauling him back over the front seat tugged the weapon away from him completely. Only then did he realise that the driver’s seat was empty. With a surge of blind anger, he screamed, “You bastard, you’ve killed him.” He still had hold of the shotgun in his injured right hand and keeping his stranglehold on his assailant with his left arm, he hammered his right elbow into the gunman’s face. But, far from being subdued, the disarmed man fought like a savage, cornered animal and smashed the butt of his sawn off into the officer’s face, slicing a deep gash down his lip, right through to the jawbone.
Groat and his driver saw the panda come to a halt and initially slowed down, not wanting to let their presence be known. Then they witnessed the eruption of the panda’s roof, the ‘police’ light shattering fragments high into the dark night air and saw the Escort rocking on its wheels, the frightened, wondering stares of the people standing around outside the pub and queuing at The Junction fish and chip shop.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Groat yelled.
His driver needed no instruction and wheels spinning, rocketed them over the intervening couple of hundred yards.
They came to a screeching, slewing, stinking rubber burning halt, doors opening before they had completely stopped. Both men sprinted towards the stricken panda car, the sergeant straight to PC Mackenzie, lying ominously still in the road, next to the open driver’s door. Groat went to assist PC White, still struggling with the gunman. Between them, they got him out onto the pavement, but he continued to fight like a crazed wild thing, punching, scratching, biting and kicking his would be subduers. PC Mackenzie was not dead, but the shooting had dazed him and shattered his left ear drum. The traffic sergeant helped him to his feet and he staggered unsteadily, but gamely back to assist his injured colleague. Snatching up the shotgun, he handed it to the sergeant for safekeeping and returned to the mêlée. Suddenly Groat noticed the gunman fumbling at his hip and shouted a warning. He fell back onto him and wrestled the emerging .22 pistol away from harm’s way. Eventually it took all four police officers, together with a contingent of onlookers from the chip shop queue, to subdue the little man. They dragged him to the railings by the chippy and handcuffed him to them there.
Now free to operate his radio, PC Mackenzie invoked the waiting backup and John Moxon was conveyed to police cells at Mansfield.
