Authors: Roger Forsdyke
The Perfect Crime (34 page)
Groat did his research and without a word to Gloria, remortgaged. The maximum he could obtain was eighty percent to value. Already the house was worth £30,000 – five grand more than they’d paid for it, so, a cool £24,000. The place was already mortgaged for £5,000, so he came out of it with a £19,000 surplus. He would gradually pay that off out of income, eased by the money scattered around the country, in the fifteen accounts opened in recent weeks.
On a whim, he had followed up the allegedly mythical proposition laid out months earlier to Gloria by Bonehead. He was amazed to find that it was almost right. Correct to the extent that a villa
could
be bought for under £3,000, but you could get a truly stupendous pad, with a generously sized plot – even better than the one he’d rescued Gloria from, for around £5,000 and a small block of ten apartments on a new development for around £15,000… He could now run to that. He sent for the forms, paid the necessary deposits, instructed local solicitors and generally ensured his project was on track. If anyone asked, he’d remortgaged his house to get the cash. Everything was sweet.
It was about to get sweeter.
He was progressing the formalities with the Spanish developers, when the envelope dropped onto his desk. If his eyeballs had been attached by elastic stalks, they would have popped out and bounced around and he would have had difficulty shoehorning them back in.
He phoned Gloria. “Can you get off early, this afternoon?”
“Bit busy, you know. I do have a career of my own.”
“Yeah, yeah, me too – but you might learn something to your advantage.”
She heard the suppressed excitement in his voice and frowned.
Now
what’s
the
hare
brained
idiot
been
up
to
?
She sighed for his benefit because she knew it aggravated him. “Oh, I suppose so. What time?”
By the time she got home, he’d pinned photographs and brochures round most of the ground floor of the house.
She frowned as she went into the lounge.
What
was
the
prat
up
to
now
?
Disfiguring
her
immaculately
manicured
home
.
Did
he
think
it
was
Christmas
,
or
something
?
Blasted
peculiar
sort
of
decorations
,
anyhow
.
He
must
be
losing
it
. Then she recognised some of the images.
Groat jumped out in front of her from the kitchen doorway.
“Taraaah.” He blew her a fanfare.
“Lester Groat. Are you drunk, or simply out of your tiny mind?” She said, not caring whether she should pity him – as he was obviously losing his marbles – or yell at him to clear up the mess. Both, probably.
“What do you think.” He said, waving his arms around. Obviously in far too good a humour for his own continued wellbeing. She would see to that.
“I think you’ve finally lost it.” She said, determined to end this stupidity. “What the
hell
do you think you’re doing? Disfiguring my house like this.” There was heavy emphasis on the word
my
.
“Look.” He said, “Look. Isn’t it what you want? Isn’t this what you’ve been on about at me for months?”
She looked more carefully, recognition developing. He brandished a full colour brochure under her nose – tapping a colour photograph of a superior, premium villa with his forefinger. Other images showed it complete with luxury swimming pool and beautifully landscaped grounds.
“No.” She said, shaking her head. “No. I looked at them. We could never afford… Oh my god.” She said, “Lester Groat, what
have
you done?”
“Got you one of those. And how about this?” He pushed the building specs of one of the smaller apartment blocks towards her.
She looked at him keenly. “You
have
gone out of your tiny little mind, haven’t you?”
“Got you one of those, as well.” He said, tapping the plans.
“Explain.” She commanded, although by this time – if even a small part of what he was showing her was half true… she was starting to feel weak at the knees.
“How…?” She started to say, but her heart was fluttering in her chest. “How can we?... Can we…? Can we really…? We really can…?”
Once more, she could not bring herself
not
to believe; the bug reprised, overwhelmed her, hooked in, pleasurable barbs deeply imbedded. She couldn’t give a hoot whether they could afford it, she was there again, living out her fantasy.
“Don’t worry about a thing.” He told her, “All bases are covered. Everything will be OK. You were right. We only have to get the places and the rental income will pay for everything. And it’s all because of you.” He crossed his fingers behind his back, but he wasn’t worried, he’d seen that look before.
He pressed home his advantage. “Fancy a bit of afternoon delight?”
They snuggled down between clean white sheets. He’d noticed that they weren’t quite so stiff with starch lately. They kissed and petted and when he judged it to be the optimum moment, he reached onto his bedside table and handed her the envelope. She frowned, but was in far too good a place to be cross. She extracted the card to humour him.
She saw the crest and shot up, bolt upright. The mighty bosom bounced and quivered in the most magnificent and satisfactory fashion.
She read out loud, “Her Britannic Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, requests and requires the presence of Detective Inspector Lester Edwin Groat, at Buckingham Palace… on the occasion of the presentation to him of the Queen’s Police Medal for distinguished service…”
She read it again, and again, and over again.
“Oh Lester,” she said dreamily, “The Palace… The Queen… Can I come? I can come, can’t I?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Ohhh…” She sighed, squeezing him and moving even closer. “Oh, Lester Groat. You deserve a special treat, a really special treat.”
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Two matters must be acknowledged as a priority. First, I would not have been able to write this book, certainly not with the detail, facts and figures, dialogue and descriptions as vivid and accurate as they are, without having had access to ‘The Capture of the Black Panther (casebook of a killer)’ written shortly after the events, by Harry Hawkes. I gladly acknowledge that most of the detail of the real life events in my book, is directly from that source. Harry, thank you. Any deviations from accuracy, other mistakes or imperfections, of course, are my sole responsibility.
Second, I must give full recognition to the bravery and resourcefulness of the two police officers that eventually arrested Donald Neilson. There never was any briefing to put them on notice that night, of course and the fact that the lives of PC Tony White and PC Stuart ‘Mac’ Mackenzie were in very grave danger, is beyond doubt. What would have happened if either of them had stop checked him by themselves, just does not bear thinking about. Gentlemen, that was one of the finest instances of ‘good old-fashioned bobbying’ that I have ever had the pleasure to hear about. It is also another example of what we expect our police officers to do, a reminder that every time they go out on patrol, absolutely anything might and sometimes does happen.
The two officers did have a little help, after they had got Neilson out of the police car. Four customers of the Junction Chippy, including engineer Keith Wood, weighed in to the fight as did a miner, Roy Harris, who had to then support ‘Moxon’ as Mac searched him. He found, not a .22 pistol, as in my story, but almost as bad, a wickedly sharp, large sheath knife, as well as a smaller knife tucked into his left boot. A further complication ensued after Mac radioed for assistance. They had handcuffed their prisoner to the railings outside the chip shop and then had to form a human shield in front of him, as the incensed crowd tried to give him a little more of a pasting, for attacking the two officers.
Whilst touching on police type matters I must acknowledge the peculiarity of my police statements. If you know anything about section 9, CJA 1967 statements, or nowadays, MG11s, you will be aware that the statements in the story are nothing like. If you have that much knowledge, you will also realise that to include an actual statement – or even part thereof – would bog the narrative down with unnecessary detail and dry-as-dust jargon etc. Poetic licence. Thank you.
As always, I have attempted to ensure that I have got my facts right in respect of the real, actual events that underpin the adventures of my fictional characters. Obviously any interaction that my cast has with the real people in the story, did not and could not have taken place and if I have made any of the real life people act in an uncharacteristic manner, or say things that they would not have said in real life, I apologise.
Dovetailing the fictional with the factual in ‘Panther’ has, at times, been quite a challenge. Neilson committed such a large number of crimes and over such a protracted period, that I have had to be quite ruthless in chopping and telescoping the real timescales to fit the story. I have also had to be quite terse in the description of some matters, as I did not want the pace of the narrative to slow down and descend into a mere list of crimes committed. At no time has it been my intention to downplay, or minimise any one of his crimes relative to any other, but to get everything in that I needed for my story, demanded some fairly arbitrary and sometimes hard decisions.
Although the burglary at the Woodfield Road post office in Nottingham has been attributed to Neilson, personally, I doubt that he committed it. It took place in 1967, long before the burglaries (1970 and 1971) that netted him the guns and ammunition that he later used to commit the aggravated burglaries and armed robberies. If he had taken to arming himself in 1967, why wait four years before committing another armed raid? And, where did that weapon come from, and why was it not found during the police searches? Additionally, he never admitted that particular offence. I acknowledge that his version of events was not always the most reliable, but he admitted far more serious matters, albeit usually with some spurious justification and/or mitigation, so having talked about murders and the kidnapping, why not talk about one more burglary? It would not have made one iota of difference to his eventual sentence. And, as Dee said, to have included that burglary would (in real life as well as in the story) have thrown the profiling right off course.
The profiling in the book is mine, but the facts are as correct as possible. I am indebted to Professor David Canter and his scholarly work, ‘Criminal Shadows’ for the science underpinning my fiction. Well worth a read. And yes, I actually bought maps and did the plotting. The post office jobs did indeed indicate that Neilson lived in Barnsley, but that was before the welter of domestic burglaries arrived to transform the data.
Would offender profiling have helped if it had been used? It could have, although it is impossible to say for sure. It definitely would not have done any harm. Although the science did start with Lionel Haward, some of the techniques Dee talks about were later developments (see
Criminal
Shadows
) and how closely they would have been able to pinpoint him in the 1970’s, is arguable. My fictional profiler would have had her work cut out with her task – one that would be relatively straightforward with the software and computing power available today. What is certain is that not one avenue of enquiry that
was
followed – and the amount of work, effort and police time expended on the various enquiries was prodigious – would ever have led them to Neilson.
As Commander Morrison said, “Without doubt it was the toughest job I have known in 31 years of police service… If Neilson had stopped committing crime immediately after the kidnapping episode, it is possible that we might still be looking for him today.”
*
Technical note:
(For all the nerds, and pedants like me…)
T Boulders is an anagram, but I’m sure you spotted that.
When Olivia tells Groat about herself and how much she can earn, he exclaims, “That’s as much as my compensatory grant.” Police corruption was always an issue, right from the 1800’s and even more of a problem whilst officers were paid a pittance. One of the difficulties with being so poorly paid was getting somewhere to live. In the early days, officers would often find accommodation in the cheapest of cheap areas – the slums, where criminals and prostitutes also lived – the ramifications being obvious. Amongst police regulations, therefore, appeared one which dictated that officers could only reside in premises inspected and approved by the chief officer of police.
This
is
still
in
force
today
. Later, to assist with this situation, all officers would be accommodated in section houses (single men and women) or purpose built police houses. When some small degree of affluence crept in and officers wanted to buy their own property, they could apply for rent allowance. Full allowance if you were married, half if you were single. There was no taxation in those days on ‘benefits in kind’ so the occupation of a police house did not involve any liability. To maintain equality, therefore, rent allowance was paid free of tax. This was too complicated to administer on a monthly basis, so once a year, officers in receipt of rent allowance would receive a lump sum in compensation for tax paid throughout the year. The lump sum would, of course, be taxed! So, the following year, one would receive a grant for tax paid during that year – including that paid on the previous year’s grant – and so it snowballed. Whilst salaries and tax levels were modest, so were compensatory grants, but by the time all the various allowances were phased out or otherwise dispensed with in the 1990’s, compensatory grants could amount to many thousands of pounds.
The Panther was correct. The post office jobs were technically aggravated burglaries. Burglary is defined as when a person ‘enters a building or part of a building as a trespasser, with intent to steal.’ (The
mens
rea
includes other matters, but Neilson’s intent was theft.) Interestingly, this definition means that shoplifters (not a term known in law) are actually burglars, as no shopkeeper would allow them into their shop if they knew they were not there to buy something, but to steal. So they enter as trespassers and then steal. Burglary. But I digress.
Burglary becomes ‘aggravated’ if a person ‘commits burglary and at the time has with him a WIFE (as the old police mnemonic has it) – a Weapon of offence, an Imitation firearm, Firearm, or Explosive.’
Where he roused the occupants, or they were otherwise forced to treat with him in some way, the offence could also become a robbery – ‘A person is guilty of robbery if he steals, and immediately before, or at the time of doing so, and in order to do so, he uses force on any person, or puts or seeks to put any person in fear of being then and there subjected to force.’
Additionally for the pedants, like me; when Neilson did start talking, he told the officers interviewing him that he lived on Leeds Road (not Grangefield Avenue as per my story. Literary licence, I’m afraid – it worked better). In the real life investigation, they could not find the address he gave them, until a visit to the local police, who told them that what the locals called ‘Leeds Road’ (in fact the road from Bradford to Leeds, but was formally differently named) so it is true, ‘Leeds Road’, where Neilson lived and said he lived, was actually, properly called Grangefield Avenue.
Donald Nielsen. Jobbing joiner turned burglar. Burglar, turned aggravated burglar, armed robber, kidnapper, blackmailer and murderer.
