The Perfect Crime (8 page)

SIXTEEN

Bonehead realised that he could not sit up near the Groats’ place too often, or for too protracted a period without arousing suspicions, so he varied his routine and didn’t show up every day. He patrolled the road, posing as a street sweeper. One morning he walked up and down, then daringly, dressed as a postman, right to the Groats’ front door. Soon he had them tabbed. Groat himself went out most mornings at seven thirty. He would usually return at about six thirty, sometimes much later. Gloria (
Oh
,
Gloria
) would leave as regular as clockwork, on the dot of eight twenty, returning around six in the evening. Once their timings were established, he checked to ensure there were no dogs in the house. He followed her a couple of times to Snakes Lane and the Worldwide Travel agents, to make sure she didn’t go home for lunch, watched her from across the road, through the shop window. She was as gorgeously voluptuous as ever, untouched by time.

He noticed that Groat’s timings showed a little variation. Probably casual overtime, but on the off chance, one day he decided to follow him. Bonehead knew from his time as a police officer, the conventional wisdom was that it took several units, whether on foot, or mobile, to follow someone. On foot, you would stalk your target from the opposite side of the road, nowadays in contact with other members of the team by that new-fangled device, a personal radio. As soon as you were clocked, or felt you were likely to be, you would peel off and another follower would take over. If you were tracking a mobile target, the team would consist of a convoy of four, even five unmarked police vehicles, at least one of which would be a motorcycle. If the quarry made a turn at a junction, the lead follower would carry straight on and the next in line would take up the follow. That way it would be unlikely that the pursued driver would ever realise they were under surveillance. Bonehead was amazed then, at how easy it was for one man, in one car, to trail a target for so long without being spotted. As Groat got closer and closer to his station, his follower became increasingly convinced that he was wasting his time. He decided to stick with him to the very end, however, and now true satisfaction was setting in. Instead of turning into the station premises at 74, Leman Street, Groat motored on a little further, eventually turning off Old Street near Golden Lane. Bonehead caught a brief glimpse of the name plate –
Cadogan
Mansions
.

What he next saw, gladdened what passed for a dark, deluded, hate riddled soul.

“Right into my little trap.” He gloated.

*

Another uniform Bonehead had in his wardrobe was one liberated from the Gas Board. Parking the Volkswagen a couple of roads away, he strolled round to the Groats dressed in dark grey trousers, blue shirt and navy tie, topped off by the regulation peaked cap – with genuine gas board badge. He gradually modified his beard every time he visited the area, to change his appearance as much as possible. He was now completely clean shaven. The clipboard was the finishing touch. No one gave him a second look.

By this time he knew the layout quite well, so made straight for the back door – actually at the side of the house – and checking to make sure he was not overlooked, or being watched, set to, gaining entry. A couple of minutes later, he was in the kitchen, ferreting tidily through cupboards and drawers. Soon he found the object of his search, one of a row on a neat set of hooks inside the cupboard nearest the back door. He went to the lock he had so carefully forced and checked the key. Bingo! He removed a small rectangular tin from his pocket, opened it and pressed the key into the plasticine inside.

Having achieved the aim of his burglarious exploit, he knew he should leave. It was madness to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. You never knew who might be looking at the wrong time. Apart from sod’s law there were also the dedicated curtain twitchers. However, he could not resist having a quick look round to see what it would be like living around Gloria. The place was incredibly clean and tidy.
No
kids
or
pets
here
,
then
. The furniture was good quality and the fitted carpets deep pile. On a whim, he sped upstairs, two at a time. Quickly scouting round, he located the linen basket. Rummaged inside and locating a pair of Gloria’s dirty knickers, pulled them out. He bunched them up and pressed them to his face, savouring for a long moment, the memory tugging, intimate fragrance of woman. He smiled dreamily and pushed them down, deep into his pocket.

Light headed, he tripped downstairs and went to lock the back door. He was pleased to have only made a couple of very slight marks on the jamb getting in. They would hopefully not even notice. He replaced the key on its hook and went through into the hallway to let himself out of the front door. Suddenly he froze. He could hear the sound of an engine. Through the stained glass panel in the door he could vaguely see a vehicle turning into the drive.

Now
what
?

Bonehead pressed himself into the recess next to the cupboard under the stairs. The doorbell rang. Two tone, ding dong, right next to his head. He winced and wondered if he should make a dash for the back door again, walk out nonchalantly and brazen it out, in character as the gas meter reader. It was a good, sound strategy – apart for one snag. If he went out the back door he would have to lock it and take the key with him. That could cause him problems, either by arousing suspicions over the missing key, or them changing the lock. It would also make a nonsense of his plan to make a duplicate. Alternatively, he could leave it unlocked which would mean coming back later, as an unlocked door would be definitely alert the occupants to the fact that something had happened. He could then lock it and leave by the front door as originally planned, but you could bet your boots some busybody neighbour, one of those curtain twitchers, would see him come and go, then notice him do it again some time later.

The bell sounded again and Bonehead belatedly achieved a realisation. He couldn’t see well, but he could make out a figure through the stained glass. Someone with a cap? It must be the postman with a parcel for delivery. He thought the incoming vehicle was red.

Stupid
.

Whatever, or whoever, the fact that the bell was ringing presumably meant that they didn’t have a key. He would stay put and wait it out. A little while later, the letterbox rattled and a card swooped and dropped silently on to the front doormat. He squeezed back against the wall so that he wouldn’t be seen by a nosy postman peering through. He gave it a couple of minutes after the van departed, then let himself out.

They would never realise anyone had been in.

*

Dr H Milne – interview notes.

How big a step was it for you, moving from domestic burglaries, to robbing post offices?

I suppose in one way – looking back – it were a huge step. But d’you know, it were fantastic. Like being back in the army. All that planning, preparation. Using all the knowledge, skills and expertise I’d got from serving abroad. For the first time in ages, I felt alive, like I was actually getting somewhere at last. House breaking? Lucky if you get fifty quid. Sometimes less than a tenner. That first post office job? They said I got over three grand. Bollocks. It were a bit over a thousand pound – but how many house burglaries would I have to have done to get that much? Bloody fantastic, I tell you.

SEVENTEEN

Gloria arrived home at her usual time. She let herself in and smiled as she picked up the card from the doormat. They had moved from Leytonstone a little over a year previously and the place was now about how she wanted it. Groat was earning good money in the CID and their combined income allowed them a more than comfortable lifestyle. She walked through to the kitchen and unlocked the back door. It was a warm, humid evening so she opened windows in the living room, the dining room and some upstairs as well. The place would be well-aired and a more comfortable temperature by the time her husband returned from work.

She heard the Capri on the drive a couple of minutes before eight. Groat noted Gloria’s glass of white wine on the side, beads of condensation, inviting. Walked out of the back door and into the garage intent on getting the lawn mower out before the grass got too long for it to cope with.

He came back to get himself a can of Fosters from the fridge. “Gloria,” he bellowed, “Gloria.”

Under normal circumstances, she would have treated him to the rough side of her tongue for using that sort of tone, but something about the way he was shouting made her dash downstairs. She ran through to where he was standing in the kitchen.

“For god’s sake, what is it?”

“Look.” He pointed to the back door frame.

“What?” She frowned.

“We’ve been burgled, that’s what. Screwed. Someone’s been in.”

Unlike her husband, Gloria’s only experience of burglaries was gleaned from films and the TV crime dramas, government scare tactics – public information adverts. Places trashed, drawers pulled out, goods and chattels scattered. Everything everywhere and excrement smeared on the walls.

“What are you talking about. The house was all locked up when I left it this morning. It was all locked up when I got back tonight. No windows broken, nothing’s been taken.”

“What’s that then?” He pointed to two small indentations in the paintwork on the door jamb by the lock on the back door.

“What? I don’t know. I haven’t even been out the back.”

“Someone’s had a go. I know it. I’m phoning the local nick.”

An hour later, the late turn DC turned up with a sour-faced scenes of crime officer. The DC drank a can of Fosters with Groat while the old SOCO squinted at the back door and the lock. Aluminium oxide fingerprint dust floated and eddied, sparkling in the evening sunlight as he worked and twirled his brush. At one point he even produced a magnifying glass from his case.

“What d’you reckon?” Groat asked eventually.

The scenes of crime man shrugged. “Couple of slight marks. Some tiny scratches on the bolt – could be something, could be nothing. Anything missing? Damaged?”

“Not that we can see.” Groat was forced to admit.

“Well,” he paused, thinking, “you’ve either got some really clever, skilful burglar making a point…”

Groat frowned at him, “Like what?”

The older man shrugged, “I don’t know. Who have you upset lately? Anyone likely to know where you live and would want to leave you a message by breaking into your house to send you a wakeup call?”

Groat said, “Unlikely. I work up in the city. As far as I know no one – certainly none of the scrotes – knows where I live. Anyway, if someone was going to carry out an exercise like that, they’d leave a note on the kitchen table or something.”

“Well, there you go. You’re down to someone who was disturbed before they could do the job, or a couple of marks made by some unknown means. I would tend to say it was nothing sinister. In fact if you were a member of the public I would be insisting it was nothing sinister. Come to that we’d probably not have even turned out. The only thing that bugs me, is that you say they weren’t there this morning?”

“Couldn’t swear to it,” Gloria said.

“And they look fresh.” The old officer continued. “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. Probably nothing. At most a half-hearted attempt.”

Groat was only partly appeased.

Gloria shook her head.
All
this
blasted
fuss
.
He
probably
got
something
stuck
in
there
when
he
was
shutting
the
door
.
Bloody
fool’s
getting
paranoid
.

EIGHTEEN

Ted took the 8:05 from Kings Cross to Harrogate, arriving shortly after eleven. A stranger to the area, he took a taxi to the police station, but found he could have walked the distance in little more time than it took his ride to negotiate the one way system.

He was shown in to Detective Superintendent Dolby’s office.

“Now then.” Bill said, in his broad Yorkshire burr.

The two men shook hands, each summing up the other.

“What brings the almighty Metropolitan Police murder squad to my door?”

Ted smiled. “Is that really how you think of us?”

“Not really.”

Ted raised his eyebrows momentarily. “Well, sir. In a way it’s nothing to do with your, er your enquiries, that is, but I have been given this job to do by the head of the Murder Squad, Commander Morrison.”

“Go on, lad.”

“We are aware of the post office burglaries – the brace and bit jobs – that are being committed around the country, and that the last one that we know of was here, in Harrogate that ended up with the postmaster being murdered.”

“And you think that you can help; that West Yorkshire are incapable of carrying out a murder enquiry?”

“No sir. Nothing like that.” Ted grimaced. This was not going well. Where was Groat when he needed him? “Sir, the situation is this.”

He quickly outlined Commander Morrison’s concerns and the object of his, D/S Pearson’s quest. “So, if anything, sir, it would be you helping us – me.” He shrugged.

Dolby appeared mollified. “All right,” he said, “what can we do to help?”

Ted told him that they were aware of about fourteen brace and bit jobs in seven separate force areas. “Can I ask who you have liaised with, sir? How many other forces have you contacted?”

Dolby looked at him with some surprise. “Why would we talk to anyone about a West Yorkshire crime?” He asked. “Because there may be some superficial similarity, this is a murder enquiry, not some mere burglary.”

“But sir, if there may be an outside chance, that there might be information in the possession of officers in other force areas, that might possibly be able assist you…”

“Detective Sergeant. You have no idea what you are saying. They wouldn’t talk to me, any more than they would expect me to go to them. Are you suggesting I go on bended knee to those cowboys in South Yorks?…” He paused to let it sink in, the enormity of what was being suggested. “Or worse, those arrogant Greater Manchester clowns.” He shook his head and rounded on Ted, “Not only that, but they would expect something back. We would feel obliged to give them information, details about a West Yorkshire investigation.” He shook his head again. “Couldn’t do it. Just not possible.”

Ted thought of his covert and strictly irregular meetings with Groat and Dee. He had not been keen on pursuing that off-the-wall form of enquiry, but was – reluctantly – persuaded and was now glad to have been open minded enough to go with it. The attitude being displayed here, however, belonged in the dark ages. They were in a different geological time; on some strange, alien planet. Commander Morrison could not have any inkling of what he was asking of his Detective Sergeant. The man may be a hard task master, but Ted was convinced he was not stupid, or a sadist. A sudden flash of inspiration came to him.

“I understand, sir.” He said. He looked at the Superintendent cautiously, “But what if it could be done, What if some – carefully monitored – information, of vital interest and use to you, could be obtained…”

Dolby grunted. “What are you suggesting?”

“Well, I understand that you would not want to be disloyal to West Yorks, any more than you would want to kow-tow to any other force, but if you had an intermediary… a go between… someone you could trust… someone who could get you an advantage, possibly even onto the inside track…?”

Dolby had not reached the rank of Detective Superintendent by being politically unaware, or a complete idiot. Some officers of his acquaintance may have been promoted to get them out of trouble, booted upstairs, out of the way, but not Bill Dolby. He was a shrewd, coldly calculating Yorkshireman in the finest of traditions. He smelled advantage, advancement. One over the opposition. And a sacrificial lamb to boot, even. And if the lamb was of the Metropolitan breed, how much sweeter the meat?

*

Dr H Milne – interview notes.

So was that it, then? The culmination, or end result of the plan?

That were it – for then. Didn’t think anywhere forward of that.

I sense that something changed at some point.

Well, you’d think that at a thousand pound a pop, that would have been it.

And was it?

If only. Sometimes it were nothing from post offices, either. Houses. Small risk, small rewards. No weapons involved, little or no homework needed. Preparation time and costs minimal. Could easily do half a dozen a night. But post offices… Reconnaissance. Time, effort and yes, money, I suppose. Time, most of all. Couldn’t do more than one a night. Lucky to do one a week. Still had the same – more – expenses.

So what did that mean for you?

I suppose it were all right while t’going was good, but I couldn’t keep on for ever. Something had to give. Either I kept at it until I was forced to give it up, or I could do something.

Something? What sort of something?

Something that would give me the break I needed. Like I said, get me out of the water, onto dry land. The good life.

The papers estimated you made more than £30,000 out of the post office robberies…

Listen doctor. For a start you ought to get your terminology right. The papers might have called them robberies, but technically, they were burglaries. Aggravated burglaries. O.K.?

O.K.

Second, they always took the Post Office’s word for it – the highest estimate of what was alleged to have been stolen. That included the cost of repairing the damage of me getting in and any consequential loss. I told you I were very careful only to take cash. What I mean, is that that the actual amount of their loss did not necessarily mean the equivalent gain for me. O.K?

O.K. What would you estimate your financial gain to have been? Can you quantify it?

I don’t know. Less than a third, a quarter of that – in cash.

So what did that mean to you?

It meant I had to streamline my operation and keep going, or I had to move on up.

And what did you decide?

I’m fit. Very fit. Have been since my army days, so I suppose it were because of that, I become gradually aware of my slowly deteriorating fitness levels. There would come a point when I could no longer guarantee my superiority in an aggravated burglary situation.

And?

Not only that, but I was breaking my own rules.

Meaning?

I was no longer able to change my MO on a regular basis, as per the plan. I could change area, but the rules of engagement were not flexible any more. If I had carried on, it was only a matter of time before they caught up with me.

So what did you do?

Plan B.

Which was?

Carry on for as long as I reasonably could – with the current MO – but at the same time, develop a different, a completely different long term strategy.