Authors: Roger Forsdyke
The Perfect Crime (11 page)
Leslie Richardson was the postmaster of the sub post office at 22, Rochdale Road East, Heywood, Lancashire. In the early hours of Wednesday 16th February 1972, his wife, Irene was sleeping only fitfully and gradually became aware of a scraping noise downstairs. Some days earlier they had found a mouse running round the bedroom, so, gathering the bedclothes, she covered her head, leaving just sufficient space for her to breathe. Leslie, asleep beside her, did not stir and she dozed off, but roused again as the scraping noise became louder. Peeping out from under the blankets, she saw a black shape on the light coloured carpet near the bed and thinking it was a rat, or a cat that had sneaked indoors, she nudged her husband. With a sudden shock she realised the black silhouette was a man’s foot, standing silently by the bed. Until then, she thought no one could break in because most of the downstairs windows were screwed down. She switched on the bedside light and nearly died, for standing next to the bed, there was a small hooded figure, clad all in black.
Switching on the light woke Leslie, who yelled, “Run.”
This was their code for one of them to run into the back bedroom, where the extension phone was kept – and call the police. Leslie sprung out of bed and crashed into the little man, sending his torch spinning out of his grasp. As the struggle ensued Leslie felt a hard, long cylindrical shape pressed in between them.
The man said, “This gun is loaded.”
Leslie realised that the muzzle was pointed straight up and away from him. With great presence of mind, he managed to pull the triggers. A sooty hole was suddenly blasted in the ceiling and black, gritty debris doused the grappling pair. In the back bedroom, afraid to turn on the light, Irene was busy dialling 000 instead of 999, wondering why on earth she kept getting the ‘number unobtainable’ sound. Eventually she realised what she was doing wrong and dialled the correct digits. She was telling the police there was a man in their house who was trying to kill her husband, when she heard the crashing explosion as the sawn-off discharged. She ran out and with huge relief saw that Leslie was not dead, but very much alive, chasing the intruder across the landing. He attempted a flying kick at the man in black, but missed and bumped painfully downstairs, catching up with him in the living room. He continued in his attempts to subdue the attacker, but tumbling downstairs had winded him. He was not used to such punishment. His assailant now booted him unmercifully, kneed him in the stomach, head butted him and stamped on his bare feet.
Exhausted, Leslie collapsed.
Seconds later the police arrived, but the little man had disappeared into the darkness. Leslie was taken to hospital where he was treated for a broken toe, cracked and bruised ribs and a multitude of cuts and bruises. The couple were shocked, when later they found that the intruder had crept around the bedroom even before they woke up, as Leslie’s trousers were downstairs with the pockets turned out. They were even more concerned by the fact that Leslie had actually seen the man’s face. Somehow, during the tussle, the intruders hood had come off. The man had spoken with a West Indian accent. In front of him, then hoodless, stood a white man.
Groat decided – as if there was any choice – that he would play along with Olivia, at least for the time being. This willingness conferred one overriding advantage. He could continue with the comforting pretence that they were simply lovers – with all the bonuses that brought him. Although his head was desperately attempting to come to grips with the fact that he had clearly been manoeuvred into this situation, he was still so fanatically obsessed with her that he could not bear to imagine life without her somewhere in it.
This obsession also dulled his awareness and his (admittedly limited) critical thinking ability. Blunted it to the point, that any realisation that she may have planned the seduction from the start, and her entire raison d’être was to gull him into assisting her with the blackmail project, was completely without his comprehension. If that had been suggested to him he would have immediately entered into total denial. The whole episode was very simple. He had fallen in love with her. She was in love with him. Any other thoughts or considerations must have come along later. How dare anyone suggest that this affair could be anything but genuine? There was far too much passion, too much intensity of feeling, for it to ever have been anything but the real McCoy.
They sat opposite each other, at her kitchen table, coffee as yet untouched. Olivia held a small, black book in her hand. She had called this business meeting; Groat did not want to attend, but she was determined. And he knew what was entailed when she said she was determined.
Eventually and with extreme reluctance, he said, “So how do you see this working?”
Olivia looked at him and turned on her wonderful, radiant, gloom busting smile. “Darling, it’s easy. We decide in which order we take them and invite them to subscribe to my pension fund. We can assess their position, decide how much they can reasonably afford and that can be their contribution. They will know what the alternative would be, so there should be no need to make unseemly threats.”
“Just like that.”
“Why not?”
“So who is going to make this demand – sorry – ask for this contribution?”
“I am. It’s my pension fund, it wouldn’t make any sense for anyone else to do it, would it?”
“And you think your cosy relationships would jog happily along after your little bank raids?”
“Ah.”
“Ah.” Groat paused, then slowly shook his head. “You don’t want to kill the geese that lay the golden eggs, do you? You want them to keep coming, maintain your regular income as well.”
“Hadn’t thought of it like that.”
Stupid
bitch
.
“No, well. Do any of them know about any of the others?”
“The Bishop knows about his friend – and vice versa, I suppose. I wouldn’t think they all know about each other. Why?”
“I was thinking that you could try it out on one, to see if you could persuade them that they were safe to keep coming to see you after that. On the other hand, if they are in touch with each other – as you said, they all come from that one initial contact with the Bishop – you might lose them all for the sake of a thousand or two. On balance, you might be better off hitting them all at once – or at least as soon as possible one after another, to minimise the possibility of them talking to each other. I suppose by the very nature of the subject they are not immediately going to call everybody and broadcast the fact they’re being blackmailed – and what for.”
She smiled at him again, “I knew you would know what to do. I shall have to increase your percentage.”
One thing was certain, Groat would never accept any of the dirty money. He regressed into his black mood and sighed. “It’s bad enough me sitting here talking to you about it. I’m committing a criminal offence simply by doing this.”
“Why? We’re only talking.”
“Degrees of crime,” he growled, “it’s all about aiding and abetting, counselling and procuring – and if the substantive offence is then committed, I could be tried as a principal.”
“Meaning what, precisely?”
“Meaning that if you do carry any of this through, I can go to prison just for sitting here, talking to you about it.”
The black book lay between them on the table, Olivia put down her mug of coffee. “Nobody,” she said with determination, “is going to prison.”
The phone in the hallway started to ring. As she left the room Groat was aware of, but paid no attention – as he would normally have delighted in – her perfume, looking at her legs, her clothes, watching the way she walked. He stared blankly into nothingness in front of him. He could hear her voice, but could not make out what she was saying. Did not try. Gradually, the black blur in front of his eyes pulled into focus. He hesitated, then reached out, picked it up and riffled through the pages. It was the first time he had seen her handwriting. Rounded, characterful, grown up schoolgirl’s script. Names, numbers. Some crossings out, the odd date here and there. He searched, could not see anything about himself, then stopped in amazement. One name struck him as though he had carelessly opened a bottle of bubbly and the cork had thwacked him straight in the eye.
Hugo Van Lesseps.
How many of those were there to the pound? How many entries would you find of that name in the telephone book?
I
bet
there’s
only
the
one
–
and
I
bet
I
know
who
that
one
is
.
“Well, bugger me.” He said and carefully replaced the small black source of potential misery on the table.
Olivia sashayed back into the room and sat down. “Where were we?”
Groat sighed, “All right – how are you going to deliver your demand? Er, that is, make your request?”
“Just ask them.”
“What, ‘Excuse me but have you got a thousand pounds about your person’? That sort of approach?” In spite of his peculiar, dark mood, he smiled to himself.
“Sort of. What’s funny?”
He shrugged. “Nothing really. It’s the old definition of indecent exposure. ‘Wilfully, openly, lewdly and obscenely exposes his person…’” He recited. “Person means penis, that’s all. I suppose you wouldn’t have to ask if there was a thousand pounds about his old man, it’s something you might notice. So. When are you going to pop the question? In bed, in a moment of passion, or on the phone?”
She looked at him sharply. “I don’t know.” Petulant. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Well it’s about time you started.” Dark mood translated into bitter, manipulated and disillusioned. Perhaps she wasn’t as good as she thought she was; as good as he thought she was. Stunning looks, sensuously superlative between the sheets, intuitive, but he was starting to see why she had only been an admin clerk in her last job. “You need to make your demand in such a way that it has optimum impact on your mark.”
He was thinking on his feet and pursuing a course of action he had never before considered. Putting himself in the position of someone about to commit a crime, planning and at the same time realising that he was taking over this operation from his lover. Had this been her intention all along? He doubted it. On the strength of the last twenty minutes she would be unable to plan a slippery slope in a grease factory.
Bluff
and
double
bluff
?
He continued, “Make your demand in writing. It will be a shock for them to receive it, they will know you mean business and if they have the slightest doubt about the position they find themselves in, they will be able to refer back to it. And they can’t argue. If you whisper your request in a moment of passion, they might demur, or think about it afterwards and tell themselves that you couldn’t possibly have meant what you said.”
She looked at him with something approaching awe. “I’d better get typing.” She said.
“You’ve got a typewriter?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Don’t touch it. I’ve got to go out of town next week, I’ll get you another one.” He explained that typewriters could each be identified by their individual imperfections and microscopic differences, as surely as fingerprints could identify people. She should type out the blackmail notes on the new one. They would then dispose of it and if anyone came looking, they could seize her machine and the fact that it would be demonstrably different to that used to produce the demands, would help clear her of suspicion. He told her on balance that it would be best to hit them all at the same time. That way if it all went wrong, she would at least be in possession of a sizeable lump sum.
“And I could always get myself some new gentlemen.” She caught his look, “Except you, of course, darling.”
He subjugated his feelings in being practical, organising the project. “How many names in the book? Twenty?”
“Over thirty, actually, but some of those don’t come any more.”
“Still worth a punt. So. Say thirty at an average two grand a pop,” he whistled tunelessly, “that’s sixty grand. Four times the price of your average house in the UK. That’s going some.”
“And some of it is yours – for helping.”
He looked at her coldly, “I don’t want your money.” He continued, “That book – is it the only copy of the names and contacts?”
“Yes, why?”
More
good
thinking
. He very nearly said,
Well
,
you
should
have
at
least
one
copy
you
stupid
cow
.
He said, “Well, make sure you keep it in a safe place.”
She smiled at him, totally trusting.
“I’ve done some preliminary work, but there’s one or two problems.”
Groat contrived to exclude Gloria from this meeting, so he and Ted sat alone and listened intently to Dee.
She continued, “Mainly it works out, but examining the patterns and the type of crime, raises one or two questions that need answering before I can go much further.”
Ted looked grim, Groat frowned. This profiling business was obviously not as straightforward as he had hoped. Not time for an early arrest and glory yet.
Groat considered he was the link here – as indeed he was – which added a proprietorial feeling, an ownership of the situation that made him want it to succeed more than ever. This was augmented by the frisson engendered by the fact that they should not be allowing non police personnel access to this information. Strictly, Ted should not have even shared it with Groat. He glanced at Ted who appeared to be examining the carpet – again.
He said, “Well, you’re the expert here, Dee. You’ll have to talk us through it and if there’s anything we can do, or we can think of anything as you’re talking, we’ll chip in.” He glanced at Ted again and kicked him. He continued, “All right?”
“OK,” She said. “When we get a series of crimes like this, we use what we call our circle hypothesis. This is based on the theory that people usually commit crime, or start to commit crime in an area they know. For all sorts of reasons. They feel safe, confident – they’re on their home territory. They know where they are and if complications arise, they can get away and quickly go to earth, as it were. So we often find that crime number one in the series will be near to their home, or current base. Not too close for obvious reasons. Crime number two will also be in relatively close proximity to home, maybe a little further away. Once they have committed those crimes successfully, two things start to happen. One, they gain in confidence, get more certain of their ability to do what they do, their chosen modus operandi. I will come back to that at some point, because they also progress in other ways, which is our other problem at the moment.” She looked at Ted who, in spite of Groat’s kick of encouragement, was still apparently taking more interest in his shoes, than paying attention to what Dee was saying.
“Am I boring you?” She asked.
“What? No, it’s all this talk of problems,” Ted said. “We, that is –
I
– seem to have more than my fair share at the moment and I thought you were going to help. But everything you do seems to complicate matters.”
“OK.” She sounded deliberately determined. “I’ll stop calling them problems, because actually they aren’t. They’re, they’re – ” she paused momentarily, “they’re challenges.” She smiled encouragingly at them. Let’s start again; how about this. My preliminary work has got us quite a way down the line already, but has also thrown up the – ” She paused, treading carefully, needing not to sound negative. She required this to be a success as much as the two police officers, if in rather a different way. “ – the requirement for more information, before I can go much further with it. Once I have got that, I can probably progress it a lot better and more satisfactorily.” She crossed her fingers behind her back and hoped she sounded as confident and optimistic as she wanted to, which was rather more than she actually did.
“Well,” she continued, “Let me finish this part and I will tell you what I have already found out about our man. All right?”
Groat said, “Great.”
Ted nodded unenthusiastically.
Dee said, “Generally speaking, your criminal then goes a little further afield. Crime number three. If that goes off without a problem, they’ll come back a little nearer to home again for crime number four. Then, if you chart subsequent crimes, they seem to go far and wide, all over the place, but if you correlate dates, draw a circle round the first few, then a bigger circle and then another, what seems to happen is that they commit crimes in ever expanding circles, criss-crossing across their home, or base.”
Groat started to look interested. “So if we use a clock face as an analogy,” he said, “the first couple of jobs will be near the spindle of the hands, the third will be away, for example, towards four o’clock and the fourth back near the spindle. The fifth will be a similar sort of distance from the spindle, but, say, towards ten o’clock – ” he looked at Dee for affirmation, who nodded and smiled at him, eyes twinkling, “and the sixth,” he paused, “will that be back near home, or out towards, say two, or three o’clock?”
Dee said, “That’s very good, you’re getting the hang of this. It will be out nearer two, or three o’clock, whatever.”
“And is that what our man has done?” Ted asked.
“Undoubtedly.” she said. “But – I know I said I wouldn’t use the ‘P’ word – but this does raise – an issue.”
“Like what?” Groat asked.
“Well, how certain are you of all those jobs? What I mean is, how confident are you that he has committed all of them?”
Groat looked at Ted, who shrugged. “I only passed on the information given to me.” He said.
“OK,” she said, “Let’s leave that for a moment, I’ll come back to it a bit later. As well as the circle hypothesis, I often find that making a rudimentary table of the crimes – when, where, what time of day, time of year and so on, can often tell us a great deal.”
As he started to understand, Groat also began to become fascinated. The part about villains committing crime close to home rang true – although most crimes of his acquaintance simply stayed close to home. Period. He knew who they were by the crimes they committed and the way they committed them, so he could usually tell who had done what.
“And what does your chart tell us about our man?” He asked.
“He only commits crimes on GMT.” She said.
Ted frowned at her, Groat looked quizzical.
“It’s simple,” she smiled at their pained expressions, “he does not commit crime during BST – summertime.”
“What does that mean?” Asked Ted.
“You’re the detectives.” She grinned, “You tell me.”
“He goes abroad for the summer?” Groat essayed.
“He’s a school teacher?” Ted said.
“Now you’re thinking.” Dee sounded pleased. “Want to know what I reckon?”
They nodded in unison.
“He only commits his crimes at night, so my guess would be that he likes his darkness to last as long as possible.”
She showed them the list of offences. With one exception, they ran from October, November time each year to February or March and ceased again until the following September, October.
“What else does this tell us about him?” She asked.
“That he’s got a job at some times?” Groat said.
“That he makes enough money during those times to last him?” Ted tried. He actually seemed to be becoming a little positive, now.
“That’s good.” She beamed at them, “I was thinking of something a little more general, a bit more basic, prosaic even.” She paused, waiting.
They looked at her – Groat raised his eyebrows, waved a supplicant, questioning hand.
“How about,” she paused for effect, “how about something as simple and basic as, ‘he’s a planner.’ ‘He’s not a spur of the moment sort of bloke’?”
“Yes, of course.” Groat exclaimed.
Dee said, “And every little bit of information we can collect like this – and eventually piece together – will lead us further and closer towards him.”
“So what are the problems you were talking about?” Ted asked.
Dee sighed and attempted to push her fingers through the thick waves of her hair. “Well. This first job on the list is the Woodfield Road post office in Aspley, Nottingham. Then we go onto the one at Barnsley, then Rotherham, then Mansfield, then back to Barnsley. Now I’m not one who tries to make the circumstances fit the theory, but that doesn’t work. Then I thought; everything else fits, so let’s try it, leaving out the very first one. This is why I asked you how confident you were that they were all committed by him. If we leave the Woodfield Road job out, it now fits the theory very well. There’s a further consideration. That first job was in 1967. The next one on the list is 1971. Now there could be a very good reason why he left it four years –
four
years
– before committing his next crime, like being in prison, say, but other than that, it doesn’t make sense. And I have the feeling that our boy has not been caught yet, ever, let alone spent four years inside. But more of that later. Look – Barnsley, then Sandhills post office, a little bit away, but still relatively close, then Berry Hill Lane, Mansfield and what do you know? Back to the Barnsley area. Then we have Stockport, Oldham, Stockport then straight across the map to Spondon, in Derbyshire. Absolutely classic.”
“He lives in Barnsley.” Groat said.
“Wherever that is.” Ted said under his breath.
Dee’s mouth set in a thin line. “Possibly. I would not like to say at this early juncture, but in the general area of Barnsley – with what we’ve got at the moment.” She sounded a warning shot across their bows with this last. “Everything is fluid until he is caught. Nothing is set in stone.” She added with heavy emphasis, “Everything we think we know at this juncture is open to being changed by the next piece of information we get.”
Both Ted and Groat looked nonplussed, depressed, even.
Groat said, “But whatever we find out later, can’t change what we already know, surely?”
“Of course it can. She said, “If you can establish that he definitely didn’t do the job at the Woodfield Road post office, you will have a much better bet that he lives in the Barnsley area. If you can find other jobs he may have done, it might change our conclusions yet again.”
Her audience looked glummer than ever.
Dee realised instinctively what was happening.
“You policemen.” Exasperated. “You want everything black and white; cut and dried. Beyond all reasonable doubt.” She laughed. “Well, life ain’t like that. You of all people should know that. One end of the spectrum, white. Other end – black. But those extremes are very small areas. The great wodge, the huge mass in the middle is grey. Grey area. What do they teach you at detective school? Training school?” She ended uncertainly.
“OK,” Groat said, “What’s the other… er, challenge?”
“Progression.” Dee looked at them, anticipating questions.
Groat said, “In what way?”
Dee said, “In more than one way, and it is as much of a help – or can be – as a hurdle.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I said that he would progress in terms of confidence – which he would have appeared to have done. He may also – will probably also – progress in terms of the crimes he may commit – ”
“Yesss.” Ted suddenly shouted. Dee paused, looked at him with enquiry and Groat with concern.
“What?” Ted said.
“Yes, what?” Groat said, somewhat bewildered and put out.
“He’s already moved on – er, that is
progressed
.” He explained. “Mr Morrison said that he had moved on from straightforward burglaries now he has murdered someone.” For the first time since the meeting started, he sounded bullish.
“So what inferences can we draw from that?” Dee asked.
Groat scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. Ted relapsed into staring at the carpet. Dee raised her eyes in supplication. She needed them to think along with her. She would not merely expound to them, they must participate in the process or she ran the risk of losing them.
She sighed, but a sudden flash of inspiration struck her. “How many people get caught, the very first time they commit a crime?”
As one, they spoke. Ted said, “None.” And Groat – ever the cynic – said, “The unlucky ones.”
Dee continued, “And do they start at the top of the tree, or do they work their way up?”
“Got it, got it, got it.” Groat crowed. “If he’s progressed from aggravated burglary to murder – what did he progress
to
burglary
from
?”
Dee positively beamed. “Work needed, my boys. Work needed. What did he start on – and where did he start. I need more information, specifically
that
information to work on. Remember – yesterday’s clues are tomorrow’s convictions.”
*
After Dee had gone, Ted looked at Groat, “She’s right you know.”
“What about?”
“The problems.”
“Challenges.” Groat countered and looked at his friend. “What is it with you? You’re usually the solid dependable one – it’s me that blows hot and cold and goes up like a bottle of pop.” Groat pondered for a moment. Ted had been working away for a little while, now.
Of
course
.
On
your
own
and
horribly
outside
your
comfort
zone
.
I
was
right
.
No
wonder
no
one
else
wanted
the
bloody
job
. He regarded his friend with growing concern, becoming aware that at the moment, it would be he that would have to drive this project forward. Probably just as far, or as soon as they could develop something concrete, some positive steps towards their goal. Then maybe Ted would take over, get in the driving seat. After all, it was his job. His responsibility.
His
kudos
.
