The Perfect Crime (26 page)

SIXTY ONE

Pub fights sometimes snowball and, gaining too many participants to be contained by the bar, spill furiously, punching, kicking and biting, onto the street.

Kidsgrove was in Staffordshire. The kidnap had taken place in Highley, West Mercia police’ area. The ransom drop operation was conducted by West Mercia personnel and the Met surveillance team on Staffordshire’s territory technically, there was absolutely no problem with this. English – and Welsh – police officers have the authority to use their powers throughout England and Wales. There are no cross border problems as experienced in some parts of the United States, for example. West Mercia HQ had notified Staffordshire that they would be conducting an exercise on their territory. They were assisted by the Met team.

They failed to deliver the ransom and as a consequence, had also failed to rescue Lesley.

Led by the nose to Bathpool Park, for some incomprehensible reason, maybe as a result of there being too many fingers in the pie, there was no immediate follow up. No one ordered a search of the area. It was simply left. Bob Booth blamed the Scotland Yard contingent, saying that the agreement was that only Scotland Yard officers would search the area. The Yard reacted angrily and with righteous indignation. Their only part in the affair was the provision of experienced personnel and technical resources for surveillance work, not getting down on their hands and knees for fingertip searches. They had officers expert in that area too, but that wasn’t why these particular people were on hand.

Staffordshire said, “Nothing to do with us.”

Precious time was running out for any chance of Lesley’s kidnapper receiving his payoff, or his captive ever getting out alive.

One of the main problems was the agreement between Ron Whittle and the police that he should appear to be acting independently of them, so that the kidnapper could deal with him, confident that there was no direct police involvement. If Bob Booth suddenly ordered a search of the park, it would involve – as it would have to – conspicuous lines of officers and police dogs. This would instantly confirm police complicity and as far as Lesley’s kidnapper would be concerned, brand her brother as a double agent. This would jeopardise the girl’s life, bearing in mind the ‘if police or tricks, death’ warning. The problem now became how to get out of that situation, without revealing that Ron Whittle had always been hand in glove with the authorities.

The opportunity came when interviewer Tom Mangold fronted a BBC documentary about the investigation. It was arranged that Ron Whittle was to be interviewed and spontaneously reveal that he had gone to Bathpool Park, without the police knowing anything about it.

Days passed without any more ransom demands or contact being made. The police and especially the family were getting increasingly desperate. They needed a direction, some positive measures. The airing of the BBC documentary gave them the opportunity and galvanised them into action.

Bob Booth contacted his counterpart, Harold Wright at Staffordshire. He asked for house to house enquiries to be carried out in the immediate vicinity of Bathpool Park, to ascertain any movements of people and especially of vehicles. Wright allocated the operation to Detective Inspector Malcolm Bevington, a man with local knowledge of the park. Booth sent Detective Superintendent Arthur Strange from Dudley to brief Staffordshire officers on what was needed.

The house to house enquiries started smoothly enough, but when Arthur Rees, Staffordshire’s chief constable watched the BBC programme that night, he exploded with apoplectic fury. He considered it to be utterly intolerable, that the first inkling he received of a kidnap ransom trail operation, carried out on his territory, should come from some blasted television programme.

The pub fight was now firmly out on the street and there was a considerable amount of bare knuckle action to come, amongst the upper echelons of Staffordshire, West Mercia and the Met.

On the ground, however, matters were not so complicated and far less political. Lines of officers began inching their way across the turf between the bare branched spinneys. Top priority was given to the ground search for signs of a grave and local children were asked to report anything unusual they had seen or found. The publicity brought immediate results. A local headmaster rang about two of his eleven year-olds who showed him a piece of orange Dymo tape. Punched on it were the words, ‘DROP SUITCASE INTO HOLE’. The lads found it caught up in the twigs of a sapling, two days after the kidnapping. Two others brought in a lantern type torch, found in the park, standing inside a gap in the top bars of a concrete-lined floodwater spillway known locally as ‘the Glory Hole’. One of the boys recalled peeling a length of Dymo tape off the torch when he found it, but could not say whether there had been a message printed on it. The detectives made a tentative link with the instructions left in the Kidsgrove phone box, ‘FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ON TORCH’ and the hand lantern Dymo and the ‘DROP SUITCASE INTO HOLE’ tape. But what sort of hole? One big enough to contain a suitcase or two, obviously, but where was it exactly?

*

The Panther was on a routine visit to his captive to feed and water her and make sure she was safe and well. After all, she was his ticket out of the current mess and he needed her in good condition, a fit state to return to her family if he was not to be hounded for the rest of his days.

He climbed down as he had done a dozen times or more since taking her. Along the same tunnels, along the wet culvert, across the top of the vertical drop, onto the short ladder and up to her platform. What happened next, he was never able to explain, either to the police, or with one hundred percent satisfaction, to himself. As he climbed the short ladder – as he had done many times already – he came level with the short, dry culvert that was Lesley’s shelf, her bed, her prison. He reached over to pat her, wake her up, let her know he was there. He’d brought hot soup in a flask, some chips, probably cold by now, sweets, water, fresh batteries for her lantern and some reading matter.

Touching the sleeping bag made her jump. He was about to tell her that it was all right, it was only him and show her what he had brought for her, but her reaction caused her to roll perilously close to the edge of her eyrie, only twenty two inches wide. The momentum of the roll faltered and for an instant he thought she was turning over and that she would sit up, see him and greet him like she usually did. But this time the roll continued until her centre of gravity took her over the edge and suddenly down. He reached for her, but from where he was standing on the ladder at the end of the platform, he had no purchase, no power or the strength to pull her back up. He scrambled up onto the platform, but as she had fallen, the cable around her neck, secured to the concrete wall above her bed area had snagged on the rusty edge of the platform. So, instead of her landing upright and standing there, cold, frightened and bruised, she dangled on the end of the cable. The sleeping bag dropped off her and disappeared into the blackness below. Lesley hung there, completely naked, not moving, swinging slowly on the end of her tether.

The Panther whimpered uncharacteristically with indecision. He could not attempt to haul her up using the wire cable. He did not possess the strength and it would kill her. Desperately he climbed down onto the ledge below. He took hold of her legs to lift her up, lessen the stricture of the noose above, but with no one to help him, he quickly realised that the situation was hopeless. He needed someone to hold her up while he un-snagged the wire cable, or vice versa. He was unable to do both. Whatever was to happen to save her, was going to have to take place with extreme rapidity. He talked to her, shouted at her, tried to rouse her, but his strength was fast ebbing. Eventually, clutching her feet into his hip to support her with one arm, he reached into the top of her legs, fingers probing her crotch. There was no suggestion of sexual gratification this time, this was nothing other than stark, clinical exploration. He pressed his fingertips into her inner thigh, beautifully soft, silky and warm.

There was no pulse. Nothing.

He had lost her, the battle, the war and all hope.

SIXTY TWO

“So what’s the plan?” Fonseca asked.

Groat suddenly experienced déjà vu of severe proportions and shuddered as someone drummed their Flamenco heels across his sarcophagus. Why did everyone always ask such awkward questions? The matter was easy: find Gloria and take her home. What could be more simple? Why didn’t anyone ever realise that it was the seemingly straightforward questions that always demanded the most ferociously complicated and difficult answers? He did not, however, want the captain to think that an inspector (especially a temporary detective chief inspector) of the world renowned British Metropolitan Police did not have at least the simple skeleton of a strategy.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I was actually executing stage one of my plan when your men came along…” He nearly said,
and
threw
me
in
the
back
of
a
car
and
dragged
me
here
for
no
reason
… but thought better of it, “And brought me here, to you. And with your help…” He put on his most winning smile, “I hope to be able to find my dear wife – safe and sound…”

“And we truncated your efforts.”

Truncated
? Groat made a mental note. At some point he must include the word in a report. Perhaps his report to the DAC about the sting. That would impress the man.

“Well, yes, I suppose you did.”

“In that case we must make amends. What other information do you have in connection with your wife’s whereabouts?”

In truth, Groat was about played out. He’d pinned all his hopes on picking up a trail from the airport. He realised that he had counted on the fact, that people who came into contact with Gloria usually remembered her. If not for her outstanding physical attributes, then for the sharp edge of her tongue, but he’d found no one, nothing. Tall, loud, big and proud, she was the least invisible person you could come across, but it was as if she had done a Harry Houdini and completely disappeared into the temperate January air of the Costa del Sol.

He shrugged; started going through his pockets more as a nervous response than anything. Pulled out the leaflet discovered in the packet sent to Mrs G Groat, Worldwide Travel, in far away Woodford. Shoved it onto the table with his other papers. Captain Fonseca seized upon it with evangelical zeal.

“Chief Inspector Groat. You have the countenance of a broken man. You give me the impression that you are at the end of your…” He paused.

“Tether?”

“Tether. Yes. Thank you. And then with, how to put it, with such insouciance, you give me the most ingenious clue. You English police officers.” He winked at Groat and charged on, “It was a test, yes?”

“No.” Groat, bewildered. As usual.

“You are too modest. I think I know this place.” He pointed to the grainy, poor quality pictures. “It is a villa off the coast road to Fuengirola. In the foothills of the Serranĩa de Ronda. At least it is a starting point. Maybe the people there will be able to point us in the right direction – they might know something about this property business.”

“How far is it?”

“A few kilometres. Come along. What are you waiting for?”

They drove along the coast road towards Fuengirola. Groat was relieved to be on the move, doing something positive again, although it felt most peculiar to be sitting in the front right hand seat of a car without having a steering wheel in front of him. Fonseca asked him about police work in England, what his roles and responsibilities were, listened attentively, courteously and then with increasing incredulity as Groat recounted the events of the last few days and weeks. In Malaga it was quite warm enough to go without a coat, but as they started the climb towards Ronda, he started to feel a little chilly. He shivered, partly with cold but also with anticipation. He said, “You know, It’s probably my nasty suspicious mind, but we don’t know what we’re getting into, here, do we?”

Fonseca frowned, “What do you mean exactly?”

“Well maybe it’s the result of being set up for murder and that, and I don’t want to start sounding paranoid, but the picture of this villa, right.”

“What about it?”

“It’s on a leaflet that’s got something to do with Bonehead, even produced by him, so it would be reasonable to assume that he has got some connection with the place, yes?”

“Anything is possible.”

“Well, this man moves in some very dubious circles and has a number of very unpleasant associates. You have a growing population of ex pat English criminals in the Costa del Sol area…”

Fonseca laughed briefly, “We know it, don’t we.”

“So would it not be reasonable to assume that there is the possibility that this villa might be connected with the criminal fraternity in some way? Do you not think we ought to do some homework before we go blundering in?”

“What would you suggest?”

“Well, one of the things we could do at home, would be an electoral roll check.”

“An electric what?”

“A check of the register of voters.”

The Spaniard shrugged. “I only know where it is, I wouldn’t know a specific address or anything like that. Anyway,” he patted his sidearm, “we are not entirely without backup.”

They drove in silence for a few more minutes, then rounded a tight right hand bend and onto a length of road with a slighter incline, to a small plateau. There, away to the left on a rocky outcrop stood the villa in the picture. Fonseca slowed and stopped beside the wall before it started to gain height towards the gateway. They got out.

“Looks deserted.” Groat said, looking over the stonework.

Fonseca smiled. “To you English, I believe Spanish dwellings often look a bit like that, but I think you are right. There’s usually a car or two out the front. Shall we try knocking? Even if there’s no one there, we could have a look around.”

Groat nodded. They got back into the car and drove the short distance through the gateway, up the drive, to the turning circle hewn out of rough, dusty, mountain rock in front of the house. Fonseca knocked on the heavy, wooden studded front doors. From inside there was a scream, then the sound of rapid footsteps, someone running.

“What the hell?” Groat said. He tried the door handle and put his shoulder to the door.

Fonseca laughed. “Is that the way English police gain entry?”

Groat was nursing his bruised shoulder – and his pride. “It works – sometimes,” he said.

“See the windows, the bars, the size of those doors. Made to withstand Los Bandidos.”

In spite of himself, Groat was tempted to say,
Didn’t
they
have
a
number
one
with
‘
Black
is
Black
?
’
He didn’t – but mainly because the group was called
Los
Bravos
.

A window was flung open above them. From within, a woman screamed at the top of her fishwife voice, “Help. Help, I have been kidnapped. Help me please. I am locked in, I am being kept prisoner. I have been here for weeks without food or water. I am in grave danger from a madman. He wants his way with me. I am helpless, help me please, please… please help me, help me.” Her sobs echoed around the rocky terrain.

Groat’s brow was furrowed with shared pain, anxiety, sorrow.

Recognition.

“Gloria?”

There was sudden silence.

Tremulous, scarcely believing, desperate, cautious hope. “Lester?” The tone was rapidly losing its keening quality. “Lester?” She shouted, stentorian now.

“It’s all right, my love, I’m here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Lester.” Gloria. On song, at full chat. In one piece.

Wonderful.

Imperious.

“Lester Groat. What took you so long? Fucking well get me out of here.”

Close to collapse with shock, he hadn’t realised she even knew the word.