The Perfect Crime (29 page)

SIXTY EIGHT

Gradually, normality began to prevail once more within the Groat household. The stresses created by their extraordinary high octane, white knuckle adventures slowly subsided as they settled back into their groove. To start off with, he had given Gloria an almighty dressing down. He realised that he was being heavy handed, but did it anyway. He knew he was also venting on her, his frustrations and self-recriminations about Olivia, but he did not feel
that
bad about it. Going off like she did. It was a wonder that she had not been raped – and not only by Bonehead, knowing that individual’s proclivities and associates. He felt that she – they – had got away relatively lightly, all things considered. Gloria had been remarkably cuddly since they’d got home and they had made love more frequently than usual – and with an added degree of intensity.

Not
exactly
Olivia
, he sighed. Built for comfort rather than exhilaration, but that said, a much better bet. Olivia and he would probably have burned out after a while, such was the heat of their passion, but him and Gloria? They’d rattled along together happily enough for fourteen years or so, they could go on for a bit yet. On a couple of occasions she had again raised the idea of getting a villa (or two) telling him that the opportunities were real, that they should not be blind to the idea because of Bonehead’s involvement. Groat bit her head off.
Haven’t
you
learned
your
lesson
yet
? But that was more about keeping her in her place and to remind her of her stupidity (and therefore of his moral superiority) than it was to do with investments, or resources.

A few days later, Groat received a telex:

To: Detective Chief Inspector L. Groat, CID Metpol, London. From Capt. J. Fonseca, Guardia Civil, Malaga. Message begins: Sidney Bulstrode in custody, stop. Charged with kidnap and false imprisonment, stop. Will advise when case concluded, stop. Give Gloria my regards, stop. Message ends.

He took a copy home for her. Technically he should not have done so, but he had witnessed her smothering the man with hugs and kisses. He wasn’t
that
obtuse.

He spoke to Ted Pearson. Emphasised the need for absolute secrecy on the case in order to protect national security. Ted swallowed the story totally, regarding Groat with such a serious look on his face as he listened to him, that he had difficulty not cracking out loud with laughter. He refrained, however, reminding himself of what could have been, had he not been able to enlist the assistance of the DAC. He would have ended up leaving Gloria (or more likely, her leaving him and taking half the house, half his pension and god knows what else) losing his job and ending up with nothing. He shuddered.

Finally, with the DAC’s words ringing in his ears, he decided to take all the documentation home and store it in a safe place. Against all rules and regulations, but that way only the court file would remain in the public domain and he could ensure that it was effectively doctored when the case was concluded. But what was a safe place? The garage? The shed? Anywhere in the house was likely to be examined by Gloria. Bury it in the garden? The idea had a certain appeal, as the DAC had wanted it buried, but he thought not. He was not an expert on burying things, but he had considerable experience of Sod’s Law; the principle that many plans and courses of action seemed to end up working backwards; having the opposite effect to what was desired, or the way that you would assume would be the natural order of the world. Had not Doctor Crippen buried his wife, wanting her to be consumed by the quicklime, only to preserve her – or what was left of her? And how about those countless tales of buried treasure? Trove so precious to the owner, lost, because someone else found it first, or the person responsible for the burial had simply forgotten precisely where they had secreted it. No, it was too risky. He would have to conform with the norm and do what everyone else wanting to hide something would do. Put it up high.

He retrieved the stepladders from the spare room and carried them to the landing. He placed them underneath the hatch to the loft, picked up the box of papers and carefully balanced it on top. Slowly, he reached up to lift the hatch and almost as carefully knocked the box off again. There was nothing careful, or slow about the way it fell, landing on one corner, spilling its contents.

“Bollocks, bollocks and double bollocks.” He fumed.

Gloria heard the thump from downstairs. “What’s the matter?” She called, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes.” He said peremptorily, in his best
Piss
off
and
leave
me
alone
tone of voice. He started putting papers back together, stacking them back in the box. Even as a small child he gained a reputation for reading everything put in front of him. His mother swore he would sit at the breakfast table reading the back of the Shredded Wheat packet. Even now, he couldn’t stop himself reading snatches of the reports as he reassembled them. One caught his eye.

“That’s not right.”

He retrieved the report in its two page entirety and scanned it. It was Ted’s final report, on the last night’s drops. All was in order until the penultimate paragraph.

…
six
out
of
the
eight
drops
were
positive
…

“That can’t be right. It was ten, then two lots of nine. I’m sure”

He put the report to one side and continued repacking the papers until he came to the notes he had made from the blackmail letters. There were definitely to be nine drops on the third night.

What
the
hell
?

He found the briefing prepared for his team. He had only transferred eight across from his notes.

You
stupid
bastard
.
What
have
you
done
?

He examined his list.

It
would
have
to
be
him
.

The Bishop of Brixton. The drop was to be made in the left luggage lockers at Waterloo station. The key was to be taped under the seat of the bench nearest the lockers.

“Shit.”

How was he going to explain this? He realised now, that in his preoccupation with the Olivia situation and the catastrophic personal consequences if his plan did not work out – and worrying about Gloria – he simply was not concentrating on the sting as he should have been. In fact, the last day he had worked on it, instead of ensuring everything was absolutely as it should have been, his attention was far away, only operating locally on some hazy, unreliable autopilot.

What was he to do?

He would leave it, no one would ever know. That would be best.

Then he thought,
No
,
can’t
do
that
.
If
there
is
actually
anything
there
,
it
will
have
fingerprints
all
over
it
.
On
the
cash
,
the
wrappings
,
especially
if
it’s
in
a
plastic
bag
...
Shit
.
Whatever
,
can’t
leave
it
to
chance
…

What would happen when the locker was eventually opened and found to contain a large sum of cash? The police were bound to become involved and some sort of investigation would take place. It was only a possibility, but if the package was examined properly, it could well be traced.

The whole sting operation would be blown apart, brought to nought. They might as well not have organised anything in the first place. All that string pulling, manipulation and cunning. Wasted. Completely. And it would all be down to him. His inattention, his sloppy police work.

The
government
might
be
brought
down
,
all
those
people
we
promised
anonymity
…
And
it’s
much
closer
to
home
than
that
.
The
DAC
would
have
my
balls
on
toast
for
breakfast
.
Probably
with
me
still
attached
.

He quivered with indecision, but eventually decided it was a risk he simply could not afford to take.

SIXTY NINE

Commander Morrison was not used to presiding over an investigation as slow, labouring and downright moribund, as he was presently. Everything about it felt wrong. His people were working as hard as they could, but the dour Scots side of him said, ‘We’re getting absolutely
nowhere
.’ Usually, when they were alerted to a murder to investigate, they moved with all possible speed. It was an absolute given. Experience had also taught him that ‘strike whilst the iron is hot’ was the most pertinent and executive of principles, especially where a murder investigation was concerned. But they were not called in until Lesley had been dead – for how long? Even Dr. Brown was unable to tell them with any authority. Nearly two months since she had been abducted, it could easily be five or six weeks since her death, since her captor had abandoned her; all that time to disappear into the woodwork, covering his tracks as he went. And from what they had discovered so far, he was expert at doing that. And what else did his basic training and experience tell him? That the killer would more than likely be known to the victim. Right?

Ninety odd per cent of the time, but not in this case.

There was little in his training or long experience that was to assist him in his present task. He bit his lip. Lacking in imagination they might be, but he knew that his team – made up of Metropolitan officers as well as those from West Mercia, Staffordshire and the West Midlands – were all massively determined to bring this monster to justice. He made an executive’s, executive decision. He would rely on the experience and practical ability of his people and let them get on with it as best they could, whilst he – although at this present moment he had no conception of how to go about it – would do some lateral thinking.

He sat at his desk, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. What was there he could think about, that might bring him some inspiration, some insight? What lines of enquiry were there, that they had not yet pursued? They had traced over three thousand lorry drivers from the Albright and Wilson chemical works in Oldbury, three miles from Dudley. The firm also ran three factories near Widnes and drivers from the Black Country took at least one lorry a day, backwards and forwards between the various factories, criss-crossing the area where the Panther prowled. Teams of detectives had traced, interviewed and eliminated all of them – including those journeys that were contracted out to private haulage firms. A huge undertaking and costly, in financial terms, logistically and heavy on resources. Apart from all those lines of enquiry, what else was there they could do? Research? But research what? What was there
to
research?

He sat up suddenly, eyes now wide open. He had almost physically heard the bell, ‘
CLANG
!!’

Research.

Detective Sergeant Pearson. What had he said? Something about research. He hadn’t said into what, or where, but it had been in the context of the post office jobs. In any case where was the man? Seemed like he hadn’t seen him for weeks.

*

Groat answered his phone. He had regretfully surrendered his DCI status since the successful conclusion of the sting operation, but at least he was now a substantive detective inspector. This pleased Gloria ineffably, as she could now refer to her husband as
a
senior
police
officer
, whenever she had the opportunity to slip it into conversation (which contrived to be quite often).

“D/I Groat.”

“Lester, it’s Ted. I think I’ve really gone and done it, now.”

“What? What now? Haven’t we been through enough recently?” Meaning, specifically,
Haven’t
I
been
through
enough
recently
?

“Some time ago, I dropped it out to Commander Morrison that we were doing a bit of research that might help with my project on the post office jobs.”

“So?”

“Well, that was before they were linked with all the murders and the Lesley Whittle kidnap. It sounds like they’re not getting on very well with their enquiries and he wants me there, as of yesterday, to give them a hand.”

“So go.”

“It’s all right for you, but what am I going to say? What am I supposed to tell him?”

“You know as much about it as I do.”

Ted fidgeted. “Yes, but you and Dee… Can’t you come and help?”

Groat sighed. “I’m sorry mate, but I’m busy. I expect Dee will be, too. I’ve got area duties to attend to – and all that. Can’t keep flying off, here, there and everywhere. Any case, every time I do go somewhere I tend to get arrested.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t I help with the sting? Doesn’t it count that I keep helping you out of the shit?”

“Tell you what, why don’t we have a word with Dee – see what she’s got to say. Have you told her about the Lesley Whittle connection?”

“No, but she’s not stupid, she will have seen it on the news.”

*

Groat made them all a cup of coffee and when they had settled, took charge. “Last time we spoke,” He said, “You were talking in terms of some sort of a chart, one that would have some conclusions as to who we are looking for. How’s that coming along?”

Dee smiled. “I’ve been quite busy.”

Groat said, “
You
have.” Thinking about the convolution of events that he, Gloria and Ted had endured since they last convened a profiling session.

“What I mean,” Dee continued, “is that I have been able to add to and refine the chart, with what we have found out in the interim and, of course there are now more recent developments.”

“I was going to come onto that.” Groat said. “How does that affect what we – you have done already?”

“Well, in one way, it doesn’t, but I’ll get onto that in a minute. First, though, how sure are you that all these crimes have been committed by the same man?”

“Ninety nine percent certain.” Ted said. “That is, the post office jobs and the kidnap.”

Groat looked at him as he spoke. Noticed for the first time that Ted and Dee were sitting next to each other on the settee. That was not strictly true. Of course he had seen them sit together, but he had not realised how close they had become; Ted’s knee pressing against Dee’s? He shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

“So what does that mean?” He asked.

“Well, in this case, it doesn’t change what we already know, but remember what we talked about in terms of progression? He’s moved on up again.”

“And the area, the places he’s chosen to do it?”

“Well, my guess is that because it’s a totally different venture, totally different
type
of undertaking we have to think a bit differently. I told you when we started that one of the issues was me doing this for the first time…”

Groat said, “And if you combine that with his experience – around four hundred house burglaries, eighteen post office jobs – that we know of – attempted murder, murder – you’re going to tell us that the circle hypothesis is now largely redundant. Yes?”

Dee looked at him with a mixture of wonder and amused surprise. “You
were
listening, then.” She smiled, “And add to that the fact that if he’s going to kidnap someone, he’s got to commit the crime wherever the person he chooses for his project happens to be. So apart from the fact that he’s not likely to pick on someone who lives very close to him, as you say, the circle hypothesis is out of the window. It works for the first crimes that someone commits, but there’s got to come a point – assuming they are not caught – I would say, when it becomes largely irrelevant.”

“So what have we got?” Groat asked. “What can Ted take to Commander Morrison?”