The Perfect Crime (3 page)

FIVE

The day after the bawdy house raid Groat spent the obligatory hours at his desk, on his paperwork. The house to house results were to be collated and any complaints meant a return trip to obtain statements. Once their details were established, the ‘party goers’ were released; the organisers arrested and dealt with, one by one.

His phone rang. “D/I Groat.”

“Is that the young, handsome D/I Groat?”

“Certainly is.”

“Must have the wrong number then.”

“Bloody hell, Ted. Can’t you get yourself some new jokes?”

“Don’t be such a grouch. Anyway, have you seen orders this week?”

“Too busy. You know what it’s like with vice jobs.” The shine may have gone off for him, but Groat knew that vice work was still a big deal to many of the woodentops and he would puff himself up, whenever the opportunity arose.

Ted said nothing but still managed to come across as disconsolate. There was an awkward silence. They’d known each other since training school so Groat just blathered on at him. “Oh come on, don’t go all broody on me. What’s up?”

“I’ve only got a place on the Murder Squad, that’s all.”

Groat felt awful. Ted Pearson was his best mate and had performed some above and beyond the call of duty favours for him over the years. He was a plodder, a foot soldier, but above all, straight as a die and as loyal a friend as a man could ever hope for. Groat blackmailed his way onto the murder squad whilst barely out of his probation, was promoted sergeant, made detective sergeant, passed his exams and was expecting his imminent elevation to senior officer rank and a couple of pips on his shoulder.

Easy life.

Only recently, after many long hours slog with the books, PC Pearson managed to scrape through his sergeants’ exam at the fourth attempt and eventually gained his stripes. With fifteen years’ service, Ted was promoted Detective Sergeant – and now onto the murder squad, to boot. That was good progress for anyone.

“Oh, mate, that’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant,” and using another of Ted’s own well-worn lines, “You’ll have to let you buy me a drink.”

He’d not long finished again burying the phone with paper, when it rang once more.

Would he ever finish?

For
Christ’s
sake
.
What
now
?

He scrabbled under the files. “What? Hallo. Er, D/S Groat.”

Silence.

He cleared his throat.
Start
again
. “CID – Detective
Inspector
Groat speaking.”

“Oh, hallo – is this the tall officer that came to my flat last night?”

The sound of her voice was seared into his memory banks, as was the sight of her walking down the hallway in front of him, long slim legs; her smile, the way she laughed.

Mentally he gave himself a good kicking. Physically, he smacked himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Who is this?”

“Olivia,” she sounded somewhat put out, “Olivia Di Angelo. You knocked on my door last night – it was you, wasn’t it? After the raid on number 309. I said that I would call you if I could think of anything that might be of interest.”

“Oh. Right.” His thoughts raced.

He knew that he should have no more to do with her – as
that
feeling
told him. A sensation only experienced on a few occasions in his life – and it always threatened major turbulence. Train crash, avalanche, parachute failing to open, that order of visitation.

“I thought of something that might be of interest you – if you want to come round.”

Common sense, experience and professional instinct shouted at him,
send
someone
else
, but contemporaneous with that, was the immediate and certain knowledge that he would not.

He had never been a moth, even by the definition of the old constables’ joke about the timid probationary officer, on night shift, flitting from the perceived safety of one lamp post to the next. However, even he should have been much more aware of the danger of this flame. His head told him that it would be better not to go. Professionally he knew that he should ask her about the information, interrogate her, ascertain how relevant it might be to their enquiry. Could whatever it was be done on the telephone and so save time and a possibly unnecessary journey?

He swallowed. “When?”

SIX

Police statement:

I
am
the
above
person
and
I
am
the
postmaster
of
the
Wentworth
Road
sub
post
office
,
in
Jump
,
near
Barnsley
.

At
about
3
:
45
a.m.
on
Monday
6th
January
1971
,
I
was
asleep
,
at
the
above
address
when
someone
shook
me
awake
.
The
first
thing
I
saw
was
a
flashlight
between
the
barrels
of
a
sawn
-
off
shotgun
.
The
man
with
the
gun
was
wearing
a
combat
jacket
or
anorak
.
I
could
see
his
eyes
through
slits
in
a
hood
which
completely
masked
his
face
.

He
said
, “
Where’s
the
money
?”

I
said
, “
In
the
safe
downstairs
.”

He
said
, “
Go
on
then
.
Get
up
.
Fetch
the
keys
.”

I
wear
only
a
pyjama
jacket
in
bed
,
so
I
said
to
him
, “
If
you
think
I’m
going
downstairs
as
I
am
,
mate
,
you’ve
got
another
thing
coming
.”

I
got
out
of
bed
and
put
on
my
trousers
.
The
safe
keys
were
in
my
left
hand
pocket
.

My
plan
was
to
delay
him
for
as
long
as
possible
in
the
hope
that
something
,
anything
,
might
happen
.
All
I
could
think
of
was
to
play
for
time
.

The
gunman
handed
me
a
pair
of
wire
cutters
and
made
me
cut
the
phone
cables
.
He
warned
my
wife
to
stay
quiet
as
he
led
me
away
.
Poor
old
girl
was
terrified
.
As
I
went
downstairs
I
automatically
reached
out
to
switch
on
the
light
but
the
masked
man
knocked
down
my
hand
with
the
shotgun
muzzle
.
I
unlocked
the
door
into
the
shop
,
leading
to
the
post
office
counter
.
The
safe
is
down
behind
the
counter
.

I
stood
back
to
allow
him
to
get
in
.
He
signalled
me
to
go
and
empty
the
safe
.
I
unlocked
it
and
loaded
the
contents
into
a
duffel
bag
he
produced
.
There
was
a
bag
inside
containing
£
650
cash
,
but
I
did
not
take
that
out
and
,
as
he
could
not
get
a
clear
view
,
he
could
not
see
it
.
He
motioned
me
away
from
the
safe
still
staying
behind
me
.
Then
he
picked
up
the
bag
of
money
and
said
, “
Right
.
Upstairs
.”
As
I
walked
back
up
towards
the
bedroom
,
he
opened
the
back
door
and
was
gone
.

There
was
no
sign
of
a
car
and
my
wife
was
watching
out
of
the
bedroom
window
upstairs
,
but
she
saw
nothing
.
I
woke
my
son
and
he
drove
me
to
Hoyland
police
station
.
I
would
describe
the
gunman
as
about
5’5
”
tall
,
slim
,
athletic
,
wiry
and
very
edgy
.
No
one
had
any
right
or
authority
to
enter
the
premises
and
take
the
goods
and
cash
,
which
is
Post
Office
property
.
The
total
loss
in
cash
and
stock
amounted
to
£
3
,
064
.