The Perfect Crime (32 page)

SEVENTY FIVE

A serious charge was likely to be brought against the prisoner. In such cases it was Nottinghamshire Police policy to call out the head of the divisional CID. Accordingly, Detective Superintendent John McNaught was contacted at home shortly before 11:15 p.m. He first drove to Rainworth and reconnoitred the scene of the crime. Officers were still busy searching for evidence in the dark, cold night, starkly illuminated by hastily erected emergency lighting. He then headed for the divisional headquarters.

By complete coincidence, Mr McNaught was Nottinghamshire’s Black Panther liaison officer. Even before the interview started he entertained a mix of hope, suppressed excitement and anticipation that he was about to see the man they had sought for so long. He was convinced when he saw the array of equipment seized from their prisoner. This was no common or garden burglar.

For hours he talked, chipped away at him, cajoled and probed, but he got little or nothing for his efforts. Although sure it was the Black Panther sitting opposite him, he kept his questions relevant only to the events of that night. It was only right and proper that other officers, from the other forces, should have the opportunity to quiz him about the offences that had taken place in their respective force areas. Most pressing first of all, was to find out where Moxon lived. The interview was prolonged by the fact that his prisoner would sometimes delay ten, even fifteen minutes before answering a question. Eventually, McNaught realised that he was trying to disguise an accent. For the first three hours, the officer thought he was talking to a mid European. After that he thought he could be Welsh. At 06:00 hours, the night shift went off duty and the early turn started the new day. On the first floor, in the CID office, the interview dragged on. Still he had not managed to find out if his name really was John Moxon, or where the man called home.

In the world outside, the grapevine was buzzing with the news. Nothing had been said officially and no press release made, but even so, more than one hundred reporters, photographers and radio and television crew laid siege to the police station. Eventually the large, ground floor billiard room was opened up to accommodate them. Not one of them believed the police line of ignorance of the real name or address of their prisoner and the more it was protested, the less it was believed.

In the hope that they could find out by other means, Moxon was fingerprinted and the full set rushed by police motorcycle, to Scotland Yard.

*

After all the excitement of the night, Groat realised he had two issues to deal with. First, with the adrenalin fast ebbing away, that he was seriously tired and had nowhere local to stay. Second, that at that time of the morning, he wasn’t going to find anywhere. He decided to drive home. Foolish, being as weary as he was, but he did not fancy a night in the Capri. Comfortable enough to drive, but no room to stretch out his six foot three frame and sleep.

He was still dead to the world when Gloria left for work and it was not until lunchtime that he eventually managed to rouse himself. As he showered and dressed, he tried to decide what was best for him to do. He could go back to area and continue his task of settling in as one of the D/Is. No one would have said anything and he could not have been criticised for getting on with his job. Alternatively, he could drive the one hundred and forty odd miles back to Mansfield (making a substantial profit out of his casual user’s mileage allowance, of course) and resume his position of being the one responsible for the research instrumental in capturing the Black Panther. Additionally and crucially, he had also taken part in physically hunting him down and bringing him into custody.

No contest.

He phoned the Mansfield area commander’s secretary, and asked her to arrange some digs for him, for a couple of nights – and set off, back up the M1.

It was gone three p.m. before he arrived back at Mansfield police station and elbowed his way through the crush of media personnel. Det Supt McNaught had been out of his bed, even if not continually on duty, for well over twenty four hours, so had headed off home for a well-earned rest. The head of Nottinghamshire CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Readwin journeyed from Sherwood Lodge, Arnold, police HQ to take over. Groat was introduced.

“I understand we have a great deal to thank you for.”

Groat smiled, he hoped, modestly. “And I understand you are still not sure of your man’s name or address.”

“Believe it or not, no. We’re sure he’s the Black Panther, as one of our SOCOs has compared his prints to the partial found at Bathpool Park, but Scotland Yard are still running his prints through their records.” Said the Chief Superintendent.

“Won’t find him.” Groat said.

“You sound very sure?”

“Yes sir.” Groat said, not wanting to be drawn into the hows and whys at that juncture. “But I’m pretty sure I know where he lives and from there it should be a reasonably straightforward job to find out his real name.”

“Good god.” Mr Readwin said, “But how do you know that?”

“Long story, sir. I’d be more than happy to explain – or get an expert to explain to you – when you have an hour or so, but at the moment – with respect, sir – wouldn’t it be more constructive to get on and search the place?”

The detective chief superintendent frowned momentarily. He would normally have given an officer so much his junior a dressing down for speaking to him in such a forthright manner, but this was the man who enabled them to find the Black Panther. And here he was telling them where he lived. Roy Readwin had not reached such elevated rank without being able to cut to the chase.

“Well,” he said, “Go on.”

“Bradford.” Groat said, “Leeds Road, Bradford. Can’t give you the precise number, but it’s within a quarter mile of the big roundabout, there.”

“OK.” Readwin said, “that’s good – and as you said, I won’t ask how you know – but before we go committing house to house teams in the area, as we can’t pinpoint the exact house, how about we give him one last shot? In any case, apart from last night’s fracas, we’ve only got one job, back in 1971. Commander Morrison and the other forces will have as much interest in searching his home address as we have.” He smiled, “And they can pay for all that overtime.” He paused, “He might be ready to tell us now.” He shot Groat a calculating glance – “How about sitting in. Fancy that?”

On the dot of seven thirty that night, Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Readwin and newly promoted Detective Inspector Lester Groat of the Metropolitan Police sat opposite the man calling himself John Moxon, The Black Panther, now dressed in a boiler suit and socks. Mr Readwin enquired about the prisoners cuts and bruises and was assured that the injuries were sustained fighting before he was arrested, not during questioning. The chief superintendent spoke in a kindly fashion, seeking to reassure his prisoner and thus gradually break down his resistance. He asked if his reluctance to reveal his identity was to protect an accomplice.

After a protracted silence, he said, “I always work alone. If I am the Black Panther and they charge me with four murders, it is better my family do not know. I will just disappear from sight. Behind bars for ever.”

Groat exercised steely restraint. He could have jumped up, punched the air and shouted, “
YESSS
!” at the very top of his voice. He glanced sideways at the senior officer. He hadn’t moved, twitched an eyelid, altered the tone of his voice, nothing. Readwin continued, quietly and solicitously, explaining that if he didn’t tell them himself, photographs would have to be published in the papers and shown on television in an effort to find out who he was. Everyone would be staring at his picture and wouldn’t that cause even more pain to his family?

Moxon started at the officers intently. “If I tell you my name and address will you get in touch with my wife?”

“Would you want us to?”

Moxon looked down and nodded.

There was another lengthy pause, then, “My name is Donald Neilson and I live on Grangefield Avenue, Bradford.”

Groat frowned and Readwin allowed himself a sideways glance.

Groat could not contain himself. Surely all that work by Dee… And she had been so certain. “I thought you lived on Leeds Road,” he blurted.

Neilson looked at him in surprise. “Grangefield Avenue, Leeds Road, it’s all the same.” He said. “It’s the long road between Bradford and Leeds. Our part is called Grangefield Avenue, that’s all.”

SEVENTY SIX

If the police had so far endured a sterile wasteland, a famine of evidence in their hunt for The Panther, it was now their turn for feasting. The house on the Leeds Road proved to contain a positive superabundance, far exceeding their requirements, or even their wildest expectations. The attributes that enabled Nielsen to outwit and evade the attention of the police were now about to prove his downfall. Over the next few days they removed van load upon van load of property, as well as documents and other items as exhibits. There were notes and sketches of potential targets, analyses of specific premises together with observations, such as, ‘Lights go out at 11 p.m.’ ‘Dog barks at No. 4’ and so on. If the house was so far a treasure trove, they would soon hit a gold mine. A gold mine laced with diamonds. They had searched the bedrooms, but there was yet another door. Securely locked.

One of the officers in charge of searching, Inspector Malcom Bevington, who had worked on the case since the search of Bathpool Park said, “What’s in there?”

Irene Neilson looked blank. “That’s his room. I’m not allowed in there.”

“Keys?”

She shrugged. They forced the door. There was too much to take in. Leaving a constable to guard the scene, they left for the night. Early the following morning, the search party returned with another van, more scenes of crime detectives and personnel from the RCS. For the next eight and a half hours, they trudged up and downstairs, emptying the attic. There were combat jackets, holdalls and ammunition pouches. Survival gear, Ordnance Survey maps and press cuttings about the Black Panther’s activities and a do-it-yourself car registration plate assembly kit. The room was nearly empty now, but one detective spotted a piece of hardboard against the wall under the skylight. Idly he gave it a tug. It fell to the floor, revealing a small hatchway into the roof void. Inside they found even more evidence of the Panther’s murderous exploits and intent. An up and over double barrelled sawn off, fitted with a home-made silencer. A biscuit tin containing several hundred rounds of ammunition of various calibres. In all, they recovered over one thousand rounds of ammunition – as well as two crossbows and a haversack containing more than eight hundred vehicle ignition keys. Under the floor, they found jemmies, coshes and a .22 repeater rifle with a sawn off barrel and silencer. Under the attic floor, they recovered a dozen steel bit pieces, all carefully labelled, which they later proved to have been used in the ‘brace and bit’ burglaries.

The ammunition was sent to the forensic science lab in Nottingham, where Geoffrey Brunt, one of the Home Office ballistics experts examined the hoard. He found it included two spent .22 cases and several misfires which he used as comparisons with firing pin and ejector marks found at other crime scenes. He was able to adduce conclusive evidence that those from the house had been fired from the gun used at Accrington, Langley and Dudley. It was vital evidence that linked Neilson with all three incidents.

As the Grangefield Avenue address was being searched, Neilson was confronted by DCI Wally Boreham, Commander Morrison’s right hand man from the Yard. Boreham told him that he was to be taken elsewhere for further questioning. Then under heavy guard he was handcuffed, a blanket draped over his head and driven to Kidsgrove. There, in Mr Morrison’s office at two forty five a.m., he sat with his wrists handcuffed to the arms of a chair. The Yard man and the Staffordshire head of CID, Harold Wright prepared to interrogate him, whilst DCI Boreham would take notes.

In his preamble, Mr Morrison told Neilson that he thought he could help them with their enquiries into Lesley Whittle’s death.

Neilson mulled this over for fifteen minutes before answering. “No sir. Not me sir. Not Lesley Whittle.”

They had been warned about the inordinately long pauses between questions and answer by their counterparts at Mansfield, but Mr Morrison was still puzzled. He said, “Do you feel all right? Quite fit? Or would you prefer a rest?”

Neilson regarded the grey haired Scot, then replied, “No thank you sir. I am wide awake, but you look a bit tired.”

He emphatically denied visiting Highley and after a twelve minute pause, said that he was not sure if he had ever visited Bathpool Park. He asked for a cup of tea and while it was being organised, Mr Morrison asked why he took so long to answer questions. After waiting for an answer for nine minutes, the Scot asked sharply, “Do you understand what I am asking you?”

“Yes sir.”

“So why do you take so blasted long to answer my questions, then?”

Five minutes later, he said, “I am thinking, sir.”

He was given a cup of tea and became a little more cooperative. He told them he was self employed joiner, born on 1st December 1936. He had served in the army for two years on National Service, being demobilised as a lance corporal.

The commander nodded at his two colleagues and as one, they got up and left Neilson with two constables who had previously been briefed not to say a word. After an hour and a half, they returned.

Mr Morrison said, “You said you needed time to think. Have you had sufficient time to think?”

Neilson nodded, “Yes sir. I think so.” Tears welled in his eyes and he started to sob. They let him cry for twenty five minutes, then asked him again about Highley and Bathpool Park.

After eight minutes, he said, “I don’t know sir. I have been lots of places. I may have been to these places. How can I remember?”

He said that he could not remember where he had been on 14th January, which was reasonable, given that eleven months had elapsed. Nevertheless, he seemed agitated.

Mr Morrison asked him directly, “Are you the man responsible for the kidnapping and murder of Lesley Whittle?

Neilson started crying again and after a pause of eleven minutes, said, “No sir. Not me. Not murder the young girl. I know you got job to do. I realise that, but it is too distressing.”

They had been on the go, through the night. Commander Morrison wanted to press ahead, but realised they all needed a break, so at six forty a.m., he decreed that they should all – including their suspect – get some rest.

Some nine hours later, this time in the chief superintendent’s office at Newcastle-under-Lyme, they resumed. Now, they possessed full knowledge of the results of the searches at Grangefield Avenue.

Neilson no longer denied murdering Lesley Whittle, replying, “It’s too distressing.”

Sensing a breakthrough, Wright asked again about Highley and Bathpool Park. Now, Neilson admitted he had been to both.

Mr Morrison quickly followed it up, “Did you go to an underground culvert at Bathpool Park for any reason?”

There was an eleven minute silence before Neilson replied. “Yes. I found a manhole cover open and walked through there.”

“When was that?”

“Last year. I don’t remember when.”

“Do you know Dudley at all?”

“Why that? Why do you want to know that?”

Wright explained, “The ransom trail laid by the person who kidnapped Lesley Whittle led to Dudley Zoo car park.

Do you know Dudley?”

Another twenty minutes elapsed before Neilson conceded, “I know the Zoo. I know the caves.”

Mr Morrison questioned him about having an accomplice, but achieved no direct reply and there was another twenty two minutes silence before he suddenly blurted, “I didn’t murder her. I didn’t even know who I was going to get from the house.”

It was what they wanted, hoped, needed to hear.

Commander Morrison formally cautioned him and in response, Neilson said, “People believe all the lies about this Black Panther. The papers don’t tell the truth. The Black Panther, so called, they tell lies about him. I read them. He is not like they say. I want people to know the truth. I hate all these lies. Can you protect my wife and daughter if I make a statement?”