The Perfect Crime (4 page)

SEVEN

Once again, the phone on his desk chivvied. In spite of the standing order that callers should only let it ring four times before assuming that the extension was not manned, nobody paid any heed. Eventually he picked up.

“D/I Groat.” He sounded fed up.

“Lester. It’s Ted.”

“Go ahead, over.” One of the reasons their friendship had lasted over the years. No matter how many times he cracked a joke, or trotted out the same line, Ted always obliged with a laugh. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Can’t talk, not on the phone.”

Groat frowned, “So why phone me then?”
Idiot
.

“Can you spare me half an hour? I could do with picking your brains.”

Groat, who was indeed so fed up that he could not be bothered to issue his usual riposte of ‘
You’ll
have
to
find
them
first’
and unusually at a loose end, agreed. Twenty minutes later, the two met at The White Swan, on Alie Street, not a usual police watering hole.

Ted was paying, another reason Groat liked him and had bought himself a pint of Charrington’s Crown. Groat opted for Timothy Taylor’s Landlord.

“Well?” When they were settled.

“The boss has picked me out for big job. Something a bit special.”

Not universally renowned for his sense, or sensitivity, Groat felt the hairs erect on the back of his neck and thought.
Can
of
worms
coming
here
. “What boss?”

“The big boss, Commander Morrison.”

Shit
.
Why
you
? Groat studied his friend intently.

Commander John Morrison was a taciturn, grey haired Scot who, with twenty eight years’ service possessed the reputation of being one of Scotland Yard’s most experienced – and successful – detectives. Groat whistled quietly. “OK, so what’s the job?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about it.”

Groat sighed. “So don’t. Let’s drink up and go. Suits me.”

Ted grimaced. “I’ve got to talk to someone. What I mean is, you really must keep this under your hat, all right?”

Groat looked at his friend hard, his mouth squeezed into a grim, thin line. “Go on then. If you must.”

Ted recounted how he had been called into the big man’s office. Mr Morrison was concerned about a series of post office raids that were spreading like a rash across the country. They were able to link them by their modus operandi, the MO of the criminal. Colloquially, they were termed the brace and bit jobs. Ted had read about them in the newspapers and seen the odd TV bulletin. He was surprised, however, that the head of the New Scotland Yard Murder Squad would bother himself with provincial post office robberies, let alone cared enough to allow himself more than passing interest. He was not long finding out.

“He’s started murdering them, that is to say more accurately, he has to date – we are fairly certain – carried out at least sixteen such raids and during the last, shot the sub-postmaster.” He paused, allowing Ted to absorb what he was telling him. “In my experience, having killed once, he will not now hesitate to do it again.”

Ted had no idea, still, why the commander was telling him this.

Mr Morrison continued, “The raids have spread far and wide. From Leicestershire in the south, to Garstang in the north and from Mansfield in the east, to Radcliffe in the west. Although, technically I suppose Garstang is further west than Radcliffe,” he grimaced.

He could have told Ted anything. He knew some of the place names, but where they actually were, apart from ‘up north’, he hadn’t a clue.

“Sir?” He ventured.

“Ah, yes, well…” He looked at Ted thoughtfully, “Some of these force areas, not Greater Manchester or the West Midlands of course, but some, like Staffordshire, still have a policy of calling us in when they have a murder on their patch. I know,” he raised his eyebrows, “In this day and age. Still, it’s their prerogative and the Met get an allowance from the Home Office to accommodate the process.”

Ted waited for him to continue.

“I don’t get hunches as a rule, but I’ve got a feeling in my water about this. One day, sooner or later, we’ll get the call. Another postmaster will have been murdered and suddenly we will have the murders and this whole string of offences dumped on us. Can’t be doing with it.” He sounded uncharacteristically peevish.

Ted could not hold himself back any longer. “Sir?”

“Yes.” Back to his more usual, determined self. “D/S Pearson. I want you to look into what’s really going on here. I’ve already obtained some information, but the facts need analysing. The whole shebang wants putting in some sort of order. We need to be ready for the inevitable. They always expect us to produce a rabbit from the hat and I would not want to be the first head of the murder squad to disappoint.”

Ted felt uncontrollably giddy. “Sir?”

“If we can find the brace and bit man, we have found our murderer. If we can get to him soon enough, who knows, we may even be able to stop him before he kills again. You have a roving brief, laddie. Anywhere you need to go, talk to anyone and everyone you need to talk to. I’ll get you a letter of introduction signed by the Commissioner, but don’t go brandishing it about unnecessarily – we don’t want too many awkward questions. As low a profile as you can manage. Talking of questions?”

Ted’s head was still spinning. “Yes, sir. Thousands, I expect, but I can’t think of one at the moment.”

There was one, but the question he
had
formulated, uppermost in his mind, was the one he really wasn’t going to ask, certainly not then. All right, it might turn out to be a poisoned chalice, but what an opportunity. For once in his life, Ted Pearson was being given a crack at the big time, so he swallowed the question,
Why
me
?

Back in present time, he realised that Groat was looking at him with his mouth open. “What?”

“Why you?” He asked. “No offence, Ted, but you’ve only recently made it onto the squad, surely…” he tailed off.
Why
couldn’t
he
have
asked
me
? Typically allowing sentiment to obliterate reason and ignoring the obvious facts of the matter.

Ted regarded him with concern. “You’d be so much better at this sort of thing than me – that’s why I’m asking you for help.”

Groat put his head in his hands, thought for a few seconds then looked up at his friend. “If it comes off how you would want it to, it’d be a feather in your cap all right.”

“Yes, but why me?” Ted asked.

Groat pondered further. It was most likely that no one else wanted the job. The murder squad was divided into teams and although there was a certain amount of natural wastage, new blood and movement, everybody knew everyone else and any exchange of personnel was more by osmosis than anything. They were all too comfortable with their situation, their responsibilities. Not one of them would want to go off their area and out of their comfort zone, by themselves.

Groat had some experience of working away from base. You didn’t have to stray far. In another division of your own force, you would be treated with suspicion and have difficulty with the smallest of everyday tasks. Co-operation would be minimal, if not zero and would hammer home the principle of
It’s
not
what
you
know
. Imagine trying to poke your nose into some provincial copper’s patch, especially up north, where, if rumours were right, they were even more parochial than down the smoke.

“I take it you have accepted, already?”

“Not much choice, really.”

“OK.” If he had not been Ted’s friend, he would have shrugged the matter away, with a casual, ‘
No
idea
mate
,
’
but he was a friend and, he hoped, a good one. “They probably want fresh eyes – someone not hidebound with the practices and procedures of the squad.” He paused and sighed to himself before continuing with his positive line in white lies. “He will know you come highly recommended – and you can bet your life he will have talked to your old DCI.”

“And?” Ted looked concerned.

“He will have given him the low-down on Ted Pearson.”

“Which is likely to be what?”

“That you are a methodical, hard working bloke; one that gets results. That you will work long hours if the job demands it, but at other times, you don’t piss it up the wall with the rest of the lads, you go home to your ever-loving and your family.”

“You mean I’m a boring old fart.”

“You’re not that old.” Groat smiled briefly. They had too much in common for him to say more to his face. Not at the present juncture, anyway. “Well, neither of us would class the other as one of the boys.” He said.

Ted nodded in agreement.

Groat continued, “And apart from each other, we both try to have as many friends and contacts outside the job as possible.”

“I can just imagine Gloria in the local police wives club.” Ted laughed.

Groat’s pacifications reassured him a little, but he was still short of what he had come for.

Groat, however, did not join in the laughter. He sat, seemingly in a deep trance, or away in some far distant place. Ted frowned. Eventually, “Lester? Lester! Earth calling planet Groat… Groat!” He shouted. He snapped his fingers in front of Groat’s eyes.

Groat blinked. “What did you say?”

“I said I could imagine Gloria in the local police wives club.”

“No, before that.”

“What? Why? Which bit? For chrissake Groat, what are you talking about?”

“How many post office jobs?”

“Fifteen, sixteen, not absolutely sure. Why? What are you on about?”

“You’ve got a series, a serial burglar, my boy.” He said delightedly.

“So?”

“So, what are the biggest hurdles that you’re going to have to overcome when you start on the big project?”

Ted shrugged. “Dunno.”

“No leverage. No co-operation.” Groat galloped on, “That’s apart from not knowing the local plod, no local knowledge, no help and as a consequence, no results.”

Ted sat back. His career, if not his world at an abrupt and unceremonious end. He knew it was true. He had feared – in his heart – from the word go, that he could be doomed to failure. He had taken the job because he had no choice – but thought he would be able to make a passable stab at it. Now his friend, his one true friend was confirming his worst fears. He had only recently landed his plum job on the murder squad and if truth were to be told, wouldn’t have bothered too much if he never went anywhere else. Even further promotion was of less consequence to him than doing the job he knew and loved. On the squad. But if he failed with this project, probably abjectly – he would still have a job, but where? And with his reputation in tatters, how could he hold his head up and expect respect from his peers and those under his supervision. He was aware of what the piranhas could do to someone they considered unfit to supervise them. In a small voice, eventually he said, “What on earth am I going to do?”

Groat beamed at him. “What’s the principle in all cases like this – life itself, even?”

Ted shook his head, uncomprehending, a broken man.

“Oh come on, my boy.
It’s
not
what
you
know
,
it’s
WHO
you
know
.”

“So?” Ted sounded desolate, disconsolate.

“So!” Groat overflowed with munificence and bonhomie, having belatedly put two together with a rather similar number. “There’s someone I think you ought to meet!”

EIGHT

Monday 20th, January, 1971.

First day of a national strike by the Union of Post Office Workers. Over the weekend emergency cash deliveries were rushed to post offices all over the country. Over £3000 was delivered to the village post office at Sandhills, Rawmarsh, near Rotherham.

*

Police statement:

I
am
the
above
person
and
I
run
the
sub
post
office
in
Sandhills
.
About
04
:
00
Monday
20th
January
1971
,
I
was
nudged
awake
by
the
barrels
of
a
sawn
off
shotgun
.
It
was
a
nightmarish
scene
.
Through
the
window
,
light
from
street
lamps
illuminated
a
figure
dressed
in
red
.
I’ve
never
seen
anything
like
it
.
He
was
dressed
from
head
to
toe
in
red
.
He
wore
a
wine
coloured
boiler
suit
,
a
pillar
box
red
hood
,
reddish
rubber
washing
up
gloves
,
red
rubber
soled
boots
and
carried
a
red
rubber
torch
.
Downstairs
he
had
a
red
holdall
.
He
said
, “
Safe
.
Keys
.
Money
”.
There
was
something
odd
about
his
voice
as
if
he
was
trying
to
disguise
it
as
West
Indian
.
I’m
a
pretty
fit
sort
of
bloke
,
but
I
was
powerless
whilst
a
gun
was
levelled
at
my
back
.
Frankly
,
I
didn’t
fancy
doing
anything
which
might
end
in
me
being
spattered
over
the
room
and
although
I
was
waiting
for
the
chance
to
get
near
enough
to
get
at
him
,
he
never
came
closer
than
4
–
6
feet
,
not
near
enough
to
tackle
him
.
I
wondered
whether
he
might
relax
his
guard
if
I
delayed
him
,
so
I
told
him
I
had
to
go
to
the
toilet
.
But
when
I
came
out
he
was
still
waiting
.
He
made
me
go
downstairs
to
the
office
at
the
rear
of
the
shop
,
past
all
the
birthday
cards
,
cigarettes
and
sweets
.
I
was
hustled
at
gunpoint
to
the
safe
.
He
got
me
to
put
the
key
into
the
safe
lock
,
but
all
the
time
I
had
a
nasty
sinking
feeling
inside
me
that
as
soon
as
the
safe
was
open
and
the
money
at
his
mercy
,
my
usefulness
was
finished
.
I
wondered
whether
he
intended
to
shoot
me
then
,
so
I
refused
to
open
the
door
.
I
told
him
, “
I’ve
done
enough
for
you
now
.
Open
the
door
yourself
.”
I
wondered
if
this
would
bring
him
close
enough
to
let
fly
a
mighty
kick
,
but
he
was
too
wary
.
Instead
he
ordered
me
to
back
from
the
safe
and
told
me
to
lie
face
down
on
the
floor
of
the
shop
.
Then
he
knelt
down
keeping
his
gun
pointed
at
me
,
opened
the
safe
and
took
out
what
he
wanted
.
He
must
have
thought
it
was
his
birthday
,
for
it
was
an
ideal
time
.
The
safe
was
crammed
with
cash
,
so
much
of
it
,
in
fact
,
that
he
did
not
have
room
to
take
the
pile
of
postage
and
savings
stamps
that
were
stacked
in
a
heap
ready
to
take
away
.
With
£
3104
in
notes
stuffed
in
his
bag
,
he
could
afford
to
replace
all
the
stamps
in
the
safe
and
close
the
door
.
I
was
marched
back
upstairs
.
My
wife
had
already
tip
-
toed
out
to
warn
our
son
to
lie
doggo
and
pretend
to
be
asleep
.
The
red
shadow
came
back
and
tied
us
to
each
other
and
to
the
foot
of
the
bed
.
I
must
say
that
I
wondered
whether
we
would
be
murdered
in
cold
blood
.
We
listened
to
him
moving
round
downstairs
,
cutting
telephone
wires
.
Then
two
heavy
thuds
,
followed
by
footsteps
running
alongside
the
house
.
They
faded
and
he
had
vanished
.
It
took
us
a
couple
of
minutes
to
get
free
and
we
called
the
police
.
The
thuds
were
two
hundred
pounds
worth
of
silver
coin
in
two
bags
being
tossed
away
.