The Perfect Crime (7 page)

FOURTEEN

Groat could not believe his good fortune. He never dreamed he would end up with a woman so understanding – most of the time – as Gloria, especially when it came to the exigencies of the job. As long as she could have her obligatory two weeks holiday abroad every year and was left to spend their money as much as she wanted, she was content to let him poddle along as much as he wanted. Not everything was perfect, of course. Whatever was? Gloria was not one for adventure where lovemaking was involved and had even been known to fall asleep while he was still performing, but he considered that unfortunate incident was down to a little too much Lambrusco.

How could one man be so lucky, he wondered. Good income, solid family life – even if Gloria would not entertain having children (in case it spoiled her figure). And now Olivia. Olivia. For weeks now she’d reinstilled the spark to his very existence. She introduced him to pleasures above and beyond anything he had ever aspired to, or indeed, imagined possible. She made his blood race, his head spin, his heart beat fast. She was perfect and he was due to see her again that afternoon. He floated through the day. Everyone was pleasant to him and he smiled a lot more than usual. Two such superb women. Each complemented the other and they were both his.

He drove to Olivia’s place. Once again, she loved him with her mouth; he pleasured her. They came together, making love again. She produced a bottle of Moselle, carefully chilled. Raised the glass to her soft lips. Kissed him. Shared the wine, mouth to mouth. Once again, he was giddy with sensation. They lay there.

“Lester…”

“God, I love you.”

“No, Lester…”

“I really do.”

“No, yes, I know, but listen.”

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Steady, now.”

“Don’t take the piss. I’ve got an idea. You reckon you make good money?”

He frowned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I make good money too.”

He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her. “Exactly what is it that you do?”

“You know.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled knowingly.

“No I don’t. What do you do?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I just said.”

“Guess.”

“I don’t know… you’re a solicitor.”

She shrieked with laughter. “Never had to do that, really.”

“You
were
a solicitor.”

“Nope.”

He hated games, especially guessing games when he did not have the upper hand.

“Hell, a secretary, a PA. I don’t know.” He thought about the way the flat was furnished, the manner in which she dressed. “You’re a lady of leisure with wealthy parents who provide for your every need. Oh, no.” He stopped abruptly.

“What?”

“Provided for. You’ve got a rich husband. A rich husband that’s about to come home any minute. No, I’ve got it, a rich husband that you want to bump off and run away with the proceeds.”

“No, nothing like that.” She waved her left hand in front of his face. “Wrong finger, silly.”

“Well what? What’s this all about?”

“Listen. If I told you that I’ve an idea that could make us both a lot of money, would you be interested?”

He frowned. The disparate streams of his consciousness started to unravel. Which to follow, what should he attempt to control. He had come here to make love, not money. He was in the love groove, not commercial mode. How do women do that? They could seem totally engrossed with one thing, but at the same time be focussed on another plane as well.

“I don’t know. Policemen aren’t supposed to have business interests. I suppose it would depend on what you had in mind.”

“It’s based on what I do. For a living.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what you do, therefore I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“I entertain gentlemen.”

“You certainly entertain me.”

He looked at her again, with sudden, stupidly horrified realisation. His streams of consciousness wobbled, divided, then sub-divided into infinity. He began to feel faint, nauseous, about to embark on his first migraine since leaving puberty. It all fell into place. This was how she was so experienced, practised, competent. Always around, never out at work, but obviously well-off.

“You’re not…”

“Of course. What did you think?” She waved her arms around expressively, her eyes wide. “You think all this just happened?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.” He closed his eyes and tried to get a grip on the wall of death, the rushing, spinning sensation that threatened to engulf him.

“It’s all right.” She shushed at him, “I’ve never charged
you
, have I?”

Oh
fuck
.

“It’s not that.”

FIFTEEN

South Yorkshire Police Crime report.

Burglary
.
18
.
9
.
1971
,
around
03
:
30
.
Birdwell
sub
post
office
,
Barnsley
.
Method
of
entry
–
two
holes
bored
into
window
frame
at
rear
of
premises
.
Alarm
activated
,
no
entry
gained
,
nothing
stolen
.

*

Greater Manchester Police

Divisional Miscellaneous Information.

All officers to note:

24
January
1972
,
around
04
:
00
.
Attempt
burglary
at
Godley
sub
post
office
,
Stockport
.
Intruder
disturbed
by
occupant
.
Described
as
male
,
below
average
height
,
wearing
a
balaclava
.
Occupant
assaulted
,
but
nothing
stolen
.
Entry
effected
by
holes
bored
in
rear
window
frame
.

*

27
January
1972
,
around
04
:
30
.
Burglary
at
Grasscroft
sub
post
office
,
Oldham
.
Entry
gained
by
holes
bored
in
rear
window
frame
.
Intruder
not
seen
,
small
amount
of
cash
taken
.

Above
offences
similar
in
MO
to
offences
committed
in
South
Yorkshire
Police
area
.
Officers
on
night
duty
to
be
especially
vigilant
in
area
of
all
post
offices
.

*

Sidney Bulstrode found a place to park on Algers Road, Loughton, around the corner from Lower Park Road, where, according to his informant the Groats now lived. From there he could see the front of their house without being too obvious. He loitered in his car, pretending to read the newspaper, agonising over staying, or going. All those years of planning and now the wheels turned for real, an unusual uncertainty beset him. Perhaps it was a mistake, after all. What if Gloria looked out and recognised him? That would ruin everything, alerting them to his presence. She would have to tell Groat and that would spoil all his carefully laid plans. The distance between his chosen vantage point and the front drive of the Groats suddenly seemed to have foreshortened. He felt exposed and vulnerable. A novel and unwelcome sensation for the arrogant, super confident Bonehead. He lifted the newspaper a little higher. He experienced a horribly uncomfortable, leaden sensation in the pit of his stomach. Supposing she’d lost a lot of weight, like him or had her hair coloured? Perhaps after all this time, after all that fantasising, she would walk past him in the street and he would not even know her. After all, it was more than ten years. He was not sure what would be worse, her recognising him before the time was right, or him not recognising her at all.

He could not be one hundred percent certain it was the right house. He was fairly confident his information was accurate, but what if it was wrong and he was watching some other poor, boring bastards’ slice of urban beatitude? Twenty minutes later, a metallic steely blue Capri reversed out of the drive. He had seen the two vehicles when he first arrived, the Ford – a three litre Ghia – and a Java Green Triumph Spitfire. It would fit. Groat would have graduated to a motor with a bit of muscle by now and wouldn’t be seen dead in such a girlie car as a Spitfire. That would be Gloria’s. The early morning sun glinted off some bright work as it manoeuvred onto the road and accelerated swiftly away towards the city. Peering over the top of his paper, Bonehead was momentarily blinded by the flash of reflected sunlight and could not see to recognise the driver. It could well have been Groat, but then…

An hour went by before anything else happened. He turned a page every so often as a nod towards some semblance of realism, to pretend that he was really reading. Truth was, having stared at it for so long, his arms ached, but he would not have been able to recount any of the stories or news items. He was busy looking everywhere else but at the printed word, thinking about Gloria, his plan. Then, on the dot of eight twenty, movement. The Spitfire reversed out into the road, towards him. This time there was no brightwork to impede his view, but the hood was up and he could not see inside the car. The angle he was looking from made a direct sighting impossible. It may have been Gloria, but he needed a proper, positive sighting to satisfy himself.

He folded the newspaper in foul humour and chucked it onto the passenger seat. He had been in situ for longer than enough, the neighbours might start to get suspicious and alert the old bill. That would be all he needed. He turned the key in the ignition. The air-cooled flat four barked into raucous life and he made his way back to the flat in Ilford, feeling deflated. How he might feel at any time before actually getting the woman in his clutches never entered his calculations, but he realised that he’d wound himself up with anticipation and was now suffering an equal and opposite reaction. The knowledge did not help.

*

Dr H Milne – interview notes.

You were making campaign plans.

I started thinking about what I would have to do and how to go about it. I knew from my army days that tactically you must always have the upper hand. This would involve several different dimensions and angles. For example I would have the advantage of surprise, but I would have to have the means of maintaining my advantage, I know I’m a only a small bloke, so I had to have some way of enforcing my will, quickly and effectively. I thought of the Bren guns I’d used during my army service, but they were heavy and would be difficult to conceal – and anyway, where would I get one – and the ammunition?

Go on.

I really didn’t know what to do. I got to the point where I thought that nothing I did would ever bring the success I so badly needed. Then, one day, I read that double-barrelled shotguns – by sawing off their barrels as much as possible and also shortening the stock – could be reduced to about twelve inches in length… The article said that the sawn-off shotgun was the armed robber’s weapon of choice and after the modification, roughly the same size as the highwayman’s pistol of yore.

Go on.

Luck, I suppose. I broke into a house in Dewsbury, some place. I got a Remington automatic and a Smithson 12 bore double-barrelled shotgun and a good supply of cartridges. I’d actually then got the tools to get on with job.