The Perfect Crime (9 page)

NINETEEN

The next part of Bonehead’s plan was ease itself. He parked the Volkswagen on The Crescent and, dressed as a Royal Mail employee, walked down the road. He rounded the corner and was about to turn into the drive of number seventy eight when he saw the new alarm box on the front of the house.

Shit
.

His mind raced. Had Groat fitted an alarm as a result of his earlier visit? He was not going to succumb to that paranoia.
Think
man
,
think
. They would not have known he – or anyone – had been there. Lots of houses in this area were fitted with alarms, it was an affluent area, a quality property. Fitting an alarm was a sensible course of action. It might have been an insurance company requirement. After all, the Groats were both out at work all day.

A dummy box was a possibility, but what should he do? Chance it? If the alarm went off as he let himself in, it would certainly force him to abort his plans for today and probably make any return visit more problematic, even if he did get away – as surely he would. No, so far his plan was working like clockwork. He would not go bulldozing on and potentially ruin everything, when a little quick thinking could set him right back on course.

He took out a small note book and scribbled down the telephone number of the alarm company on the bell box. He carried on his leisurely stroll. Away from his car, but towards the phone box at the end of the road.

He dialled the number noted on his pad. “Hi. This is Mr Groat – 78, Lower Park Road, Loughton. Just wanted an update on the status of my new alarm.”

The woman’s tinny voice at the end of the line was obsequiously apologetic. They were ever so sorry, but the engineer still could not obtain the replacement circuit that he needed to get the system up and working. It was a super system, but American, so the part was coming from the USA. It was being flown over even as they were speaking, but they couldn’t install it until it arrived, which would not be for another two to three days. Bonehead thanked the woman for her time, thought that Groat really was an idiot if he put up with crap like that and thanked his stars for being quick-witted.

He went back to the house and let himself in.

TWENTY

Derek Houseman. Baker. So employed for the last seventeen years. Every working day for every one of those years, rising at the ungodly hour of three a.m., to walk the mile and a half to the bakery on Kings Street, to start preparing the day’s batch of loaves, rolls, buns and other food staples that would help keep the people of Dukinfield going for the next twenty four hours. Shortly after three thirty a.m. he stumbled, still half asleep, along Yew Tree Lane, past the post office. Suddenly he stopped. Took stock, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Through the glass door of the shop he could dimly make out a figure, dressed all in black, kneeling in front of the safe. Derek paused and stared long enough to convince himself he was not seeing a ghost, and sprinted the one hundred yards or so to the nearest telephone kiosk. For the first time in his life, he dialled 999. He was out of breath and trembling with shock, the unaccustomed exertion, excitement.

The operator was the embodiment of calm. “Which service do you require?”

“Police.”

“Can you repeat that, please?”

Derek realised that he was whispering, not wanting to alert the robber.
Stupid
! He was a hundred yards away, inside a telephone box. The man in black was engrossed, inside the shop. “Police, please.” He said in a more normal tone.

He was told to wait where he was and await the attending patrols. Outside the phone box, he hopped from foot to foot with anxiety. What if the man came out and saw him? He moved around to the far side of the kiosk, just in case. Eventually, after a hundred years or more, two police cars arrived. So unlike TV. No bells, two tones or sirens blaring, silent, engines off as they came to a halt, officers scrambling out. Some sprinted to the back of the premises, others covered the front. He was approached by a uniformed sergeant, wanting his personal details; what he had seen. Was he sure it was a man, could he describe him? No, he was wearing a hood. Age? Build? Derek was again assailed by doubt. Perhaps it was all a dream. He often walked the route half asleep, on autopilot, reaching work and not able to remember the journey at all.

A constable reappeared from the back of the shop. “It was him all right Sarge. Entry via a rear window. Two holes through the frame. No one there, though, I’m afraid. Apart from the postmistress and her family, that is. Fled the coop. Safe’s been emptied. Getting on for two grand, she reckons.”

TWENTY ONE

Groat sat at his desk and stared, sightless, into the distance.

He was trapped in the deepest quandary, a bottomless quagmire, the most treacherous of quicksand.

Since meeting Olivia, he had become supremely engrossed by her. He was not in love. ‘In love’ was pathetically tepid. He was boiling; his mind, body and soul consumed with reckless infatuation. He was totally and hopelessly besotted with this dark, dangerously erotic angel. But now, introduced into that heady mix, was vicious turmoil and a black storm cloud of realisation. How could he have allowed himself to become embroiled in such circumstances? His mind was unable to embrace the totality of the situation, it was simply too terrible to contemplate. He could only skirt around the edge, in case he should stray too close to the chasm and be dragged – as birds might be sucked into the jet engine of an airliner – into a churning maelstrom of bloody, agonising destruction. At least the birds would perish quickly. He was forced to maintain some semblance of normal life whilst the suffering dragged endlessly on.

For his own sanity and self-preservation he could only take one stumbling pace forward at a time. Concentrate on where he was and how he might extricate himself.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Right now it did not seem possible that he could he get out with any part of his job, marriage, mind or soul unscathed.

But, black as his situation appeared, it was about to get worse.

Far, far worse.

He had not contacted Olivia for days. He knew that if he saw her, his whole being would dissolve and he would forget the mess, wanting only to immerse himself in the here and now. The heady sensation of being close to her. He could not trust himself even to speak to her. Would he vilify her for getting him into this situation, or pour out his love and soul, throw himself at her feet, beg her to go away with him and look after him – only him – and rescue them from this horrendous situation. Would he coo sweet words of love and conciliation to her, or embark on some crazed Hitler like rant and scream at her for being a Jezebel, Delilah, Messalina. Probably everything and all at the same time. What a stinking, shit infested can of worms.

The phone rang. “CID. D/I Groat.” His voice flat, his tone dejected.

“Hallo – Lester?”

If anyone ever suggested to him that his heart could sink into his gut with the pain of dread, sick, leaden apprehension and fly like a bird released at precisely the same moment, he would have dismissed it without thought. Preposterous. Impossible.

But it did.

She said, “I’ve missed you.”

He told her that it was inappropriate for their relationship to continue. He informed her that given their respective occupations she should have known,
must
have known that getting together in the first place – at least for him – was a complete non-starter.

He should have.

Why was he not able to summon the wherewithal, the concise, eloquent language to put it clearly and calmly, but forcefully to her, so she would be left in absolutely no doubt about what she had done? Why had she not given him some warning? Some inkling of her métier, before he immersed himself so totally, into this total, unremitting mess. After all, she knew he was a police officer and was in possession of that knowledge from before the time she invited him into her home, her body, her life. How was he to have known anything about her? Why was he not given at least a fighting chance?

He said, “I’ve missed you too.”

“We need to talk. Do you want to come round?”

Of
course
I
do
.
More
than
anything
else
in
the
whole
world
. “Better not.”

“Just talk – clear the air a bit.”

Just
talk
.
Who
are
you
kidding
? “What do you want to talk about?”

“Us – the future.”

What
us
?
What
future
? “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on. We can talk about it over a coffee. You can’t just leave it like this. Surely I mean more than that to you?”

He wasn’t torn in a mere two or three ways in making the decision, he was shredded. He knew he shouldn’t, but wanted more than anything to see her, be with her, touch her. Feel the warm glow, once again be the one and only, receive the special treatment. If Gloria discovered his dreadful secret, she would tear him apart, physically and financially.

No doubt, whatsoever.

If the job found out, he might as well say goodbye to the CID, let alone his pips. How could they trust someone with such a monumental lack of judgement and savoir faire to be a senior officer? And if he lost his job? Even in his extremis he thought of the old joke about the couple divorcing on the grounds of incompatibility. One fact in his life, along with the clichéd death and taxes was the certainty that if he lost his income, Gloria would lose her palatability – what little she did possess.

He drove in silence, his instinct to have a constant musical sound track to his life subjugated. He did not want the company of an over cheerful DJ and was not in the mood even for his own choice of music, unless it was Leonard Cohen.
Chelsea
Hotel
, maybe.

‘
I
remember
you
well
in
the
Chelsea
Hotel
 

You
were
talking
so
brave
and
so
sweet

Giving
me
head
on
the
unmade
bed

While
the
limousines
wait
in
the
street
…

You
told
me
again
you
preferred
handsome
men

But
for
me
you
would
make
an
exception
…
’

He thought about himself and Olivia. Wished desperately that he could turn back time, that he’d never met her, or had his eyes open from the word go. Why could he not have slipped her a quick one and thus avoided being so comprehensively seduced, mind, body and soul. That’s what she’d done, she had seduced his soul and he was certain it wasn’t only because she was so amazingly proficient in bed, either. Again, why couldn’t he simply have had a quick fling and not fallen for her?

Stupid
,
stupid
bastard
.

Even as it happened, small doubts niggled at him. Nothing concrete enough ever to articulate, but sufficient for him to think that she had done this before. Not that there was anything wrong with that, as far as she was concerned. He was the one who was married. She wasn’t – but before! How many before him? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? He momentarily closed his eyes. No wonder she was so expert, so effortlessly competent.

She opened the door and smiled shyly at him. “Oh, come on,” she entreated, “don’t look so glum.”

He shrugged in reply. Regarded her candidly. Did not smile.

“Well now you’re here, at least come in and I’ll make us a cup of coffee.”

He followed her into her living room. Sat on the settee where they first made love. She brought in the coffee.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked down. “I thought it would put you off. I’d always planned to.”

“Like when?”

“Like when I did. How was I to know you would take off like that?”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“I thought, well, I suppose I hoped that it wouldn’t make so much difference once you’d got to know me.”

Groat recalled some of the prostitutes he had dealt with over the years. From the terrifyingly promiscuous, grubby young waif who looked like she could do with a bath, a few square, hot meals and a good night’s sleep. He hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry when she offered him a hand job as an incentive to let her go. Most toms of his experience were in their late teens, twenties and early thirties. By that age many of them had made a bit of money, could not face life on the streets any more, got hitched or simply retired. They came in all shapes, sizes and skin colour and although back in the sixties most were female, nowadays there were a growing number of boys taking to the streets, as well. At the other end of the scale he knew of ladies still working into their fifties and, if the rumour was to be believed, there was one game old girl still turning tricks past her seventieth birthday. Others, he considered, were so stinking, filthy and unattractive that they gave ugly old bags a bad name. They needed fumigation, a good scrubbing and hosing down with disinfectant – and how anyone could allow them within shouting distance, let alone in the same room and expose their delicate parts in their close proximity… He shuddered expressively.

And then there was Olivia.

Elegant, sophisticated, gorgeous Olivia. The last word ever to come into your mind looking at her, listening to her, being in her company, would be one of them. He still could not bear to put the two words anywhere near each other.

Olivia.

Cocktail party hostess, maybe. Socialite, certainly. Glamorous woman about town, definitely. Business woman. Professional person, young doctor, top model, solicitor, even.

Prostitute.

Merely saying the word sounded like spitting.

He shook his head.

“I want to give it up.”

He looked up at her, grasping at sudden hope.

“But I can’t afford to, not yet.” She offered a small, wistful smile.

He felt as though he had been kicked in the groin.

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you about my idea.”

He shrugged miserably. Once again, he wished desperately to turn back the clock. To be whisked off somewhere, anywhere, anything to escape this predicament. Had no idea what she was talking about. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to do anything at that juncture, least of all think. Thinking hurt; wrenched his gut.

She smiled at him, making her best effort to appear positive. “Why don’t we… you know…” She raised her eyebrows, “Make you feel better.”

“Not in the mood.”

“Soon sort that out.”

Eventually, predictably, he allowed himself to be persuaded.

They lay side by side. He stared up at the ceiling. She held his hand, cuddled him for a while, saying nothing. After a while she propped herself up on one elbow, leant across and smiled down at him. Kissed him long and soft, then, judging it was time, progressed her plan. Her breasts now pressing against his chest, she moved slowly, kissing him again and again.

“Now that I’ve got your attention,” she said, “I think it’s time I told you all about me – and my idea.”