Next he went hunting amongst the cornucopia of second hand car dealerships along the High Road, out towards Seven Kings and Romford, eventually settling on an anonymous looking, deep sea green, three year old Volkswagen Beetle 1302S.
Perfect.
*
Dr H Milne – interview notes.
Tell me how your plan – ‘The Plan’ – developed.
I were doing all right with the housebreaking, then, one night, instead of a private house – which was what it looked like from the back – I found myself in a shop, only this shop were also a sub-post office. I stood there looking at the safe. This was it – the opportunity to have a go at the big time, but I couldn’t immediately think how to go about it. I would need to do a lot of planning – and some very different kit. I’d only targeted houses whose occupiers I thought could stand losing a bit of cash, but this was entirely different. This money did not belong to any one person. It were government money. They would never feel it if a bit went missing – and if they did, they could print some more. I’m not sure I even took anything from there, that night. I decided to go home and make some good campaign plans.
Can you remember when this was?
Nineteen seventy, happen. Back end, probably.
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.
SIXTEEN
Bonehead realised that he could not sit up near the Groats’ place too often, or for too protracted a period without arousing suspicions, so he varied his routine and didn’t show up every day. He patrolled the road, posing as a street sweeper. One morning he walked up and down, then daringly, dressed as a postman, right to the Groats’ front door. Soon he had them tabbed. Groat himself went out most mornings at seven thirty. He would usually return at about six thirty, sometimes much later. Gloria (Oh, Gloria) would leave as regular as clockwork, on the dot of eight twenty, returning around six in the evening. Once their timings were established, he checked to ensure there were no dogs in the house. He followed her a couple of times to Snakes Lane and the Worldwide Travel agents, to make sure she didn’t go home for lunch, watched her from across the road, through the shop window. She was as gorgeously voluptuous as ever, untouched by time.
He noticed that Groat’s timings showed a little variation. Probably casual overtime, but on the off chance, one day he decided to follow him. Bonehead knew from his time as a police officer, the conventional wisdom was that it took several units, whether on foot, or mobile, to follow someone. On foot, you would stalk your target from the opposite side of the road, nowadays in contact with other members of the team by that new-fangled device, a personal radio. As soon as you were clocked, or felt you were likely to be, you would peel off and another follower would take over. If you were tracking a mobile target, the team would consist of a convoy of four, even five unmarked police vehicles, at least one of which would be a motorcycle. If the quarry made a turn at a junction, the lead follower would carry straight on and the next in line would take up the follow. That way it would be unlikely that the pursued driver would ever realise they were under surveillance. Bonehead was amazed then, at how easy it was for one man, in one car, to trail a target for so long without being spotted. As Groat got closer and closer to his station, his follower became increasingly convinced that he was wasting his time. He decided to stick with him to the very end, however, and now true satisfaction was setting in. Instead of turning into the station premises at 74, Leman Street, Groat motored on a little further, eventually turning off Old Street near Golden Lane. Bonehead caught a brief glimpse of the name plate – Cadogan Mansions.
What he next saw, gladdened what passed for a dark, deluded, hate riddled soul.
“Right into my little trap.” He gloated.
*
Another uniform Bonehead had in his wardrobe was one liberated from the Gas Board. Parking the Volkswagen a couple of roads away, he strolled round to the Groats dressed in dark grey trousers, blue shirt and navy tie, topped off by the regulation peaked cap – with genuine gas board badge. He gradually modified his beard every time he visited the area, to change his appearance as much as possible. He was now completely clean shaven. The clipboard was the finishing touch. No one gave him a second look.
By this time he knew the layout quite well, so made straight for the back door – actually at the side of the house – and checking to make sure he was not overlooked, or being watched, set to, gaining entry. A couple of minutes later, he was in the kitchen, ferreting tidily through cupboards and drawers. Soon he found the object of his search, one of a row on a neat set of hooks inside the cupboard nearest the back door. He went to the lock he had so carefully forced and checked the key. Bingo! He removed a small rectangular tin from his pocket, opened it and pressed the key into the plasticine inside.
Having achieved the aim of his burglarious exploit, he knew he should leave. It was madness to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. You never knew who might be looking at the wrong time. Apart from sod’s law there were also the dedicated curtain twitchers. However, he could not resist having a quick look round to see what it would be like living around Gloria. The place was incredibly clean and tidy. No kids or pets here, then. The furniture was good quality and the fitted carpets deep pile. On a whim, he sped upstairs, two at a time. Quickly scouting round, he located the linen basket. Rummaged inside and locating a pair of Gloria’s dir
ty knickers, pulled them out. He bunched them up and pressed them to his face, savouring for a long moment, the memory tugging, intimate fragrance of woman. He smiled dreamily and pushed them down, deep into his pocket.
Light headed, he tripped downstairs and went to lock the back door. He was pleased to have only made a couple of very slight marks on the jamb getting in. They would hopefully not even notice. He replaced the key on its hook and went through into the hallway to let himself out of the front door. Suddenly he froze. He could hear the sound of an engine. Through the stained glass panel in the door he could vaguely see a vehicle turning into the drive.
Now what?
Bonehead pressed himself into the recess next to the cupboard under the stairs. The doorbell rang. Two tone, ding dong, right next to his head. He winced and wondered if he should make a dash for the back door again, walk out nonchalantly and brazen it out, in character as the gas meter reader. It was a good, sound strategy – apart for one snag. If he went out the back door he would have to lock it and take the key with him. That could cause him problems, either by arousing suspicions over the missing key, or them changing the lock. It would also make a nonsense of his plan to make a duplicate. Alternatively, he could leave it unlocked which would mean coming back later, as an unlocked door would be definitely alert the occupants to the fact that something had happened. He could then lock it and leave by the front door as originally planned, but you could bet your boots some busybody neighbour, one of those curtain twitchers, would see him come and go, then notice him do it again some time later.
The bell sounded again and Bonehead belatedly achieved a realisation. He couldn’t see well, but he could make out a figure through the stained glass. Someone with a cap? It must be the postman with a parcel for delivery. He thought the incoming vehicle was red.
The Perfect Crime Page 6
