“Loughton.” Groat finished for him. “Jesus.”
“There’s more.”
“Go on.”
“Someone reported a green Volkswagen Beetle to the local old Bill, hanging about suspiciously round the corner from where you live. Possibly even within sight of your house. Reg number something like VWC 354J. The woman that reported it was quite sure of the letters, not so certain of the numbers. Definitely J reg, though.”
“OK.” Groat said with deliberation, “And is that it?” He looked at his friend carefully, not wanting to hurt his feelings again.
“Oh, come on.” Ted said, “I wouldn’t leave it there, would I? Checks with the local licensing office show that VWC 354J was a write off, but there is a VWC 864J. A dark green VW Beetle, registered to a dealers down High Road, Seven Kings.”
“You’ve done well, Ted.”
“And that’s not all.”
Groat could hear the fanfare starting. “Yes?” He said.
“I have spoken to Mr Van Lesseps and he promised to pull a few strings. Er, that’s not quite how he put it, but I’m sure that’s what he meant.”
“Christ, that’s great.” Groat whooped, “When?”
Ted grimaced, “I’m not entirely certain… that’s why I didn’t mention it before…”
They discussed the way forward, how to locate Bonehead and rein him in; communicate with Gloria, and make sure she was all right. Mainly and mostly, how to get Groat out, and how long it would take.
There was a knock on the door. One of the uniformed custodians stood there. “Mr Groat?”
“Yes?”
“If you would come through to the charge room, please sir.”
Groat looked concerned, but he and Ted followed the officer along the cell passage.
The custodian spoke to him over his shoulder, “You must have friends in very high places, sir…”
FORTY TWO
The address sounded delightful – The Post Office, High Street, Langley. You could picture the village pub, ducks on the pond, men in white playing cricket on the green, the crack of leather on willow. The building that housed the premises was grand – or had been, once. A large, Victorian, double fronted facade. That splendour, however, would only have been the impression to a viewer using a powerful lens, tightly framed on maximum telephoto. As the lens zoomed out, you would see that Victorian grandeur had long faded and the upper story of the building was bricked up and sealed off in preparation for the place to be demolished. As the field of view became wider, you would also notice that the whole area was seedy, run down and around the Post Office building stood derelict properties awaiting demolition. Langley may have sounded like the acme of England’s green and pleasant land, but in fact it huddled unhappily in the densely populated and heavily industrialised area of the Black Country, between Birmingham and Wolverhampton.
Although the area may have been past its best, the post office still thrived under the competent management of sub postmistress Peggy Grayland, who had run the operation since her promotion in 1972. Her husband, Sidney was made redundant shortly before this, so willingly became his wife’s full-time assistant
Their routine, however, was as regular as in any armed robber’s wet dream.
Every morning, they drove the mile from their home and opened up the post office for nine o’clock. Sidney would park the car out the back in the ramshackle lean to garage until the office closed for lunch at one thirty. They would drive home for lunch with Peggy’s brother, Geoff Abell, motoring back in time to re-open for two thirty. The post office counter closed on the dot of five thirty and Sidney would lock up fifteen minutes later. Shortly after that, the evening collection of mailbags would be made by their regular postman in his van. Peggy would settle down to the day’s accounts while her husband helped the van driver. Unless the day proved particularly busy, or there were extra jobs to be done, they would be away by six and home to dinner.
*
17:49, Monday 11th November 1974
Sidney was looking forward to his favourite evening meal – lamb chops, mashed potatoes, peas, thick gravy and mint sauce. He left Peggy doing the books to start the car and get it warmed up ready for the journey home. He went out of the back door of the post office and through the dark, unheated storeroom with its bundles of stationery, bits of furniture and old stock stacked high. The room never boasted electric light and in truth most of the time during business hours it was not needed. And, with the building shortly to be demolished, they certainly wouldn’t be bothering now. At this time on a November evening though, Sidney needed some light to help him thread his way through the piles of lumber, as he called it. He switched on his torch which glowed a dim yellow, then petered out. He shook it and banged it into the palm of his hand and was rewarded with a weak, unsteady beam that would obviously not last long.
“Get some new batteries tomorrow.” He muttered to himself and started to pick his way across to the garage. He concentrated hard on his footing, so did not become aware that the back door was ajar until he felt the draught. He looked up and saw street lighting through the open gap. Thought he heard a slight movement and raised his torch which briefly glowed more brightly. Standing behind the door was a figure dressed all in black, although what transfixed Sidney Grayland were two ovals in the figure’s balaclava helmet that seemed to glow pink in the dim torchlight. Grayland was no coward. Having endured four and a half years in German prisoner of war camps, his first thought was that he had not fought for his country to now have some thug attack him or hurt his Peggy. He lunged and grappled with the man, who ducked, thus avoiding the older man’s main onslaught, but he managed to get hold of part of his clothing, which he grimly hung on to. It came off in his hand and the robber stood there blinking in the dim street lighting that filtered into the storeroom.
Death sentence.
Grayland’s health had been badly affected in the camps and he knew that he would be no match for the younger intruder. He was not, however, going to let anything happen without having a bloody good go. He would do his very best, but before he could make another move, there was a sudden movement, although he sensed rather than saw it. The dim light of the failing torch was viciously and completely eclipsed by the flash from the muzzle of the robber’s .22 pistol. Grayland fell, shot through the chest, the bullet puncturing the main artery in his heart.
He was fifty six years old.
It would take him over three hours to bleed to death.
In the main office, Peggy heard her husband go through into the storeroom and close the door behind him. A short while later, she heard a crack and a bump and called out, “Are you all right?” thinking that he had tripped over some rubbish, or something may have fallen and hurt him. Getting no response, she got up and went over to the door. She opened it, but after the brightly lit office could see nothing.
“Sid?”
No reply.
More urgently, “Sidney.” As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she said, “Sidney Grayland. For goodness’ sake, where are you, what’s happened?” Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness. First, she saw the back door standing ajar. Then, in the thin, dim strip of light from outside, she could see a form on the ground. Pushing between the piles of lumber, feeling her way, she moved painfully slowly across the room. As she reached him, she could see that her husband was lying on his back. Her first thought was that he must have suffered a heart attack. She knelt next to him cradling his head, crying, “Oh, Sid, what’s happened to you? Did you fall?”
Grayland summoned his remaining strength and whispered his last words, “Watch out Peggy, I’ve been hit.”
Peggy Grayland looked up and there, framed in the doorway, stood the unmasked robber, the street lighting creating an electric blue halo round an otherwise pitch black silhouette. She realised what was happening and frantically crab-scrabbled away from him. In her panic, however, she could not get away and just backed herself into a corner.
&nb
sp; “Keys, where are safe keys?” He growled.
Never once in her whole life been known to swear, she said, “Go to hell, you bastard.”
He smashed a savage blow at her with the butt of his pistol, but she turned her head, avoided the full force.
“Go to hell. You get nothing.” She said.
He hit her again.
And again.
FORTY THREE
Head of Lancashire Constabulary CID, Detective Superintendent Joe Mounsey staged a conference in Accrington, inviting officers from all force areas to have suffered attacks by the Black Panther.
He declared, “Open war has been declared on that cornerstone of British life, the sub post office.”
There were personnel from a dozen forces, as well as forensic scientists from Preston, Nottingham, and Birmingham. The Post Office Investigation Department sent as many people as they could possibly spare to work alongside the police, as well as the head of their Detective Operations Branch, Deputy Controller Bryn Jones.
There was one overriding problem that would, if no one got a grip, totally negate or paralyse any efforts they could make. There was nobody with sufficient authority or power to take overall control. There was no one person at the helm, nor any single centre of co-ordination for the multiplicity of investigations that currently existed. The whole catastrophic mess was already too unwieldy and fragmented, with so many centres of operation and all forces involved pursuing their own enquiries. The Accrington conference, the first of many, agreed that tracing connections between firms in Langley, Accrington and Harrogate should take priority. The problem here was that the mammoth, personnel intensive task of tracing all those lorry drivers had resulted in nothing. A few minor indiscretions and motoring offences if they could have been bothered, but absolutely no progress in respect of the job in hand. Now, all firms within a mile radius of Langley post office and five miles of Higher Baxenden would be visited in simultaneous operations by the West Midlands and Lancashire forces.
As these checks got under way, the Warley Coroner, Peter Turner resumed his inquest on Sidney Grayland. Apart from one positive aspect – his commendation of the police officer first on the scene, PC Pete Toghill, who’s prompt attendance and devotion to duty undoubtedly saved Peggy Grayland’s life – there was no hesitation in returning a verdict of ‘Murder by person or persons unknown’.
There was no plan. No way forward. No clue. The combined might of the forty three forces of England and Wales was being brought to nought by one man. The original seven stone weakling with an IQ of 119.
*
Ted Pearson reported back to Commander Morrison.
“So how many is it now?” He asked.
“Eighteen definites, maybe nineteen.” Ted said.
“And he’s killed on three occasions out of the last four.”
“Yes sir.”
“And you’re telling me that they are still not talking to each other, or combining resources?”
“Well, they’re talking to each other, but it doesn’t appear to be leading too much. They say, ‘Oh, we ought to speak to all the lorry drivers who work for firms that cover that area’ – and then they go away and do their own thing again. They’re certainly not working together in any meaningful or coordinated way.”
“What about the Regional Crime Squad? What are they doing?”
“No involvement, as far as I know. They certainly weren’t in evidence at the Accrington conference.”
“Wonderful.”
“I think it’s more of the ‘my gang’s better than your gang’ sort of attitude, sir. The RCS won’t just get themselves involved in something, will they? I mean, they have to be called in. The local force has to request their assistance. And apparently none of them have.”
The commander grunted. He said, “At least no one’s thought fit to call us yet. But it’s only a matter of time, I know.”
“What’s he going to do next, d’you think, sir?”
“Who? The Black Panther?”
“Yeah.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I assume he didn’t start off with robbing post offices, so presumably he graduated to that from something less serious. As you said, sir, he’d moved on up from straightforward burglary to killing people, so,” he paused, wondering how far he should run with this, “what’s he going to move on to now? More of the same, or something bigger and more profitable. He must be feeling the heat by now. He isn’t to know that we’re getting absolutely nowhere with it.”
Commander Morrison looked at his junior officer with interest. “Good point. Got a crystal ball?”
Ted laughed and on the spur of the moment, now the pressure of the blackmail sting was in full retreat and Groat was a free man again, said, “No, but I’m involved in a bit of research that might help us.”
The commander raised an eyebrow – didn’t exactly dismiss it, but... “Really? Well let me know how you get on.”
FORTY FOUR
Groat, Ted and Dee were deep in conversation in the Groats’ sitting room in Loughton. Groat was still amazed at the way in which Dee’s presence in the house modified the formidable Gloria’s usual behaviour. She was waiting on them now, bringing coffee for Dee and the mandatory ice cold lager for Ted and her husband. Something that simply would not happen if they were by themselves – and she was smiling. Groat shook his head in wonderment.
When Gloria had completed her waitressing, Dee said, “I told you this was the first time I have done this for real, but from what I have read and researched, one of the most common problems with profiling, is trying to make deductions and come to any conclusion with too little evidence. What I mean is, trying to make a profile of an offender when they have only committed, say, half a dozen crimes, or even less. So what do you two do? Bring me, what is it now? Eighteen post office robberies and now,” she threw her hands up and laughed raucously – “nearly four hundred – four hundred house burglaries. Have you any idea” she paused, “how many flip charts and pencils and markers I’ve got through?”
Groat and Ted shook their heads, wondering what was coming next.
“How sure are you that all of those four hundred were committed by the same person?”
Ted looked worried, Groat shrugged and said, “To be absolutely honest, we have no idea. All we did was to ask for as many crimes as we could get, committed with the exact MO and we gave the results to you.”
“Luckily for me,” she smiled briefly, “The college allowed me some time on their computer and I was able to do some number crunching.”
They waited.
“Luckily for you,” she regarded them sternly, “As a result I can actually tell you that they were, or at least statistically they are more likely than not, to have been committed by the same person. There may be a handful that might have been someone else, but with the volume available, they’re not likely to skew the stats significantly. In other words, the number of questionable crimes is statistically insignificant.”
The two officers sat silent, bemused.
After allowing them time to try and digest that, Dee continued, “We have quite a lot of information, now. This means we can start to put it all together. We can add the data we – you – have gleaned from witnesses, what we have already deduced, data from the crimes I have distilled out and then – we can start to make some reasonable assumptions. What we must be very careful to do, though is to keep the different categories of information separate.”
“How do you mean?” Asked Groat.
“Well, what has been suggested to me, is to put the different pieces of information into three headings. Data from witnesses in column one, data from my – our – researches in column two and ‘reasonable assumptions’ in column three.”
“And conclusions at the bottom?” Ted suggested.
“If you like. That way, we know what’s concrete fact and what might be open to challenge, or being modified. It’s desperately important that we don’t get them mixed up and
therefore possibly reach an erroneous conclusion.”
So what have you discovered from the crime stats we gave you?”
“You mean that bloody data mountain?”
They smiled.
“The one crucial piece of information, the one single most important fact is…” She paused, “I can now tell you where our man really does live.”
“Really?” They chorused. “Where?”
“Well, remember I told you that future developments could change what we thought previously?”
They nodded.
Groat said, “I still can’t see how that would work.”
Dee said, “Well. Based on those relatively few post office burglaries originally, I said that our man probably lives, or lived in the Barnsley area. Yes?”
They agreed.
“But we have so much more information to go on, so many more crime locations, loci, now, that the base, the centre of the crime vortex if you like, has shifted – quite a long way.”
Groat began to appreciate, now, how it could happen, “Go on.” He said, realising that he had been holding his breath.
“Our man lives in,” she smiled and paused for dramatic effect. “Bradford.” She paused again, uncharacteristically enjoying the moment, the theatre of it – albeit given that her audience consisted of just two. She continued, “The Thornbury area of Bradford. Leeds Road, to be precise.”
Ted and Groat leaped to their feet and started jumping up and down like a pair of three year olds.
“Whahee!” yelled Groat, clapping and gyrating.
Ever the sensible one, Ted said, “Bloody hell. What are we waiting for. Let’s go get him!”
Groat grabbed Dee and subjected her to a vice like bear hug, lifted her off her feet and swung her round. Said, “Dee, you’re a bloody marvel. Are you sure?”
Grinning broadly, Dee said, “Whoa. Hang on. We’re not there yet.”
He put her down as Gloria appeared in the doorway looking puzzled and alarmed. Dee flushed, looked at her and smiled. “They get really enthusiastic about their work, don’t they?”
The Perfect Crime Page 16
