He went back to his maps and traced the route of the railway line from Dudley, going north. He looked for the railway to pass through an open space, with preferably a tunnel, as well. His finger moved up, past Telford, Market Drayton and Stoke on Trent and stopped near Kidsgrove. Bingo! – that looked eminently suitable. A place called Bathpool Park.
Bathpool Park. Not quite sixty miles, but it took him two hours to drive there. He left his stolen Ford Escort van in the car park and walked along the footpath next to the railway. Here the Panther luck cut in again. As he walked past an electricity substation, he heard a roaring sound coming from a slightly raised manhole cover near the path. He went over, pulled it up and saw an iron ladder going down into a deep, dark vertical shaft. Carefully replacing it, he fetched his new torch from the van and went back to investigate.
He explored the network of tunnels, with the lower levels carrying water, getting on for sixty or seventy feet down, he reckoned. No doubt at times of heavy rainfall the water would rise, but as it stood, it was out of the way, with some dry, horizontal tunnels – areas in which he could easily conceal a kidnap victim, with no chance of them ever being able to attract assistance – and equally little prospect of escape. Not only that, but the ransom drop could be made at one entrance, he could collect it, secure the cover from the inside and leave by another tunnel. No one would be able to follow him, at least not without some considerable delay, by which time he would be miles away, with very little risk of anyone seeing him make his exit. He would leave a vehicle on each potential escape route, so wherever he came out, he would get clean away. He could then call the family and tell them where to go, to get their loved one back.
Perfect!
FORTY EIGHT
Gloria’s flight touched down at Malaga airport. There were not as many taxis as was usual in high season, but she didn’t have to wait long. She showed the driver the address she been given, and settled back in the seat. They headed out along the coast road, away from Malaga, towards Fuengirola. After skirting Marbella, they turned inland onto a smaller road and began the twisting, winding ascent into the Serranĩa de Ronda. A few minutes later the taxi slowed and turned into an imposing gateway of white rendered brick, with red tiled tops and heavy wrought iron gates. The gateway and abutting walls were covered with some dark green, huge-leafed creeper. From there it was a few yards drive to the villa, the sight of which made Gloria gasp with surprise. She hastily rummaged in her handbag and took out the promotional literature. It was the same villa in the photos in the leaflet. She was going to stay in the company’s main show home! The taxi driver helped her with her bags, then drove off, leaving her on the step. She knocked on the door and waited. After a few seconds, she knocked again. Still no response. She tried the door handle and the heavy, studded wooden door swung silently inwards.
“Halloo.” Her voice echoed round the tiled interior. “Anyone at home?” She called again, “Hallo – is there anyone here?”
She stepped inside and waited, listening. Obviously not. But this has to be the right place, must be. It’s the villa in the leaflet. She decided to look round. She glanced back at her suitcases on the doorstep and reasoned that the place was isolated and if the company were confident enough to leave the premises insecure, she could leave them there for a couple of minutes. So that was what it was like round here. Not like London, where you’ve got to lock everything all the time and your husband’s paranoid about being burgled. Her footsteps sounded hard on the ceramic tiles, silent on the deep pile rugs. The living room was two or three times the size of their spacious lounge in Loughton, with heavy Spanish wood and leather furniture. The whole effect was rather too dark and ornate for her liking, but if they were still building, she thought that there was no reason why their properties could not be finished in a way more to her taste. She went through to the kitchen.
There was a note on the table. She read:
Dear Mrs Groat,
I apologise profusely for not meeting you at the airport, but have had to attend an urgent management meeting in the city. Please make yourself at home, I will be with you later on this afternoon. Perhaps we could have a meal this evening as a gesture of good will from the company for not welcoming you properly this morning.
T. Boulders.
She had never heard of anyone by the name of Boulders before. She experimented with saying Señor Boulders in a Spanish accent. She brought in her cases and explored the rest of the house, then made herself a cup of coffee. She took it outside onto the patio and surveyed the view. The air smelled fresh and clean and she could see for ever. Mountain peaks soared away to her right and was that the sea to the left, in the far hazy distance? The swimming pool was empty, but then it was January. Even so the temperature was still in the sixties and warm enough to be outside without a coat.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” she took a deep draught of the mountain air, “wait ‘til my old man finds out what a clever woman he married. All this for two and a half grand. He won’t believe it.”
*
Gloria explored the rest of the villa and was bursting with ideas on how she would want theirs. In only one of the bedrooms was a bed made up, so she lugged her bags upstairs and unpacked a little. Lunch was little more than a sandwich and it was now late afternoon, so she went back downstairs to explore the kitchen a little better. She made herself another cup of coffee and started looking through the cupboards and drawers. The place was exceptionally well stocked. These people really went to town! In the distance she heard a vehicle approaching. She went to a window, but in the Spanish fashion, there were bars on the outside and the same creeper that topped the entrance gates partially obscured her view. She went to the front door and opened it in time to see a rugged looking four wheel drive vehicle turn off the road and into the drive. Gloria knew what a Triumph Spitfire looked like – as well as a Ford Capri – but beyond that possessed scant interest in cars. As long as they were comfortable, reliable and got her from A to B…
The Jeep stopped a few feet away. Out jumped a man sporting a Peter Wyngarde style moustache. In fact, it could have been Jason King, albeit with a less exaggerated hairstyle.
“Señora Groat.”
“Mr Boulders – Señor Boulders?”
He was tall, slim and tanned. Really quite handsome in a craggy sort of way, she decided. He ushered her inside and to her surprise, turned and locked the front door. Pocketed the key.
“Time to drop the pretence, I think.” He said in his normal voice.
Suddenly all the small twinges she’d experienced when listening to that voice on the phone surfaced and made sense.
“But you’re in prison.” She said.
Swiftly following the first, other realisations threatened to inundate.
No one knew where she was apart from her husband, who only knew that she was going to Malaga.
She was not in Malaga.
She was in a villa with locked doors and bars on all the windows.
The villa was probably not a show home.
The nearest neighbour could be a kilometre away – or more.
The place was equipped and provisioned for a six month siege.
As if reading her mind, he shook his head, “It’s no good shouting and there’s no phone.”
And the only person who knew where she actually was, was a convicted, serial rapist.
The floor suddenly started to spin and rushed up to meet her.
When she came round she was in the bedroom, lying on the bed. She tried to move, but her freedom to do so was limited. Regulation Metropolitan Police handcuffs manacled her securely to the wrought ironwork of the headboard.
Bonehead sat in an armchair, watching her. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He shrugged briefly. “Your choice.”
Eventually, she said, “What do you want?” You bastard.
“Only what I’ve always wanted.”
Gloria closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. She had been about to
snap, “You’re mad”, but thought, Better not. What if he is? He must be mad, or at least slightly deranged to have gone to these lengths. That fake advertising campaign (and how did he get to know where I work?) The organisation in getting me out here, this place… I’ll have to very careful; jolly him along, bide my time… watch for an opportunity… escape when he’s not looking…
Carefully, she said, “And what is… what might that be?”
“Just you. Only you, it’s only ever been you.”
“Bonehead…”
“Sidney. It’s Sidney now, no more Bonehead. I’ve left Bonehead behind. That was another time, another place. You’re in my world now. My world of sunshine and loving, of fine wine and freedom.”
Mad, quite mad. It’s the wrong time of year for sunstroke. Maybe he’s on drugs or something…
Patiently she said, “All right. Sidney, I’m a married woman, remember. I only ever went out with you for a few weeks…”
“Four months, actually.”
“All right, a few months.” Careful, girl. “Whatever, we were only boyfriend, girlfriend. It was never anything serious. You and I split up and I’ve been married to Lester for fourteen years now. You can’t simply turn back the clock.”
“I’ve waited for you, all this time. I can wait until you develop the right frame of mind.”
I’ll butter her paws, like a kitten. Give her time. She’ll come round.
In his head he could hear Louis Armstrong crooning, We have all the time in the world...
“He’s no good for you, never was. You’re worth so much more. He’s not even given you any kids, has he? Can’t he get it up, or what? Queer is he?”
Gloria briefly closed her eyes, “We don’t want children, all right.”
“Whatever,” he said. This was obviously going to take longer than he had hoped. “I’ll go and do us something to eat.”
They dined in virtual silence, like an old married couple. He poured wine, she drank none, fearful of what might happen in the night.
*
It was a Monday evening, so Dorothy Whittle was off out to visit friends, less than ten minute drive away, in Chelmarsh village. It was about 8:30 p.m. when she said goodbye to Lesley, who was in the lounge turning up the hem on a pair of jeans and watching ‘Alias Smith and Jones’ on BBC 2. Later, she bathed and washed her long dark hair and shortly after ten p.m. rang her sister-in-law, Gaynor. They talked about dresses and the soon-to-arrive baby. She was going to be an auntie at seventeen! She thanked Ron again for the book case he had made her for Christmas, then set about getting ready for bed. She knew that her mother would not be home until late and did not intend waiting up. Before she settled down for the night, she opened the garage door so her mum could drive straight in and left the downstairs lights on, as well as the outside security light so she could see where she was going.
Sometime after midnight, Dorothy returned and parked her car in the garage. She made herself a cup of Ovaltine and pausing to check that Lesley was fast asleep, went to bed herself. Outside, a fitful breeze riffled plastic sheeting covering some window frames stacked at the back of the house, camouflaging and complementing the usual night noises.
Black Panther weather.
FORTY NINE
Late night, Monday 13th January 1975.
The Panther made his way to his Nuneaton lock up. He loaded his stolen Morris 1300 with the kidnap equipment so carefully accrued from around the country and set off for Highley. The vehicle was fitted with false plates, TTV 454H, from another, identical 1300 he had seen in Nottingham. Around two a.m., he parked in the centre of the village and walked the back roads through the council estate, along a footpath he knew led to the Whittles’ house. He scouted around carefully and made sure all was quiet. The garage door remained open and the connecting door into the house was insecure, as he had previously loosened the hinge screws.
He cut the telephone wires to prevent any alarm being activated and having satisfied himself that all was well, returned to the parked car. He then drove to the quiet lane running alongside Beech Croft’s garden. There, after donning his Black Panther outfit, silently effected entry and crept upstairs. The only occupants were Dorothy and the girl. He went back to Dorothy’s bedroom, where she was snoring loudly.
He stage whispered, “Wake up.” But there was no response. The snoring continued. “Wake up.” A little louder. Again, she did not stir, so he shook her by the shoulder. Gently at first, then more roughly. It was no good, she appeared dead to the world – as indeed she was, having taken a sleeping tablet a couple of hours previously.
He sighed.
It would have to be the girl.
He went to Lesley’s room and shook her awake. There was little obvious need for silence, so he said in his stilted Black Panther manner (which he considered to be a fair West Indian accent), “No noise now. Keep quiet and you not be hurt. All right?”
Eyes wide with fright and fixed on the Smithson sawn-off, Lesley nodded.
He said, “I want money and I want you to come with me.”
She said, “It’s in the bathroom.”
He frowned, “What? How much?”
“About £200 – £300 in change.”
He said, “Show me.”
She got out of bed and stood in front of him.
He looked at her and after a long pause, said, “Get dressed.”
“Why?”
He said, “For goodness’ sake cover yourself. Anyway, you’ll get cold.”
Lesley reached her dressing gown from the foot of the bed and shrugged it on, pushing her feet into her mules as she did so. He took hold of her elbow, warned her again not to make any noise, steered her downstairs and out of the house. He hustled her across the garden and towards the Morris. Quickly securing her wrists and ankles with elastoplast, he stuck one final strip across her mouth. He fitted a hood over her head, pushed her onto the back seat and positioned the foam rubber mattress over her to conceal her from view. Back into the house, he found a large vase in an alcove in the lounge and placed it in a prominent position in the middle of the hearth rug, his Dymo tape ransom demand on top where it could be plainly seen.
*
After some miles, he could hear determined grunting from the back seat. He waited until they reached a stretch of road with no street lighting, stopped and drew his balaclava down over his face. He turned to the back of the car, uncovered the girl and pulled the elastoplast from her mouth.
“What are you doing?” She asked. “Where are we going? What’s happening?”
The Panther used another of his voices, higher than normal. Harsh, something akin to a Nazi Dalek; a voice of command – or so he liked to think. “You have been kidnapped. Stay still and you OK. If you not behave, you go in boot. OK?”
“I’m cold.” She said.
He covered her over again and turned up the heater. They drove on.
It was later than he had intended and close to first light, when they pulled up in Bathpool Park. Parking close to the central shaft, he started lugging his specially gathered purchases down to one of the dry, horizontal shafts. In stout polythene bags, he stacked them, safe against the damp.
The girl was still blindfolded and he had some difficulty persuading her to go with him into the shaft. He did not want to upset her unduly, as part of his plan was to get her to record a message onto a cassette tape, to up the ante with her family if needed. He coaxed her to the edge.
“Bend your knees.” He said.
Obediently, she crouched down into a squatting position. He got onto the top of the iron ladder in front of her.
He said, “Put your hands on my shoulders.”
He could feel the draught from the black hole they were atop and sensed her reluctance to comply. As she moved tentatively forward, he reached round behind her, underneath her legs, pulling her off balance and onto him. He then started the arduous climb down the sixty foot shaft, with her on his back. As they descended, he thought, Co
uldn’t have done this with the brother. Lucky she’s only small. In fact, Lesley was only a shade over five feet tall and weighed under eight stone.
As he laboured downwards, the warmth of her body permeated through to him. Her arms were round his neck, he could smell her. It was longer than he could remember that he’d had a woman so determinedly close to him. Dependent on him. Her legs were wrapped tight around his waist. Underneath that dressing gown, her nakedness pressed close against the small of his back. Special, very special. In spite of his physical exertions and dogged concentration on the task in hand, he felt a stirring down below.
In the main horizontal tunnel, the water ran five or six inches deep. He didn’t want her to get wet, but there was insufficient height for him to carry her.
He said, “You get dry soon.” And led her, still hooded and with her wrists bound, towards her temporary prison. There was one final hurdle to overcome. He needed to get her up onto a small dry culvert he had found to accommodate his captive, but in front of them and between their current position and the ledge, another tunnel dropped vertically down into the depths. He stopped her on the edge of the drop. He straddled the gap, one foot on her side and the other on the short ladder up to the ledge. He took hold of her arm and told her to step over to the ladder, not telling her how much of a drop she would be suspended over. Standing on the ladder, she hesitated.
“Climb up, now.” He said, not unkindly.
Still she did not move. “I’m getting really cold.” She said.
“Soon be nice and dry – and warm.” He told her and put his free hand under her bottom to encourage her up the ladder. The touch was electric.
Once on the landing, he took the elastoplast off her wrists and making sure his balaclava was properly in place, removed the hood from her. He then bade her take off her dressing gown.
The Perfect Crime Page 18
