“Dry yourself on the top, the dry bit.”
She did as she was told, then let it drop, standing there in the torch light. The ledge was narrow, no more than two feet wide and about five feet long. She was close to him. Very close. He fastened a wire cable around her neck, the other end through an eye screwed in to the wall of the tunnel. He’d padded it with elastoplast so it would not bite into her flesh and it was long enough for her to lay down and move around a bit. It was, he decided, the safest and most secure way of keeping her where he wanted her to be. Rope she might be able to untie or unpick, but not wire cable. She moved even closer to him – or was it his imagination? She gazed at him steadily, as if to see who it was, there, under the mask. He gazed at her, drinking in the sight. Long, medium brown tresses framed her face, little bee sting titties, slim waist, neat dark triangle of hair atop slim, young legs.
“Is this what you want?” She asked. “Is this what it’s all about?” She shivered.
He swallowed. This had never entered into the equation, his thought processes, his plans. He shook his head to clear it and tried to concentrate on the task in hand, but somehow, the thought of that imminent fifty thousand pounds only served to increase his excitement, his feeling of burgeoning elation. The girl was slim and pretty, in stark contrast to his wife Irene, who – he considered – had allowed herself to become a right grunter over the years. Perhaps, once he’d got his hands on the money… it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Surely she would do it gladly for him, in return for the promise of imminent release? She wouldn’t tell anyone, would she? She wouldn’t want it known that she’d been with her captor. In any case, he would never be identified even if she did.
And then, joy of joys, something that had not happened for a long, long time.
Hard. Rock hard. Harder than he could ever remember.
“Get in sleeping bag.” He said gruffly.
FIFTY
Dorothy Whittle woke with a sleeping pill induced headache and realising she was late, rushed downstairs to get Lesley’s breakfast and coffee for her. She was only a few minutes after her usual seven o’clock, so was surprised to see that Lesley was already out of bed. She switched on the electric heater, for it was a cold winter’s morning. She looked in the bathroom and called her daughter. Back in the bedroom, she was puzzled to see that yesterday’s clothes were on the floor, but her clean clothes were still neatly folded on the chair. It was still dark and she felt sure that Lesley would not have gone out already. Nothing made sense. With a rising sense of panic, she ran round the house calling out, “Lesley. Lesley. Where are you, girl?”
Head spinning, she tried to phone Ron and Gaynor, but could not. The line was dead. Still in her dressing gown, she hurried to her car in the garage and was surprised to see the interconnecting door ajar, but ignored it, as her overriding concern was to get to her son and enlist his help.
At Ashleigh Gardens, she spilled out her tale.
Ron said, “Mum, Mum. Calm down. She’s got to be somewhere round the house, you’ll see.”
“She’s not, I’ve looked everywhere.”
They drove the short distance back to Beech Croft and leaving Gaynor there, mother and son, in separate cars, toured Highley in a vain effort to locate Lesley. While they were gone, Gaynor searched thoroughly and although she could not locate her sister-in-law, did discover that the telephone wires had been cut.
Dorothy largely confined her quest to the upstairs, but Gaynor was determined to carry out a really thorough job. She satisfied herself that there was nowhere on the first floor Lesley could be and went downstairs. Having searched the lounge, she went out, but then paused in the hallway.
I’m sure that vase isn’t usually left in the middle of the floor…
She went back into the room. On top of the vase was a box of Turkish Delight and curled amongst the sweets were several strips of red plastic tape. The tape bore words produced by a Dymo machine. Dorothy had seen them earlier, but dismissed it as some of Lesley’s college work. So entirely engrossed in her search for her daughter, she had not stopped to read. Gaynor did not suffer from morning sickness, but the heavily pregnant woman felt positively nauseous as she read,
NO POLICE £50000 RANSOM BE READY TO DELIVER FIRST EVENING WAIT FOR TELEPHONE CALL AT SWAN SHOPPING CENTRE TELEPHONE BOX 64711 64611 63111 TO 1 A.M. IF NO CALL RETURN FOLLOWING EVENING WHEN YOU ANSWER CALL GIVE YOUR NAME ONLY AND LISTEN YOU MUST FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS WITHOUT ARGUMENT FROM THE TIME YOU ANSWER THE TELEPHONE YOU ARE ON A TIME LIMIT IF POLICE OR TRICKS DEATH
Another strip read, £50000 ALL IN USED NOTES
Another, £25000 £1 £25000 £5 THERE WILL BE NO EXCHANGE ONLY AFTER £50000 HAS BEEN CLEARED WILL VICTIM BE RELEASED
Yet another said, DELIVER £50000 IN WHITE SUITCASE
And last – SWAN SHOPPING CENTRE KIDDERMINSTER
Gaynor sank to the floor and wept. Then, unable to phone her husband, she hurried to his office, several hundred yards away.
She delivered the dreadful news.
FIFTY ONE
Detective Chief Superintendent Bob Booth, head of West Mercia Police CID had been on duty without break for over twenty four hours. They were investigating the stabbing of a young woman, whose naked body had been found after being thrown into a roadside ditch. At Wellington police station, he was interviewing their principal suspect and thought that a confession was not far off. He was less than pleased, then, to be interrupted to be informed about a possible kidnap, some twenty five miles away at Highley. He hurriedly issued orders that the police operation must be kept as low key as possible and only plain clothed officers should go anywhere near the scene. They were to make note of all and any vehicle registrations in the vicinity and on no account was any information to be given to the media. He instructed that No. 4 Regional Crime Squad be immediately contacted to assist and that every last piece of information, gossip and intelligence about the Whittles, their family, friends and associates should be assiduously gathered.
So it was that his boss, Assistant Chief Constable Fred Hodges was first on the scene at Beech Croft to liaise with the RCS co-ordinator, Harry Williams. Both men were aware of the Muriel McKay fiasco, but knew that, historically, kidnap wasn’t a British problem. On the continent, maybe. The States, certainly, but neither man had any direct experience of the crime and were initially dubious that a real kidnap had been committed. There were various niggles that made it appear less than genuine. Why target a family in an insignificant Shropshire village? There were wealthier families elsewhere that could potentially command a far greater ransom. Why the Dymo tape? To prevent familiar handwriting from being recognised? There was no hostage’s name mentioned, nor was the identity specified of the person who was to make the drop off. It all looked remarkably amateur. The strange alternative ransom arrangement and the curious juxtaposition of ‘IF NO CALL RETURN THE FOLLOWING EVENING’ seemed at odds with, ‘YOU ARE ON A TIME LIMIT’ and ‘IF POLICE OR TRICKS DEATH’. Other details that did not ring true with the officers included the trail of mud in the house. It looked a little too obvious, as if someone wanted the police to believe that a break in had occurred and deliberately planted the dirt trail. There were also no indications of a struggle in Lesley’s bedroom and several hundred pounds in cash was lying on the floor of the bathroom. Several weeks wages for some folks, so what real criminal would have just left that there?
There was a difficult decision here. If it was genuine, then there was a real risk to Lesley’s life. If it was a hoax, they didn’t want to be caught out, red faced, nor did they want to waste precious resources into detecting some student prank.
Enquiries at Wulfrun College, where Lesley was studying ‘A’ level geography and geology together with pure and applied mathematics (and beginner’s German) led to no suspicion of a student’s rag stunt. The college principal said that Lesley was a quiet, pleasant and sincere girl.
A team of officers was dispatched to Sheffield University to interview Lesley’s boyfrie
nd, who was horrified to be arrested on suspicion of the abduction of his girlfriend. Fortunately for him and the already stretched resources of the kidnap investigation, he was quickly ruled out – and released.
DCS Booth headed for Bridgnorth police station where an incident room for the kidnap was being set up. He spent his refreshment break supervising arrangements for the night’s ransom rendezvous at Kidderminster. Following this working lunch, he headed for Highley. After liaising with his colleagues and talking to the Whittle family, he quickly decided that the ransom demand and death threats were genuine.
Ronald Whittle spent most of the day with the police as they planned their ransom trap around the Kidderminster telephone boxes.
There was one seemingly insurmountable problem hanging over them.
‘IF POLICE OR TRICKS DEATH’
And Ron had called the police. Booth suggested a simple way out. Because of the death threats, Lesley’s life could hinge on the kidnapper thinking that the family were acting independently of the police, so they would pretend that was the position. Somehow the police may have got wind, but it was nothing to do with the family and so it was perfectly safe for the kidnapper to deal with Ron as a private person. Then, under police supervision, special arrangements were made for him to withdraw enough money from the bank to make up the bundles of £1 and £5 notes. Before they were placed into the suitcase, each was microfilmed for future identification purposes. As they were packing, it became obvious that there was another problem. There was simply too much cash for one suitcase. It would have to be two.
As these arrangements were being progressed, detectives were busy in Kidderminster. Post Office engineers were called in to the local exchange to monitor the three phone boxes in the Swan shopping centre. They were aware that one of the greatest dangers the operation faced, was frightening off the kidnapper. They had no way of knowing if the kidnapper would turn up in person, or send an innocent messenger to make the collection; send Ron on to another location, or even attack him and make off with the cash. RCS surveillance expertise was being used for the operation and over forty detectives were in the area. Some found observation points in nearby offices, others posed as casual motorists, shoppers walking through the centre, or random passers-by.
DCS Booth took pains to keep the whole affair low key and at Highley was largely successful, but when the operation started at Kidderminster, it was a different matter. Bill Williams, a freelance journalist made and retained contacts ranging far and wide, high and low, inside and out. Late on Tuesday afternoon, he received the first hint of something special taking place at the Swan shopping centre. His source was impeccable but – and probably because of this – would have to remain anonymous. No matter how unimpeachable the source, before Williams could take it any further, he would have to obtain some sort of official confirmation. At six p.m. he rang Kidderminster police. A superintendent informed him that he could not say anything about the situation, that matters did not lay in his hands and that his instructions from on high were not to disclose anything. Williams at once knew that something was afoot and, that it was serious enough to have everyone twitching – which in turn meant that any pressman worth his salt would have to follow it up. He sent what story he’d got to The Birmingham Post, followed up by a call to the BBC. The BBC rang Kidderminster police station at eight p.m. and read the story over to a senior officer, but they obtained the same response. The police were not in a position to confirm or deny the story. Wildfire. From seven p.m. until nine o’clock, the phones at Beech Croft (restored within three hours by the post office, following police action in respect of the kidnapping) and at the Whittles’ home on Ashleigh Avenue had been ringing incessantly. In the absence of her husband, Gaynor Whittle enlisted police help to deal with the calls to her home.
Bob Booth and his boss, Fred Hodges were aghast at the accuracy and extent of the reporter’s knowledge. At ten thirty p.m. at Kidderminster police station, Booth bowed to the inevitable and held his first press conference – ever. He was later to liken it to scarcely credible events on American TV detective series.
This is just like on Kojak, he thought.
He told the assembled press that when Lesley disappeared she was wearing just a pale blue candlewick, full length dressing gown and a pair of blue slippers. Otherwise, apart from a wrist watch, gold signet ring and matching silver jewellery made for her by her boyfriend, she was naked. He told the journalists that news of the crime had been withheld because he felt that publicity could have jeopardised the police arrangements. He added, “I am not too happy that someone saw fit to make public the activities the police were involved in.”
Out of public purview, he and ACC Hodges were incandescent. With the world’s press on the phone and regular news bulletins being broadcast, highlighting the disappearance, there was no point in continuing the pretence that the police were not involved. It was a racing certainty that the kidnapper would not now come within light years of the Swan shopping centre. At nine p.m., half an hour after the first news flash about the kidnapping, all personnel were ordered to withdraw to Kidderminster police station for debriefing. Clearly, all secrecy in respect of the operation had been blown wide open.
Late that night, ACC Hodges called a planning conference with the eight senior officers handling the investigation. At this meeting, the operation was called off and all personnel sent home. Ron Whittle, still with his bodyguard, drove home to Highley, where two armed detectives stayed through the night.
*
From his underground bunker, perfectly insulated from any radio and TV broadcasts, the Black Panther emerged to implement the next step in his grand plan. As he dictated and well before his self-imposed deadline of one a.m., he rang Kidderminster 64611. He was disappointed, but not overly worried when no one answered, so he rang off and called 64711. He became concerned when this was also unanswered. What was going on? What had happened? After all his careful preparations, what was there to go wrong? In growing desperation, he called the one remaining number, Kidderminster 63111. He sighed with relief as eventually it was answered.
“Hallo?”
“Who’s this?” He asked. His clear instructions had been to give a name – only a name. It could only be one of very few.
“Who’s this?” Came the response.
The hairs went up on the back of his neck. He rang off.
FIFTY TWO
Gloria had never paid a lot of attention to the window bars that formed part of the architecture of many Spanish properties. She noted that the more desirable the property, the more ornate the wrought iron work might be, but had always assumed that their purpose was to allow them to have windows open in hot weather without having to worry about security. Supremely effective for keeping burglars or would be thieves out, she would never have considered their effectiveness for preventing anyone from leaving.
Room by room she explored, every conceivable nook and crevice in the villa, she examined. Every window was barred, even the small window above the toilet in the bathroom that, had she lost the two stone she promised herself she would, she could never have squeezed through, even without the bars. The front door was of massive construction and after undoing the heavy iron bolts on the inside, two locks of positively mediaeval size and appearance on the outside, rendered any attempt at escape impossible. There was not even a letterbox. The back door was similarly fortified, and when she peered through the keyhole, she saw large baulks of timber buttressing the woodwork on the outside. She also discovered two store rooms, both packed to the ceiling with equipment and supplies. No handy axe, or crowbar, though. There was also a locked door by the stairway, which could conceivably lead to a cellar.
In the time she had been there, she had heard vehicles in the distance, but none passed nearby or approached the house. She wondered where Bonehead was, what he was doing and what his intentions were. She could do with some company, but was not yet desperate enough to want his. She tried to conjure up a strategy for d
ealing with her predicament and wondered how long it would be before the alarm was raised over her disappearance. Not that I’ve really disappeared, she thought, It’s just that I haven’t reappeared yet. I wonder how long it will be before someone misses me. At this she felt tears threatening and for the first time in many a long moon felt the need to lean on someone; started to wish her husband was on hand to help extract her from the mess she’d worked herself into.
As for a strategy… there were knives in the kitchen, but was uncertain about how she might use them, or on whom, or how easily one might be turned on her if she did try an offensive... She found a piece of wood like an old chair leg in one of the store rooms and placed it near the front door. A half formed idea came to her. She could hide behind the door and use it to knock out Bonehead as he came in. Would it be like in the films? How hard would you have to hit someone to knock them out? And exactly where would you have to hit them? Bearing in mind his nickname, would he rub his head and say, “Ow, what did you do that for?” Or would she split him open and kill him. And she would only have one chance to get it right. Also, if she did incapacitate him, should she lock him in the villa, or bundle him into the Jeep and take him to the police station? She spoke only phrase book Spanish and only then, with a phrase book in her hand. She had no confidence that she could explain this complex situation to the locals, even if she possessed the strength to get him into the vehicle and drive.
On balance it looked as though she would be forced to play a waiting game. She wished that she had booked a return flight, but had been uncertain how long it would take to conduct her business, so left it open. She wondered how long it would be before anyone missed her. Perhaps no one would ever miss her. Come to think about it, Groat had seemed a little distant of late. Perhaps someone else had come into his life and this would give him the perfect opportunity to leave her. No one would blame him. At the travel agency she kept her girls strictly in line, noses to the grindstone and had few friends outside work, or her husband’s friends and colleagues in the job.
The Perfect Crime Page 19
