She possessed no family apart from one aged aunt and her husband. She knew many people, many nodding acquaintances, but came to the gradual and saddening realisation that she had no close friends of her own at all.
She sank to the floor, starting to well up. Her generous frame heaved and racked with shuddering sobbing.
FIFTY THREE
Wednesday 15th January 1975.
West Mercia Police Chief Constable Alex Rennie sat grim faced with Fred Hodges and Bob Booth, opposite the battery of flash cameras, microphones and film crews. He knew what the journalists didn’t, events that the detectives stationed in the telephone exchange had reported to him. At 11:59 p.m., there was a call to Kidderminster 64611. It rang for several seconds but no one answered. Two minutes later 64711 rang unanswered, then stopped. Finally, 63111 rang and was answered by a passer-by. The caller rang off without speaking. All that the engineers could tell them, was that all three calls had been made through the telephone exchange at Dudley.
This was kept from the press conference and all they were told was that the one a.m. deadline for the kidnapper’s call had passed without contact. The inference being that the usefulness of the rendezvous had ceased to exist and they were not going to be told about any arrangements that might have been made for that night, in case a similar situation developed.
No such ploy could deter a seasoned old hand like Bill Williams and he soon ferreted out the information he needed. That evening’s newspapers carried his stories. The location of the kiosks was clearly identified.
A frustrated Bob Booth commented, “Well, after this, she’s dead and we might as well all go home.”
That night at the kiosks, Ron Whittle and his attendant detectives tried hard to blend into the background, while at the same time having to fend off reporters and photographers. They waited for the one a.m. deadline, but the phones – understandably – remained silent.
The phone at Beech Croft, however, was not similarly redundant. As the deadline approached, while Ron was waiting at Kidderminster, Dorothy was with Gaynor, at her home for company and comfort. Fortunately, one of the coach firm employees shared a party line with the Whittles. Shortly after midnight, a man’s voice directed that the ransom should be taken to a subway, in a park in Gloucester within ninety minutes of the call being made, or Lesley would be killed. No sooner had Ron returned, nerves on edge from the abortive, stressful wait at Kidderminster, than he was dispatched to Gloucester. He pushed his maroon Reliant Scimitar, 3333 RW to speeds approaching its maximum of 120 mph, with Detective Constable Terry Woodwiss, of the Regional Crime Squad, armed with a Walther automatic pistol, crouched down behind the front seats, doing his utmost not to puke. The rest of the RCS posse drove like maniacs behind, in an attempt to keep up. They were aware of journalists also trying to keep pace with them, so they radioed ahead. Marked traffic patrol cars were waiting for them as they reached the slip road to the M5 southbound. The high speed police convoy was allowed through, then the road was closed off. Frustrated journalists could only watch as the red tails lights of that frantic mission disappeared, winking into the night.
By 2:15 a.m. on 16th January, Ron Whittle was waiting in his car, near the nominated subway entrance in Gloucester. No one approached, so eventually he got out and DC Woodwiss drove the car away, leaving him to walk alone towards the drop off point with the suitcases. By this time, detectives from the following vehicles were stationed around the subway, to protect him – and his cash.
Into the hardly penetrable darkness, Ron yelled, “Come on then. Come and get it.”
His voice echoed off the concrete walls, but no other reply was heard.
After a while, he shouted, “I’m not leaving the money unless I see my sister first.”
Again, there was no reply, just curious looks from a couple passing by, walking their dog.
Amongst those hidden around while this particular charade was being played out, was a small party of observers from Scotland Yard. The new arrivals were members of a highly trained, secret squad attached to the Criminal Intelligence Bureau of The Yard, experts in undercover surveillance techniques. Within an hour of the first BBC TV news flash, New Scotland Yard offered help to West Mercia Police. DAC Ernie Bond rang West Mercia, offering Bob Booth technical assistance, and the loan of men and technology that did not exist anywhere else in the country. Personnel with first hand previous experience of a kidnapping, having worked on the abduction in 1969, of Muriel McKay.
FIFTY FOUR
Once again, Groat did not sleep well. Not because his mattress was too thin, as he slept in his own bed, but because he was eagerly anticipating the thrust of the enquiries he would make today.
Back in the saddle again.
Ted had made a sound job of running the sting while he had been incarcerated, so he felt confident of allowing him to continue with that, while he made a few enquiries on his own account. The team recovered packets from eight of the ten drops the first night and a brief phone call from Ted gave them seven out of nine last night. Better than he’d expected, or even hoped – and more than sufficient for Olivia to be given a maximum sentence for a first offence, even if all tonight’s proved negative – which going on their experience so far, was unlikely.
He gave himself the morning for enquiries, Ted was to join him around lunchtime. They were to report to Mr Van Lesseps before five p.m. and then again the following day after the whole operation had been wound down. Ted arranged an interview team for Miss Di Angelo, with two experienced officers being briefed on the ‘true’ circumstances of the operation. They were warned that there was every likelihood that she would attempt to incriminate Detective Chief Inspector Groat in some way. They were instructed to carry out preliminary interviews, concentrating on hard evidence, like the existence and origination of the blackmail letters and statements from victims, not hearsay, or spiteful accusations flung indiscriminately by a revengeful woman. They were to conduct final interviews once all the drops had been collected. So far the team had recovered in excess of £32,000 and the final total was expected to go close on to £50,000. Not bad for a first attempt. People got life for less.
Groat drove in the weak December sunshine to Deepdale Motors in Seven Kings.
As soon as he walked onto the site he was accosted by a salesman. “See anything you fancy, sir?”
On another day, that line would have been a sure fire recipe for him to have some fun, but today was for serious business; cut-to-the-chase enquiries. He said, “DCI Groat, CID. Where’s the boss?”
The man literally took a pace backwards, wondering what his employer had been up to, already preparing to start a rumour. “Oh, I see. OK. Mr Goodman’s in the office.”
Groat weaved his way through the cars on display, ducking under the lines of fluttering, multicoloured plastic flags to a portakabin towards the rear of the lot. Goodman proved a useful sort, unusually so (in Groat’s experience) for a used car dealer. He said, “Everything’s legit here Mr Groat. Look at whatever you want. All the paperwork’s up to date. Feel free to look in the cabinets if you wish.”
Groat smiled, “That’s very refreshing, Mr Goodman. I don’t know how many of your counterparts around here would be so open, or honest.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not here to examine your books, or get you into trouble in any way, I need to know about a vehicle you sold recently. A green Volkswagen beetle, registered number VWC 864J.”
Goodman went to the filing cabinets offered up for examination, pulled open a drawer and started hunting through.
“Here’s what you want, Mr Groat. What’s the matter, has he used it in an armed robbery or summats? I could have sold him something quicker, a lot more tasty…”
“Cash sale?” Groat asked.
The salesman took the papers from him. “Ah. Now I remember. Funny old job that. Oh.” He laughed, “I don’t mean nothing dodgy, simply, well, odd. Didn’t walk round kicking tyres, didn’t want a test drive. Most folks will want to drive their
prospective purchase, have a go at a bit of a haggle, but not him. Bit of a, well, sort of reluctant geezer I suppose you might call him. Didn’t want to give me his details, just wanted to give me the cash and go. I said to him, ‘I’ve got to make the receipt out to someone,’ and he told me his name was Boulders. Mr T Boulders. Never heard of anyone by that name before – have you, Mr Groat? Wouldn’t give me his address, but I’m not as green as I am cabbage looking, if you get my drift. Here.” He pointed to the top of the copy invoice. “I saw this as he was counting out the money, sort of slipped out of his wallet. Rental agreement for a flat or something.”
Groat read, 42, Hickling Road, Ilford. Brilliant.
He said, “Thank you, Mr Goodman, you’ve been a great help. A very great help indeed.”
Goodman beamed. The used car trade was obviously not a fertile source of compliments, or heartfelt thanks. “Well. Thank you Mr Groat. If there’s anything I can do – at any time.”
Groat regarded him thoughtfully, “Well, actually…”
“Anything, Mr Groat, anything.”
“Actually, there is. Could I use you phone?”
“Of course.” Goodman beamed, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, no, that’s fine. Remember that whatever you may hear will be police business – strictly confidential. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Of course, my lips are sealed.”
Groat dialled the Yard. “Detective Sergeant Pearson, please.” He waited, looked up at Goodman, winked conspiratorially. “Ted, it’s… Yes, yes, everything’s fine. Got a lead on that Volkswagen. How long will it take you to get to Ilford? Hickling Road, number forty two. OK. I’m pretty sure it’s where our man’s holed up. No, no time for a warrant, we need to get in there fast. I’ll meet you at the junction with Ilford Lane. Forty minutes? OK.”
He thanked Mr Goodman again as he left.
“Call me Les.” He watched Groat leave, thought, If only interesting things like this happened every day…
FIFTY FIVE
Having found his underground bunker, with all its inbuilt strengths and advantages, the Panther was confident enough to dispense with his all too complicated idea of the ransom being thrown from the train. As a matter of principle, he knew that the more complex a plan, the more opportunities existed for it to go wrong. He had reckoned that a couple of attempts at making contact by telephone to the Swan shopping centre kiosks would be sufficient and considered the delivery and (more to the point) his collection of the ransom from his underground hideaway was reasonably fool proof. Being the organised character he was, however, he did have another, simpler Plan B.
He went to Lesley and gave her food and water and left her with a half bottle of brandy – for medicinal purposes – should she feel in need whilst he was away. He also took with him his cassette recorder and a tape and a card carrying a message in block capitals thereon. He instructed the girl to read out loud, what was on the card.
He said, “When they hear this, they will pay up quick. Won’t be long now.”
Awake and on the go for a considerable period, he drove back to Bradford and slept for a many, long delicious hours. When he woke up, he climbed up to his campaign room, entered via a securely locked door in the loft space of his house and retrieved more tapes for his Dymo machine.
Back in Dudley, he left his transport in a car park opposite the Midland Red bus garage and walked up on the road leading to the Freightliner Depot. Here he started laying a trail of Dymo printed tapes for the Whittles – or their stooges – to follow to the drop off point for the ransom money.
Around ten thirty that moonless, damp and murky night, he had completed his task and intended to slip out of the depot grounds unseen, when a tall balding man wearing freightliner uniform walked by. This was extraordinarily inconvenient. He was far too close to both the ransom trail and its end point. Slipping behind one of the parked up lorries, he hoped the man had not seen him, or if he had been seen, would not bother with him any further. He was to be disappointed. Footfalls approached.
“What are you doing here?” The man asked.
The Panther put on one of his disguised voices, but had been caught off balance. He felt peculiarly naked, exposed, with no balaclava or other gear to help him merge into the background, his friend the darkness. He was off home ground and not in control of the situation. His usual composure rapidly evaporated. This was totally off the wall. He did his best. Many times afterwards, he thought, Why didn’t I just tell him I was looking for somewhere to take a leak?
“Giz a lift mate.”
“A lift? Where?”
The Panther’s brain started to spin. He gestured randomly. “Jackson’s warehouse, mate.”
The man frowned, “What do you want to go there for?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
What was he to do? He was not kitted out as he usually would be. He had nothing to tie the man up with, even if he could subdue him sufficiently and for long enough. The heavy transports he had seen in the depot were all obviously locked, so nowhere to incarcerate him while he made his getaway.
As he spoke, the Panther was fumbling discreetly for the .22 in his pocket. A vague plan was forming in his mind. It was chancy, but if he could get this nosey, interfering menace back to his lair in Bathpool Park, he could tie him up and keep him down the shaft long enough to collect his money and get away. He would think about and deal with the problems with being identified later. Matters were taken out of his hands, however, long before it could get that far. The man turned on his heel and started to walk away from him. That could mean only one thing.
Police.
The Panther called, “Come back here.”
The man kept walking.
The pistol was in his hand, now.
He shouted, “I said, come back.”
No response.
Crack.
The man turned angrily, holding his backside. “You idiot,” He yelled, “What are you playing at?” He closed with him and swung a haymaker in the Panther’s direction, but the younger man was agile and adept at unarmed combat. The freightliner employee turned to run. Desperately, the Panther fired another four shots, but his aim was poor as he was also running now. The man suddenly stopped and faced him. He was a mere six feet away. He would have to finish it. Now. Then no more worries. He raised his pistol at point blank range.
Took careful aim.
Click.
He’d run out of ammunition.
Gerald Smith, the forty four year-old freightliner overseer, dragged himself back to the terminal and staggered in to his office.
“Get the police.” He gasped. “A bloke out there shot me. He emptied the gun into me from point blank range.”
The only visible wound was on his left wrist. Neither he nor any of his staff realised how extensive the damage was to the rest of his body. The depot night shift foreman eased him into his car and took him to Dudley Guest Hospital, five minute drive away on Tipton Road. He was examined in the accident and emergency department, where they found a total of seven bullet wounds. In addition to the holes in his left shoulder, he had a wound in his left buttock, the right side of his stomach and two in the small of his back. Only when he was sent for X-ray did the full scale of his injuries then start to become apparent. As his condition began to deteriorate, the doctors established that one badly damaged kidney would have to be removed. His liver was damaged and the bullet through his stomach had pierced his bowel. This in itself would necessitate a major operation. With his strength ebbing fast, the doctors decided that immediate surgery was imperative to save his life.
They did their best, but it was to be only a reprieve, not a recovery. Within a matter of months, Gerald Smith would be dead.
He was in no condition to give a detailed statement, but detectives were allowed to talk to him as he waited in casualty. The description he gave was circulated to all patrols.
As the message was being broadcast, PC Ma
rk Wakelam was driving along Tipton Road, a short distance from where the overseer lay awaiting his operation. Twenty year old Wakelam was one of the unarmed reinforcements heading for the rendezvous point at the Freightliner depot. As he was passing the hospital, his headlights illuminated the figure of a small man, walking quickly, dressed in a flat cap, wearing a knee length raincoat and carrying a rucksack.
“Christ, that’s him.” He gasped. He braked to a halt and sprinted back to where he had seen the man, but his quarry had disappeared in the direction of the hospital grounds, either by climbing over a wall, or through the gate into the nearby nurses home. A search of the area revealed nothing. It was as if he had dematerialised in the mist.
The divisional commander, Chief Superintendent Cliff Taylor convened an emergency conference with his head of CID, Detective Superintendent Arthur Strange and other senior officers. The most baffling feature of the whole incident was a complete apparent lack of motive for what had transpired. And the would be killer seemed to be a trigger happy tramp. But how many tramps carried a gun and what possible reason would anyone have to gun down Gerald Smith? After all, he was walking away when the shooting started.
The following morning, at first light, a fingertip search of the Freightliner compound was started and officers quickly unearthed three live and six spent rounds of .22 ammunition. Detective Superintendent Strange ordered that they should be rushed to the forensic science laboratory in Nottingham for immediate examination.
Within minutes, a traffic patrol car, blues and twos full on, piloted by a class one advanced driver powered out of the station yard, en route for Nottingham.
The Perfect Crime Page 20
