FIFTY SIX
Groat met up with Ted on Ilford Lane, near the end of Hickling Road. On the other side of the road from where they’d parked – quite illegally – a bakers shop was wafting the most delicious aromas into the atmosphere. Fresh bread, cakes, pastries, doughnuts.
“Fancy a fresh jam doughnut?” Ted sighed wistfully.
Groat preferred savouries to sweet things, but memories of cell block food and the lack of Gloria’s home cooking over the last few days, suddenly overtook him. “Oh, what the hell.”
When they got back to the cars, as if from nowhere, a traffic warden had appeared and was officiously writing on her pad.
“Want a doughnut, darling?” Groat enquired.
“Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?” She said.
Ted had been with his colleague in similar circumstances before. He jabbed Groat in the back with his index finger, “Oi, come on.”
Groat ignored him, concentrating on the traffic warden. He did his best to appear hurt, feelings deeply injured. “I only asked you if you wanted a doughnut.” He sidled up to her and executed a fair impression of Leslie Phillips. “Well, ding dong,” he said, “What’s a gorgeous girl like you doing in a hole like this?”
Ted looked on in disbelief, willing the woman to get on with it, tell him to get stuffed; watched her melt in spite of herself, dreading the denouement to follow. Wished he was anywhere but Ilford Lane, in broad daylight, unable to escape the inevitable humiliation of the traffic warden, who, in his opinion was only doing her job. He was embarrassed, because he was aware of what was going on and knew he should stop it. He also knew with equal certainty that he would not.
Groat continued, “What would it take for you to forget about the parking ticket. If not a doughnut, what then?” He leered at her, segued seamlessly from Leslie Phillips to Sid James, “Could I slip you something?”
The warden gazed up into Groat’s eyes, putty in his hands. Groat took his wallet out of his inside pocket.
“How about a crisp fiver?” He said, voice soft, cajoling.
The traffic warden smiled.
Ted cringed.
Groat hovered, an inch from her ear and said, “Or how about this?” and shoved his warrant card in front of her nose.
As they walked away, having parked their cars more respectably, Ted said, “You really are a turd, you know. I do wish you wouldn’t do that. Especially while I’m around.”
“Oh come on, lighten up. It’s only a bit of fun. Anyway,” he made a creditable stab at a Pete and Dud accent, “I’ve not been well. I’ve been under a lot of strain lately.”
Ted said, “So that would be the red salmon, then, would it?”
Fortunately, at that moment they reached number forty two, Hickling Road.
“Come on.” Groat said walking into the small front garden. A tall, straggling, ill tended privet hedge reached out to touch them, across the short path to the front door. He peered through the bay window, but the combination of cobwebs, dirt encrusted glass and heavy net curtains prevented any useful reconnoitre.
“What are you going to do?” Ted looked worried, concerned about the flighty mood his friend seemed to be experiencing at present. “We haven’t got a warrant, or anything.”
“You’ve heard of the Metropolitan Police Ways and Means Act?”
Ted’s expression intensified. “We can’t just…”
Groat carried on as if he had not been interrupted, “It’s a bit like the Lincolnshire Barbed Wire Act, only a bit smoother, more urban.” He switched his attention to the knocker.
Ted said, “No, don’t…”
Groat rapped on the woodwork, turned to his colleague and gave him a smug smile, “Why make everything so difficult, my boy?” He knocked again. A young man with dark tousled hair, answered the door. He was wearing a pair of creased Crimplene trousers and a grubby singlet, covering an already incipient corporation. The sound of a television boomed down from upstairs, a male voice commentating; a frenzied crowd cheering.
Groat said, “Mr Boulders?”
A quizzical look. “No. That’s the bloke that lives downstairs. We live upstairs.”
“And you are?”
“Alan…”
“Well, ‘Alan’, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Groat, this is D/S Pearson. We need to speak to Mr Boulders. I take it by the fact that you answered the door, that he’s not in. Mind if we have a look around?” Not waiting for a reply, Groat pushed past him into the hallway, followed by a troubled looking D/S Pearson.
“He keeps it locked up.” Alan said.
Groat rounded on him. “Oh? And how would we know that? Tried the doors, have we?”
The lad looked sheepish. That was enough for Groat.
“Well, Alan, I suggest that you go back upstairs and watch the gee gees, or whatever it was you were doing, and let the CID do their job. All right?”
The lad shrugged and padded off, back upstairs to his television.
Groat put his shoulder to the front sitting room door and turned the handle. It opened easily.
Ted followed him in, said quietly, “We shouldn’t be in here… doing this…”
Groat was busy searching. Without turning, or pausing, he said, “The small, sweet voice of reason. My conscience. If this is Bonehead’s lair, bearing in mind what he’s done to me – tried to do to me… You can wait outside if you want.”
Ted sighed and pitched in. Groat found a stack of holiday home brochures in a cupboard, together with a few girlie magazines and Ted unearthed a ten bob note stuffed down the side of an armchair and a can of lager, but nothing of any real interest in the front room. They went through into the rear room which had been pressed into use as a bedroom.
Groat said, “That lad said Mr Boulders keeps his doors locked. Note; these doors are not locked. There are bits and pieces lying around, but nothing of value, certainly nothing personal. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“What, like he’s done a bunk and isn’t coming back?”
“Something like that – but why? He’s got a perfectly good little set up here, why just up and leave it?” He paused, looked at his watch. “What time have we got to see Mr Van Lesseps?”
“Half four.”
“OK, we better met a groove on then. I’ll search in here, you do the kitchen.”
Ted saw that the narrow kitchen was equipped with a bath, a hinged working surface over it and shelves above. There was a cooker and a sink; a small folding table lay flat against the opposite wall. He heard Groat hail from the other room. He went through to him. “Remember the what?”
“The Groat principles of searching.”
Ted sighed. “And what are the words of wisdom to the undeserving on this occasion, oh mighty one?”
“Because most people are short arses, they think that putting something up high is hiding it.”
“Right.”
And he was. A couple of minutes later, Groat heard Ted call. His tone was sufficient to make him hurry. “What is it?” He asked.
Ted had assembled a small collection of items on the working surface. A single burner Camping Gaz stove, a blow torch, plasticine, plaster of Paris and various other paraphernalia; a small tin and a handkerchief with the initials L.E.G. in one corner.
“Give us your keys.”
Groat felt in his pocket and did as he was told.
“There.” Ted said, a note of triumph in his voice.
He fitted Groat’s back door key snugly into the depression in the plasticine filled tin.
“Got you, you bastard.” Groat said with no small satisfaction.
FIFTY SEVEN
The buzzer on the front desk of Dudley Police station sounded persistently. The caller informed the enquiry office PC that he had noticed a car parked opposite the Midland Red bus garage. He, like most people in the area, was aware of the random, inexplicable shooting of Gerald Smith and wondered if the police would be interested, as it was a stranger that he had not see
n before. He said that he was a commuter and regular user of the car park where the vehicle was currently.
A uniformed patrol attended and saw that the vehicle in question was a dark green Morris 1300 saloon, registered number TTV 454H. It was locked, but one of the officers noticed that the tax disc was not quite right. He couldn’t read the original number, but it had clearly been altered from something else, to read the same as the number plates. They alerted the CID, who arrived in short order, carrying with them a box containing a large number of keys. Most police stations had car keys, house keys and all sorts handed in to them and if they were not later claimed, they would often be simply thrown into a box. This avoided the excessively bureaucratic paperwork involved in properly disposing of something that was of little value, and that obviously nobody wanted. Dudley police station was no exception and their collection had often been used to assist motorists who had locked themselves out of their vehicle, or to facilitate people breaking in to their own homes.
Today they would be put to more good use.
Inside the car they found a motley assortment of items. A tape recorder and a cassette, Lucozade, barley sugar, a yellow foam mattress. There was also an unworn pair of new needlecord trousers, roughly trimmed to a slight 29 inch inside leg and a pair of women’s outsize white knickers, that looked as though they’d been used as a cleaning rag.
Of far more interest was a collection of brown manila envelopes containing strips of printed Dymo tape.
Envelope number one bore the badly spelled, ‘At 454 Walsal’ The tape inside read, ‘A454 TO WOLVERHAMPTON INSTRUCTIONS IN TELEPHONE BOX CORONATION AVENUE’. Envelope two bore, ‘At Coronation for 52449’ and the tape message was, ‘M6 SOUTH ON M5 ON TO A4123 DUDLEY WOLVERHAMPTON INSTRUCTIONS TELEPHONE BOX 52449’.
Envelope 3 – ‘At 52449 for 55719’ contained the message, ‘A461 DUDLEY TELEPHONE BOX 52449 OR 55719 INSTRUCTIONS TAPED UNDER SHELF’.
The last envelope simply said ‘At 55719 for street light’ and contained tape reading, ‘TURN RIGHT AT SECOND TRAFFIC LIGHTS TO FREIGHTLINER LIMITED DUDLEY TERMINAL INSTRUCTIONS TAPED TO STREET LIGHT’.
Suddenly it all clicked into place. The envelopes were clues for a real treasure hunt – the £50,000 ransom for Lesley Whittle. The abandoned car was the missing piece of the jigsaw which interlocked with so many others, helping to build that vital picture. The officers hurried back to a hastily convened meeting with their bosses, Chief Superintendent Cliff Taylor and Detective Superintendent Arthur Strange.
The Connaught green Morris 1300 had been left a mere two hundred and fifty yards from where Gerald Smith had been shot and wounded. And then D/S Strange dropped a bombshell. They had just received the results of the forensic examination of the ammunition recovered from the Freightliner depot shooting. The bullets and cartridge cases found there, matched those from the weapon used to kill Derek Astin in Accrington and Sidney Grayland in Langley. Gerald Smith had been shot by the post officer robber and three times murderer, the Black Panther.
So it was the Black Panther who had kidnapped Lesley Whittle. And Gerald Smith had probably been shot because he had interrupted him laying the ransom trail. They pondered on how fortunate Mr Smith was, as he must be one of the few who had seen his attacker, the Black Panther, face to face and survived.
Cliff Taylor rang Bob Booth at Bridgnorth to apprise him of the new developments. Booth could hardly believe what he was being told. On the one hand this was grave news indeed, but on the other, it only served to vindicate his initial decision to treat the kidnap threat seriously. Although the link was, as yet only circumstantial, if she wasn’t dead already, Lesley’s life was in peril as never before. The two men decided to keep the discovery a close secret, to allow sufficient breathing space to adapt to the changed circumstances.
Later that night, Bob Booth together with his deputy, Stan Dixon and Frank Lovejoy, head of the Yard’s surveillance team drove to Dudley. After a considerable time spent examining the car and poring over its contents they met in Cliff Taylor’s office. There were no fingerprints, nothing. Even the envelopes had been tested with Ninhydrin, but apparently the man was as forensically aware as he was surveillance conscious.
Nothing.
More as an afterthought, than anything, Booth said, “Anyone know what’s actually on the tape?”
The remark was greeted by blank looks, shrugged shoulders, the shaking of heads. Cliff Taylor sent for a tape recorder. The tape was inserted and rewound. He pressed the ‘play’ button. They waited. The recording started to play, sounding hollow, with a slight echo.
‘Go to the M6 north to junction ten and then on to the A454 towards Walsall. Instructions are taped under the shelf in the telephone box. Please Mum, go to the M6 north to junction ten and then on to the A454 towards Walsall. Instructions are taped under the shelf in the telephone box. There’s no need to worry, Mum, I’m OK. I got a bit wet, but I’m quite dry now. I’m being treated very well. OK?’
A shocked silence prevailed in the room.
It was the voice of Lesley Whittle.
FIFTY EIGHT
Groat was more concerned than ever, now that the Bonehead connection had been properly established. He wanted to go straight over to the Travel Agents and make some enquiries there, find out what the staff knew about this Spanish property business.
“It’s only just down the road.”
Ted looked at his watch. “No time. Mr Van Lesseps is expecting us.”
“OK, you go. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Uh oh. No can do – the boss particularly wants to see you – and your notes. Have you got them with you?”
“Course I haven’t, they’re in the office.”
“Well then. Definitely no time.”
Reluctantly, Groat allowed himself to be coerced and shortly before sixteen thirty, the pair stood in the DAC’s outer office in the presence and formidable countenance of Mrs Isaacs. When the intercom buzzed, she said to Groat, “You can go in now.” She looked at Ted, patted the seat next to her, “And you can sit here with me.”
There was no arguing.
“Well?” The DAC said, “I think you have some explaining to do.”
As best he could, Groat précised the circumstances surrounding his arrest, the stolen evidence, the history between him, Gloria and ex constable Sidney ‘Bonehead’ Bulstrode.
He concluded with his fears for Gloria.
The DAC said, “Right – but before I let you get on with that, what about these notes?”
Groat removed them from an inner pocket and handed them to him.
He said, “When Olivia first told me about her idea, she said she needed me to get personal details of some of the people. The marks, victims, whatever. Home addresses and so forth.” He screwed up his courage, “You needn’t worry sir, there’s nothing about you in there, never was, never needed to be, always know where to find you.” He recalled his first gaffe riddled, nerve wracking audience with the man. Don’t overcook it.
Van Lesseps smiled grimly and handed back the papers. “And that is the very last that is ever to be said about that. Do we understand each other?”
The two men regarded each other.
“Yes sir, absolutely.”
*
After a brief meeting to ensure the arrangements for collecting the final night’s drops were in place and they had left nothing to chance, Groat left Ted in charge again and went to make his personal enquiries. He got home shortly after half past six. The Spitfire was still in the garage, Gloria nowhere to be seen. He went to the phone in the hall, pulled out the little drawer in its base with their list of telephone numbers. Quickly located the name Janet Hall, Gloria’s deputy at the Travel Agents.
Called her. “Sorry to be a nuisance, but it’s over a week now and I’m getting quite concerned.”
They met outside the shop, shortly after seven. Janet let them in.
“What are we looking for, exactly?” She asked.
“Don
’t really know. Anything with a name, address, contact number. Did she say anything to you about this property deal?”
Janet said, “No, not directly, but I did hear her on the phone a couple of times.”
“Did you ever hear her mention the name Boulders, at all?”
Janet paused, thinking. “No, I don’t think so.”
He sat at Gloria’s desk, searched through her drawers, found nothing of immediate interest. “Did she tell you where she was going? How long she was going to be away for?”
Janet shook her head. “All I can tell you is, that as she booked the flight through us, it was out to Malaga on the 7th January and the return was left open. She said that she would probably only be gone a few days, but the reason she left the return open was because she wasn’t sure how long she would be.”
Groat sighed. “There’s got to be something. If you don’t know about this property deal business, where did she get it from?”
Janet said, “I really don’t know. We get so much stuff through the post. Brochures, leaflets, flyers with special offers, advertising magazines – none of us can read everything and it’s quite conceivable that she’s seen an advert, or an article somewhere, that the rest of us haven’t.” She paused and looked at him with concern. “You’re quite worried, aren’t you.”
He nodded. “She said a few days. That could be three or four, I suppose. Five at a pinch. You say she wasn’t sure about when she would be coming back, so you could add another day or so – five, maybe six in all, but tomorrow it will be over a week. She’s a grown woman – am I being stupid? I mean, it’s not as if she’s rung, or anything.”
Not that I would have been there to answer…
Groat said, “I don’t suppose she’s rung here?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
He looked at her keenly, “What were you saying?”
“Oh, I was just standing here, rattling on, not really helping at all.”
“No, you were saying something about brochures and not being able to read them all.”
The Perfect Crime Page 21
