It would have to be him.
The Bishop of Brixton. The drop was to be made in the left luggage lockers at Waterloo station. The key was to be taped under the seat of the bench nearest the lockers.
“Shit.”
How was he going to explain this? He realised now, that in his preoccupation with the Olivia situation and the catastrophic personal consequences if his plan did not work out – and worrying about Gloria – he simply was not concentrating on the sting as he should have been. In fact, the last day he had worked on it, instead of ensuring everything was absolutely as it should have been, his attention was far away, only operating locally on some hazy, unreliable autopilot.
What was he to do?
He would leave it, no one would ever know. That would be best.
Then he thought, No, can’t do that. If there is actually anything there, it will have fingerprints all over it. On the cash, the wrappings, especially if it’s in a plastic bag... Shit. Whatever, can’t leave it to chance…
What would happen when the locker was eventually opened and found to contain a large sum of cash? The police were bound to become involved and some sort of investigation would take place. It was only a possibility, but if the package was examined properly, it could well be traced.
The whole sting operation would be blown apart, brought to nought. They might as well not have organised anything in the first place. All that string pulling, manipulation and cunning. Wasted. Completely. And it would all be down to him. His inattention, his sloppy police work.
The government might be brought down, all those people we promised anonymity… And it’s much closer to home than that. The DAC would have my balls on toast for breakfast. Probably with me still attached.
He quivered with indecision, but eventually decided it was a risk he simply could not afford to take.
SIXTY NINE
Commander Morrison was not used to presiding over an investigation as slow, labouring and downright moribund, as he was presently. Everything about it felt wrong. His people were working as hard as they could, but the dour Scots side of him said, ‘We’re getting absolutely nowhere.’ Usually, when they were alerted to a murder to investigate, they moved with all possible speed. It was an absolute given. Experience had also taught him that ‘strike whilst the iron is hot’ was the most pertinent and executive of principles, especially where a murder investigation was concerned. But they were not called in until Lesley had been dead – for how long? Even Dr. Brown was unable to tell them with any authority. Nearly two months since she had been abducted, it could easily be five or six weeks since her death, since her captor had abandoned her; all that time to disappear into the woodwork, covering his tracks as he went. And from what they had discovered so far, he was expert at doing that. And what else did his basic training and experience tell him? That the killer would more than likely be known to the victim. Right?
Ninety odd per cent of the time, but not in this case.
There was little in his training or long experience that was to assist him in his present task. He bit his lip. Lacking in imagination they might be, but he knew that his team – made up of Metropolitan officers as well as those from West Mercia, Staffordshire and the West Midlands – were all massively determined to bring this monster to justice. He made an executive’s, executive decision. He would rely on the experience and practical ability of his people and let them get on with it as best they could, whilst he – although at this present moment he had no conception of how to go about it – would do some lateral thinking.
He sat at his desk, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. What was there he could think about, that might bring him some inspiration, some insight? What lines of enquiry were there, that they had not yet pursued? They had traced over three thousand lorry drivers from the Albright and Wilson chemical works in Oldbury, three miles from Dudley. The firm also ran three factories near Widnes and drivers from the Black Country took at least one lorry a day, backwards and forwards between the various factories, criss-crossing the area where the Panther prowled. Teams of detectives had traced, interviewed and eliminated all of them – including those journeys that were contracted out to private haulage firms. A huge undertaking and costly, in financial terms, logistically and heavy on resources. Apart from all those lines of enquiry, what else was there they could do? Research? But research what? What was there to research?
He sat up suddenly, eyes now wide open. He had almost physically heard the bell, ‘CLANG!!’
Research.
Detective Sergeant Pearson. What had he said? Something about research. He hadn’t said into what, or where, but it had been in the context of the post office jobs. In any case where was the man? Seemed like he hadn’t seen him for weeks.
*
Groat answered his phone. He had regretfully surrendered his DCI status since the successful conclusion of the sting operation, but at least he was now a substantive detective inspector. This pleased Gloria ineffably, as she could now refer to her husband as a senior police officer, whenever she had the opportunity to slip it into conversation (which contrived to be quite often).
“D/I Groat.”
“Lester, it’s Ted. I think I’ve really gone and done it, now.”
“What? What now? Haven’t we been through enough recently?” Meaning, specifically, Haven’t I been through enough recently?
“Some time ago, I dropped it out to Commander Morrison that we were doing a bit of research that might help with my project on the post office jobs.”
“So?”
“Well, that was before they were linked with all the murders and the Lesley Whittle kidnap. It sounds like they’re not getting on very well with their enquiries and he wants me there, as of yesterday, to give them a hand.”
“So go.”
“It’s all right for you, but what am I going to say? What am I supposed to tell him?”
“You know as much about it as I do.”
Ted fidgeted. “Yes, but you and Dee… Can’t you come and help?”
Groat sighed. “I’m sorry mate, but I’m busy. I expect Dee will be, too. I’ve got area duties to attend to – and all that. Can’t keep flying off, here, there and everywhere. Any case, every time I do go somewhere I tend to get arrested.”
“Oh, come on. Didn’t I help with the sting? Doesn’t it count that I keep helping you out of the shit?”
“Tell you what, why don’t we have a word with Dee – see what she’s got to say. Have you told her about the Lesley Whittle connection?”
“No, but she’s not stupid, she will have seen it on the news.”
*
Groat made them all a cup of coffee and when they had settled, took charge. “Last time we spoke,” He said, “You were talking in terms of some sort of a chart, one that would have some conclusions as to who we are looking for. How’s that coming along?”
Dee smiled. “I’ve been quite busy.”
Groat said, “You have.” Thinking about the convolution of events that he, Gloria and Ted had endured since they last convened a profiling session.
“What I mean,” Dee continued, “is that I have been able to add to and refine the chart, with what we have found out in the interim and, of course there are now more recent developments.”
“I was going to come onto that.” Groat said. “How does that affect what we – you have done already?”
“Well, in one way, it doesn’t, but I’ll get onto that in a minute. First, though, how sure are you that all these crimes have been committed by the same man?”
“Ninety nine percent certain.” Ted said. “That is, the post office jobs and the kidnap.”
Groat looked at him as he spoke. Noticed for the first time that Ted and Dee were sitting next to each other on the settee. That was not strictly true. Of course he had seen them sit together, but he had not realised how close they had become; Ted’s knee pressing against Dee’s? He shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on the matter in
hand.
“So what does that mean?” He asked.
“Well, in this case, it doesn’t change what we already know, but remember what we talked about in terms of progression? He’s moved on up again.”
“And the area, the places he’s chosen to do it?”
“Well, my guess is that because it’s a totally different venture, totally different type of undertaking we have to think a bit differently. I told you when we started that one of the issues was me doing this for the first time…”
Groat said, “And if you combine that with his experience – around four hundred house burglaries, eighteen post office jobs – that we know of – attempted murder, murder – you’re going to tell us that the circle hypothesis is now largely redundant. Yes?”
Dee looked at him with a mixture of wonder and amused surprise. “You were listening, then.” She smiled, “And add to that the fact that if he’s going to kidnap someone, he’s got to commit the crime wherever the person he chooses for his project happens to be. So apart from the fact that he’s not likely to pick on someone who lives very close to him, as you say, the circle hypothesis is out of the window. It works for the first crimes that someone commits, but there’s got to come a point – assuming they are not caught – I would say, when it becomes largely irrelevant.”
“So what have we got?” Groat asked. “What can Ted take to Commander Morrison?”
SEVENTY
Ted cajoled and pleaded with Groat to go with him to Kidsgrove. He possessed a good, basic grasp of the process and the information Dee had given them, but was desperately lacking in confidence. He felt acutely that he would be unable to put it all across and answer the inevitable barrage of in depth questions that Commander Morrison would fire at him. It was not as if he was propounding or even developing some established police theory, or well-known and accepted way of working. He was uncomfortably aware that police officers were typically fanatically conservative. Procedural inertia had forever been the order of the day. Before he could even start to tell them any results of the research, he would have to expound to them the principles behind it and explain the system. He felt that he was not clued up enough to do that, even to someone at his own level. But this was ten, a hundred times worse. It meant he would have to put it all over to some very senior officers – and most of them not even from his own force. He felt sick with worry. He could feel the antipathy, the embarrassment of failure now, imagined the roasting he would get when it all backfired. Groat had got him into this, he would have to help him out, now.
Groat, however, remained adamant that he would not, could not go. He put forward several good reasons. Ted was a member of the Murder Squad – he was not. Only recently been promoted detective inspector on area, he could not simply leave his day job and swan off, up north. He could imagine the response he would get from his boss. He would not even ask. Privately, he thought that helping out an old friend was one thing, actually stepping into the line of fire with him was another. He did not know Commander Morrison, but he might aspire to a senior post on the murder squad one day and would not want to queer his pitch before he even got close.
His phone rang. “CID – D/I Groat.”
It was Mrs. Isaacs, in control from the very start. “Mr Van Lesseps wants to speak to you. Hold the line, please.”
Now what? He had envisaged at some nebulous, undetermined moment in the distant future, that he might contact the DAC. He had not thought this through in any detail, but it was comforting to have his ‘get out of jail free’ card, metaphorically speaking. It sat there, at the back of his mind, reminding him that he had a guardian angel, insurance, some real pulling power on high, that he could call on if ever the situation got hot enough, or sufficiently important to warrant it. But it had not been long since the man had given him the gypsies warning, not to call on him every two minutes and now here he was, calling him.
“D/I Groat?”
“Sir?”
“I’ve had a call from Commander Morrison of the Murder Squad. He’s working a serious, complex case up in Staffordshire.”
Groat’s brain started emulating the proverbial dervish. What? I know all about that. Far more than you do, probably, but what?...
“Sir?”
“He wants you up there ASAP.”
Groat started squirming in his seat. Wanted to say, ‘Why? I’m not even on the Murder Squad,’ or, ‘He’s not even my commander…’ ‘My DCI wouldn’t let me go…’ ‘I’ve only recently been promoted. Got to get my feet under the table on area before I go swanning off anywhere...’ Then, sudden realisation.
Ted, you bastard. I’ll bloody well kill you.
The DAC continued, “I’ve cleared it with area. You’re OK to go.”
With unusual presence of mind, Groat said, “Sir – if I’m correct, this is about some research that D/S Pearson and I have been doing. Is it all right if I take our research assistant? What I mean, do I have your authority to take her with me?”
He could almost hear the DAC frowning at the other end of the line. “I suppose so,” he said. “As long as she can pass all the security checks and so on.”
And so it was that Dee, with Groat and Ted, came to sit in the conference room at the new police station in Kidsgrove, with Commander John Morrison and senior officers from the three affected forces.
“This better be good.” He said.
SEVENTY ONE
The Black Panther struggled with indecision. The plan was to stop. First, Panther had to go, finish, disappear as though he had never existed – with no possible chance of anyone connecting him with his alter ego. Then, with the one big, final job under his belt, he would have been able to retire completely and leave his life of crime behind, become the ostensibly blameless, successful businessman he had always aspired to be. But now, life was unravelling around him. He had put months of preparation and planning into the kidnap and through no fault of his own (he told himself) it had all gone terribly, terminally wrong. He was forced to lie low for a long, uncomfortable, fretful time, in case anyone cottoned on to him, but now things would have to start rolling again. Once again, he would have to start from scratch. At some appropriate juncture, the possibility existed that he might have another attempt at the big time, but he had earned little or nothing for months now and had not dared expose himself by committing more crime.
He felt that a sufficient period had elapsed to chance getting to work again. It was fast approaching his preferred time of year, when he would have plenty of night time cover. He was also desperately short of cash.
It was time.
*
“Where do you want me to start?” Dee asked.
Mr Morrison regarded her severely. “If – and I repeat, if – this is ever going to get us anywhere,” he said, “It’s got to be good. No, better than good. I’ve never heard of this, this profiling, so it’s going to have to be rock solid. Not one chink, not one fault. God knows how we would ever put it before a court. Never mind, I’m jumping the gun. What I’m trying to say is this. Let’s start from the word go. We’ve all got to be one hundred percent with it, up on it, so let’s hear it in words of one syllable, right from the beginning so that I can see where we are, how we’ve got to where we are today – and how we might possibly use it.”
Dee explained about Lionel Haward and his system. She told them about the circle hypothesis, the statistics and mathematics involved and the results of her research into the house burglaries.
She said, “The easiest bit is where he lives.” She paused, “I am ninety nine percent certain that he lives on Leeds Road, Bradford, within an area contained by a circle, no more than a quarter of a mile radius from the junction of Leeds Road and Dick Lane.”
Morrison frowned. “Why haven’t you come forward with this before? Why haven’t you told us?”
Groat said, “There’s one big unknown, or uncertainty here. Sir.”
“Go on.”
He explained about the originally calculated
location being Burnley, before the introduction of the house burglaries.
Morrison frowned. “Well, who suggested he committed house burglaries? Where did they spring from?”
“From you sir, originally.”
“What? Me? I never said… How’s that?”
Groat reminded him that one of the first things he had said to Ted, was that the post officer robber had graduated to killing the postmasters.
Dee broke in, “It’s one of the features of the circle hypothesis, as I explained to you, if you recall. As they get more experienced and grow in confidence, not only will they travel further to commit their crimes, but they will develop and refine whatever MO they are using. The question we asked ourselves was, ‘if he’s graduated from aggravated burglary to actually murdering his victims, what did he graduate from, when he started committing aggravated burglary?’”
Commander Morrison said, “And what did you find?”
Groat replied, “Well, he’s a burglar. All right, he’s moved on to aggravated burglaries and now armed robberies and so on, but the only real difference there is the introduction of the firearms. He’s still basically breaking into premises and stealing. And as you know, sir, it’s generally accepted that once a criminal has discovered a way that he can successfully commit crime, he usually sticks to it. I mean, you don’t hear of many rapists becoming expert safe breakers, or shoplifters carrying out long firm frauds. So we contacted all the collators we could, in areas he was known to commit crimes. We asked them all if they had any series of undetected burglaries, preferably with a common, very specific MO and only taking cash – because that’s mainly what he gets from the post offices. Cash and occasionally postal orders. The point here being, that he has never been known to take anything that would necessitate the involvement of a third party. A very specific MO that we could tie down pretty tight.”
Morrison said, “So basically, we have no evidence, no confirmation in any way whatsoever, that our man even committed these offences?”
The Perfect Crime Page 26
