“No sir, I suppose not.” Ted replied and looked down at his feet.
“Worse than useless.”
Dee felt that her reputation was being impugned, not to mention her long hours of hard slog being discounted as worthless. “No sir.” She said sharply, “Not useless at all.”
Her tone brought them up sharp. Groat cringed. Ted looked at her with respect.
Morrison frowned and raised an eyebrow, “What then?”
“This is not how it works.” She said. “Nothing here is cut and dried. There will never be any, ‘beyond all reasonable doubt’ type of evidence from this sort of work. But what I can do, is produce some sound pointers, signposts if you like. Maybe we can’t produce a forensic standard of evidence that our man committed the domestic burglaries, but if you lower your sights a bit, say, to the civil court burden of proof, to balance of probabilities, I think it is reasonable to extrapolate – and hypothesise that it is likely – on balance of probabilities – and for all the reasons we have given you, that he was responsible for those burglaries.” She paused.
Morrison said, “Go on.”
“And if you accept that, you have a signpost that helps point you in the right direction. Once you have reached as far as this sort of evidence can take you, even as far as indicating a possible suspect, or suspects, then you can concentrate on getting the evidence you will need to actually get him to court.”
She shook her mane of dark, coarse, curly hair and sat down. Groat also regarded her, now, with growing respect. Ted felt like giving her a round of applause.
Mr Morrison, obviously taken aback, nodded thoughtfully.
“I apologise if I sounded dismissive.” He sighed, “I’m getting old and set in my ways. I think I can see where you’re coming from, now. Please carry on.”
Dee stood up again and looked around. “Hardly even started yet.” She favoured her audience with a brief smile and turned to her flip chart, already divided into three, neat, vertical columns.
By the time she had finished, they had a comprehensive picture of their man. Aged around forty, white, 5’6” tall, wiry build, with short, dark hair. An able planner, forensically aware and probably with no previous convictions. Clean shaven, piercing eyes, agile, even athletic, walking with a military bearing. Intimate knowledge of guns and ammunition and well versed in unarmed combat, so more than likely with a service background. Size seven feet and a thirty eight inch chest. They even knew his inside leg measurement.
And they knew where he lived.
SEVENTY TWO
Groat had pressing business waiting. He hung back until Mr Morrison was content he had as much information as he was likely to gain from Dee and asked if he could take her back to London. On the journey, she said that the commander had told her he was impressed with what she had come up with and, that it would not be long before a substantial team of detectives descended on Leeds Road, Bradford. He quizzed her hard and long about the quarter of a mile radius and although she had been as firm as she could be, felt that he would probably extend it a little. That was, of course unless they made a breakthrough before that, but how likely was it, on current form?
*
Groat walked nervously towards the left luggage lockers at Waterloo station. He felt totally exposed, naked, worse than his first day on foot patrol, convinced that everybody was looking at him – and this time with no cover. If he had been in uniform, no matter what he did, no one would have taken much notice.
‘It’s all right, it’s a policeman.’
But now, in plain clothes and acting so suspiciously…
I just knew it.
There were two sets of benches near the lockers. Which one would have the key taped to it? If either? In any case, it was too long since the drop had taken place – even if one had ever been made.
Somebody will have found it already, bet your life.
The choice of which bench to try first was easy. An elderly couple sat on one; he took the other.
This is why the very notion of burying treasure is a non starter.
He started feeling under the bench, attempting to look as innocent and nonchalant as possible.
If something as simple as a key taped under a bench in a specific location is difficult, how much more impossible would be ‘twenty paces east from the old oak tree, then ten paces due south and dig down six feet…’ You’d never do it.
He grimaced as his fingers traversed the underside of the seat. Old, hardened pieces of chewing gum, snot, other, unspeakable, unidentifiable sticky messes, but no key. He eyed the station platform, ingrained with many years of dust and dirt, trodden there by hundreds of thousands of daily commuting feet. Thought about the smart, bespoke, dark blue pinstripe suit he was wearing, only recently bought and not cheap either. He looked around, wondered if he could chance taking a look without getting locked up. He screwed up his determination. There were no station staff or British Transport Police in obvious proximity. He dropped to his knees, stuck his head under the bench, quickly scanned.
No key.
Wrong bench, or, much more likely, someone’s beaten me to it. I bet someone saw him put it there.
He waited until the couple left the other seat, walked towards it, but as he closed with his objective, a woman with a small boy and a girl installed themselves. He swore under his breath and took the necessary evasive action.
I could be here all day at this rate.
Fortunately for his rapidly fraying nerves, they did not linger for long. The woman consulted her watch, looked up at the station clock and spoke to her children. They stood up and walked away. This time, no hesitation. Groat felt that dust and dirt on his suit and any subsequent cleaning bill was preferable to feeling along all the Braille horrors of the under bench scene. He didn’t even bother sitting down first.
Knees.
Down.
Scan.
Key!
He jumped up, heart thumping, shoved it in his jacket pocket and sat on the bench attempting, ineffectively, to brush the filth off his trouser knees and jacket sleeves. He looked around. Nobody seemed to have noticed. Perhaps they were all blind, or inured to this sort of eccentric behaviour, a grown man flinging himself down and rolling about on a station platform. He waited quietly, consciously trying to regulate his heartbeat. Finally, he was content that no one was taking any obvious notice of him. With much trepidation, he got to his feet, approached the lockers, located the correct one and fumbled the key into the lock. In the dim interior was a Marks and Spencer carrier bag. His hand trembled as he lifted it out. The package inside was larger and heavier than he thought it would have been. Nervously, he clutched it to him and making sure that nobody was following, made his way back to the Capri.
He desperately wanted to look in the bag and examine his find, but figured that he was in too public a place. He started up and pulled out into the afternoon traffic. While driving, he was thinking. Realised that he had assumed that there would not actually be a drop to pick up and as a result, had not paid any consideration to what he might do if there was one. What was he going to do? The sting was complete. Olivia was in Holloway, on remand. The DAC had said that he was never to mention it to anyone, ever again. He wanted the job to be buried, invisible. As if it had never happened. He worried; gnawed at the problem, needed time to think. Saw a phone box. Pulled up, called the office.
“Not feeling too good. Going to take a couple of hours off. See you in the morning.”
He was home by four, plenty of time before Gloria would be back. He sat down, worked the string tied, newspaper wrapped packet out of the carrier bag, onto the kitchen table and carefully, fearfully started to open it. He recalled sitting in Olivia’s flat, discussing how much she should demand from each of her gentlemen. Apart from one MP, a millionaire of independent means – who they had tapped up for five grand – the rest had been all around the two thousand mark. The Bishop of Brixton, they had decided, was amongst those least likely to have an over bou
ntiful supply of cash, so they’d hit on fifteen hundred.
Eventually, after much finger licking and piling up the notes in bundles of five hundred, Groat finished counting.
Silly bitch couldn’t even count her noughts.
Fifteen thousand pounds.
With a heavy heart, Groat rewrapped the notes in the newspaper and replaced the package in its carrier bag. He taped the bag closed, wrapped it in a bin liner and taped that up as well. Then, against all his instincts, experience and previous reasoning, carried the parcel out to his shed, carefully removed a couple of floorboards and stowed the loot under the floor.
SEVENTY THREE
Thursday 11th December 1975.
In his office at Leman Street, Groat was, once again, attempting to settle into the routine as an area detective inspector. The attempt – and the routine – didn’t last long. The phone on his desk chivvied at him.
“CID – D/I Groat.”
“Hi. PC Smith. Steve Smith, collator at Mansfield – in Nottinghamshire.” There was a hesitant pause. “Spoke to you last year about those series of undetected burglaries you wanted to know about.”
Groat blinked and struggled momentarily to place himself in space and time. Rather a lot had happened in the intervening period. Then, CLICK. Connection.
“Oh, yes. Thanks for your help. What can I do for you?”
“I reckon they’ve started again.”
The words hung in the ether, their import initially failing to make proper impact.
Eventually, “What? What do you mean? The same person? What exactly?”
“Not really sure. There were those series we reported to you last year, then a gap, several months at least. Now they seem to have started again. Peculiar, tricksy MO – always pulls out a kitchen drawer and drops the contents on the floor, for no apparent reason. Only ever takes cash. Thought you might want to know.”
The hairs on the back of Groat’s neck gradually, painfully erected. He winced.
“Jeeesus.” He said, eventually, “Any suspects?”
“None whatsoever.”
“How many?”
“Upwards of fifteen.”
“More tonight?”
“Possibly. But he suddenly stops, doesn’t he.”
“What duty are you on today?”
“Two to ten.”
“I’ll be right up.”
He called Ted. Apprised him of the situation. Told him to brief Commander Morrison. “Tell him to get me clearance to operate in Nottinghamshire from tonight. Highest level. Don’t care what it takes, I reckon we’re closer than we’ve ever been.”
By eight thirty p.m. he was in Mansfield, having spoken to the area commander, who had received his orders from Rex Fletcher, the chief constable. Groat was to be afforded every assistance – anything he asked for, he was to get. He’d brought with him briefing sheets, including, vitally, a detailed description of the man they sought. He met with PC Smith, surveyed the list of burglaries he had prepared.
It’s got to be him.
A determinedly agnostic person, Groat said a small prayer. Please, please, let it be him.
Before the night shift personnel were deployed in the county that night, they were all on full alert for who and what they were looking for.
*
Tony White was the beat bobby for Mansfield Woodhouse, working ten to six nights, patrolling on foot, solo. PC Stuart Mackenzie was single crewed driving Panda Six, a two door, Mark II Ford Escort covering a large area on the northern outskirts of Mansfield, including Woodhouse. They met by prior arrangement on Stainforth Street. Strictly speaking, against force rules, but common sense and experience advised safety in numbers and two were better than one responding to a pub fight – especially where miners might be involved. Their current location was a favourite place for patrols to park up, as it was a quiet side road, but from there, they could keep an eye on the busy A60, known to be used by thieves, burglars, travelling criminals and various other categories of ne’er do wells. On the run up to Christmas, drink drivers and rowdy revellers were likely, as well.
They chatted, PC White enjoying the warmth from the panda’s heater after the chill of the December night. As they watched, a small, wiry figure marched smartly across from left to right on the far side of the main road. He was carrying a holdall. As he hurried past the mouth of Stainforth Street, he averted his face. Even without the extra briefing, they would have decided to turn him over. Panda Six started up and turned right onto the main road. Rapidly overhauling the pedestrian, without getting out of the car, having only started to warm up and mindful of the long, freezing hours ahead, PC White wound down his window. “Good evening, sir. At this time of night, we always check out strangers. Would you mind telling us your name and address and where you’ve been?”
The man mumbled something that neither officer could properly make out.
PC Mackenzie leaned over from the driver’s side and took a more direct approach, “Can you tell us your name, date and place of birth, please?”
“John Moxon. Chapel en le Frith. Thirtieth of January nineteen thirty seven.”
PC White continued with their check, “And what are you doing round here?”
“I’m a lorry driver. Just finished work.” He dropped his holdall, bent down and the next second came up with a double barrelled sawn-off shotgun, pointed at PC White, barely an inch away from the tip of his nose. “Don’t move.” He snapped, “In the back. No tricks or you are dead.”
White went to open the door so that he could put the seat forward and do as he had been told.
“No time for that.” The man growled, “Climb the seat.”
White scrambled into the back as best he could, as he was well over six feet tall, but did as he’d been instructed, huddling in the corner behind the driver. The gunman jumped in and slammed the door. He pushed the shotgun roughly into PC Mackenzie’s left armpit. “Drive.” He said tersely.
“Where to?”
“Just drive.”
The two officers were not friends, nor even close colleagues. They knew each other from working on the same roster, but there was no bond that might have enabled them to communicate unobtrusively somehow and act in concert to overcome their aggressor and avert the looming tragedy. PC White suddenly thought of his wife, his toddler daughter and baby son.
PC Mackenzie’s concentration was totally taken with the pressure of the shotgun barrels against his armpit. Undoubtedly, the man would have his finger on the trigger, so what would happen if they went over a bump, or it was a hair trigger and only needed the very slightest of spasms to set it off? He drove as smoothly and gently as he could.
“Switch off police sign on roof.” The man suddenly said.
Mackenzie frowned, but did as he was told. They drove in silence for another mile.
“Take us to Blidworth.” He pronounced it ‘Blidduth’ like a local.
This caused Mackenzie more anxiety, as they were heading in the opposite direction. He said, “Yes, of course, sir. The snag is we’re going the wrong way, sir. We’ll have to turn round, sir. Is that all right, sir? Thank you sir.”
Mackenzie gingerly executed the finest three point turn of his life and set course for Blidworth.
In the back, PC White felt unable to sit still and do nothing. He had six commendations for good police work and would rather take a beating than give in to intimidation, but this was different. He was not facing some miners after they’d had a few pints. This was major league. In any case, it wasn’t him that would get it first, so he dared not move, in case it brought precipitate action on the part of the gunman.
He said, “Look, sir, I don’t want any trouble. I’ve got a wife and three kids.” He racked up the number of offspring for effect.
“Shut up.” Then out of the blue, “Have you got any string?”
String? What on earth does he want string for?
Mackenzie said no, but PC White said, “There may be some in the back, here, bu
t I’ll have to have a look round. Is that all right, sir?”
“OK, but any trouble and he gets it.”
There was no string, of course, but the looking around enabled PC White to manoeuvre himself onto the middle of the back seat, where he was able to make eye contact with his colleague in the rear view mirror.
“No string, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Just shut up and sit still.”
Panda Six left the main road on the way to Blidworth, now travelling at barely twenty miles an hour, with PC Mackenzie assiduously avoiding bumps and potholes.
“How far can you go in this car without arousing suspicion?” He asked.
“Not far, sir.” Mac responded, “In fact we’re getting off our area as it is.” He continued, “Why don’t we get you a traffic car? A big patrol car which can go anywhere in the country without suspicion?”
PC White joined in, “He’s right, sir. With one of those, you’d be safe.”
Reinforcements.
The gunman paused, also thinking. “No. No. Keep going.”
They were now approaching Sherwood Forest, in the deepest parts of which, anyone trussed up and unable to move, at this time of year, would suffer a long, agonising death from exposure and possibly not be discovered for months. Always assuming they were not shot first, of course.
*
In the comfortable warmth of the control room in Mansfield, alive with nervous energy, Groat paced incessantly.
“What have you got in the way of transport?” He asked the control room sergeant. “Can we get a traffic car on standby?” He wasn’t sure why he might need one, but being here, waiting, feeling as though he was doing nothing, offended every fibre of his being. He needed action, anything. He knew, professionally, that he should stay central, in a position to direct the action, or go – should he be needed – at a moment’s notice, but his instincts screamed at him to be out, on the move.
“On second thoughts,” he said, “A traffic car might scare him off. How about a CID car?”
The sergeant smiled. “Got something even better, if you want it, sir. Traffic have got a plain vehicle that they use to trap unwary motorists. Green, three litre Granada. Won’t be using it this time of night, I know.”
The Perfect Crime Page 27
