One of the control room operators was waving a hand at the sergeant. He pushed his headset off one ear, “Got a burglary come in, sarge, on Tennyson Avenue. I’ve called Panda Six, but he’s not answering.”
“Give Tony White a shout. It’s a bit off his beat, but he can go. It’s not that far.”
Groat walked over to the operator, who was busy calling PC White. He let him finish, then said, “This burglary – anything taken?”
“Just some cash, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Just cash, like I said, sir.”
“No, what I mean is, was there anything – unusual – about the job?”
“Not really, sir, unless you count the knife drawer in the kitchen. Pulled out and dropped. Knives and cutlery all over the floor, everywhere. You wouldn’t think that someone after cash would bother looking in the knife drawer, would you sir?”
But Groat was nowhere to be seen. He had already embarked on a desperately urgent errand to find a three litre, unliveried Ford Granada. As he fled the control room he heard, “Can’t seem to be able to raise PC White, sarge…”
SEVENTY FOUR
Every patrol in Mansfield town was alerted to the fact that neither Panda Six, nor PC White was answering the radio. The control room sergeant flew up, two stairs at a time, to the equipment room in the attic of the station and threw the talk through switch on the UHF transceiver, so all units would be able to hear not only the control room, but also what every other mobile was saying. As a result, traffic patrols circled and darted like sharks hunting and every rural mobile within radio range converged on the area with grim intensity. They soon had one further addition, in the form of Metropolitan Police Detective Inspector Groat, in the plain green Granada driven by an expert Nottinghamshire Police traffic sergeant who, as Groat quickly established, could not only drive like the clappers in seemingly perfect safety, but also knew every highway, byway, track and back alley on his patch.
For a while, all was quiet, then, another foot patrol reported seeing a Panda without its roof light on, on Old Mill Lane, driving through Forest Town towards the A617.
The control room sergeant came onto the air. “Units in the area report.” He said. “All other units stand by. I don’t want everybody and his dog converging on something that could be a wild goose chase.”
Groat’s driver said, “He’ll be on Oak Tree Lane by now, probably heading for Southwell Road. Wanna go?”
Adrenalin now well up, Groat nodded. “You bet.”
Rock Hill, where they were at that moment, led straight on to Southwell Road. It was now well past eleven thirty at night, so traffic was sporadic. Even so they seemed to be travelling near the speed of light and Groat held onto his supper with difficulty. They passed a turning on the left.
“That’s Oak Tree Lane,” grunted the sergeant. “We’re coming up to a roundabout, then a little way after that, a bigger roundabout, junction with the A617. I’ll go straight over the first one – it’s only industrial estates – but what about the next one?”
Groat didn’t have a clue.
They negotiated the first junction cornering with a ‘G’ force that wouldn’t have shamed an astronaut in training, then, as they closed with the A617 roundabout Groat slammed his hand on the dashboard and shouted, “Slow down, slow down.”
In the distance he could see the red rear lights of a small car with something square on its roof.
“See?” He said, “See?” He gesticulated wildly.
“Bloody hell.” The sergeant said. “What now?”
Groat fumbled for the radio. It wasn’t simply that he was unfamiliar with the set up of the equipment in a vehicle belonging to another force; all police vehicles had their equipment installed as if on a whim, at the mercy of the police fitters and how they felt on any particular day. He was used to that, but now he trembled, perhaps as a result of the Formula One drive he had been subjected to, or the adrenalin, or both.
Picking up the handset, he realised he hadn’t even asked for, or been allocated a call sign.
Shit.
“Control, a message, D/I Groat, over.”
“Go ahead, D/I Groat.”
Relief flooded over him. “We have the panda in sight, on Southwell Road, towards the junction with the A617. His roof light’s out and he’s travelling very slowly, but apart from that we have no idea what he’s up to. Over.”
“He’s well off his patch and heading further out, Something’s up. Do you require back up?”
Groat consulted briefly with his driver. “Not at the moment. Let’s see where he goes at the roundabout, then we’ll let you know.”
They hung back as the panda in front of them slowly negotiated the roundabout, then closed up as they carried straight on, onto Southwell Road East. Past the junctions with Blidworth Lane and Helmsley Road; Groat still clutched the radio handset, gaining comfort from the feel of it in his grip. He called again, “Can we have a couple of double crewed units at the roundabout on the A617. We’ll give you a shout when we see where he’s going next.”
They continued their follow at a discreet distance.
Inside Panda Six, Mac kept looking at his colleague in the rear view mirror. He flicked his eyes towards their captor, signalling his readiness to have a go, but PC White closed his eyes momentarily and briefly, barely perceptibly, shook his head each time, thinking that any rash or hasty move on their part would end with his colleague dead, or arguably worse, horribly mangled and disabled for the rest of his life.
As they rolled down the hill into Rainworth, another mining village, they approached a ‘Y’ junction. Left was Kirklington Road, Rugby Road branched off to the right.
The atmosphere in the small car was undergoing a subtle metamorphosis. Whether it was because they were driving in an area with street lighting again, or that after the well lit streets, they would be out in the rural and into the darkness and the far reaches of Sherwood Forest, they would never be able to say.
As they passed the Robin Hood pub, Mac looked ahead and said, “Which way, sir – left, or right?”
At the same time, he steered slightly left, then veered right. From the back, PC White muttered, “Don’t do anything daft, Mac.”
For the first time in their twenty minute ordeal, their abductor took his eyes off the two officers and glanced ahead. Both men saw the gun barrels move slightly, away from Mac’s chest. With all his might, he stamped on the footbrake, White threw himself at the gunman, wrenching the shotgun upwards and away from his colleague. There was a deafening, eardrum splitting crash as the weapon discharged through the roof and driver’s window. PC Mackenzie disappeared out of the driver’s door and PC White felt searing pain in his head and right hand. The shot had gouged away a chunk of flesh from his hand and hot, ricocheting pellets peppered down on his head.
He yelled, “The bastard’s shot me.” He kept his left arm in a stranglehold round the gunman’s throat and, hauling him back over the front seat tugged the weapon away from him completely. Only then did he realise that the driver’s seat was empty. With a surge of blind anger, he screamed, “You bastard, you’ve killed him.” He still had hold of the shotgun in his injured right hand and keeping his stranglehold on his assailant with his left arm, he hammered his right elbow into the gunman’s face. But, far from being subdued, the disarmed man fought like a savage, cornered animal and smashed the butt of his sawn off into the officer’s face, slicing a deep gash down his lip, right through to the jawbone.
Groat and his driver saw the panda come to a halt and initially slowed down, not wanting to let their presence be known. Then they witnessed the eruption of the panda’s roof, the ‘police’ light shattering fragments high into the dark night air and saw the Escort rocking on its wheels, the frightened, wondering stares of the people standing around outside the pub and queuing at The Junction fish and chip shop.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Groat yelled.
His driver needed no instruction and wheels
spinning, rocketed them over the intervening couple of hundred yards.
They came to a screeching, slewing, stinking rubber burning halt, doors opening before they had completely stopped. Both men sprinted towards the stricken panda car, the sergeant straight to PC Mackenzie, lying ominously still in the road, next to the open driver’s door. Groat went to assist PC White, still struggling with the gunman. Between them, they got him out onto the pavement, but he continued to fight like a crazed wild thing, punching, scratching, biting and kicking his would be subduers. PC Mackenzie was not dead, but the shooting had dazed him and shattered his left ear drum. The traffic sergeant helped him to his feet and he staggered unsteadily, but gamely back to assist his injured colleague. Snatching up the shotgun, he handed it to the sergeant for safekeeping and returned to the mêlée. Suddenly Groat noticed the gunman fumbling at his hip and shouted a warning. He fell back onto him and wrestled the emerging .22 pistol away from harm’s way. Eventually it took all four police officers, together with a contingent of onlookers from the chip shop queue, to subdue the little man. They dragged him to the railings by the chippy and handcuffed him to them there.
Now free to operate his radio, PC Mackenzie invoked the waiting backup and John Moxon was conveyed to police cells at Mansfield.
SEVENTY FIVE
A serious charge was likely to be brought against the prisoner. In such cases it was Nottinghamshire Police policy to call out the head of the divisional CID. Accordingly, Detective Superintendent John McNaught was contacted at home shortly before 11:15 p.m. He first drove to Rainworth and reconnoitred the scene of the crime. Officers were still busy searching for evidence in the dark, cold night, starkly illuminated by hastily erected emergency lighting. He then headed for the divisional headquarters.
By complete coincidence, Mr McNaught was Nottinghamshire’s Black Panther liaison officer. Even before the interview started he entertained a mix of hope, suppressed excitement and anticipation that he was about to see the man they had sought for so long. He was convinced when he saw the array of equipment seized from their prisoner. This was no common or garden burglar.
For hours he talked, chipped away at him, cajoled and probed, but he got little or nothing for his efforts. Although sure it was the Black Panther sitting opposite him, he kept his questions relevant only to the events of that night. It was only right and proper that other officers, from the other forces, should have the opportunity to quiz him about the offences that had taken place in their respective force areas. Most pressing first of all, was to find out where Moxon lived. The interview was prolonged by the fact that his prisoner would sometimes delay ten, even fifteen minutes before answering a question. Eventually, McNaught realised that he was trying to disguise an accent. For the first three hours, the officer thought he was talking to a mid European. After that he thought he could be Welsh. At 06:00 hours, the night shift went off duty and the early turn started the new day. On the first floor, in the CID office, the interview dragged on. Still he had not managed to find out if his name really was John Moxon, or where the man called home.
In the world outside, the grapevine was buzzing with the news. Nothing had been said officially and no press release made, but even so, more than one hundred reporters, photographers and radio and television crew laid siege to the police station. Eventually the large, ground floor billiard room was opened up to accommodate them. Not one of them believed the police line of ignorance of the real name or address of their prisoner and the more it was protested, the less it was believed.
In the hope that they could find out by other means, Moxon was fingerprinted and the full set rushed by police motorcycle, to Scotland Yard.
*
After all the excitement of the night, Groat realised he had two issues to deal with. First, with the adrenalin fast ebbing away, that he was seriously tired and had nowhere local to stay. Second, that at that time of the morning, he wasn’t going to find anywhere. He decided to drive home. Foolish, being as weary as he was, but he did not fancy a night in the Capri. Comfortable enough to drive, but no room to stretch out his six foot three frame and sleep.
He was still dead to the world when Gloria left for work and it was not until lunchtime that he eventually managed to rouse himself. As he showered and dressed, he tried to decide what was best for him to do. He could go back to area and continue his task of settling in as one of the D/Is. No one would have said anything and he could not have been criticised for getting on with his job. Alternatively, he could drive the one hundred and forty odd miles back to Mansfield (making a substantial profit out of his casual user’s mileage allowance, of course) and resume his position of being the one responsible for the research instrumental in capturing the Black Panther. Additionally and crucially, he had also taken part in physically hunting him down and bringing him into custody.
No contest.
He phoned the Mansfield area commander’s secretary, and asked her to arrange some digs for him, for a couple of nights – and set off, back up the M1.
It was gone three p.m. before he arrived back at Mansfield police station and elbowed his way through the crush of media personnel. Det Supt McNaught had been out of his bed, even if not continually on duty, for well over twenty four hours, so had headed off home for a well-earned rest. The head of Nottinghamshire CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Readwin journeyed from Sherwood Lodge, Arnold, police HQ to take over. Groat was introduced.
“I understand we have a great deal to thank you for.”
Groat smiled, he hoped, modestly. “And I understand you are still not sure of your man’s name or address.”
“Believe it or not, no. We’re sure he’s the Black Panther, as one of our SOCOs has compared his prints to the partial found at Bathpool Park, but Scotland Yard are still running his prints through their records.” Said the Chief Superintendent.
“Won’t find him.” Groat said.
“You sound very sure?”
“Yes sir.” Groat said, not wanting to be drawn into the hows and whys at that juncture. “But I’m pretty sure I know where he lives and from there it should be a reasonably straightforward job to find out his real name.”
“Good god.” Mr Readwin said, “But how do you know that?”
“Long story, sir. I’d be more than happy to explain – or get an expert to explain to you – when you have an hour or so, but at the moment – with respect, sir – wouldn’t it be more constructive to get on and search the place?”
The detective chief superintendent frowned momentarily. He would normally have given an officer so much his junior a dressing down for speaking to him in such a forthright manner, but this was the man who enabled them to find the Black Panther. And here he was telling them where he lived. Roy Readwin had not reached such elevated rank without being able to cut to the chase.
“Well,” he said, “Go on.”
“Bradford.” Groat said, “Leeds Road, Bradford. Can’t give you the precise number, but it’s within a quarter mile of the big roundabout, there.”
“OK.” Readwin said, “that’s good – and as you said, I won’t ask how you know – but before we go committing house to house teams in the area, as we can’t pinpoint the exact house, how about we give him one last shot? In any case, apart from last night’s fracas, we’ve only got one job, back in 1971. Commander Morrison and the other forces will have as much interest in searching his home address as we have.” He smiled, “And they can pay for all that overtime.” He paused, “He might be ready to tell us now.” He shot Groat a calculating glance – “How about sitting in. Fancy that?”
On the dot of seven thirty that night, Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Readwin and newly promoted Detective Inspector Lester Groat of the Metropolitan Police sat opposite the man calling himself John Moxon, The Black Panther, now dressed in a boiler suit and socks. Mr Readwin enquired about the prisoners cuts and bruises and was assured that the injuries were sustained fighting before he was arrested, not during questi
oning. The chief superintendent spoke in a kindly fashion, seeking to reassure his prisoner and thus gradually break down his resistance. He asked if his reluctance to reveal his identity was to protect an accomplice.
After a protracted silence, he said, “I always work alone. If I am the Black Panther and they charge me with four murders, it is better my family do not know. I will just disappear from sight. Behind bars for ever.”
Groat exercised steely restraint. He could have jumped up, punched the air and shouted, “YESSS!” at the very top of his voice. He glanced sideways at the senior officer. He hadn’t moved, twitched an eyelid, altered the tone of his voice, nothing. Readwin continued, quietly and solicitously, explaining that if he didn’t tell them himself, photographs would have to be published in the papers and shown on television in an effort to find out who he was. Everyone would be staring at his picture and wouldn’t that cause even more pain to his family?
Moxon started at the officers intently. “If I tell you my name and address will you get in touch with my wife?”
“Would you want us to?”
Moxon looked down and nodded.
There was another lengthy pause, then, “My name is Donald Neilson and I live on Grangefield Avenue, Bradford.”
Groat frowned and Readwin allowed himself a sideways glance.
Groat could not contain himself. Surely all that work by Dee… And she had been so certain. “I thought you lived on Leeds Road,” he blurted.
Neilson looked at him in surprise. “Grangefield Avenue, Leeds Road, it’s all the same.” He said. “It’s the long road between Bradford and Leeds. Our part is called Grangefield Avenue, that’s all.”
SEVENTY SIX
If the police had so far endured a sterile wasteland, a famine of evidence in their hunt for The Panther, it was now their turn for feasting. The house on the Leeds Road proved to contain a positive superabundance, far exceeding their requirements, or even their wildest expectations. The attributes that enabled Nielsen to outwit and evade the attention of the police were now about to prove his downfall. Over the next few days they removed van load upon van load of property, as well as documents and other items as exhibits. There were notes and sketches of potential targets, analyses of specific premises together with observations, such as, ‘Lights go out at 11 p.m.’ ‘Dog barks at No. 4’ and so on. If the house was so far a treasure trove, they would soon hit a gold mine. A gold mine laced with diamonds. They had searched the bedrooms, but there was yet another door. Securely locked.
The Perfect Crime Page 28
