SEVENTY NINE
Groat pondered and worried, schemed and planned what he would do with the fifteen thousand pounds. He could, of course, return it to the Bishop, but had no immediate way of contacting him. He was also concerned about the possible consequences of any contact with that individual, or the likelihood of the cash going astray and ending up in the hands of someone even less entitled to it than he was.
He could always try to find some way of getting it to Olivia, of course, as some sort of recompense to her, or sop to his conscience. But he baulked increasingly at that, as he thought about the circumstances and who actually had done what, to whom. His reluctance also increased as time passed and he started thinking more with what passed for a brain, rather than with other extremities of his anatomy.
One thing was certain. There was no way he could ever do anything with it officially – in a police sense – so he was reduced to the one simple aim of minimising the risk to himself and his career and, if possible coming out of the whole scenario with some advantage. Now, what was his advice to Olivia? ‘Open several bank and building society accounts… in different names – and… slowly pay in reasonable amounts…’
And what was he engaged in presently? Travelling far and wide with no checks on where he was at any particular time…
*
Monday 5th July 1976 dawned clear and bright and the temperature – as it had done all Summer – inexorably climbed up into the eighties. In Oxford, the heat wave rendered the court room as hot as any furnace.
Gilbert Gray QC came out, guns blazing, as if to raise the temperature even further. First he argued that a further trial was unnecessary – “an act of odious super vilification” – was his opinion.
Judge Justice Mars-Jones said, “I suspect that the members of the families concerned would not share your view.”
Philip Cox, QC for the prosecution said that there was much disquiet about the crimes and added, “The public interest requires matters raised in this second indictment to be tried and they should not be allowed to lie on the file.”
The judge said, “There is another very important consideration – the power I have vested in me to determine the length of time I can recommend that a person may stay in custody.”
He dismissed the application.
Gilbert Gray was not easily derailed and moved to propose that the Dudley Freightliner shooting and two burglary charges would weigh unfairly and oppressively on the accused. Mr Justice Mars-Jones decided the freightliner shooting should be allowed to lie on the file.
Next, the defence counsel began disputing the composition of the jury.
Groat thought, Doesn’t he ever give up?
Eventually the trial was underway, with an all male panel. Neilson pleaded not guilty to all nine charges against him. There were two of burglary, where he stole the firearms he was later to use to such devastating effect, three charges of murder and two of attempt murder, the latter having alternative charges of causing grievous bodily harm, in case the evidence was not strong enough to prove the more serious offence.
Over the next twelve days, the court – and the public at large – heard the Panther’s side of events. It was a rare window into a warped world, where he gave justification for every aspect of every deed he had committed. Psychologists and criminologists would have a field day dissecting the revelations, the lies and semi truths. How, each time he shot someone, it was that person’s fault, not his. And even after he had killed, he kept on committing crime, even if that meant going out and shooting someone else. How taking the cash from the post offices didn’t hurt anyone, as it was government money and all they had to do was to print more…
With all the evidence recounted, cross examined and re-examined, Philip Cox QC, in his final speech, dismissed Neilson’s contention that the three shooting deaths were accidental as stretching credulity to breaking point. He asked the jury, “Do you think a man of his cunning, of his care and planning, was so careless and so inept in the handling of firearms that they discharged accidentally in the way he maintains? In my submission that is nonsense. You may think he was waging some sort of war on society. It was not an integral part of his plan ‘The Plan’ when he set out to raid a post office, to kill. The essential part was to get the money and get away, but he lost control of the situation. The one thing he could not risk was identification and arrest.”
In his final speech for the defence, Gilbert Gray suggested that verdicts of manslaughter were inevitable. He told the jury that Neilson had regarded himself as being to crime what Sherlock Holmes was to detection – thorough, painstaking and logical – but he went wrong and instead of being an intellectual giant he was simply a jobbing joiner, failed. He maintained that there was no intention to harm the police officer at Mansfield, or inflict any serious harm at Langley.
Summing up, Mr Justice Mars-Jones warned jurors about prejudice, “Rarely has a man faced such a formidable list of grave crimes. Do not let the multiplicity of charges affect your judgement. Donald Neilson is entitled to a fair consideration of his case. This is not an open and shut case, members of the jury, as I think you would agree.”
After five hours and five minutes, at three p.m., the jury returned. The foreman announced unanimous verdicts of guilty to the three murder charges. They considered him not guilty to the attempt murder of Mrs Grayland and PC Mackenzie, but guilty of the lesser charges.
As the court fell silent, Mr Justice Mars-Jones addressed the impassive prisoner, “Donald Neilson. The evidence against you is quite overwhelming on all the counts on which you have been convicted. The enormity of your crimes puts you in a class apart from almost all convicted murderers in recent years. From early 1974 to the end of 1975, your activities struck terror into the hearts of postmasters, sub postmasters and members of their families over a large part of this country. You were never without a loaded shotgun or other weapons when you went out on your criminal expeditions. And you never hesitated to kill whenever you thought you were in danger of arrest or detection. You showed no mercy whatsoever. You decided to embark on the ultimate in villainy when you kidnapped a young girl of seventeen and blackmailed her mother.”
The judge paused, “So far as the sentences of life are concerned I am empowered by Parliament to recommend the minimum period which should elapse before you are considered for release. As I understand the law, I cannot formally recommend that you should never be released. But in my judgement, such is the gravity and the number of offences and the danger to the public when you are at large, that no minimum period of years would be suitable.”
He continued, “In your case, life must mean life. If you are ever released, it can only be on account of great age or infirmity.”
He then handed down five sentences of life imprisonment.
For kidnapping Lesley and blackmailing her mother, the judge imposed sentences of twenty one years and ten years respectively. Three further sentences of ten years were imposed for the two burglaries and for possessing the sawn off Smithson and ammunition with intent to endanger life.
Neilson turned and in a sprightly manner, ran down the dock steps to the cells below. There was a general hubbub in the court as the jury were allowed out and discharged. Gradually, the public gallery emptied and the legal teams gathered up their sheaves of papers. The judge re-emerged to lean over and speak to the clerk to the court, who turned to the still assembled personnel.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” He possessed an authority rich, sonorous voice that commanded immediate attention. The courtroom swiftly became trial hushed again. “Mr Justice Mars-Jones.”
The judge surveyed the court. “Is Detective Chief Inspector Groat in the building?”
Groat, who, throughout the trial had been sitting with Commander Morrison and Ted Pearson, was chatting with those officers and preparing to make a somewhat reluctant exit and return to the real world.
Now what?”
He turned to face the court. “My lord?”
; “Will you approach the bench.” It was not a question.
Not for the first time in his career, or even in recent events, Groat took conscious control over his anal sphincter. Steady boy. They can’t have found out about the money. Surely it’s not that he’s found out I really shouldn’t have been here all this time? What?
He stood in the well of the court, with burgeoning guilty conscience, feeling small, looking up at the judge, waiting.
“Mr Groat. I understand we – all of us – owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
Now what?
“I am reliably informed that – and I hope they will forgive me, as so much police work and effort has gone into tracking down and dealing with this man – were it not for you, we could still be looking for him. Is that not correct?”
“It is possibly so, my lord.” He frowned.
“Because of your initiative, your actions, your intelligence, Neilson was apprehended in Rainworth on the eleventh of December...”
“Yes, my lord, but with all due respect, can I stop you there. It may well have been my team, Detective Sergeant Pearson and Miss Taylor, our research, briefing, intelligence, whatever, that led to initially identifying the man, but it was the outstanding bravery of PC White and PC Mackenzie that actually got him arrested. He tried to kill them, you know. They tackled him, they overcame him. He was armed to the teeth. They were armed only with their wits and quick thinking. They are the bravest men it has ever been my privilege to shake hands with.”
Commander Morrison and Ted looked on. Ted was actually starting to get a lump in his throat.
“I understand that.” The judge continued, “and it is not my intention in any way to denigrate, or minimise what those brave officers did, but what I need to do now, at this moment, is recognise the part you have played in this investigation.”
Groat remained silent.
“The most I can do, is to commend you – give you a judge’s commendation. If you were a member of the public, I could award you a sum from the public purse, but you are a police officer, so I cannot even do that. However, I trust that my comments will be conveyed to your most senior officers, as I am of the opinion that your contribution should be recognised at a higher and more permanent level.”
Whatever that means. I wondered what on earth was coming there, for a minute. That’s what a guilty conscience does for you.
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
“No. Thank you, Mr Groat.”
EIGHTY
Groat did his research and without a word to Gloria, remortgaged. The maximum he could obtain was eighty percent to value. Already the house was worth £30,000 – five grand more than they’d paid for it, so, a cool £24,000. The place was already mortgaged for £5,000, so he came out of it with a £19,000 surplus. He would gradually pay that off out of income, eased by the money scattered around the country, in the fifteen accounts opened in recent weeks.
On a whim, he had followed up the allegedly mythical proposition laid out months earlier to Gloria by Bonehead. He was amazed to find that it was almost right. Correct to the extent that a villa could be bought for under £3,000, but you could get a truly stupendous pad, with a generously sized plot – even better than the one he’d rescued Gloria from, for around £5,000 and a small block of ten apartments on a new development for around £15,000… He could now run to that. He sent for the forms, paid the necessary deposits, instructed local solicitors and generally ensured his project was on track. If anyone asked, he’d remortgaged his house to get the cash. Everything was sweet.
It was about to get sweeter.
He was progressing the formalities with the Spanish developers, when the envelope dropped onto his desk. If his eyeballs had been attached by elastic stalks, they would have popped out and bounced around and he would have had difficulty shoehorning them back in.
He phoned Gloria. “Can you get off early, this afternoon?”
“Bit busy, you know. I do have a career of my own.”
“Yeah, yeah, me too – but you might learn something to your advantage.”
She heard the suppressed excitement in his voice and frowned. Now what’s the hare brained idiot been up to?
She sighed for his benefit because she knew it aggravated him. “Oh, I suppose so. What time?”
By the time she got home, he’d pinned photographs and brochures round most of the ground floor of the house.
She frowned as she went into the lounge. What was the prat up to now? Disfiguring her immaculately manicured home. Did he think it was Christmas, or something? Blasted peculiar sort of decorations, anyhow. He must be losing it. Then she recognised some of the images.
Groat jumped out in front of her from the kitchen doorway.
“Taraaah.” He blew her a fanfare.
“Lester Groat. Are you drunk, or simply out of your tiny mind?” She said, not caring whether she should pity him – as he was obviously losing his marbles – or yell at him to clear up the mess. Both, probably.
“What do you think.” He said, waving his arms around. Obviously in far too good a humour for his own continued wellbeing. She would see to that.
“I think you’ve finally lost it.” She said, determined to end this stupidity. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Disfiguring my house like this.” There was heavy emphasis on the word my.
“Look.” He said, “Look. Isn’t it what you want? Isn’t this what you’ve been on about at me for months?”
She looked more carefully, recognition developing. He brandished a full colour brochure under her nose – tapping a colour photograph of a superior, premium villa with his forefinger. Other images showed it complete with luxury swimming pool and beautifully landscaped grounds.
“No.” She said, shaking her head. “No. I looked at them. We could never afford… Oh my god.” She said, “Lester Groat, what have you done?”
“Got you one of those. And how about this?” He pushed the building specs of one of the smaller apartment blocks towards her.
She looked at him keenly. “You have gone out of your tiny little mind, haven’t you?”
“Got you one of those, as well.” He said, tapping the plans.
“Explain.” She commanded, although by this time – if even a small part of what he was showing her was half true… she was starting to feel weak at the knees.
“How…?” She started to say, but her heart was fluttering in her chest. “How can we?... Can we…? Can we really…? We really can…?”
Once more, she could not bring herself not to believe; the bug reprised, overwhelmed her, hooked in, pleasurable barbs deeply imbedded. She couldn’t give a hoot whether they could afford it, she was there again, living out her fantasy.
“Don’t worry about a thing.” He told her, “All bases are covered. Everything will be OK. You were right. We only have to get the places and the rental income will pay for everything. And it’s all because of you.” He crossed his fingers behind his back, but he wasn’t worried, he’d seen that look before.
He pressed home his advantage. “Fancy a bit of afternoon delight?”
They snuggled down between clean white sheets. He’d noticed that they weren’t quite so stiff with starch lately. They kissed and petted and when he judged it to be the optimum moment, he reached onto his bedside table and handed her the envelope. She frowned, but was in far too good a place to be cross. She extracted the card to humour him.
She saw the crest and shot up, bolt upright. The mighty bosom bounced and quivered in the most magnificent and satisfactory fashion.
She read out loud, “Her Britannic Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, requests and requires the presence of Detective Inspector Lester Edwin Groat, at Buckingham Palace… on the occasion of the presentation to him of the Queen’s Police Medal for distinguished service…”
She read it again, and again, and over again.
“Oh Lester,” she said dreamily, “The Palace… The Queen… Can I come? I can come, can’t I?”
<
br /> “Don’t see why not.”
“Ohhh…” She sighed, squeezing him and moving even closer. “Oh, Lester Groat. You deserve a special treat, a really special treat.”
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Two matters must be acknowledged as a priority. First, I would not have been able to write this book, certainly not with the detail, facts and figures, dialogue and descriptions as vivid and accurate as they are, without having had access to ‘The Capture of the Black Panther (casebook of a killer)’ written shortly after the events, by Harry Hawkes. I gladly acknowledge that most of the detail of the real life events in my book, is directly from that source. Harry, thank you. Any deviations from accuracy, other mistakes or imperfections, of course, are my sole responsibility.
Second, I must give full recognition to the bravery and resourcefulness of the two police officers that eventually arrested Donald Neilson. There never was any briefing to put them on notice that night, of course and the fact that the lives of PC Tony White and PC Stuart ‘Mac’ Mackenzie were in very grave danger, is beyond doubt. What would have happened if either of them had stop checked him by themselves, just does not bear thinking about. Gentlemen, that was one of the finest instances of ‘good old-fashioned bobbying’ that I have ever had the pleasure to hear about. It is also another example of what we expect our police officers to do, a reminder that every time they go out on patrol, absolutely anything might and sometimes does happen.
The two officers did have a little help, after they had got Neilson out of the police car. Four customers of the Junction Chippy, including engineer Keith Wood, weighed in to the fight as did a miner, Roy Harris, who had to then support ‘Moxon’ as Mac searched him. He found, not a .22 pistol, as in my story, but almost as bad, a wickedly sharp, large sheath knife, as well as a smaller knife tucked into his left boot. A further complication ensued after Mac radioed for assistance. They had handcuffed their prisoner to the railings outside the chip shop and then had to form a human shield in front of him, as the incensed crowd tried to give him a little more of a pasting, for attacking the two officers.
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