The Perfect Crime

by Roger Forsdyke

O.K. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about your childhood. What’s your earliest memory?

  Me Mam cuddling me. Dad were hard. He’d take his belt to us soon as look at us. Mam looked after me, she did.

  Are your parents still alive?

  Mam died when I was ten. Dad died a couple of year back.

  You were very young when your mother died – how would you say it affected you?

  Never got over it, really. Situation just got worse with me Dad. Went to live with some neighbours after a while.

  How about school?

  Hated it.

  Why was that?

  All those books. And the other boys always got on to me. Because of me being small and my name – Nappey. ‘Nipper Nappey.’ They called me. ‘Dirty Nappey.’ ‘Change your Nappey.’ Twats.

  THREE

  The police reacted swiftly to Richard Skepper’s 999 call. Within minutes, four officers attended and began a preliminary sweep of the area. When asked in which direction the killer escaped, neither Richard, nor his mother could recall hearing a car, but both were still in shock and more concerned with getting an ambulance and medical attention for Donald than anything else.

  Police forces across England and Wales were already alerted to the ‘brace and bit jobs’ so when one of the first officers to attend, PC David Smith, saw the tell-tale holes in the window frame, he knew that professionally, the CID would probably be as interested in that as they would be in the murder. He tried to recall details, but could not think if any of the other raids had ended in such tragedy.

  The duty senior officer on call that night, was Detective Superintendent Bill Dolby, head of West Yorkshire’s Number One District CID. Bill could have been mistaken for a professor perhaps, or a bank manager; not an error that criminals he dealt with were likely to make. Not more than once, anyway. Always immaculately attired, his glasses and receding hairline lent him a scholarly air. He immediately ordered Harrogate to be cordoned off with police road blocks and ordered each checkpoint to be additionally manned by two armed officers, in case they were fortunate enough to stop the murderer. There was no concrete evidence to link this incident with any other – especially as no one had been badly hurt before – certainly not killed, but as he contemplated the situation, Dolby felt a chill run down his spine and the phrase ‘stop at nothing’ ran through his head. Determined to effect an early arrest, he set about detecting his murderer. A major incident room was established in the car park of The Little Wonder pub across the road from the post office and police dog patrols were ordered to search the area for any suspect or discarded items, such as clothing or weapons. Dolby arranged for the post mortem to be held and was pleased that the most experienced Home Office pathologist, Dr Michael Green was available to take it on.

  At first light, a small army of officers assembled, amongst their number, three task forces. A total of one hundred and seventy men were joined by local residents searching the area. They were briefed to be as thorough as possible and examine outbuildings as well as private gardens and anywhere else they could reasonably go, looking for any evidence, especially a hood, or a discarded shotgun. House to house enquiries were also instigated at a reasonable hour, but Dolby was to be disappointed. Everybody had been in bed. Nothing seen or heard by anyone.

  Police underwater search units were drafted in from Leeds, Bradford and as far away as Durham – more than twenty men in total. They searched the freezing waters of the River Nidd nearby at Knaresborough and Ripley. They dived in the treacherous River Wharfe at Wetherby and where it runs under the A1 road. Later, they widened the search to include places where the murderer could have thrown items from a getaway vehicle. Frustratingly for the investigators, none of the searches, in water or on dry land, produced anything of significance.

  That afternoon, Dr Green performed the post mortem. He measured the hole in Donald Skepper’s chest at two and a half inches in diameter and recovered 120 shotgun pellets. He did not have to make any wild guesses at the cause or the time of death.

  Dr Ian Barclay, director of the Home Office Forensic Science laboratory at Harrogate, calculated that the point-blank shot had been fired from only two to three feet away and from slightly above the victim.

  Bill Dolby rubbed his balding pate. Never in all his career had a criminal performed such a complete and comprehensive disappearing act. And, if it wasn’t for the hard evidence of the victims (not least the corpse) it was as if no-one else had been at the scene. No fingerprints, no other forensic evidence to speak of. No sightings, no getaway vehicle. Having drawn a blank with police dogs, officers searching and civilian volunteers, after a couple of days, Bill enlisted the army. Four hundred sappers and young soldiers took up the challenge. With metal detectors and keen eyes, they searched hundreds and hundreds of acres around the scene.

  Nothing.

  Dolby and his team migrated to plan B. Exactly a week after the shooting, they mounted an early morning operation, an ‘owl’s eye view’ of Harrogate they called it, with New Park as the focal point, from 03:00 hours to 05:30 in an attempt to locate anyone who might have been in the area at the time of the murder. Together with two other officers, Bill also visited fashion shows, tourist promotions, bingo sessions, theatres and cinemas, appealing for information, no matter how small or trivial.

  Joanna Skepper emerged from deep sedation in time to join the Mayor and Mayoress of Harrogate and about eight hundred other mourners attending her husband’s funeral. The congregation included a large number of sub-postmasters given special dispensation to close for the afternoon.

  Bill Dolby arranged to have police, both uniformed and in plain clothes, attend the funeral. Joanna Skepper appreciated the respect, but Bill possessed another agenda. Every officer was briefed to be vigilant. What did the killer look like? Richard Skepper had only been able to furnish them with sketchy information. A male, no more than 5’8” tall. Athletic in build and movement, speaking in a stilted, probably purposely disguised manner. Dressed all in black, with a black balaclava.

  Another blank.

  Having failed to find a discarded murder weapon, the squad attempted to trace the gun by other means. All shotguns have to be licensed, so they started with the dealers. One hundred and forty firearms dealers across the area and then the five thousand licence holders. Did they match the description? Any weapons stolen, or otherwise gone missing recently?

  The enquiry ground slowly and painstakingly on. The inquest into Mr Skepper’s death was, as usual in murder cases, held only for evidence of identification to be heard, then adjourned for the police investigation to take place.

  Bill Dolby said that he wanted to trace four vehicles. A car and a blue Ford van parked near the post office shortly after 04:00; a red car, possibly an Austin or Morris 1100 parked on Skipton Road at about 03:50, and a vehicle turning into Ripon Road around 04:00.

  They were doing the best they possibly could.

  They literally did not have a clue.

  FOUR

  “You remember Annette?”

  “Annette who?” Groat became instantly testy. A career detective, he laboured under a severe impediment where names were concerned. Never forgot a face, but…

  “Annette Taylor. You know – used to work with me at the Labour Exchange in Leytonstone.”

  “Oh yeah, right.” It wasn’t that he was uninterested, or chose not to remember. Gloria pursued vastly different agendas to his own. They were married, they lived the same conjugal life, ostensibly maintained the same aims and objectives, but sometimes, he thought, she approached events from a totally different direction. Was it a woman thing, or just Gloria? She was obsessed by TV soaps. Privately, he was of the opinion that she believed the characters were real people, not just professional actors following a script. She also constantly monitored the neighbours activities and their possessions. One of Gloria’s imperatives was always to be one up on the others in her circle. He could go some way to understanding that. Newer car, better dinner
parties, a cleaning lady – she would have to have it. Silently – and very covertly – he would sometimes mouth toward her ample backside, ‘My dad’s bigger than your dad.’

  Gloria continued, “Spoke to her the other day.”

  Silence.

  “She’s got a kid sister.”

  Groat frowned. He could not put a finger on it, but didn’t like the way the conversation was heading. He braced himself.

  “She’s doing a post graduate degree in psychology.”

  He was aware that he would have to say something eventually, but knew that whatever he said would probably be wrong, and in any case have no effect on Gloria’s determination or direction. “Uh-ha.” He ventured, as non-committal as possible.

  “So, she wants to talk to a policeman.”

  “What about?” The frown deepened.

  Experience had taught Groat extreme reluctance to engage with anyone who wanted to talk to a policeman. ‘My brother-in-law’s brother got a ticket last week – whatcha going to do about it?’ It was invariably guaranteed to be on that level. A waste of time and frustrating to all parties involved – especially for him.

  “Tell her to go to her nearest nick – or phone the PRO.”

  “I promised Annette that you would speak to her.”

  “Well, unpromise her, then.”

  “Can’t.”

  This was going badly wrong.

  “What d’you mean, can’t?”

  “She’s coming round tonight.”

  Shit. “Just remembered – got to go out.”

  Groat was out of his armchair, but before he was able to complete his traverse of the lounge, Gloria appeared in the doorway, blocking his exit. In spite of her impressive build, she could still put on a surprising turn of speed when the situation warranted it.

  “Where? Why?”

  “A meeting, er a briefing… got a job on… vice…” He tailed off.

  “Lester Groat…” Her chin jutted and she narrowed her eyes. He backed off, in spite of his six foot three against her mere five foot ten.

  “Gotta go, hun – exigencies of the service and all that.”

  She glanced at her watch, not lowering her guard at all. “Sit. She’ll be here in five minutes. You can go to your meeting afterwards.”

  Her dismissal of his devotion to duty, his rank, position in life and the way she put the word ‘meeting’ in vocal quotation marks, was as deft as it was uncomfortably accurate.

  He sat, closed his eyes and feared for the worst. Post graduate degree in psychology. Jesus. He had no problem with women. His mother was a strong, intelligent woman – nothing compared with Gloria, of course – but a woman to be reckoned with, nonetheless. He could also cope with the terrifyingly intense, promotion-bent dragons at work, but at home, off duty, when he could be watching telly… What had Gloria saddled him with?

  Five minutes later, the doorbell sounded and he heard Gloria welcoming his next half hour of sycophantic boredom into the house. Listened to the voices approaching, trying to picture her. He could barely remember Annette, so what her kid sister would turn out to be like, he could not imagine.

  Whatever half-formed musings he might have entertained, vanished as she was ushered in to the lounge.

  “This is Deirdre. Deirdre, this is Lester.” Gloria cooed – so Dr Jekyll from her Mr Hyde, a mere five minutes previously. “Tea; coffee?” She half-turned to Groat, “Ice-cool lager, dear?”

  Mentally, Groat shook his head to clear his mind, but Gloria wasn’t paying him any heed, all attention was on their guest.

  “Coffee – black, no sugar, please,” She said, “and please, it’s Dee. I’ve always thought that Deirdre sounds like a cross between drear and tawdry, so call me Dee, please.”

  Groat hastily revised his obviously premature estimation. Behind the heavy, Hank Marvin glasses, Dee’s eyes sparkled as she spoke. She sported a dense mane of dark curly hair, and a handshake that an arm wrestler would not have been ashamed of. She spoke in an attractive, no-nonsense manner and Groat thought, this is no airy fairy, head in the clouds academic. No police groupie, either.

  “So.” Groat stepped warily into the minefield. “Gloria tells me that you want to speak to a policeman – or me, anyway.”

  “Right.” Dee said, unsmiling.

  Good start there, then. Groat grimaced briefly.

  “What about?” He wished he was in the relative comfort of the interview room, on the right side of the table, with the might of the law on his side and plenty of muscle on hand to assist if the going got rough.

  “I’ve no doubt you have heard of Doctor Lionel Haward.”

  He briefly thought of winging it, but wisely reconsidered. “Sorry, no.”

  “And as a professional, you will have heard of the work the FBI are doing at their headquarters in Washington DC.”

  “No.” He said unhappily.

  “O.K.” Dee worked hard to stop herself sound as though she was talking to a dense, recalcitrant schoolboy and took a deep breath. “What I’m talking about is the work pioneered by Dr Haward in the late 1940’s. He was an RAF pilot during the war, but a psychologist by profession and part of a team that worked on identifying Nazi war criminals. He produced a list of factors – mode of dress, likely possessions, speech patterns and so on, to help screen people suspected of being high ranking Nazis. He was surprisingly accurate and using his ‘profiles’ the Allies attained great success in identifying such people.”

  “O.K.” Groat wondered what this could possibly have to do with police work – especially his.

  “And work has also been done in the States by the FBI on what they term psychological profiles of offenders.”

  “Right.” Groat was belatedly beginning to make the connection – and simultaneously realised that he did not have any professional knowledge of what she was talking about, what it entailed – or how to further the conversation in any coherent, meaningful, or intelligent fashion. He was allowed brief respite – and refreshment by Gloria bringing in a tray of coffee, biscuits and the promised ice cold Fosters.

  “Am I right in thinking that the British police do not regularly, or commonly use such techniques?”

  “Correct.”

  “So I was wondering,” she smiled, eyes sparkling again, “if you might know anybody that might have any experience… or you could point me in the right direction?”

  It was an unspoken rule in the Groat household, that Acting Detective Inspector Groat was the oracle of all matters police, male and automotive, whilst Mrs G ruled the roost, her husband and everything else. This probing, therefore, into areas of Groat’s professional expertise and lack of knowledge was unfortunate and destabilising. Additionally, this demonstration of apparent deficiency was being played out in the presence of the redoubtable Gloria, who would undoubtedly make political and marital capital out of it. Groat had experience of this in the past. Much of it eye-watering.

  “Don’t get a lot of call for that sort of thing over here,” he said finally. “I’ll do some asking around and let you know.”

  *

  Notes of Interview. Dr H Milne.

  So after you left school – what then?

  Got apprenticed as a joiner. Apprentice! Slave labour, more like.

  I see. What happened there?

  Didn’t get on with the boss. Tried a couple of others, but they were all the same.

  I understand you started your National Service in January 1955?

  Best time of my life.

  Go on.

  Learned about guns. Ammunition. How to kill terrorists. Learned all about tracking, camouflage, survival. Got to travel all over – Kenya, Cyprus, Aden. I enjoyed my time in the army, but I never admitted owt about it to anybody ‘cos it were not thing to do. It is possible to be afraid and at the same time enjoy yourself.

  I enjoy disciplining meself.

  FIVE

  The day after the bawdy house raid Groat spent the obligatory hours at his desk, on his paperwork.
The house to house results were to be collated and any complaints meant a return trip to obtain statements. Once their details were established, the ‘party goers’ were released; the organisers arrested and dealt with, one by one.

  His phone rang. “D/I Groat.”

  “Is that the young, handsome D/I Groat?”

  “Certainly is.”

  “Must have the wrong number then.”

  “Bloody hell, Ted. Can’t you get yourself some new jokes?”

  “Don’t be such a grouch. Anyway, have you seen orders this week?”

  “Too busy. You know what it’s like with vice jobs.” The shine may have gone off for him, but Groat knew that vice work was still a big deal to many of the woodentops and he would puff himself up, whenever the opportunity arose.

  Ted said nothing but still managed to come across as disconsolate. There was an awkward silence. They’d known each other since training school so Groat just blathered on at him. “Oh come on, don’t go all broody on me. What’s up?”

  “I’ve only got a place on the Murder Squad, that’s all.”

  Groat felt awful. Ted Pearson was his best mate and had performed some above and beyond the call of duty favours for him over the years. He was a plodder, a foot soldier, but above all, straight as a die and as loyal a friend as a man could ever hope for. Groat blackmailed his way onto the murder squad whilst barely out of his probation, was promoted sergeant, made detective sergeant, passed his exams and was expecting his imminent elevation to senior officer rank and a couple of pips on his shoulder.

  Easy life.

  Only recently, after many long hours slog with the books, PC Pearson managed to scrape through his sergeants’ exam at the fourth attempt and eventually gained his stripes. With fifteen years’ service, Ted was promoted Detective Sergeant – and now onto the murder squad, to boot. That was good progress for anyone.

  “Oh, mate, that’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant,” and using another of Ted’s own well-worn lines, “You’ll have to let you buy me a drink.”