The Perfect Crime

by Roger Forsdyke

  NINE

  Groat parked the Capri outside Olivia’s flat and ran up the stairs two at a time. He got his breath back walking along the landing. Two minutes before the appointed time, he rattled the letterbox of number 337. As quickly as before, she opened the door to him. Her smile may have ignited the sun, but the interior of the flat was not similarly brilliant. It was still daytime, but the curtains were partly drawn, making it appear mysterious, intimate.

  “Tea? Coffee? Something a little stronger?” She asked.

  “Coffee will be fine.”

  He watched her as she turned and left the room, beguiled once more by her long slim legs, the curves of her shape shown off to perfection by expensive clothes. Cognitively, he realised that he should not regard every attractive woman primarily as a sex object, but never discovered a way of stopping himself. It always happened, catching him unawares before he had a chance to think on anything above trouser level. He shook his head, sank back into the thick cushions of her settee and looked around her sitting room.

  Policing duties had taken him into many homes during his fifteen years in the job. Enquiries with titled folk in their stately residences, statements taken from posh people in their upmarket gaffs. Called to a domestic dispute in one such situation, the lady of the house answered the door to his knock, looked straight past him at the jam sandwich parked outside and in lead crystal cut glass tones said, “Do you hef to leave thet thing theah? Couldn’t you have parked round the corner, or something? Whatever will the neighbours think?”

  Excuse me?

  He had been to many ordinary homes. On one occasion, he only realised that the shiny floor was actually carpet, when the soles of his shoes stuck to it. He endured many others where he wiped his feet on the way out. He liked to think of himself as one who took people as he found them, without undue stereotyping. He experienced a rock star’s pad that was filthy beyond belief and once happily shared a pot of tea in a council flat, where the people were desperately poor, but still managed to keep themselves and their threadbare living accommodation clean and tidy.

  Olivia’s home was therefore something of a conundrum. A flat in this area would not usually indicate wealthy occupants, but this room was furnished as well, if not better than his own home. If there weren’t some real antiques here, they were good reproductions – and they didn’t come cheap, either. He knew that some of the older places were floored with parquet, but this looked new or recently refurbished and the Chinese rug was about three feet thick. The term rug was somewhat inadequate, he reflected, as it must have been at least ten feet by twelve.

  She returned with two mugs of coffee which she placed on coasters on the coffee table in front of him. He had already noted the quality – solid dark oak, dovetailed construction with bevelled, plate glass inlaid top. She sat down on the settee next to him, close enough for his senses to be booted suddenly into overdrive by her very proximity and subtle perfume.

  “So what is it that I might be interested in?” he asked.

  “Just this.”

  She leaned towards him and kissed him. Soft lipped, lingering, sensuous. The effect on him, both physically and psychologically, was total worldquake. Nine point nine on the Richter scale. His whole being was suddenly filled with her; the intimacy of her presence, the smell of lipstick, her hair, the gentle pressure of her lips on his, her sweet breath.

  He pushed her away from him, drew back, stood up abruptly.

  Don’t you realise that I’m a police officer – on duty?

  He told her sternly he was a married man. Demanded to know what the devil she thought was she playing at. He walked out never to return.

  He should have.

  He ought never to have gone there in the first place.

  He closed his eyes and they leaned back into the cushions. As they kissed, she stroked his cheek. He became giddy with sensation and put out his arm; his hand brushed her breast. She did not shrink from his touch. He kissed her in return, their mouths soft, open.

  They moved closer together.

  The coffee, ignored, gradually grew cold.

  *

  Notes of Interview. Dr H Milne.

  So how did you feel, working for other people?

  Working for someone else were no way to make owt. The only way was being self-employed. Everything I’ve done, I’ve put my best into. I’ve always worked hard and thought I would make money from my work. But I didn’t. I was banging my head against a wall. I never had enough capital for big jobs. So, there were only one course left for me. There were no other way than crime – then building a business up.

  So what next?

  I’m an Enoch Powellite. I don’t like bloody wogs in my country, paying nothing and getting supported. If the government can afford to give them social security money, I should be able to draw it, too. Pakistanis are over here drawing £100 a week national assistance. I’ve read about it in the papers. There are white blokes on the same game as well. Some of them on the dole have been travelling around in taxis getting cash in different names in different towns – and far better off than I was, working all hours god sends. I didn’t become a criminal to get a flashy sports car. I never even went on a decent holiday until I turned to crime.

  So was it only for money?

  Suppose so. Had to get some, somehow. What with mortgage, a wife and daughter to keep.

  How did you decide what you were going to do and how you were going to go about it?

  I needed cash. Where are you going to get cash? I mean, apart from robbing banks, or a train? I wouldn’t know how to go about something like that and anyway, you couldn’t do it by yourself – and that’s where you’d start to have problems. I’ve always kept myself to myself and never talked about what I do to anybody. Least of all the wife. But I do know about houses – being a builder and all. So I started breaking in to houses – but I always knew what I was doing. I thought about it, see. Only ever took cash. No way of tracing that – and no need to involve anyone else through having to sell stuff. More trouble. I avoided working class and upper class places. No cash in either. One hasn’t got any, the other’s in the bank. And I never used my van for crime. Using a vehicle is suicide and the police are always catching criminals through them.

  TEN

  He was a survivor. He thought about the last nine years, six months, three weeks and two days. He could stay the distance.

  He lay on his back and regarded the ceiling of his cell in a distracted, unfocussed way. Initially, he expected a really rough time, but was assigned to the wing with the nonces, kiddie fiddlers and other assorted pariahs. The screws soon discovered how unpleasant and manipulative he really was, so eventually put him with the regular inmates to see what would happen. They were to be disappointed. Once he let it be known that he had been an associate of the Johnson brothers gang, he was not only left alone, but accorded privileges and respect. The cons knew that the gang’s chief enforcer was rumoured to have bitten off the balls of an unfortunate he was torturing, and Bonehead let it be known that he was responsible for single-handedly drowning the man. That was not exactly how it had occurred, but he let the tale run and it served his purpose.

  His obsession, as always, was with regaining what was rightfully his.

  His Gloria.

  She was magicked away from him by that bastard Groat. How it happened in the first place, he still could not fathom, but it was fact, so he made every civilised effort to get her back. Presents – even on one occasion an entire fitted kitchen – but it did not advance his cause at all. It was her doing, that pressured him into behaving the way he did. If only she had been willing, he would not have been forced to make all those other women service his needs. But he never blamed her for spurning him, or considered it to be in any way her fault. No, what lay behind her indifference towards him was that husband of hers, Lester Edwin Groat, god rot his cock. Groat was also a member of the team that had put him in here, so he deserved singling out. He would get special at
tention when the time came. Really special attention.

  Bonehead employed his leisure time (a considerable period) over the years for a good cause. He developed and worked endlessly on The Grand Scheme, which at a stroke would put paid to his nemesis and win his Gloria back once and for all. If he could not persuade her using legitimate means, such were his imperatives, he would have to resort to foul play. Actually, resort did not form part of the equation as Sidney Bulstrode’s instinctive modus operandi was the underhand.

  His contacts on the out – on the rare occasions he received visits – informed him that there was a growing community of ex-pats in southern Spain. Rather than spend an unnecessary stretch in the uncomfortable, restrictive, insanitary conditions of one of Her Majesty’s great Victorian institutions, some enterprising souls had taken themselves off to the Costa Del Sol. He surprised the staff in the prison education department by showing an interest in geography. They obtained books and travel guides for him, pleased that he was widening his horizons.

  In Bonehead’s solitary imaginings, however, this place was less a burgeoning tourist resort for many souls, than somewhere for his soul to resort. In his mind, Michelin coalesced comfortably with Tolkien and soon the phrase Costa Del Sol assumed a magical, fantastical aura. Costa Del Sol – the promised land – where dreams came true and deprivation and frustration were no more. There, he was assured – and was entirely convinced – living was cheap and there was an endless supply of sunshine, birds and booze.

  Paradise.

  True, there was a long standing treaty between Spain and the UK, but for whatever reason, for many years it was basically inoperable. Bonehead possessed first-hand experience of this sort of procedure in his previous life, on the rare occasion he tried to get extradition proceedings going. You might as well attempt breast stroke through wetly setting concrete.

  Lying on his bunk, he fantasised about how life really ought to be – and if things went to plan – was going to be. He would sunbathe with Gloria on a sun-drenched Mediterranean beach and ply her with Piña Colada under a huge straw parasol. He would gaze at her lovingly as she lay on her sun lounger, bursting out of her bikini, while he rubbed Ambre Solaire into her back, her legs, that shapely, gradually bronzing body. Here he would slow to savour the moment. He was so familiar with this part of his fantasy, yet it always guaranteed the same warmth and ecstasy. Eyes tight shut, he could pretend he was really there. Gloria turned over towards him so he could apply yet more sun lotion. Then, smiling coyly, she slipped up her bikini top for his delectation. Slowly he caressed the magnificence of her breasts, all the while marvelling at her generous proportions, the slipperiness of her skin, her nipples damp with sweat and sun tan oil, proudly pushing into the palms of his hands.

  When he recovered his composure sufficiently, he would get back to proper plotting. The news that Gloria had moved on from the employment exchange to managing a travel agents only served to encourage him. If he could not persuade her by legitimate means on her home ground, he would use any and every method his twisted soul could imagine, on neutral ground. Somewhere where she could be made to stay long enough to come around to his point of view and where that stupid, shitty, waste of space husband of hers could not get to her. That was if Groat even survived the sorpresa grande that he planned for him.

  Bonehead schemed.

  Bonehead dreamed and above all, once again, Bonehead had bided his time.

  Costa Del Sol.

  His Gloria.

  Paraíso, mis amigos.

  Not long to go now.

  ELEVEN

  Driving across London.

  In his head he could hear Marlene Dietrich – ‘Falling in love again, never wanted to. What am I to do? I can’t help it.’

  The sun shone even when skies were brooding and grey. The car felt alive in his hands. Three litre Capri Ghia, sixty degree vee six, twin choke Webber, one hundred and thirty eight brake horsepower. He thought back to the time that he’d been on attachment to the CID, a temporary detective constable, being driven up the M1 by his then detective sergeant, Harry Heavens, in an Austin three litre. In those days the heavy old cast iron, straight six engine could only muster a little over one hundred horsepower. He remembered that time with affection. Not long out of his probation and the world, if not at his feet, there for carving his way through, making a career. And now he was rediscovering the joy of the job, of very life itself.

  On the car stereo, Radio One DJ, Diddy David Hamilton was playing bubblegum music, so he eased in the cassette of the latest Steely Dan Album, ‘Pretzel Logic’. He considered all the tracks to be pretty amazing, but Barrytown and Charlie Freak with its wonderful rippling piano riffs vied to be his favourite. He wondered if he would run up the stairs three at a time.

  Better conserve your strength, my boy.

  She let him in.

  They kissed.

  “D’you want a drink?”

  “No, I’m all right, thanks.”

  Olivia led him into her bedroom. The covers were already turned down, the bluey-grey sheets a lighter version of the colour of his beloved car. Not like the starched white jobbies, favoured by Gloria. They kissed again and feverishly fumbling, pulled at zips, yanked at buttons, touching, caressing, undressing. A trail of carelessly discarded clothes on the floor led towards the bed.

  She was slim, tanned, perfect.

  “You don’t believe in pleasing the ladies, then.”

  “What?” What are you on about? Never had any complaints in the past.

  “Straight on, so eager.”

  “Well…” What are we here for?

  Olivia pushed him off. “About time I taught you a thing or two, I reckon.”

  Groat was so busy being nonplussed, she caught him by surprise. Moving gracefully down the bed, she straddled his left leg and took him in her mouth.

  He gasped, eyes wide. His thoughts whirled frantically. No one else had ever done this for him. Any rational thought process, however, was swiftly elbowed out by the certainty that, if she carried on with her current efforts, he would soon…

  No, Christ, no. Just not on, old boy.

  Desperately, he conjured up images of sinks piled high with filthy, greasy washing up; of a Monday morning bollocking by the divisional commander, root canal work without anaesthetic – anything at all that might take his mind off what she was doing and prevent the fast approaching calamity. Her head bobbed; deep, deep, lips lips, deep. The way she worked him with her fingers wasn’t helping delay matters, either.

  The anticipated catastrophe arrived far sooner than he would have considered possible. No amount of greasy dishes or painful dentistry could postpone it one nanosecond longer. The physical sensation pulled at him, making it impossible to postpone his ecstasy from taking soaring flight. The feeling of her rubbing her most intimate self against him, apparently unconsciously, helped to propel him further and higher than he had previously dreamed possible.

  She looked up at him and laughed gently. “You ought to see the look on your face.” She came up, kissed him full on, her breasts brushing his chest, her mouth wet, musky.

  He frowned, remembering her earlier comments. “What now?”

  “My turn.”

  Your turn?

  She took his hand. He shuddered slightly as her fingers intertwined with his, guiding him. “Here. Feel. Not too far – that’s it. Now gently, I’m quite sensitive just there. If I’m wet enough, OK. If not...”

  She took his fingers into her mouth, sliding them in and out, licking, nibbling, lubricating. She looked up at him and grinned as his eyes rolled. When they were generously moistened, she guided his hand back down, working his fingers, again demonstrating where, and how. “That’s good,” she sighed. “You know, your average man, well – well under five minutes. Most women take three times that. Pace yourself.”

  She closed her eyes.

  Rarely, perhaps never had he been so high. Certainly never with anyone so stunningly attractive, gorgeous,
beautiful even – and she was here with him – letting him do this to her. As he worked away, he drank in the sight of her, marvelled at the swell of her breasts. Not on the scale of his Gloria, but pert and shapely. Firm, upstanding nipples, not large, brown and nondescript. Quality, not quantity, he thought. Flat stomach, long shapely legs. She was fun to be with and not unintelligent, either. She looked good, felt good, smelled very good.

  Sex on legs.

  Never before had he experienced loving on this level. After a few minutes she started to colour up, her upper chest and neck gradually flushing. She moved her hips; tiny gyrating, thrusting motions. She took hold of the sheet with her left hand and was gripping it, harder now, clutching. He began to get concerned, but her eyes remained closed. She began breathing heavily, sucking air in a laboured fashion through her clenched teeth.

  Abruptly, she opened her eyes, wide and dark. “Don’t stop yet.”

  He looked at her with concern that was rapidly turning to acute embarrassment. “I, I thought you, you were having an asthma attack.”

  “Fuc-” she coughed, “bloody asthma attack. Wet your fingers again and don’t stop until I say.”

  Soon her thrusting became stronger and her breathing quickened and became shallower. “Yes… Yes,” she said, “go on, keep on, yes… yes… oh yes.” She shuddered exquisitely, still gripping and pulling at the sheet, breathed, “Slowly now, gently, gently, slower. Thaaat’s it.”