Stupid.
Whatever, or whoever, the fact that the bell was ringing presumably meant that they didn’t have a key. He would stay put and wait it out. A little while later, the letterbox rattled and a card swooped and dropped silently on to the front doormat. He squeezed back against the wall so that he wouldn’t be seen by a nosy postman peering through. He gave it a couple of minutes after the van departed, then let himself out.
They would never realise anyone had been in.
*
Dr H Milne – interview notes.
How big a step was it for you, moving from domestic burglaries, to robbing post offices?
I suppose in one way – looking back – it were a huge step. But d’you know, it were fantastic. Like being back in the army. All that planning, preparation. Using all the knowledge, skills and expertise I’d got from serving abroad. For the first time in ages, I felt alive, like I was actually getting somewhere at last. House breaking? Lucky if you get fifty quid. Sometimes less than a tenner. That first post office job? They said I got over three grand. Bollocks. It were a bit over a thousand pound – but how many house burglaries would I have to have done to get that much? Bloody fantastic, I tell you.
SEVENTEEN
Gloria arrived home at her usual time. She let herself in and smiled as she picked up the card from the doormat. They had moved from Leytonstone a little over a year previously and the place was now about how she wanted it. Groat was earning good money in the CID and their combined income allowed them a more than comfortable lifestyle. She walked through to the kitchen and unlocked the back door. It was a warm, humid evening so she opened windows in the living room, the dining room and some upstairs as well. The place would be well-aired and a more comfortable temperature by the time her husband returned from work.
She heard the Capri on the drive a couple of minutes before eight. Groat noted Gloria’s glass of white wine on the side, beads of condensation, inviting. Walked out of the back door and into the garage intent on getting the lawn mower out before the grass got too long for it to cope with.
He came back to get himself a can of Fosters from the fridge. “Gloria,” he bellowed, “Gloria.”
Under normal circumstances, she would have treated him to the rough side of her tongue for using that sort of tone, but something about the way he was shouting made her dash downstairs. She ran through to where he was standing in the kitchen.
“For god’s sake, what is it?”
“Look.” He pointed to the back door frame.
“What?” She frowned.
“We’ve been burgled, that’s what. Screwed. Someone’s been in.”
Unlike her husband, Gloria’s only experience of burglaries was gleaned from films and the TV crime dramas, government scare tactics – public information adverts. Places trashed, drawers pulled out, goods and chattels scattered. Everything everywhere and excrement smeared on the walls.
“What are you talking about. The house was all locked up when I left it this morning. It was all locked up when I got back tonight. No windows broken, nothing’s been taken.”
“What’s that then?” He pointed to two small indentations in the paintwork on the door jamb by the lock on the back door.
“What? I don’t know. I haven’t even been out the back.”
“Someone’s had a go. I know it. I’m phoning the local nick.”
An hour later, the late turn DC turned up with a sour-faced scenes of crime officer. The DC drank a can of Fosters with Groat while the old SOCO squinted at the back door and the lock. Aluminium oxide fingerprint dust floated and eddied, sparkling in the evening sunlight as he worked and twirled his brush. At one point he even produced a magnifying glass from his case.
“What d’you reckon?” Groat asked eventually.
The scenes of crime man shrugged. “Couple of slight marks. Some tiny scratches on the bolt – could be something, could be nothing. Anything missing? Damaged?”
“Not that we can see.” Groat was forced to admit.
“Well,” he paused, thinking, “you’ve either got some really clever, skilful burglar making a point…”
Groat frowned at him, “Like what?”
The older man shrugged, “I don’t know. Who have you upset lately? Anyone likely to know where you live and would want to leave you a message by breaking into your house to send you a wakeup call?”
Groat said, “Unlikely. I work up in the city. As far as I know no one – certainly none of the scrotes – knows where I live. Anyway, if someone was going to carry out an exercise like that, they’d leave a note on the kitchen table or something.”
“Well, there you go. You’re down to someone who was disturbed before they could do the job, or a couple of marks made by some unknown means. I would tend to say it was nothing sinister. In fact if you were a member of the public I would be insisting it was nothing sinister. Come to that we’d probably not have even turned out. The only thing that bugs me, is that you say they weren’t there this morning?”
“Couldn’t swear to it,” Gloria said.
“And they look fresh.” The old officer continued. “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. Probably nothing. At most a half-hearted attempt.”
Groat was only partly appeased.
Gloria shook her head. All this blasted fuss. He probably got something stuck in there when he was shutting the door. Bloody fool’s getting paranoid.
EIGHTEEN
Ted took the 8:05 from Kings Cross to Harrogate, arriving shortly after eleven. A stranger to the area, he took a taxi to the police station, but found he could have walked the distance in little more time than it took his ride to negotiate the one way system.
He was shown in to Detective Superintendent Dolby’s office.
“Now then.” Bill said, in his broad Yorkshire burr.
The two men shook hands, each summing up the other.
“What brings the almighty Metropolitan Police murder squad to my door?”
Ted smiled. “Is that really how you think of us?”
“Not really.”
Ted raised his eyebrows momentarily. “Well, sir. In a way it’s nothing to do with your, er your enquiries, that is, but I have been given this job to do by the head of the Murder Squad, Commander Morrison.”
“Go on, lad.”
“We are aware of the post office burglaries – the brace and bit jobs – that are being committed around the country, and that the last one that we know of was here, in Harrogate that ended up with the postmaster being murdered.”
“And you think that you can help; that West Yorkshire are incapable of carrying out a murder enquiry?”
“No sir. Nothing like that.” Ted grimaced. This was not going well. Where was Groat when he needed him? “Sir, the situation is this.”
He quickly outlined Commander Morrison’s concerns and the object of his, D/S Pearson’s quest. “So, if anything, sir, it would be you helping us – me.” He shrugged.
Dolby appeared mollified. “All right,” he said, “what can we do to help?”
Ted told him that they were aware of about fourteen brace and bit jobs in seven separate force areas. “Can I ask who you have liaised with, sir? How many other forces have you contacted?”
Dolby looked at him with some surprise. “Why would we talk to anyone about a West Yorkshire crime?” He asked. “Because there may be some superficial similarity, this is a murder enquiry, not some mere burglary.”
“But sir, if there may be an outside chance, that there might be information in the possession of officers in other force areas, that might possibly be able assist you…”
“Detective Sergeant. You have no idea what you are saying. They wouldn’t talk to me, any more than they would expect me to go to them. Are you suggesting I go on bended knee to those cowboys in South Yorks?…” He paused to let it sink in, the enormity of what was being suggested. “Or worse, those arrogant Greater Manchester clowns.” He shook his head and rounded on Ted, “Not only that
, but they would expect something back. We would feel obliged to give them information, details about a West Yorkshire investigation.” He shook his head again. “Couldn’t do it. Just not possible.”
Ted thought of his covert and strictly irregular meetings with Groat and Dee. He had not been keen on pursuing that off-the-wall form of enquiry, but was – reluctantly – persuaded and was now glad to have been open minded enough to go with it. The attitude being displayed here, however, belonged in the dark ages. They were in a different geological time; on some strange, alien planet. Commander Morrison could not have any inkling of what he was asking of his Detective Sergeant. The man may be a hard task master, but Ted was convinced he was not stupid, or a sadist. A sudden flash of inspiration came to him.
“I understand, sir.” He said. He looked at the Superintendent cautiously, “But what if it could be done, What if some – carefully monitored – information, of vital interest and use to you, could be obtained…”
Dolby grunted. “What are you suggesting?”
“Well, I understand that you would not want to be disloyal to West Yorks, any more than you would want to kow-tow to any other force, but if you had an intermediary… a go between… someone you could trust… someone who could get you an advantage, possibly even onto the inside track…?”
Dolby had not reached the rank of Detective Superintendent by being politically unaware, or a complete idiot. Some officers of his acquaintance may have been promoted to get them out of trouble, booted upstairs, out of the way, but not Bill Dolby. He was a shrewd, coldly calculating Yorkshireman in the finest of traditions. He smelled advantage, advancement. One over the opposition. And a sacrificial lamb to boot, even. And if the lamb was of the Metropolitan breed, how much sweeter the meat?
*
Dr H Milne – interview notes.
So was that it, then? The culmination, or end result of the plan?
That were it – for then. Didn’t think anywhere forward of that.
I sense that something changed at some point.
Well, you’d think that at a thousand pound a pop, that would have been it.
And was it?
If only. Sometimes it were nothing from post offices, either. Houses. Small risk, small rewards. No weapons involved, little or no homework needed. Preparation time and costs minimal. Could easily do half a dozen a night. But post offices… Reconnaissance. Time, effort and yes, money, I suppose. Time, most of all. Couldn’t do more than one a night. Lucky to do one a week. Still had the same – more – expenses.
So what did that mean for you?
I suppose it were all right while t’going was good, but I couldn’t keep on for ever. Something had to give. Either I kept at it until I was forced to give it up, or I could do something.
Something? What sort of something?
Something that would give me the break I needed. Like I said, get me out of the water, onto dry land. The good life.
The papers estimated you made more than £30,000 out of the post office robberies…
Listen doctor. For a start you ought to get your terminology right. The papers might have called them robberies, but technically, they were burglaries. Aggravated burglaries. O.K.?
O.K.
Second, they always took the Post Office’s word for it – the highest estimate of what was alleged to have been stolen. That included the cost of repairing the damage of me getting in and any consequential loss. I told you I were very careful only to take cash. What I mean, is that that the actual amount of their loss did not necessarily mean the equivalent gain for me. O.K?
O.K. What would you estimate your financial gain to have been? Can you quantify it?
I don’t know. Less than a third, a quarter of that – in cash.
So what did that mean to you?
It meant I had to streamline my operation and keep going, or I had to move on up.
And what did you decide?
I’m fit. Very fit. Have been since my army days, so I suppose it were because of that, I become gradually aware of my slowly deteriorating fitness levels. There would come a point when I could no longer guarantee my superiority in an aggravated burglary situation.
And?
Not only that, but I was breaking my own rules.
Meaning?
I was no longer able to change my MO on a regular basis, as per the plan. I could change area, but the rules of engagement were not flexible any more. If I had carried on, it was only a matter of time before they caught up with me.
So what did you do?
Plan B.
Which was?
Carry on for as long as I reasonably could – with the current MO – but at the same time, develop a different, a completely different long term strategy.
NINETEEN
The next part of Bonehead’s plan was ease itself. He parked the Volkswagen on The Crescent and, dressed as a Royal Mail employee, walked down the road. He rounded the corner and was about to turn into the drive of number seventy eight when he saw the new alarm box on the front of the house.
Shit.
His mind raced. Had Groat fitted an alarm as a result of his earlier visit? He was not going to succumb to that paranoia. Think man, think. They would not have known he – or anyone – had been there. Lots of houses in this area were fitted with alarms, it was an affluent area, a quality property. Fitting an alarm was a sensible course of action. It might have been an insurance company requirement. After all, the Groats were both out at work all day.
A dummy box was a possibility, but what should he do? Chance it? If the alarm went off as he let himself in, it would certainly force him to abort his plans for today and probably make any return visit more problematic, even if he did get away – as surely he would. No, so far his plan was working like clockwork. He would not go bulldozing on and potentially ruin everything, when a little quick thinking could set him right back on course.
He took out a small note book and scribbled down the telephone number of the alarm company on the bell box. He carried on his leisurely stroll. Away from his car, but towards the phone box at the end of the road.
He dialled the number noted on his pad. “Hi. This is Mr Groat – 78, Lower Park Road, Loughton. Just wanted an update on the status of my new alarm.”
The woman’s tinny voice at the end of the line was obsequiously apologetic. They were ever so sorry, but the engineer still could not obtain the replacement circuit that he needed to get the system up and working. It was a super system, but American, so the part was coming from the USA. It was being flown over even as they were speaking, but they couldn’t install it until it arrived, which would not be for another two to three days. Bonehead thanked the woman for her time, thought that Groat really was an idiot if he put up with crap like that and thanked his stars for being quick-witted.
He went back to the house and let himself in.
TWENTY
Derek Houseman. Baker. So employed for the last seventeen years. Every working day for every one of those years, rising at the ungodly hour of three a.m., to walk the mile and a half to the bakery on Kings Street, to start preparing the day’s batch of loaves, rolls, buns and other food staples that would help keep the people of Dukinfield going for the next twenty four hours. Shortly after three thirty a.m. he stumbled, still half asleep, along Yew Tree Lane, past the post office. Suddenly he stopped. Took stock, rubbed his eyes and looked again. Through the glass door of the shop he could dimly make out a figure, dressed all in black, kneeling in front of the safe. Derek paused and stared long enough to convince himself he was not seeing a ghost, and sprinted the one hundred yards or so to the nearest telephone kiosk. For the first time in his life, he dialled 999. He was out of breath and trembling with shock, the unaccustomed exertion, excitement.
The operator was the embodiment of calm. “Which service do you require?”
“Police.”
“Can you repeat that, please?”
Derek realised that he was whispering, not wan
ting to alert the robber. Stupid! He was a hundred yards away, inside a telephone box. The man in black was engrossed, inside the shop. “Police, please.” He said in a more normal tone.
He was told to wait where he was and await the attending patrols. Outside the phone box, he hopped from foot to foot with anxiety. What if the man came out and saw him? He moved around to the far side of the kiosk, just in case. Eventually, after a hundred years or more, two police cars arrived. So unlike TV. No bells, two tones or sirens blaring, silent, engines off as they came to a halt, officers scrambling out. Some sprinted to the back of the premises, others covered the front. He was approached by a uniformed sergeant, wanting his personal details; what he had seen. Was he sure it was a man, could he describe him? No, he was wearing a hood. Age? Build? Derek was again assailed by doubt. Perhaps it was all a dream. He often walked the route half asleep, on autopilot, reaching work and not able to remember the journey at all.
A constable reappeared from the back of the shop. “It was him all right Sarge. Entry via a rear window. Two holes through the frame. No one there, though, I’m afraid. Apart from the postmistress and her family, that is. Fled the coop. Safe’s been emptied. Getting on for two grand, she reckons.”
TWENTY ONE
Groat sat at his desk and stared, sightless, into the distance.
He was trapped in the deepest quandary, a bottomless quagmire, the most treacherous of quicksand.
Since meeting Olivia, he had become supremely engrossed by her. He was not in love. ‘In love’ was pathetically tepid. He was boiling; his mind, body and soul consumed with reckless infatuation. He was totally and hopelessly besotted with this dark, dangerously erotic angel. But now, introduced into that heady mix, was vicious turmoil and a black storm cloud of realisation. How could he have allowed himself to become embroiled in such circumstances? His mind was unable to embrace the totality of the situation, it was simply too terrible to contemplate. He could only skirt around the edge, in case he should stray too close to the chasm and be dragged – as birds might be sucked into the jet engine of an airliner – into a churning maelstrom of bloody, agonising destruction. At least the birds would perish quickly. He was forced to maintain some semblance of normal life whilst the suffering dragged endlessly on.
The Perfect Crime Page 7