The Perfect Crime

by Roger Forsdyke

  “What sort of goings on?”

  “Other prossies working, issues like that.”

  Careful.

  The DAC nodded for him to continue. Here, Groat embarked upon the fabricated part of his tale. He said that other enquiries revealed that Olivia, too, was a working girl, albeit high class and not one likely to come to the attention of the authorities. Rumour was that she numbered the clergy, MPs, the clergy and some police officers – even of ACPO rank – amongst her clients.

  The DAC narrowed his eyes. “So why are you telling me all this? Surely this is something that could quite easily be dealt with on division?”

  “Yes, of course, sir, but I was thinking of the public interest. The possible consequences for national security. I don’t know who is involved exactly, but MPs? Could be another Profumo scandal, maybe even bring down the government.” He carefully avoided further reference to ACPO officers. If the man hadn’t got the message first time round, there was no useful purpose to be served in labouring the point. He was either involved or he wasn’t and going on how he was reacting so far, showed no sign that he was. “I’m no political animal myself, sir, but I was concerned that if we dealt with it on division, everyone would know everything about it in no time.”

  Hugo Van Lesseps had not achieved the rank of deputy assistant commissioner without being particularly astute. On several occasions, his sharp intellect and finely tuned political sense had saved him from mistakes that lesser mortals would have simply blundered straight across.

  He regarded Groat shrewdly. “So what is it that you are not telling me?”

  Here we go… “I have it on good authority that she is planning to blackmail her clients. MPs, clergy, everyone.”

  Van Lesseps coughed suddenly, swiftly produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, coughed again and blew his nose. “My apologies,” he said in a strangled tone, eyes watering. “Frog in my throat.”

  At last. Groat thought triumphantly. Got you. You bastard. Stringing me along like that. He had to admit that the man was a consummate actor.

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “Well, sir, I thought that if we could keep it away from division, we could arrange a sting. If we work it properly, we could catch her attempting to extort the money and keep the names of her clients,” he slowed for emphasis, “especially the important ones away from public scrutiny. Out of the papers and all that, the sort of pickle that we would inevitably get into if we dealt with it as a divisional matter.”

  “Mmm. And who, pray would deal with this? Carry out this sting?”

  Groat hesitated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t planned this, or didn’t know what he was going to say, he didn’t want to appear over eager, or naïve. Eventually in a careful, measured manner, he said, “Me, sir. If you would give me the proper authority. Me and a small, very carefully selected team.”

  “That’s all well and good, but you’re only a detective sergeant.” The DAC sounded dismissive, “It’s a big job for a sergeant – even as acting D/I. Especially with some of the people possibly likely to be involved. Could get a little heavy.”

  Groat experienced a leaden sinking feeling. His prize about to be snatched away, baby’s favourite toy out of the boat, swept away by the flood, the Grand National favourite overhauled split seconds before the finishing line. Far worse, horrified realisation suddenly exploded in his brain. If someone else was put in charge of the investigation his true part in it all would be exposed. All this effort, scheming and stress. All for nothing.

  Shit. Well make me acting chief inspector then.

  He bit his lip. “I’m pretty experienced, sir. Been on the murder squad, several years in CID, as a supervisor, likely to be made substantive D/I any time now…”

  “I suppose I could always promote you on a temporary basis, make you temporary Detective Chief Inspector.”

  Relief washed over him, leaving him feeling weak. “Yes, sir, thank you sir.”

  Temporary. Even better than acting – it would count as pensionable service in the rank. And they could hardly fail to promote him to substantive D/I if he had done the job in the next rank up.

  The DAC fixed Groat with shrewd, dark eyes. “And you – and whoever you choose to assist you – I have to be confident, one hundred percent, cast iron certain of their discretion. Needless to say, the whole operation must be absolutely confidential, no leaks. You report to me and no one but me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “In the interests of national security.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The eye contact was intense. Neither man blinked.

  They were in this together.

  THIRTY ONE

  Ted studied the latest reports. He was gradually learning more about the geography of the country outside his usual stamping grounds of greater London. The next raid had taken place in Sheffield – High Green, to be precise. A couple of minutes before four a.m. one Wednesday, using his usual MO of boring holes in the rear window frame, the man dressed all in black – now dubbed ‘The Black Panther’ by the media – gained entry to the premises and straight into the bedroom where the postmaster was asleep with his wife. He’d switched on the light and ordered them not to move. Then, threatening them with a double barrelled, sawn off shotgun, forced the man to tie up his wife. He then tied the couple together on the bed, took the safe keys and threatened that he would be back shortly. After a terrifying wait, the couple managed to struggle free and raise the alarm. At first it seemed as though the raider had got away with his best haul to date – £4,500, but a couple of days later, £1,500’s worth of stamps and postal orders were found stuffed inside the back of a radiogram. Again, there was no sound of a getaway vehicle.

  Ted turned to an intelligence bulletin from Leicestershire Constabulary. The post office at 9, Bradgate Road, Anstey, had been attacked in the usual manner. This time the occupants remained undisturbed, but a total of £2,729 had been taken.

  Six weeks later, the office at Radcliffe, seven miles north of Piccadilly in Greater Manchester was attacked. Chapelfield sub post office was entered using the usual MO, but again, thankfully, the postmaster, his wife and their ten-year-old son were blissfully unaware. In the early morning light, they discovered the safe open and £900 cash and other negotiables to the total of over £2500 was missing.

  Sheffield, Anstey and Greater Manchester. Always the Midlands and towards the north, but the man was all over the place – if it was one man and Ted was not alone in thinking that it must be. Unless he had started a training school for burglars, or was operating a franchise. Straightforward enough by car, or van – even a motorbike, but always by public transport and always carrying a bag, or holdall capable of containing thousands of pounds worth of notes, stamps and postal orders. No wonder he jettisoned bags of change, especially as he was invariably described as small, short, wiry.

  Ted set about preparing another intelligence bulletin, thinking that it was about time they should update Dee with developments. He wondered if she was making any headway with her researches.

  THIRTY TWO

  Monday 11th March 1974

  Early evening, Tittensor, a small village on the main A34 road between Stafford and Newcastle-under-Lyme. The postmaster had already locked up for the night and taken the safe keys upstairs to hide them in his usual place. His wife, Jean however, wanted some savings stamps for the schools savings group and insisted that he get them out of the safe. Grumbling, he retrieved the keys and unlocked the safe. After the stamps were been handed over, he locked up again, but hearing the news starting on ITV, went through and sat down.

  They went to bed at their usual time – shortly after 11 p.m. and did not wake until 6:15 the following morning, when the cat jumped up on the bed.

  “What are you doing up here, puss?” Jean said, shaking her husband awake. “Didn’t you shut him in
the kitchen like usual?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Well what’s he doing up here?”

  There was growing publicity about the post office raids, both in the news and in the Post Office’s own internal publications, not to mention the £5,000 reward offered following the murder of Donald Skepper. The postmaster leapt out of bed and ran downstairs. His wife knew something was wrong. There was an odd quality to the silence that followed.

  A few moments later he bellowed, “Jean!”

  Cautiously, she put on her slippers and dressing gown and went downstairs to join her husband. The side window was partly open. The jars that usually stood on the windowsill were outside in a neat row on the ground. In the post office, all the drawers were open and the steel safe empty. The contents had been removed and trays and folders were stacked neatly on the table in the toilet. They saw three holes bored through the window frame. Frantically, they started checking everything left behind by the thief.

  “Oh, Jean – more than £1000 cash, nearly £2000 in postal orders. I reckon it must be over £4000 altogether. What are we going to do?”

  “Call the police, that’s what.”

  “I already have.”

  “That’s all right then.”

  “All right, what’s all right about it? We’ve lost all that money. It’s your fault, making me open the safe last night, after I’d already locked up. I must have left the keys downstairs.”

  She frowned. “Remember that poor man in Harrogate?”

  “What poor man?”

  “That other postmaster, Mr Skepper.”

  “What about him?”

  “This was the same thief, I’d bet a week’s wages. If you hadn’t left the keys downstairs he would have come looking for them. If he’d come upstairs…” She shuddered. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  He thought about it anyway. Their ten year old son’s bedroom would have been the first the raider came to. He too, felt as though someone was walking over his grave. “Well, I don’t suppose…”

  “We might have been hurt, you could have been shot, the same way.”

  “Harrogate’s miles away,” he blustered, “I don’t suppose for one minute…”

  “I could be sitting here, this morning, a widow.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  She fixed him with that look of hers. “You really don’t get it, do you. Last night I saved your life. All our lives.”

  THIRTY THREE

  Groat started to organise the great extrication.

  He phoned Ted. “Got a job for you.”

  “But I’m working on this project for Commander Morrison.”

  “Not exactly full time, is it?”

  “No, but…”

  “Well get your arse over here. It’s a good one.”

  “I can’t just up and leave.”

  “I’ve already cleared it with your DCI. It’ll only take a few days.”

  “Well, what…”

  “Can’t talk about it on the phone – very hush hush and all that.”

  Later that afternoon, over a pint in an establishment not usually frequented by the old bill, Groat briefed his old friend and colleague. After Ted exclaimed, “Bloody hell!” For about the fiftieth time, he continued, “I don’t know how you get them. Where did you find this? I mean, where did you get the information? And how did Mr Van Lesseps get involved?”

  Groat tapped the side of his nose, raised his eyebrows. “And who got promoted DCI to get the job done?”

  “You always were a jammy sod. Well, you needn’t expect me to call you bloody sir.”

  “Just ‘sir’ would be nice.” Groat grinned ferociously.

  Ted drained his glass. “So what’s the plan?”

  Groat was torn between making the sting last as long as possible and getting it over as soon as he could. If he dragged it out a bit, he could be a detective chief inspector a little longer and continue the rare treat of being called ‘Guv’ by the troops and ‘Sir’ by the woodentops. It also meant that he could delay relinquishing the delights of Olivia’s company for a little longer. On the other hand, he did not want the DAC to think he was taking advantage and needed a glowing report to hasten his (hopefully imminent) permanent elevation to senior officer rank. They were ultimately driven by Olivia’s own timetable, so he would continue to associate with her long enough to establish who she was asking for what, and what the individual arrangements were to collect.

  Groat was also discovering a little of how life was as a DCI. As a sergeant, particularly in the CID, one could have a foot in both camps. You could act as a senior DC most of the time, as long as you were able to don the supervisory hat when necessary. You could still have a moan with the troops about life in the job, the management (or more often complete lack thereof) and most of all, the crass decisions made by the hierarchy. This was a luxury not afforded to the inspecting ranks. Another Groat lesson. At least being only temporary he could really appreciate what a joy it was to have a moan, when and if he reverted to being a sergeant, but it was worth knowing. Forewarned and all that, he thought. Another benefit of being a lowly sergeant was that he could always go to the DI for guidance. Now, as the DCI – and especially in his present position – there was nobody to refer to, especially on the day-to-day. He could hardly trouble the DAC on such trifles as who to submit his expenses through, or who was to authorise annual leave. He would have to think for himself.

  Paradoxically, Groat tended to shine in circumstances like these. It was only when there was time to think about matters, that he would cock up big style. The trouble started when Ted asked him about his plan. That set him thinking. Everything would have been so simple if only Olivia would have listened to him. They would know when she sent out the blackmail demands, as Groat would be in on it up to then. They could have arranged for observations to be kept and as soon as one or two of her gentlemen were seen going to the flat, they could have pounced and caught them together with the money. They would promise the victims anonymity and immunity from prosecution and that would have been job done. Olivia would be arrested and charged and all Groat would have to do, would be to ensure that details of all her gentlemen victims (especially Mr Van Lesseps) were quietly disappeared. When and if Olivia ever made any protestations about Groat’s part in the process, he could simply claim that it was all part of the plan. Now, because of her stupid cloak and dagger ideas and stone wall intransigence, they were faced with not knowing exactly when the demands were being made and when and where the drop points were to be.

  Nightmare.

  Not having anyone immediately (and readily contactable) senior to him, completely by accident, Groat discovered a revolutionary management technique. Instead of using rank as his yardstick (as was usual police practice) he would use knowledge and experience. In fact he only framed this as a concept some time later, after he consulted with Ted, because he was the only one there.

  They chewed the matter over. One issue they agreed on, was that Groat must keep his relationship with Olivia ticking over as normally as possible, to achieve their objectives. One, so that they would know when the demands were sent out and two, crucially, when and where the drops were to be made. They wrangled and bickered about when best to blow the whistle and who should be co-opted to assist. Ted took the position that it would be safest if they pounced as soon as the demands were issued. His argument was that the offence was complete at that point, that it did not matter if it brought about the desired consequences. She would have made an unwarranted demand with menaces. Groat could not deny that technically he was correct, but pointed out a couple of weaknesses.

  “What if the intended victim doesn’t react; doesn’t pay up? She could argue in court that it was only an attempt. What happens if the letter is not delivered? A slick lawyer would probably say that his client may have intended to make a demand, but because of the postal system, it was effectively never made. No offence – or at worst, a botched attempt.” He looked at Te
d unhappily. “I do wish I had never started this.”

  If only I hadn’t volunteered for those stupid house to house enquiries.

  Ted looked puzzled. “How can you say that? It’s a wonderful idea and the boss is bound to promote you substantively afterwards – if it comes off.”

  “Thanks, mate. Your confidence, as always, is boundless. No, the only course we can possibly take to ensure we get everything – and get the maximum conviction – is to show the court the full extent of the crime. Let it run its course and make sure we get all the cash and return it to the victims.”

  Ted appeared horrified. “But it’s so risky.” He said, “Anything up to thirty odd locations and thousands and thousands of pounds. Remember the three Ps?”

  Groat grimaced and closed his eyes in silent, excruciated remorse. Through gritted teeth he growled, “How could I forget.”

  “Well, we’ve got all three here. A prostitute, loads of property – all that cash – and a prisoner. Triple chance of cocking the job up.”

  Groat was adamant. He couldn’t say it to Ted, but the fact was that he could not run the risk of Olivia getting out in a few months, he needed her away for years. Blackmail carried a maximum of fourteen. That would be a result, but as a first time offender she wasn’t likely to get anywhere near that. Five or six would do. Then, if she did ever fling accusations he could laugh it off as all old stuff, fantasy, a deranged woman just bent on revenge. He would think of something if the time ever came. He did not dare allow himself to skate across the thin ice possibility of a not guilty verdict, that simply could not be allowed to happen.