Authors: Roger Forsdyke
The Perfect Crime (22 page)
Gloria had never paid a lot of attention to the window bars that formed part of the architecture of many Spanish properties. She noted that the more desirable the property, the more ornate the wrought iron work might be, but had always assumed that their purpose was to allow them to have windows open in hot weather without having to worry about security. Supremely effective for keeping burglars or would be thieves out, she would never have considered their effectiveness for preventing anyone from leaving.
Room by room she explored, every conceivable nook and crevice in the villa, she examined. Every window was barred, even the small window above the toilet in the bathroom that, had she lost the two stone she promised herself she would, she could never have squeezed through, even without the bars. The front door was of massive construction and after undoing the heavy iron bolts on the inside, two locks of positively mediaeval size and appearance on the outside, rendered any attempt at escape impossible. There was not even a letterbox. The back door was similarly fortified, and when she peered through the keyhole, she saw large baulks of timber buttressing the woodwork on the outside. She also discovered two store rooms, both packed to the ceiling with equipment and supplies. No handy axe, or crowbar, though. There was also a locked door by the stairway, which could conceivably lead to a cellar.
In the time she had been there, she had heard vehicles in the distance, but none passed nearby or approached the house. She wondered where Bonehead was, what he was doing and what his intentions were. She could do with some company, but was not yet desperate enough to want his. She tried to conjure up a strategy for dealing with her predicament and wondered how long it would be before the alarm was raised over her disappearance.
Not
that
I’ve
really
disappeared
, she thought,
It’s
just
that
I
haven’t
reappeared
yet
.
I
wonder
how
long
it
will
be
before
someone
misses
me
. At this she felt tears threatening and for the first time in many a long moon felt the need to lean on someone; started to wish her husband was on hand to help extract her from the mess she’d worked herself into.
As for a strategy… there were knives in the kitchen, but was uncertain about how she might use them, or on whom, or how easily one might be turned on her if she did try an offensive... She found a piece of wood like an old chair leg in one of the store rooms and placed it near the front door. A half formed idea came to her. She could hide behind the door and use it to knock out Bonehead as he came in. Would it be like in the films? How hard would you have to hit someone to knock them out? And exactly where would you have to hit them? Bearing in mind his nickname, would he rub his head and say, “Ow, what did you do that for?” Or would she split him open and kill him. And she would only have one chance to get it right. Also, if she did incapacitate him, should she lock him in the villa, or bundle him into the Jeep and take him to the police station? She spoke only phrase book Spanish and only then, with a phrase book in her hand. She had no confidence that she could explain this complex situation to the locals, even if she possessed the strength to get him into the vehicle and drive.
On balance it looked as though she would be forced to play a waiting game. She wished that she had booked a return flight, but had been uncertain how long it would take to conduct her business, so left it open. She wondered how long it would be before anyone missed her. Perhaps no one would ever miss her. Come to think about it, Groat had seemed a little distant of late. Perhaps someone else had come into his life and this would give him the perfect opportunity to leave her. No one would blame him. At the travel agency she kept her girls strictly in line, noses to the grindstone and had few friends outside work, or her husband’s friends and colleagues in the job.
She possessed no family apart from one aged aunt and her husband. She knew many people, many nodding acquaintances, but came to the gradual and saddening realisation that she had no close friends of her own at all.
She sank to the floor, starting to well up. Her generous frame heaved and racked with shuddering sobbing.
Wednesday 15th January 1975.
West Mercia Police Chief Constable Alex Rennie sat grim faced with Fred Hodges and Bob Booth, opposite the battery of flash cameras, microphones and film crews. He knew what the journalists didn’t, events that the detectives stationed in the telephone exchange had reported to him. At 11:59 p.m., there was a call to Kidderminster 64611. It rang for several seconds but no one answered. Two minutes later 64711 rang unanswered, then stopped. Finally, 63111 rang and was answered by a passer-by. The caller rang off without speaking. All that the engineers could tell them, was that all three calls had been made through the telephone exchange at Dudley.
This was kept from the press conference and all they were told was that the one a.m. deadline for the kidnapper’s call had passed without contact. The inference being that the usefulness of the rendezvous had ceased to exist and they were not going to be told about any arrangements that might have been made for that night, in case a similar situation developed.
No such ploy could deter a seasoned old hand like Bill Williams and he soon ferreted out the information he needed. That evening’s newspapers carried his stories. The location of the kiosks was clearly identified.
A frustrated Bob Booth commented, “Well, after this, she’s dead and we might as well all go home.”
That night at the kiosks, Ron Whittle and his attendant detectives tried hard to blend into the background, while at the same time having to fend off reporters and photographers. They waited for the one a.m. deadline, but the phones – understandably – remained silent.
The phone at Beech Croft, however, was not similarly redundant. As the deadline approached, while Ron was waiting at Kidderminster, Dorothy was with Gaynor, at her home for company and comfort. Fortunately, one of the coach firm employees shared a party line with the Whittles. Shortly after midnight, a man’s voice directed that the ransom should be taken to a subway, in a park in Gloucester within ninety minutes of the call being made, or Lesley would be killed. No sooner had Ron returned, nerves on edge from the abortive, stressful wait at Kidderminster, than he was dispatched to Gloucester. He pushed his maroon Reliant Scimitar, 3333 RW to speeds approaching its maximum of 120 mph, with Detective Constable Terry Woodwiss, of the Regional Crime Squad, armed with a Walther automatic pistol, crouched down behind the front seats, doing his utmost not to puke. The rest of the RCS posse drove like maniacs behind, in an attempt to keep up. They were aware of journalists also trying to keep pace with them, so they radioed ahead. Marked traffic patrol cars were waiting for them as they reached the slip road to the M5 southbound. The high speed police convoy was allowed through, then the road was closed off. Frustrated journalists could only watch as the red tails lights of that frantic mission disappeared, winking into the night.
By 2:15 a.m. on 16th January, Ron Whittle was waiting in his car, near the nominated subway entrance in Gloucester. No one approached, so eventually he got out and DC Woodwiss drove the car away, leaving him to walk alone towards the drop off point with the suitcases. By this time, detectives from the following vehicles were stationed around the subway, to protect him – and his cash.
Into the hardly penetrable darkness, Ron yelled, “Come on then. Come and get it.”
His voice echoed off the concrete walls, but no other reply was heard.
After a while, he shouted, “I’m not leaving the money unless I see my sister first.”
Again, there was no reply, just curious looks from a couple passing by, walking their dog.
Amongst those hidden around while this particular charade was being played out, was a small party of observers from Scotland Yard. The new arrivals were members of a highly trained, secret squad attached to the Criminal Intelligence Bureau of The Yard, experts in undercover surveillance techniques. Within an hour of the first BBC TV news flash, New Scotland Yard offered help to West Mercia Police. DAC Ernie Bond rang West Mercia, offering Bob Booth technical assistance, and the loan of men and technology that did not exist anywhere else in the country. Personnel with first hand previous experience of a kidnapping, having worked on the abduction in 1969, of Muriel McKay.
Once again, Groat did not sleep well. Not because his mattress was too thin, as he slept in his own bed, but because he was eagerly anticipating the thrust of the enquiries he would make today.
Back
in
the
saddle
again
.
Ted had made a sound job of running the sting while he had been incarcerated, so he felt confident of allowing him to continue with that, while he made a few enquiries on his own account. The team recovered packets from eight of the ten drops the first night and a brief phone call from Ted gave them seven out of nine last night. Better than he’d expected, or even hoped – and more than sufficient for Olivia to be given a maximum sentence for a first offence, even if all tonight’s proved negative – which going on their experience so far, was unlikely.
He gave himself the morning for enquiries, Ted was to join him around lunchtime. They were to report to Mr Van Lesseps before five p.m. and then again the following day after the whole operation had been wound down. Ted arranged an interview team for Miss Di Angelo, with two experienced officers being briefed on the ‘true’ circumstances of the operation. They were warned that there was every likelihood that she would attempt to incriminate Detective Chief Inspector Groat in some way. They were instructed to carry out preliminary interviews, concentrating on hard evidence, like the existence and origination of the blackmail letters and statements from victims, not hearsay, or spiteful accusations flung indiscriminately by a revengeful woman. They were to conduct final interviews once all the drops had been collected. So far the team had recovered in excess of £32,000 and the final total was expected to go close on to £50,000. Not bad for a first attempt. People got life for less.
Groat drove in the weak December sunshine to Deepdale Motors in Seven Kings.
As soon as he walked onto the site he was accosted by a salesman. “See anything you fancy, sir?”
On another day, that line would have been a sure fire recipe for him to have some fun, but today was for serious business; cut-to-the-chase enquiries. He said, “DCI Groat, CID. Where’s the boss?”
The man literally took a pace backwards, wondering what his employer had been up to, already preparing to start a rumour. “Oh, I see. OK. Mr Goodman’s in the office.”
Groat weaved his way through the cars on display, ducking under the lines of fluttering, multicoloured plastic flags to a portakabin towards the rear of the lot. Goodman proved a useful sort, unusually so (in Groat’s experience) for a used car dealer. He said, “Everything’s legit here Mr Groat. Look at whatever you want. All the paperwork’s up to date. Feel free to look in the cabinets if you wish.”
Groat smiled, “That’s very refreshing, Mr Goodman. I don’t know how many of your counterparts around here would be so open, or honest.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not here to examine your books, or get you into trouble in any way, I need to know about a vehicle you sold recently. A green Volkswagen beetle, registered number VWC 864J.”
Goodman went to the filing cabinets offered up for examination, pulled open a drawer and started hunting through.
“Here’s what you want, Mr Groat. What’s the matter, has he used it in an armed robbery or summats? I could have sold him something quicker, a lot more tasty…”
“Cash sale?” Groat asked.
The salesman took the papers from him. “Ah. Now I remember. Funny old job that. Oh.” He laughed, “I don’t mean nothing dodgy, simply, well, odd. Didn’t walk round kicking tyres, didn’t want a test drive. Most folks will want to drive their prospective purchase, have a go at a bit of a haggle, but not him. Bit of a, well, sort of reluctant geezer I suppose you might call him. Didn’t want to give me his details, just wanted to give me the cash and go. I said to him, ‘I’ve got to make the receipt out to someone,’ and he told me his name was Boulders. Mr T Boulders. Never heard of anyone by that name before – have you, Mr Groat? Wouldn’t give me his address, but I’m not as green as I am cabbage looking, if you get my drift. Here.” He pointed to the top of the copy invoice. “I saw this as he was counting out the money, sort of slipped out of his wallet. Rental agreement for a flat or something.”
Groat read, 42, Hickling Road, Ilford.
Brilliant
.
He said, “Thank you, Mr Goodman, you’ve been a great help. A very great help indeed.”
Goodman beamed. The used car trade was obviously not a fertile source of compliments, or heartfelt thanks. “Well. Thank
you
Mr Groat. If there’s anything I can do – at any time.”
Groat regarded him thoughtfully, “Well, actually…”
“Anything, Mr Groat, anything.”
“Actually, there is. Could I use you phone?”
“Of course.” Goodman beamed, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, no, that’s fine. Remember that whatever you may hear will be police business – strictly confidential. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Of course, my lips are sealed.”
Groat dialled the Yard. “Detective Sergeant Pearson, please.” He waited, looked up at Goodman, winked conspiratorially. “Ted, it’s… Yes, yes, everything’s fine. Got a lead on that Volkswagen. How long will it take you to get to Ilford? Hickling Road, number forty two. OK. I’m pretty sure it’s where our man’s holed up. No, no time for a warrant, we need to get in there fast. I’ll meet you at the junction with Ilford Lane. Forty minutes? OK.”
He thanked Mr Goodman again as he left.
“Call me Les.” He watched Groat leave, thought,
If
only
interesting
things
like
this
happened
every
day
…