Free The Perfect Crime by Roger Forsdyke

happened. He turned a page every so often as a nod towards some semblance of realism, to pretend that he was really reading. Truth was, having stared at it for so long, his arms ached, but he would not have been able to recount any of the stories or news items. He was busy looking everywhere else but at the printed word, thinking about Gloria, his plan. Then, on the dot of eight twenty, movement. The Spitfire reversed out into the road, towards him. This time there was no brightwork to impede his view, but the hood was up and he could not see inside the car. The angle he was looking from made a direct sighting impossible. It may have been Gloria, but he needed a proper, positive sighting to satisfy himself.
    He folded the newspaper in foul humour and chucked it onto the passenger seat. He had been in situ for longer than enough, the neighbours might start to get suspicious and alert the old bill. That would be all he needed. He turned the key in the ignition. The air-cooled flat four barked into raucous life and he made his way back to the flat in Ilford, feeling deflated. How he might feel at any time before actually getting the woman in his clutches never entered his calculations, but he realised that he’d wound himself up with anticipation and was now suffering an equal and opposite reaction. The knowledge did not help.
    *
    Dr H Milne – interview notes.
    You were making campaign plans.
    I started thinking about what I would have to do and how to go about it. I knew from my army days that tactically you must always have the upper hand. This would involve several different dimensions and angles. For example I would have the advantage of surprise, but I would have to have the means of maintaining my advantage, I know I’m a only a small bloke, so I had to have some way of enforcing my will, quickly and effectively. I thought of the Bren guns I’d used during my army service, but they were heavy and would be difficult to conceal – and anyway, where would I get one – and the ammunition?
    Go on.
    I really didn’t know what to do. I got to the point where I thought that nothing I did would ever bring the success I so badly needed. Then, one day, I read that double-barrelled shotguns – by sawing off their barrels as much as possible and also shortening the stock – could be reduced to about twelve inches in length… The article said that the sawn-off shotgun was the armed robber’s weapon of choice and after the modification, roughly the same size as the highwayman’s pistol of yore.
    Go on.
    Luck, I suppose. I broke into a house in Dewsbury, some place. I got a Remington automatic and a Smithson 12 bore double-barrelled shotgun and a good supply of cartridges. I’d actually then got the tools to get on with job.

 
    SIXTEEN
     
    Bonehead realised that he could not sit up near the Groats’ place too often, or for too protracted a period without arousing suspicions, so he varied his routine and didn’t show up every day. He patrolled the road, posing as a street sweeper. One morning he walked up and down, then daringly, dressed as a postman, right to the Groats’ front door. Soon he had them tabbed. Groat himself went out most mornings at seven thirty. He would usually return at about six thirty, sometimes much later. Gloria ( Oh , Gloria ) would leave as regular as clockwork, on the dot of eight twenty, returning around six in the evening. Once their timings were established, he checked to ensure there were no dogs in the house. He followed her a couple of times to Snakes Lane and the Worldwide Travel agents, to make sure she didn’t go home for lunch, watched her from across the road, through the shop window. She was as gorgeously voluptuous as ever, untouched by time.
    He noticed that Groat’s timings showed a little variation. Probably casual overtime, but on the off chance, one day he decided to follow him. Bonehead knew from his time as a police officer, the conventional wisdom was that it took several