“I get full access to the whole investigation for my thesis. Nothing comes for nothing, you know.”
Ted worried; far out of his depth.
Groat pondered. “O.K.,” he said, “It’s a deal.”
Ted closed his eyes and hoped to god his friend was right – or at least as lucky as he usually was – and that luck would rub off on him.
“So what do we do?”
Dee smiled, her eyes lighting up behind her heavy black-rimmed specs. “We were talking about the differences between a police detective investigator and a psychological investigator. You attempt to detect a crime, I attempt to detect the man. That’s the theory, anyway.”
“And,” Groat hesitated, “You tell us who is committing the crime? How’s that?”
“By making a study of what he does, when he does it and where he does it.”
“You can give us the name of a criminal from what, when and where he commits crime?” Ted felt that he could not sit there and allow this charade to continue any longer.
“Not exactly.”
“I knew it.” Ted exploded. He rounded on Groat, “This is one of those clever con tricks, where the operator is so clued up on the micro responses from the person they are interacting with, they can come out with seemingly miraculous statements. Can’t you see it? Or are you so blind that you are being taken in by yet another attractive female?”
Groat sat, stunned. Dee blinked, her neck gradually assuming a darkening, mottled shade of pink. Groat had never heard Ted in this vein this before and slowly realised what stupendous pressure his friend was enduring. He started huffing and shushing at him, whilst simultaneously attempting to placate Dee, when she spoke.
“It’s all right, I’ve experienced this sort of reaction before. Before you chuck this particular charlatan out of the house, would you at least give me five minutes to tell you about a few basics?”
Ted looked away. Groat shrugged, continued to look – and feel – extremely uncomfortable, said, “As I said – what have we got to lose?”
Ted was muttering about professional pride, self-respect and not being had over.
Groat cleared his throat. “I asked you here tonight, Dee. Please.”
“I told you, this work is for my dissertation, my master’s in psychology. Not everyone knows that in order to study psychology, you need a firm grounding in maths. A lot of statistical analysis, means, medians, normal distribution curves, what is statistically significant and what is not.”
She regarded her audience. Groat was paying her exaggerated attention, nodding and smiling encouragingly. Ted was busy studying the carpet.
She sighed. “Let me have a look at the information. I will get back to you as soon as I can. I have nothing to gain if I don’t come up with something concrete and the way it looks to me, at the moment, you have nothing to lose – either way.”
THIRTEEN
Wednesday 31st March 1971.
BBC News item:
‘ In the early hours of this morning the sub post office at Berry Hill Lane , in Mansfield , Nottinghamshire was raided . The sub postmaster , an elderly man who suffers with heart trouble , was ordered at the point of a sawn - off shotgun , to open the safe on the premises . The raider is reported to have been a young man dressed all in black with what was described as a black silk hood over his head . The criminal tied the couple up and left the premises with £ 2 , 500 from the safe . Police will not make any official comment , but there is some suggestion that this robbery is connected with others that have been committed in the South Yorkshire area . ’
*
Bonehead Bulstrode blinked in the daylight. He realised, of course, that it was no different from inside the prison walls, only it felt brighter, stronger – and the air smelled sweeter, too. For ten years he endured, but never became completely used to the prison stench, the stink of the other prisoners. So pervasive you could almost touch it – certainly on occasions it
Ted worried; far out of his depth.
Groat pondered. “O.K.,” he said, “It’s a deal.”
Ted closed his eyes and hoped to god his friend was right – or at least as lucky as he usually was – and that luck would rub off on him.
“So what do we do?”
Dee smiled, her eyes lighting up behind her heavy black-rimmed specs. “We were talking about the differences between a police detective investigator and a psychological investigator. You attempt to detect a crime, I attempt to detect the man. That’s the theory, anyway.”
“And,” Groat hesitated, “You tell us who is committing the crime? How’s that?”
“By making a study of what he does, when he does it and where he does it.”
“You can give us the name of a criminal from what, when and where he commits crime?” Ted felt that he could not sit there and allow this charade to continue any longer.
“Not exactly.”
“I knew it.” Ted exploded. He rounded on Groat, “This is one of those clever con tricks, where the operator is so clued up on the micro responses from the person they are interacting with, they can come out with seemingly miraculous statements. Can’t you see it? Or are you so blind that you are being taken in by yet another attractive female?”
Groat sat, stunned. Dee blinked, her neck gradually assuming a darkening, mottled shade of pink. Groat had never heard Ted in this vein this before and slowly realised what stupendous pressure his friend was enduring. He started huffing and shushing at him, whilst simultaneously attempting to placate Dee, when she spoke.
“It’s all right, I’ve experienced this sort of reaction before. Before you chuck this particular charlatan out of the house, would you at least give me five minutes to tell you about a few basics?”
Ted looked away. Groat shrugged, continued to look – and feel – extremely uncomfortable, said, “As I said – what have we got to lose?”
Ted was muttering about professional pride, self-respect and not being had over.
Groat cleared his throat. “I asked you here tonight, Dee. Please.”
“I told you, this work is for my dissertation, my master’s in psychology. Not everyone knows that in order to study psychology, you need a firm grounding in maths. A lot of statistical analysis, means, medians, normal distribution curves, what is statistically significant and what is not.”
She regarded her audience. Groat was paying her exaggerated attention, nodding and smiling encouragingly. Ted was busy studying the carpet.
She sighed. “Let me have a look at the information. I will get back to you as soon as I can. I have nothing to gain if I don’t come up with something concrete and the way it looks to me, at the moment, you have nothing to lose – either way.”
THIRTEEN
Wednesday 31st March 1971.
BBC News item:
‘ In the early hours of this morning the sub post office at Berry Hill Lane , in Mansfield , Nottinghamshire was raided . The sub postmaster , an elderly man who suffers with heart trouble , was ordered at the point of a sawn - off shotgun , to open the safe on the premises . The raider is reported to have been a young man dressed all in black with what was described as a black silk hood over his head . The criminal tied the couple up and left the premises with £ 2 , 500 from the safe . Police will not make any official comment , but there is some suggestion that this robbery is connected with others that have been committed in the South Yorkshire area . ’
*
Bonehead Bulstrode blinked in the daylight. He realised, of course, that it was no different from inside the prison walls, only it felt brighter, stronger – and the air smelled sweeter, too. For ten years he endured, but never became completely used to the prison stench, the stink of the other prisoners. So pervasive you could almost touch it – certainly on occasions it
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