The Wrong Man: The Shooting of Steven Waldorf and The Hunt for David Martin Read Online Free
Author: Dick Kirby
Arab sheikh in full tribal regalia who was carrying out a fraudulent transaction in a bank was surprised to be seized, addressed as ‘cock’ and unceremoniously bundled into my car, and when I was attacked by two young thugs whom I’d arrested for possessing offensive weapons, I was restless while on sick leave to return to duty so that I could get out to nick some more. This, as you will imagine, played havoc with my home life. It’s a small miracle that Ann and I are still happily married after fifty years.
I reached for the ringing telephone in the CID office on that particular Monday morning; it was the manager of a jeweller’s shop in Green Street, to tell me that a man was at the premises attempting to purchase goods by means of a stolen credit card. I slammed the phone down and, shouting at another detective constable to follow me, I raced down the stairs to the station yard where my car, a powerful Ford Corsair 2000 GT, was parked. We roared out of the yard, turned right into Finden Road and almost immediately left into Green Street. ‘You’ll break our necks, the way you’re driving,’ sighed my companion, who was not entirely fired with enthusiasm for this investigation, as we tore south along the thoroughfare, paying only lip service to the restrictions imposed by the Road Traffic Act. ‘He won’t be there,’ he insisted. ‘As soon as the manager went to phone, he’ll have been long gone.’
Privately I too thought that this might be the case but while a possibility of catching a fraudsman red-handed existed, I wanted to give it my best shot. Pulling up outside the jewellers, I ran towards the shop entrance and as I did so, a young man started to leave. There was absolutely nothing about him to attract suspicion; he was extremely smartly dressed in a pinstripe ‘company director’ style suit, slim, about five feet nine, dark blond hair, a slight tan, aged in his mid-twenties and looked entirely unconcerned as he courteously stepped to one side to let me enter the jewellers. He then began unhurriedly scrutinising the wares in the shop window in the same way that any discerning customer who had yet to make up his mind might do.
I rushed up to the manager. ‘Right, where is he?’ I demanded and given what was to happen, I now realise that a courteous, more structured approach might have been called for.
The manager raised his eyebrows. ‘To whom are you referring?’
‘The bloke with the stolen credit card,’ I testily replied.
‘And you are?’ he enquired.
‘Police from Forest Gate,’ I replied, and I was getting quite irritated because by now, it was obvious that the suspect had departed before our arrival and this was the manager’s way of putting me in my place for not getting there sooner.
Nodding thoughtfully, the manager asked, ‘Have you any – er – identification?’
I snatched out my warrant card which the manager ostentatiously examined before nodding his approval. ‘Right – now was it you I spoke to on the phone at Forest Gate police station about five minutes ago?’ I asked. He conceded that this was so.
‘And did you tell me there was someone in the shop trying to buy goods with a stolen credit card?’ Again, with pursed lips, he nodded in agreement.
‘So how long ago was it that he left?’ I asked.
The manager languidly waved in the general direction of the door. ‘He went out,’ he replied, ‘just as you came in!’
‘You wanker!’ I roared, turned and rushed out of the shop, looked left, then right, just in time to see a pair of well-tailored trouser legs disappear round the corner into Plashet Grove.
As I dashed up to the junction, I heard the roar of a powerful car engine starting up. Turning the corner, there facing me was a Jaguar XJ-12 with the fraudsman behind the wheel. As I ran towards the car, I noticed that the car’s front passenger window was open, so I plunged in, hoping to grab the ignition key. With that, the driver slammed the
I reached for the ringing telephone in the CID office on that particular Monday morning; it was the manager of a jeweller’s shop in Green Street, to tell me that a man was at the premises attempting to purchase goods by means of a stolen credit card. I slammed the phone down and, shouting at another detective constable to follow me, I raced down the stairs to the station yard where my car, a powerful Ford Corsair 2000 GT, was parked. We roared out of the yard, turned right into Finden Road and almost immediately left into Green Street. ‘You’ll break our necks, the way you’re driving,’ sighed my companion, who was not entirely fired with enthusiasm for this investigation, as we tore south along the thoroughfare, paying only lip service to the restrictions imposed by the Road Traffic Act. ‘He won’t be there,’ he insisted. ‘As soon as the manager went to phone, he’ll have been long gone.’
Privately I too thought that this might be the case but while a possibility of catching a fraudsman red-handed existed, I wanted to give it my best shot. Pulling up outside the jewellers, I ran towards the shop entrance and as I did so, a young man started to leave. There was absolutely nothing about him to attract suspicion; he was extremely smartly dressed in a pinstripe ‘company director’ style suit, slim, about five feet nine, dark blond hair, a slight tan, aged in his mid-twenties and looked entirely unconcerned as he courteously stepped to one side to let me enter the jewellers. He then began unhurriedly scrutinising the wares in the shop window in the same way that any discerning customer who had yet to make up his mind might do.
I rushed up to the manager. ‘Right, where is he?’ I demanded and given what was to happen, I now realise that a courteous, more structured approach might have been called for.
The manager raised his eyebrows. ‘To whom are you referring?’
‘The bloke with the stolen credit card,’ I testily replied.
‘And you are?’ he enquired.
‘Police from Forest Gate,’ I replied, and I was getting quite irritated because by now, it was obvious that the suspect had departed before our arrival and this was the manager’s way of putting me in my place for not getting there sooner.
Nodding thoughtfully, the manager asked, ‘Have you any – er – identification?’
I snatched out my warrant card which the manager ostentatiously examined before nodding his approval. ‘Right – now was it you I spoke to on the phone at Forest Gate police station about five minutes ago?’ I asked. He conceded that this was so.
‘And did you tell me there was someone in the shop trying to buy goods with a stolen credit card?’ Again, with pursed lips, he nodded in agreement.
‘So how long ago was it that he left?’ I asked.
The manager languidly waved in the general direction of the door. ‘He went out,’ he replied, ‘just as you came in!’
‘You wanker!’ I roared, turned and rushed out of the shop, looked left, then right, just in time to see a pair of well-tailored trouser legs disappear round the corner into Plashet Grove.
As I dashed up to the junction, I heard the roar of a powerful car engine starting up. Turning the corner, there facing me was a Jaguar XJ-12 with the fraudsman behind the wheel. As I ran towards the car, I noticed that the car’s front passenger window was open, so I plunged in, hoping to grab the ignition key. With that, the driver slammed the
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