CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Read online

  CONSTABLE

  AROUND THE

  HOUSES

  A perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

  NICHOLAS RHEA

  Constable Nick Mystery Book 23

  Revised edition 2021

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2000

  by Robert Hale Limited

  © Nicholas Rhea 2000, 2018, 2021

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Nicholas Rhea to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-820-3

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  ALSO BY NICHOLAS RHEA

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS

  A SELECTION OF BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY

  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH USAGE FOR US READERS

  For Derek Fowlds

  With gratitude for bringing Sergeant Oscar Blaketon so perfectly to life in Heartbeat

  Chapter 1

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  The fact that Sergeant Blaketon had confirmed his intention to retire was not unexpected. We knew he was approaching fifty-five, which was the age limit for service as a sergeant, but even so the reality of his impending departure was rather unsettling. I and the other constables of Ashfordly section felt he was such a strong, enduring and rather calming presence that it didn’t seem possible the police station or its personnel could function efficiently without him. I was sure his retirement would shock members of the public too, whether it was those who had willingly entered the station during his stewardship or those who had entered less than willingly. And, of course, there was the Greengrass factor — how would the old rogue cope without his uniformed adversary? Would Claude Jeremiah celebrate by going berserk in an orgy of unrestrained law-breaking, poaching and minor motoring offences, or would he obtain his revenge by behaving like a normal law-abiding citizen? We felt the latter was too much to expect.

  It was difficult to imagine Ashfordly and district without the authoritative but reassuring presence of Oscar Blaketon. In some ways it marked the end of an era, the conclusion of an older and more personalized style of policing. The duration of the Blaketon era had been one where wisdom and experience were gained through long hours of working the beat and dealing with every problem created by the great British public.

  That well-tested system had proved very effective and it took twelve or fifteen years’ action-packed service before a constable was promoted to the rank of sergeant, and a further five or more to gain the exalted rank of inspector. Promotion was well and truly earned — police sergeants really did earn their stripes.

  From a personal point of view there was an added dimension to Blaketon’s retirement because he had expressed interest in purchasing the shop-cum-post office in Aidensfield. The idea of running that small village business was his retirement ideal but I was not sure whether his perpetual presence on my beat and in my own village would help or hinder my constabulary duties. It would be rather like having someone permanently sitting on my shoulder and offering advice whether or not I wanted or needed it; he’d be like a guardian angel perhaps or (more probably) the proverbial pain in the backside. I’d have to find ways of keeping him at a discreet distance from my daily duties.

  It was with some personal trepidation, therefore, that I awaited the day of his departure while each of us wondered who would replace him. Various names cropped up in our speculative conversations, but the odds-on favourite was Sergeant Raymond Craddock, the recently installed incumbent at Brantsford.

  Brantsford was a small North Riding market town with cobbles upon its marketplace and a peaceful air that came through its position on the edge of the moor. With some interesting history and a charming rustic appearance it was not plagued by tourists, thanks to a fairly modern bypass. That road carried speeding traffic past Brantsford and along to the Yorkshire coast and moors.

  Brantsford was only some eight miles from Ashfordly and due to the heralded amalgamations of police forces, coupled with the subsequent merging and redrawing of boundaries of divisions, sub-divisions and sections — and, of course, thanks to modern means of communication and transport — it seemed inevitable that Brantsford and Ashfordly Sections would merge to become one larger unit supervised by a lone sergeant instead of the present two. As the sitting tenant, so to speak, Sergeant Craddock was the obvious choice, even if he was a bicycling, ballroom-dancing Welshman with no Yorkshire pedigree.

  Visions of what the future might be buzzed around my head in the days following the news of Blaketon’s impending retirement and it was Joe Steel, the current owner of the Aidensfield Stores and Post Office, who confirmed my fears that Blaketon would soon become a villager upon my patch.

  ‘Not long now, Nick!’ he cheerfully told me one morning when I popped in for my customary visit. ‘Just a few more months then we’re moving to the Lake District, Betty and me. It’s our favourite place; we’re going to Dockray, that’s a village near Ullswater. Then we can spend our days pottering on the fells and walking by the lake beneath the trees. . .’

  ‘Lucky you!’ I said. ‘It’s one of our favourite places too, we go every summer with the children.’

  ‘Then I hope you’ll look us up next time you’re there.’ He sounded sincere.

  ‘I will, that’s a promise!’ I would be pleased to keep in contact with Joe, adding, ‘I understand Sergeant Blaketon has confirmed he’s taking over your post office.’

  I introduced the topic which would be the talking point of Aidensfield for weeks to come.

  ‘He is. He’s buying the house too. We’ve negotiated things so that he can move in immediately when I move out — hopefully with a weekend in between. But the job can’t stop.’

  ‘Just like the police service,’ I said somewhat inanely.

  ‘He’ll be fine.’ I must have worn an expression of apprehension because Joe appeared to have read my thoughts. ‘Blaketon the civilian will be a different person from Blaketon the police sergeant, you’ll see. He’s quite sociable when he’s away from his job. I think he’ll be a great help to you.’

  ‘I might not be here all that long myself,’ I said, and I think I must have looked rather wistful.

  ‘You’re leaving as well?’ Joe sounded shocked.

  ‘Not leaving the service, no,’ and I explained the rumoured changes to the police service. ‘It means there’ll be no village constables. There’ll be teams of constables operating in cars from a central place, like Ashfordly or Malton, Thirsk, Pickering and so forth. Round-th
e-clock mobile teams will be responsible for the supervision of rural areas instead of village constables. I’m not sure it’s a good thing. We’ll lose the personal touch.’

  ‘There’s talk of closing some rural post offices too,’ Joe told me. ‘Most people have cars, even pensioners manage to run them, so the number of village post offices could be effectively reduced.’

  ‘That won’t please the locals!’ I said.

  ‘It won’t, but that is the gospel according to some faceless bureaucrats in a city office somewhere. It’s all to do with reducing costs. But it won’t bother me or Betty! We’ll be well away from red tape and government interference.’

  ‘I forget who it was,’ I smiled, ‘but someone once said, “Reforms are all right so long as they don’t change anything” and I think I’d go along with that concept of things. But we can’t and mustn’t frustrate progress. Even if we don’t like change, or can’t understand it, it has to happen, Joe, and right now you and me and Blaketon are part of that development.’

  ‘Well, with Blaketon’s appointment it seems Aidensfield Post Office is secure for the foreseeable future, otherwise the powers-that-be wouldn’t have sanctioned a new postmaster. Blaketon’s got a few years left in him before he becomes an old age pensioner.’

  ‘A good ten years,’ I told him. ‘Fifty-five might seem a bit early to put constables and sergeants out to grass, but it does give us chance to do something else with our lives. And as some of the long-serving officers don’t like change, it gives them the chance to avoid the hassle that comes with change — and it stops them doing their best to halt change! One thing is for sure though — Ashfordly Police Station will merge with Brantsford for supervisory purposes,’ I said. ‘And I think Aidensfield rural beat will close, but perhaps not just yet.’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said Joe as a customer entered. ‘And remember, there’s one thing that your job and mine have in common.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘We deal with the public, every one of them, old, young, male, female, working and idle, nice and nasty; we see society in all its forms. And in a place like Aidensfield it means we are given access to every house in the village. Not many professions can boast that kind of privilege. Not even the milkman calls at every house; neither does the nurse nor the doctor. Think about it. See you, Nick.’

  ‘I will. Bye Joe.’ When I left, his words lingered in my mind. It was a privilege to be allowed access to people’s homes, and even if the postman did visit every one of them during his rounds, I could not claim that kind of unrestricted access. There was a possibility I might visit every house at one time or another on very infrequent occasions, but to date I had been inside very few. That made me I realize how little I really did know about the village in which I lived — and how little I knew about the people amongst whom I worked.

  Who were all those people living their quiet lives behind closed doors and drawn curtains? What did their homes look like on the inside? Did the interior of a house give any indication of the personality of the owner or occupier? If so, what would it reveal to a policeman? Had I the right to intrude upon their privacy? I had not, I told myself — but that did not prevent me being intrigued by the variety of lives, worries, successes, fears, happiness and every other human emotion which lay behind the sturdy stone walls of the houses of Aidensfield and district.

  With these thoughts in my mind, I realized that it was the vision of Blaketon living in Aidensfield which had prompted my speculation about others.

  So, he was already exerting some influence upon me . . . but it was true that his forthcoming arrival in our midst did encourage me to learn more about the people who lived and worked on my patch.

  * * *

  One of the houses I had never entered since my arrival was called Rookery Cottage; a surprising name because there was no rookery in the village nor had there been one here within living memory. The nearest colony of rooks was several miles away, in the woods above Maddleskirk Abbey, but the name had obviously meant something in the past, even if its importance was no longer evident.

  The charming single-storey stone cottage with its blue-tiled roof and tiny garden was tucked neatly away behind some larger properties at the western end of Aidensfield. This meant visitors and delivery people experienced difficulty finding it — its tiny size made it even more difficult to locate. A narrow unsurfaced track led to it from the main street and that lane was just wide enough to permit access by a small car. The solitary occupant of Rookery Cottage was himself a small, slightly-built man who ran an Austin Mini Traveller in which he transported his two equally tiny Jack Russell terriers. From time to time I noticed him heading for the moors with the excited dogs in the rear, ready for an unrestricted gallop among the bracken and heather, and whenever our paths crossed he would always wave cheerily from his Mini or, if I was on foot, greet me with a brisk ‘Good morning, Constable’, but little else.

  In the village all the adults referred to him as Mac, and all respectful children called him Mr Mac; almost everyone used that abbreviated name when chatting to him face-to-face. It seems he did not object, perhaps regarding this relaxed mode of address as friendly and welcoming — a sign of acceptance perhaps? Because he was universally referred to merely as Mac it was some time before I learned his surname was MacGregor, and even longer before I discovered his Christian name was Stuart. I was never sure whether he had Scottish ancestry because he spoke without a trace of a Scots accent and never made any reference to that country. He did not have a Yorkshire accent either and I suppose his speech could be described as firmly within that range which some consider to be BBC English — that is, English supposedly spoken without an accent. In truth, that in itself is an accent.

  Like his charming little house, Mac was small and very neat. In his mid-fifties, he was only some five feet two inches tall, slimly built and very dapper with a good head of tidy, well-groomed dark-brown hair, a small dark moustache, dark-brown eyes without spectacles and what appeared to be a good set of his own teeth. Even when going about casual activities, like walking his dogs or popping into the pub for a pint, he was immaculately dressed. He always wore a collar and tie and usually sported a pair of smartly pressed cavalry twill trousers with a Harris tweed jacket, even in the height of summer. On more formal occasions, like going to church on Sundays or attending funerals, he would appear in a smart dark-grey suit, white shirt and dark-red tie, immaculate as ever. Not once did I see him with his shirt-sleeves rolled up or clad in a short-sleeved garment.

  I knew that he lived alone — there was no Mrs Mac, but I did not know whether that was by choice, or whether he was a widower, and it seemed he did not have children or relations to call on him. Whatever his domestic history he seemed to prefer a quiet and very private life, not inviting people in for a coffee or alcoholic drink, although whenever he met anyone in the village street he was chatty and very friendly. Over time, however, I came to realize he kept people at a distance — he had lots of acquaintances but very few close friends. Even when he popped into the pub for a drink he arrived alone and went home alone, although he chattered quite cheerily to the regulars when he was there.

  In due course I was presented with an opportunity to visit his neat little house. In the internal mail from Force Headquarters there was a letter from Department D1 of the London Metropolitan Police. It asked the local constabulary to check a reference supplied by an applicant who wished to join the Metropolitan Police. D1 was the department which dealt with recruiting for the Met and, according to their letter, a man called Philip John Westland, a former army sergeant, had made application to become a constable in that force.

  His application form had been accompanied by the necessary references, one of which had been supplied by Major Stuart MacGregor. MacGregor, continued the letter, had since retired from military service and was now living at Rookery Cottage, Aidensfield. It seemed that Westland had previously served with Major MacGregor and the letter, cur
rently at Ashfordly Police Station, asked that a constable visit the major to check that he had in fact supplied the reference for Westland.

  Fake references were not uncommon, and the police always checked those accompanying any job applications within the service, whether for police recruits or civilian staff.

  ‘Here’s a pleasant and simple little task for you, Rhea. No doubt I shall be meeting Major MacGregor before too long; it’s nice to know there are people of such standing in Aidensfield. I wonder if he plays golf?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to socialize very much,’ I had to tell Blaketon.

  ‘Perhaps he needs a kindred spirit, a man of like personality and standing, someone retired from high office, like I shall be.’ Blaketon was chatty that morning as he handed the Metropolitan Police letter to me. ‘You will know that I have bought your village shop and post office, Rhea?’

  ‘I had heard, Sergeant,’ I acknowledged. ‘I hope you can cope with the morning rush of letters . . .’

  ‘I can cope with any kind of panic, Rhea. Morning rush hour, queues for pensions, advice on overseas postage costs, Christmas mail — you name it and I shall cope! Whatever comes my way will not be all that different from coping with the great British public while serving as a police officer. And I am pleased you have heard about my new career. Knowing about such developments within Aidensfield is the hallmark of a good constable, one who has an ear to the ground and a keen desire to maintain an up-to-date knowledge of events on his patch. A proficient constable needs to know everything that is happening within his area of responsibility, Rhea. I am pleased to note that you know what’s going on.’

  ‘I hope you will be happy in Aidensfield.’ I was not quite sure what to say in these circumstances.