Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Page 10

  In the car the two poachers remained silent and I found it most surprising that these men were models of good behaviour. I’d heard of poachers attacking bailiffs, gamekeepers and policemen while in the act of making arrests, and I’d also heard of poachers running into the darkness never to be seen again. But these characters never spoke a word in anger, and never gave me a minute’s trouble.

  They provided their names and addresses. Both lived in York and seemed quite blasé about us keeping their expensive tackle. Charlie Bairstow bailed out each man in the sum of £25 to appear at Eltering Magistrates’ Court in two weeks’ time, to answer several poaching charges. They hadn’t a licence to fish for salmon or trout, and were to be summoned for several fishery offences. All these were listed, and the police would act as agents for the Fishery Board because there were offences involving their activities on private land.

  At the conclusion of the formalities the men apologised profusely for their actions and left the office. I remained behind to provide a quick account for Sergeant Bairstow and he listened intently.

  “Nice work, Nicholas,” he smiled. “You’ve made a couple of good arrests there. Night poaching, eh? The magistrates will love this one.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  “Now you’d better go and get the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Yes, others, Nicholas. There will be others, probably several of them.”

  “There was only that couple, Sergeant.”

  “That’s right. They would be the advance party, sent deliberately to get caught. Think about it, Nicholas. Think about tonight’s events. Those men enter a local pub where strangers are immediately recognised, and they begin talking about giving his Lordship’s river a bashing. Why do that? Why tell the locals what they’re up to? You are told and you lie in wait — they turn up laden to the eyeballs with fishing gear and you arrest them. A good job, well done. But it’s all too easy, Nicholas. Did you notice how they left this office? They didn’t ask for a lift anywhere, did they? I’m bloody sure their car isn’t in Ashfordly, not when they were drinking in Aidensfield pub. Someone would be waiting for them. Now they’ll all go back to Victoria’s Bend and give those salmon a real bashing. The money they’ll make tonight will pay the fines of the two volunteers and everyone will be happy — except his Lordship.”

  I considered his theory. It seemed feasible and I must admit that I had been surprised by the submissive attitude of the two poachers. I thought it all over right from the start, and reckoned Charlie Bairstow was right.

  “I’ll go back and arrest the others, Sergeant.”

  “Not on your own, you won’t. This needs more of us — the next lot won’t be as gentlemanly as your first catch.”

  “There’s only you and I,” I said.

  “Then I’ll organise help,” he assured me. “I can rustle up a constable from Eltering, and I believe the dog section is on patrol in Malton. They’ve been to a late-night dance — they can be here in half an hour.”

  “Shall I go and keep observations?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No, think it through, Nicholas. What is going through their minds right now?”

  “They’ll be waiting until the coast is clear,” I said.

  “And is it clear? If you were a villain, doing what I believe they’re doing, would you consider the coast to be clear?”

  “No, not until the bobby has gone to bed.”

  “Exactly. They’ll be waiting for you to turn in.”

  “I’m on nights,” I said.

  “They won’t know that. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t pretend to go to bed, is there?”

  “Ah!” I got the gist of his thinking, then realised my pretended return for bed would arouse Mary and the children.

  “Right,” he said. “Go home. Park your motorbike in the garage and go into the house. Go through all the motions of going to bed — lights on downstairs, office light on. Office light off, kitchen light on as if you’re having a cup of coffee. Bathroom and bedroom lights. OK?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Then when the house is in darkness creep out and make sure no lights are on. Meet me at 2.30 behind the Brewers Arms, on foot. Wait there until I arrive with reinforcements.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I’m sorry if it disturbs your family, but it’s a worthwhile job.”

  I left Ashfordly police office on my motorcycle and chugged noisily home. I hoped my furtive activities would not cause too much upset among my family, but they were accustomed to the strange comings and goings of my motorcycle. I placed the machine inside the garage and went through the routine of booking off duty and going to bed. Inside the house I switched on the kitchen light as I walked through to the office and switched on the kettle for a coffee. In the office I sat at my desk to write up my notebook as I would have done. Then I switched off the office light, adjourned to the kitchen and brewed myself a drink. I took it into the living room, making sure all the lights were on, and I enjoyed the brief rest. Upstairs there was not a sound. I hadn’t wakened them.

  Having enjoyed the drink I pretended to climb the stairs to bed. Lights went off and on as I went about my fictitious movements, but there was not a murmur from the family. It made me realise how easy it is to burgle a house…

  Once all this performance was over I crept out of the house, which I left in total darkness, and made my way on foot down to the village. It was about 2.20 and there was not a soul about. I crept into the pub carpark and was greeted by the rapid flash of a torch. Sergeant Bairstow had arrived.

  “OK?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “And not a murmur from the kids.”

  “Good, let’s go. Is there an approach for us that isn’t direct from here?”

  “We can go through Home Farm fields,” I told him.

  “Lead on,” and I realised he had an army of policemen with him. Two men whose names I did not know were in the shadows, each with a police dog and there was another tall, senior police constable whom I guessed was from Malton.

  We marched through the darkness with me leading the way. We did not speak as I led them through a small copse and into the fields of Home Farm. We kept close to the hedges, which provided shelter, and after twenty minutes I halted them.

  “The river is down there,” I said, pointing to the brow of a small hillock. “Behind that hill the bank goes fairly steeply towards the river. The banks are lined with bushes and trees. The curve known as Victoria’s Bend is down there — that’s the favourite place for salmon.”

  “I don’t know what to expect,” said Bairstow. “I don’t know how many we’ll find — if any! I imagine there’ll be those we nicked earlier and their mates. Maybe two carloads. Seven or eight of ’em,” and he outlined a plan of action. We would use our torches or police whistles as signals.

  “The dogs can cope,” said one of their handlers, when I expressed concern that the poachers might be armed.

  “We’ll use one dog at each side of them,” said Bairstow. “And one of us at each side too. I’ll stay with Nick — he knows the lie of the land.”

  Two constables, one of whom was a dog-handler with his Alsatian straining at the leash, vanished to my right and were quickly lost in the shadows. They moved silently across the turf, climbed the fence and were soon moving through the woodland towards the river bank on my right. Bairstow, the other dog-handler and I crossed the fence to our left and clambered down the hillside. I felt we were making far too much noise, but Bairstow didn’t call for silence.

  Soon Sergeant Bairstow halted and pointed.

  “There!” he whispered, and I followed the line of his outstretched arm.

  Silhouetted against the silvery sheen of the moving water were several heads, all working at the river’s edge. I could hear the roar of the rapids higher upstream, and realised this noise would conceal our movements. I counted five men. I guessed there would be more, the others perhaps pos
ted as look-outs.

  We were below the skyline and, as we neared the water’s edge, the woodland thinned considerably. Finally we reached the riverside path. Bairstow waited for several long, agonising minutes and then flashed his torch twice, very quickly. The response came immediately — two flashes. The others were in a similar position, ready for action.

  We moved forward, knowing our colleagues at the other side were doing likewise, closing in and making a sandwich of the poachers. Then up went a warning shout. It surprised us all. We’d been seen.

  “Bailiffs!”

  A man had been concealed behind a bush on the river bank and we almost tripped over him. Too late we realised he was there. He ran from us, shouting his warning as he rushed towards his pals.

  Sergeant Bairstow did not flap. He simply stood his ground, pulled out his police whistle and blew it. It was the first time I’d heard a police whistle used on duty, and it galvanised us into action. The dogs were told to ‘speak’ and began to bark as Sergeant Bairstow called upon the poachers to stand still or be bitten in some very painful places. Four of them stood rock still, but one tried to escape by climbing over a fence into the fields beyond.

  The look-out had vanished too, but a dog handler now called to them all, albeit addressing the man heading for the railings.

  “Halt or the dog comes after you!” he bellowed. The running man did not halt. He ran for all he was worth and I heard the handler tell his dog to deal with the escapee. He slipped the lead and with a glorious bound the agile dog leapt in pursuit of the frantic man. The other dog barked encouragement from the distance and it seemed as if this character was the only one foolish enough to attempt to outrun the dogs. Its handler followed with fitful strides as the bounding dog pursued the foolish poacher.

  He could never hope to outdistance the dog, but someone must have given wings to the fellow’s heels, for he did manage to clamber over the fence and was precariously balanced on top when the dog arrived. In the dim light we could see the drama. The man was balanced on top of the railings and was preparing to leap down into the field. At the precise moment he took off, the dog leapt up and seized his arm. With a cry of horror the man fell and we heard the tell-tale growling and snarling of a police dog which had cornered its prey.

  “Leave!” cried the handler, and the dog sat back on its haunches, tongue lolling as it watched the sobbing, terrified youth. The others in the meantime, including the look-out man, had been gathered into a huddle and were guarded by the other dog. Its presence was enough to guarantee their cooperation.

  The attempted escaper, who had fallen head first into a bunch of nettles, was gathered up and brought back.

  We seized their gear for evidence, took them all to Ashfordly Police Station and bailed them out to appear before Eltering Magistrates’ Court in due course. It was a skilful gang from Leeds, but the pair we’d caught earlier were not among them. None of this gang admitted knowing the other two, but I didn’t believe them.

  From our point of view it had been a good night’s work, and I collapsed into bed at 6.30, tired but happy after the night’s events. I told myself that when I woke around lunchtime I would ring his Lordship to acquaint him with our overnight success. He’d be pleased, I knew; maybe we’d each receive a complimentary salmon!

  But his Lordship woke me at 8.30 by banging on the door of the house and demanding to see me. Mary had to arouse me, due to his insistence, and I staggered bleary-eyed downstairs to find him in the lounge, flustered and angry. Very angry indeed.

  “Poachers!” he shouted. “I had poachers last night, Rhea! Down at Ferris Bridge. They’ve given me a right bashing and here’s you, lying in bed all day…”

  I groaned.

  Chapter 6

  His motorcar was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism.

  The office was his pirate ship, but the car his perilous excursion ashore.

  SINCLAIR LEWIS — ‘Babbitt’

  *

  In my early days in the Police Force it was considered by those in authority that motorcars were not for ordinary policemen, either at work or at play. That a constable could or would even own a car was something abhorrent and this thinking was reflected in the fact that police houses had no garages, police stations had no parking places and police training centres issued ‘Guidance to Students on Arrival’ without once mentioning a motorcar. Perhaps Scotland Yard did not subscribe to this image because old films about the police invariably showed a long-snouted Wolseley roaring out of the pearly gates of that famous Police Headquarters. Indeed, many police forces later advertised Henry Ford’s cars in sombre black garb as they rushed up and down main roads with ‘Police’ written all over them. In those days ‘Police’ was synonymous with efficiency and quality, and I’m sure the police forces who used Ford cars provided useful, albeit unconscious, recommendation for Mr Ford’s engineering skills. Another peculiarity was that detective story writers rarely used motorcars in their yarns to convey detectives around, even though some of their detective inspectors did dress for dinner and take sherry in country houses.

  The reality of police thinking suggested that a constable driving a car was akin to a gardener using his master’s Rolls-Royce, so the perambulations around our beats meant we had to rely heavily upon our feet or else use very ancient pedal cycles. Cycles were unreliable because the lamps never worked and the tyres were always flat. Official cycles were large, upright monsters, painted black all over and sporting a chain guard. For years they provided the traditional mode of transport for the travelling constable, and still do in some areas. The constable went to work upon it, did his work upon it and travelled home upon it. Some forces actually paid an allowance to those who used their own pedal cycles for duty, and as this was based on the mileage covered on duty, little books were issued to the riders, in which the official mileage was recorded and checked carefully by the sergeant.

  Eltering’s official cycle was rusty and unfit for duty. The inspector requested a replacement; in fact, he was extremely daring because he applied for two country bicycles, basing his claim on the fact that the establishment of his officers had doubled since 1910 and new roads, coupled with expanding villages, had brought more people within range of our patrols. Much to his surprise his wish came true — the Police Committee at County Hall considered his application and allocated two new pedal cycles to Eltering Police Station. Sergeant Blaketon was appointed officer in charge of county cycles and promptly numbered them 1 and 2. He issued a mileage book to each machine. No 1 cycle was to be used as the main machine, with No 2 being used only in emergencies or when No 1 was otherwise engaged. After each journey the mileage book must be completed, showing the date, times and places visited, with the name of the rider in charge at the time. He further instructed that after use the cycles had to be checked for cuts in the tyres, damage or loss of wind; the lights must be checked and the saddle cleaned for use. In this manner, therefore, the constables of Eltering became mechanised.

  It was some time before I understood why Eltering managed to acquire two cycles. A few years later I learned that the Police Committee had been considering the issue of motorcars to selected town stations like Eltering. It transpired that the inspector had applied for two pedal cycles and had put up such a good argument for them that the Committee felt Eltering did not require a car. Ashfordly got a little car and so did Malton, while Eltering continued for years with pedal cycles.

  A little Ford Anglia did arrive in due course, and indeed most rural stations eventually possessed one of these delightful vehicles. At the larger stations the Superintendent had a large Ford, usually a Consul, while the inspector made do with a Morris Oxford. No one else was allowed to use these sacred treasures and they were treated like pots of gold. The Superintendent’s car was cleaned, oiled and maintained by a mechanically qualified constable, who also lit the fires, looked after stray dogs, cooked the meals for prisoners and did every other job around the station. He also spared a moment for the inspe
ctor’s car, but studiously refrained from interfering with the pedal cycles. Another less talented officer cared for these machines.

  It goes without saying that it was never easy travelling from place to place during routine duties. If our cycles lacked the speed necessary to reach emergencies while they were still emergencies we had to improvise and we did this by standing in the middle of the road in full uniform with hand raised. This was guaranteed to stop most vehicles and in this grand manner we begged or bullied lifts, or we took a bus.

  Under no circumstances must we use either the inspector’s or the Superintendent’s car. Even though they were official vehicles, it was understood they were official only to those exalted ranks, and were most definitely not for the likes of working constables rushing off to deal with burglaries, rapes, sudden deaths or mayhem of other kinds. They were used to convey the higher ranks to their dinners and other important social functions.

  There were occasions, however, when ambitious constables let their crime-detecting ardour get the better of them to such an extent that they made use of the Superintendent’s car. The horror of such an action was too fearful to contemplate, but this happened to me on one occasion.

  I was working ‘office nights’ at Divisional Headquarters during a shortage of men, and the time would be around two o’clock in the morning. The telephone rang, a rare event in that station at any time, but particularly so at this early hour. I answered it. A very anxious gentleman was calling from a kiosk in the marketplace and his message was to the effect that his car had just been stolen and was, at this very moment, being driven out of town at the hands of an unscrupulous villain. The gentleman provided the registration number and a brief description of his vehicle, so I asked him to make his way to the office where a colleague would look after him. Meanwhile I would give chase. There was not a moment to lose.