Constable Through the Meadow Page 13

  Minor examples of distress might include those who lock themselves out of their homes or whose motor cars run out of petrol, or who are locked out of their homes by others during arguments or stupidity, or whose cars run out of petrol because their teenage son has surreptitiously done a trip to Scotland and back. Other people can inflict distress upon us, by simple things like persistent telephone calls or playing football in our front garden, or by greed such as burglary or through dangerous actions like reckless driving, playing about with firearms or indeed anything else. The possibilities of trouble are endless and it seems we are continually at risk either through our own behaviour or from the actions of others.

  In the course of police work, therefore, the constable often comes across examples of this kind and seeks to comfort the victims where possible. A kind word and some assurance that the world isn’t going to end is generally sufficient, albeit tempered with advice on how to cope with the unexpected and harrowing predicament.

  In dealing with jobs of this kind, however, it becomes evident that of all the root causes of man’s predilection for disaster, that which causes most problems is man’s love for woman. Through their vast experience of people, police officers know that men get themselves into some of the most curious situations in their undying efforts to prove their love to the lady of their dreams. Constables know that love is one of the most powerful of urges, so strong that at times it removes every scrap of common sense from the skulls of those whom it infects. A poet who remains anonymous once said that ‘Love is a passion which has caused the change of empires’ – in short, men do the daftest things when they are in love, and I have mentioned some of their misadventures in previous ‘Constable’ books.

  But because this symptom provides a never-ending series of dramas, sagas, mishaps, problems and (to be honest) a few chuckles in the process, every constable has witnessed and can recount stirring tales of love. They would fill a volume, so I thought I would place on record a few more tales of the love-lorn countryman.

  One example occurred during the depths of winter. While I was the village bobby at Aidensfield, one of my less pleasant duties as Christmas approached was to man road-checks at various lonely points. This meant stopping all cars to check them and their boots for stolen chickens, turkeys, drinks and other festive fare. We were also seeking those who stole holly from gardens and Christmas trees from our acres of local forests. It was a task that country constables had undertaken for years and the only time I found any game in a car was when I halted and searched a Rolls-Royce which, it transpired, had a boot full of pheasants. His Lordship was not too pleased; he was delivering them to his tenants.

  The timing of those road-blocks varied, but they were usually of two hours’ duration, perhaps starting at 8pm, 9pm, 10pm, 11pm or even midnight, and on each occasion we selected a different check-point. Word generally got around the local pubs that the police were checking cars at Bank Top or The Beacon or Four Lane Ends which probably meant the poachers took alternative routes. But we did get results – we found cars with no insurance, drivers with no licences, cars not taxed, cars with dirty number plates and cars in a dangerous condition. We caught drunken drivers, car thieves and burglars and, once in a while, we caught a Christmas poacher with a boot full of illicitly acquired game or liquor, or a hard-up dad who had risked digging up a Norway spruce from the local Forestry Commission plantation.

  We referred to these duties as turkey patrols, although I’ve never known an arrest for having a boot full of turkeys. On one occasion, however, I caught a youth riding a bike without lights. It happened like this.

  It was a pitch-black night with no moon and I was manning a road-check at Elsinby Plantation. It was about 8.30pm and I was alone for it was a very minor road which ran right through the centre of the conifer plantation which comprised Norway spruce, Scots pines and larches. We’d had reports of Christmas-tree thefts and so I was out to catch a thief.

  Almost numb with cold, I suddenly heard the distinctive swish-swish of bicycle tyres and as I peered into the pitch blackness, I could not see any lights. And then the noise came closer and I could hear the sound of breathing as the rider pedalled up the slight gradient. And so I shone my torch upon him.

  He cried with alarm, for my sudden action had terrified him. In the light of my torch, I saw it was young Ian Spellar from Elsinby and he stopped when he realised it was me.

  ‘Oh, Mr Rhea, hello.’ He was slightly out of breath.

  ‘Now, Ian, what’s all this then? Riding without lights, eh? You could get yourself killed on a night like this, you know. Car drivers can’t see you; you realise you’re putting drivers in an impossible situation?’

  ‘Aye, sorry, Mr Rhea. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘Where are you going anyway? It’s a bit off the beaten track up here!’

  I shone my light on his bike and upon his back to see if he had anything which might carry a small tree or any other Yuletide trophy, but he wasn’t equipped for transporting anything save himself. I knew he wasn’t stealing.

  ‘I’m not pinching things, Mr Rhea, honest. I’m off to see my girlfriend.’

  ‘And who’s she?’ was my next question.

  ‘Linda Thornhill,’ he said. I knew where she lived and this was on the route to her parents’ isolated farm.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Off you go, but be careful. And next time, get some batteries in those lights, and get them switched on, OK? Or I’ll book you!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rhea. Sorry Mr Rhea.’

  ‘And be careful – remember you can’t be seen!’

  Knowing few cars used this quiet track, I allowed him to continue to see his love, although the lad might be a danger to other road users. Maybe I should not have relented, but I decided in his favour. Ian was a pleasant youth. Just turned eighteen, he worked in a local timber yard and was a hard-working lad from a decent working-class background. I’d had to tell him off once or twice about drinking under age but he never got into serious trouble. Under-age drinking and riding a bike without lights was the extent of his lawlessness.

  Then, only a week later, I was manning another check-point in that vicinity, this time at Flatts End, when I heard the same swish-swish of bicycle tyres. I shone my torch upon the oncoming rider and again it was Ian.

  ‘Same rider, Mr Rhea!’ he said, halting at my side.

  ‘Same constable, Ian!’

  ‘Same excuse!’ he countered.

  ‘Same warning!’ I said. ‘Now what about those lights?’

  ‘I never got round to putting them on, Mr Rhea, sorry,’ and he bent over his lights, back and front, and switched them on. After telling him once again of the dangers, I let him go.

  ‘It’ll be a summons next time, Ian!’ I shouted after him as his red rear light disappeared into the gloom.

  It puzzled me that he should be riding in such darkness without lights when both his lamps were in good working-order. It didn’t make sense. Then some ten days later, one Saturday night, I was manning yet another check-point, this time at Swathgill Head, and once more, I heard the panting sound of someone pedalling heavily, and the accompanying swish-swish of bicycle tyres. I groaned. I would now have to be harder with this youth.

  I switched on my torch and waved him to a halt. I was right; it was Ian Spellar.

  ‘Same cyclist, Mr Rhea,’ he said, this time not so chirpily.

  ‘Same constable,’ I retorted, sternly.

  ‘Same excuse,’ he said, wondering what my reaction would be as he switched on both lights.

  ‘Same threat, Ian!’ I sounded angry. ‘Now look, this is getting beyond a joke. This is your final warning, right? Next time, you go to court, I can’t have you putting yourself and car-drivers at risk …’

  ‘If I hear a car coming, I stop and put ’em on,’ he said. ‘I’d never let ’em run me down, Mr Rhea, I’m not as daft as that.’

  ‘Why ride without lights when your lamps are in working-order?’ I asked. ‘There’s nothing wro
ng with them!’

  He just shrugged his shoulders in reply, and I watched him ride off once again. Each time I’d seen him, he’d been on a different road, albeit within the same general area of the heights above Elsinby. Any of those roads would take him to Linda Thornhill’s remote home, but his attitude defeated me. It wasn’t defiance of the law, it was more a strange sort of lethargy. Now, however, I felt he had got the message. But I was wrong. Only a week later, I was again on the lane running through Elsinby Plantation when I became aware of an approaching cyclist without lights. My heart sank. I could distinguish the swishing of the tyres and the sound of a man breathing as he climbed the gradient, and so, once more, I shone my torch on Ian Spellar.

  ‘Same cyclist, Mr Rhea.’

  ‘Same constable, Ian.’

  ‘Same excuse,’ he recited what had become a kind of ritual response.

  ‘Same results, Ian.’

  ‘Same apologies, Mr Rhea.’

  ‘And this time, it’s the same summons, Ian. You’re clearly ignoring my warnings, so it’s a summons this time,’ and I took down his name, age, address and occupation, then reported him for riding a cycle without obligatory lights.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mr Rhea,’ and he switched on his front and rear lamps.

  ‘Look, Ian, this is serious, you’re risking an accident and putting too much faith in other drivers … they just cannot see you in darkness. Why are you doing this?’

  He hung his head, embarrassed at my questioning, but his demeanour told me there was a reason for his odd behaviour. Even so, he did not reveal this to me. I must admit that I was against submitting a formal report against him; on paper, it seemed such a trivial matter and my superiors would probably think I’d become drunk with power. But Ian had to be taught a lesson, and so I did submit a report with an accompanying account of the reasons for my action.

  And then, even before a decision had been made upon that report, I caught Ian once again.

  ‘Same constable, Ian,’ I shouted at him. ‘And it’ll be another summons for the same offence. What on earth are you playing at?’

  ‘Same cyclist, Mr Rhea.’ He sounded very subdued now. ‘And same excuse.’

  ‘You’re going to see your girlfriend again?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I am, and well, Mr Rhea, I’m sorry, I really am. I know it’s wrong, but, well, it’s so important …’

  ‘Go on, Ian, I’m listening,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you know where the Thornhills live, down at Birch Bower Farm?’

  ‘I know it well,’ I paid a visit to this farm about once a month and it was an awful trek from the road. The farm lay at least a mile and a half from the road, and although the first quarter of the track leading to it was surfaced, the remainder was an unmade lane full of ruts and pot-holes and littered with partly buried rocks. It was a diabolical road and Ted Thornhill never seemed inclined to repair it. Everyone who used it grumbled.

  ‘Well, old Thornhill doesn’t like me courting his lass, Mr Rhea, so I go in secret. Linda can’t get out at night, you see, being only sixteen anyway, so I have to ride out there if I want to see her. She goes into her room to do her homework, you see, but she sneaks out at nine o’clock. Well, her dad might catch me riding down that lane if I show lights, Mr Rhea, and ’cos I need to adjust my eyes to ride down when it’s pitch dark, I practise on these quiet roads, you see … I allus have lights on in the village, or on main roads, but not here where there’s nowt but trees.’

  I believed him. I knew the value of working without light when operating at night because one’s eyes do become accustomed to the darkness.

  ‘So you’re practising that ride and using different roads to avoid me, eh?’ I put to him.

  ‘Yeh, well, when you first nabbed me I reckoned you’d often be on that road, seeing Christmas is coming up and there’s poachers about. So I went the other way round, then you were there an’ all, Mr Rhea …’

  ‘And I’ve no doubt you’ve been riding those roads other nights, Ian, when I’ve not been on duty?’

  He laughed with a silly sort of giggle. ‘Aye, well, you have to, haven’t you? Just the quiet bits, mind, and that lane down to Birch Bower.’

  ‘I’m not interested in Birch Bower Farm Lane,’ I said. ‘That’s private property. I’m concerned with public roads.’

  ‘So will they take me to court, Mr Rhea?’

  ‘It depends on the Superintendent,’ I said, which was the truth. ‘He’ll read my report and decide what to do.’

  ‘Tell him I’m sorry, then. But mebbe he was a lad an’ all, at one time? Going courting.’

  ‘I’ll see what he says,’ was all I could promise.

  The Superintendent met me at one of my rendezvous points a few days later and took the opportunity of asking me about my ‘no bike-lights’ report. I explained the situation and included Ian’s odd reason.

  ‘Christmas is coming up, PC Rhea,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Would you agree that a written caution is appropriate in this case?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, sir. I think it would be very appropriate.’

  And so that was Ian’s punishment. Within a few days, he would receive a written caution from the Superintendent which would inform him that he would not be prosecuted on this occasion, but that the letter must be regarded as a warning. Any future offences of this nature could result in a court appearance.

  I saw Ian in Elsinby one Sunday afternoon just before Christmas and told him what to expect.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Rhea. I’m grateful.’

  ‘Wish Linda a happy Christmas from me,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Rhea. I will. And I’m sorry I’ve been a nuisance, I was daft really. But there was nowt else I could do, was there, if I wanted to see Linda?’

  ‘I can’t encourage you to break the law.’ I smiled at him. ‘Mind,’ I added, ‘I’m not sure how you’ll sneak down to Birch Bower in the summer without her dad knowing.’

  ‘Me neither, Mr Rhea. I’ll have to find a way in somehow, although she might be able to go for walks when it’s light at night.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, Ian. Oh, and by the way,’ I said. ‘We finish those check-points this coming Saturday night.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  One of the funniest incidents involved a man whom I shall call Ronald Youngman, a salesman who lived in Ashfordly. I was never very sure what he sold, although I think it was something linked to the building-industry like scaffolding. A dark-haired, attractive man in his early thirties, he was a lively character who played a lot of tennis, cricket, football and badminton. When he was not selling scaffolding or playing one of his sports, he was exercising his considerable charm upon the local ladies.

  In the latter case, he made ample use of his company car which was a Ford Cortina with reclining front seats; he used this to take his many conquests for outings, frequently making trips to rural pubs after which he would take his charmed girl to a remote rustic location, there for mutual enjoyment. For this reason, his distinctive gold-coloured car was often to be seen parked in lonely places, sometimes with steamed-up windows and generally in complete darkness.

  Most of the local police officers knew the car and they knew of Ronald’s insatiable appetite for lovely ladies, consequently they never checked over the car or its occupants when they found it in a far-away place. Normally, our procedures were to check every car found in a remote place to see if the occupants were safe and sound, to see if it was someone trying to commit suicide or whether the car had been stolen and abandoned. It might contain the proceeds of crime, or it might be used for crime – there were many other valid reasons for checking such vehicles.

  If I was patrolling late, therefore, and came across Ronald’s car upon the moors or deep in a forest, I ignored it. After all, I didn’t want to embarrass either Ronald or his lover of the evening and if neither was breaking the law there was no need to make myself a nuisance.

  But late one nig
ht – in fact it was after midnight – I was working a patrol and around lam, my route took me high into Waindale. Tucked away in the corner of a quarry behind Wether Cote Farm was an explosives store; it belonged to the quarry owner and because it contained explosives and detonators used for blasting, we had to check it regularly for security. It was little more than a very solidly built chamber, part of which was underground, and it seldom contained a large amount. But it had to be checked and our checks had to be recorded.

  With this in mind, I parked my mini-van off the road near Wether Cote Farm and decided to walk the couple of hundred yards to the explosives store. The route was along an unmade lane, full of pot-holes and with the quarry gates closed, there was very little room for turning a vehicle around. It was much safer to walk. And so, in the gloom of that night, albeit armed with a torch which I did not use during the walk, I made my way along the track. Rather like young Ian Spellar, I found I could see without the light from a torch. And then, in a corner right next to the store, I came across Ronald’s car. It was in darkness but I could recognise the outline. Ronald was at it again.

  Having no wish to become a peeping Tom or to disturb him in his moments of bliss, I tried to creep past the car to carry out my essential check. But as I was going past, I could hear cries for help … and they were being sounded in a man’s voice! I halted a while, listening; I thought it might be the car radio, a disc jockey fooling about or perhaps a character in a play or it could be Ronald playing games. After all, he had no idea that I, or indeed anyone else, was standing just outside his passion-wagon.

  But the cry was genuine … and a woman’s voice was calling too. Who on earth they were hoping to attract in such a remote part of the moors was beyond me, but I listened carefully, just to ensure that these were genuine cries for help. I did wonder if it was some odd part of their love-making, but in spite of being muffled by the closed windows, they were, I felt, very genuine cries of distress. And, they sounded rather weak.