Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Read online

  That ensured the floor was always polished and saved us lots of time on Bull Night. Now, this floor was heading that way. But, having messed it severely, I left. I found a welcoming bakery where I warmed myself as I enjoyed a nice bun and a mug of hot tea, and soon I was glowing amid the scents of newly-baked bread and cakes.

  Later, I discovered that Forster had complained to Sergeant Blaketon. To give the sergeant some credit, he had not spoken to me about the affair of the muddy visit which perhaps revealed something of his disdain for the nature of the grumble, but he did resort to his normal tactic — he displayed a typed instruction on the police station notice-board. Each of us had to read and initial it.

  Sergeant Blaketon was prone to issuing typed instructions through the medium of the station notice-board. We learned that the degree of his anger was reflected in the method of typing — a notice produced in black lower case type was routine. This might embrace matters like holiday dates, special duty commitments and so on. A black notice in upper case type was more important — that could include warnings not to use the office telephone for private calls or to make sure our monthly returns were submitted on time.

  A notice typed in red was rather more serious. If it was in lower case red type, it was of considerable import — such as ‘Members will refrain from revving up their motorcycles outside the station at 2 a.m.’ or ‘Members will repeat will study all Force Orders and will repeat will initial each copy when it has been perused.’

  We were never instructed to ‘read’ papers and documents — always, we had to peruse them, and we were always classified as ‘members’ in Sergeant Blaketon’s vocabulary. I never did find out of what we were members.

  But a very important notice was always typed in red upper case letters. For example, ‘MEMBERS WILL STUDY THE ACCOMPANYING PHOTOGRAPH OF THE CHIEF CONSTABLE AND WILL ACKNOWLEDGE HIM IN THE STREET BY SALUTING’ or ‘MEMBERS WILL NOT REPEAT NOT USE OFFICIAL VEHICLES FOR COLLECTING GROCERIES OR FISH AND CHIPS.’

  After my first meeting with Jack Forster, therefore, an instruction did appear on the station notice-board. In lower case red type, it said, “Members will take every care to keep the police office clean and tidy at all times and should not enter in soiled motorcycle protective clothing unless unavoidable owing to the exigencies of duty.”

  The ‘exigencies of duty’ was a marvellous phrase for making exceptions to most rules, and when this notice appeared, the story of my meeting with Forster became widely known. So did the reason for the appearance of this order, and from that time forward, we discovered more of his tactics. He objected to smokers putting cigarette-ends in ashtrays; he disliked tea or coffee cups being left unwashed; he objected to paper containing crumbs of food being placed in the waste-bins; he wanted all lights switched off when the office was empty; he objected to out-of-date posters being left on the notice-board and apple cores on the mantelshelf. In fact, he objected to everything and everyone. He seemed to have a passion for cutting official expenditure which probably explained his unwillingness to light the fire, his passion for switching off lights and his theory that much of the paperwork in the office was not necessary. I think he based this judgement upon the amount of waste paper which accumulated in the waste-bins. The outcome of his arrival was that the office did remain clean and tidy, chiefly because we rarely went in. There was no longer any pleasure in visiting our little section headquarters and the result was that the lanes around Ashfordly were very regularly patrolled. We made very frequent visits to establishments like hotels and bakeries which offered warmth and occasional refreshment, and we also made use of each other’s homes.

  In one sense, the social life of our happy little section was enhanced because we saw more of each other and of each other’s families, but it was clear that Sergeant Blaketon was growing concerned about our unwillingness to make regular visits to the office. To circulate our paperwork, we tended to rely upon his visits to us, rather than our visits to him. To counter this, he compiled an instruction, in red lower case type, about the matter.

  It read, ‘Rural members will repeat will visit the Sectional Office at Ashfordly at least once during each tour of duty. It is essential that all members keep up to date with correspondence, local procedures, new legislation, Force orders and internal instructions. This instruction is effective immediately.’

  And we all had to initial it and comply. Thereafter, we made these token visits to collect our mail and to obey Sergeant Blaketon’s order, although most of us managed to make our visits when Jack Forster, whom we nicknamed Jack Frost because of his chilly nature, had completed his daily stint. He worked from 6.30 a.m. until 9.30 a.m. each morning consequently avoidance was not difficult, except when working an early route.

  But overall, the effect of his presence could not be ignored. We moved around the clean, tidy office as if it was a showroom of some kind, hardly daring to touch the furniture or leave footprints on the floor. We cursed Jack for his cussedness, and we cursed Sergeant Blaketon for engaging him. I must admit that I often wondered whether poor old Blaketon had really foreseen what the outcome of Forster’s appointment would be.

  Some of us did try discreetly to frustrate or annoy Jack. We did paddle upon his floors; we did leave waste paper lying about; we did spill tea or coffee from our flasks and we did make the office look as if it was a place of work and not a disused museum.

  But the real punishment for Jack arrived late one night; it was something that could never have been planned and it was doubly pleasing because it could be logged under that wonderful heading ‘Exigencies of duty’. I was pleased too, because I was the officer involved. I felt that some kind of poetic justice had descended upon Jack Frost.

  It so happened that I was not working one of those motorcycle routes, but was performing a full tour of night duty in Ashfordly. A complete week of night duty came around every six months or so, when we worked from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m. the following morning.

  I was patrolling on foot in the outskirts of Ashfordly. It was 1.30 a.m. and I was looking forward to my meal break which was scheduled for 2 a.m. I would take that break in Ashfordly Police Station, careful not to dirty the place because of Jack’s ferocious responses.

  During patrols of that nature, we kept our eyes open for villains and villainy of every kind, from drunken drivers to car thieves, from burglars to cattle thieves, from runaways to tearaways. So when I saw a small, rusty Morris pick-up inching slowly along Brantsford Back Lane without any lights, my suspicions were immediately aroused. It was moving jerkily and rather noisily towards me, and so I decided to investigate.

  My first job was to halt it so I stepped into the lane and flashed my powerful torch at the vehicle, waving it up and down in the manner then used to halt motor vehicles.

  Always wary that vehicles of this condition might not have brakes, it was unwise to stand right in front of them. The procedure was to keep clear as they came to a halt, and then move in to continue the investigation. But there were no problems as the slow-moving pick-up came to a halt with my torch shining into the driving-seat.

  The driver, a thin-faced individual with thick, dirty hair, looked pale and ill and he awaited me with a suggestion of resignation on his face. I opened the driver’s door, removed the keys from the ignition switch and said, as all policemen do, “Now then, what’s going on here?”

  “Summat’s gone wrong wi’ t’ electrics,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Sorry, Officer. Ah know ah shouldn’t have drove, but ah had ti git ‘ome … ”

  At that point, there was a tremendous rumpus in the rear and some heavy object caused the pick-up to rock and sway, so I hurried to the back. A massive pig, a Large White sow, was struggling to climb over the tailboard, and as I reached the back, she half-tumbled, half-climbed from the vehicle into the road. Fortunately, she did not gallop off; judging by her massive size she would have difficulty even in walking, so she stood close to the vehicle, snuffling around the rear wheels. I saw that she had a rope attac
hed to one leg but there was no way I could get her back into that vehicle. He must have had a ramp of some kind for her to climb up.

  It was then that the contents of a crime circular of some weeks ago echoed in the recesses of my mind. There’d been regular thefts of livestock in the area over a period of months and some livestock owners had reported seeing a small, darkened vehicle leaving the scene late at night …

  I grabbed the end of the rope and clung to it, then said, “This pig. Is it yours?”

  The fellow in the pick-up made a non-committal response. I followed with a request for his name and address, and asked where he had obtained the pig. He produced more non-committal and indecipherable replies.

  “Come along, out you get,” I said. “Leave the van here. We’ll talk about this at the police station.”

  “No, Officer, Ah can explain … ”

  “In the police station!” I had made up my mind to question this fellow in the security of the station. The van was in a quiet lane, and was parked on the verge where it was not a danger to other traffic. After noting its make, size, colour and registration number, I discovered it was not taxed either. There’d be a catalogue of traffic offences here, so I seized the driver’s arm with one hand and kept the pig’s rope in the other. “Police station!” I said as I guided man and pig towards Jack Forster’s shining palace.

  The fellow shuffled along, sometimes groaning and sometimes uttering words which I did not understand. I jollied the huge sow along the road by slapping her ample back from time to time as she waddled contentedly through the streets. She was clearly domesticated and seemed unflustered by this turn of events.

  Sometimes, she would stop for a snuffle in the hedge bottoms but she was no real trouble. Her companion was no trouble either as he walked, with some support from me, towards the station.

  Sergeant Blaketon was having a day off, so I knew I must not arouse him. I told my captive to hang on to the pig’s rope, which he did, as I unlocked the door of the office. As I switched on the light, the big sow hurried inside, dragging the man with her, and I followed, closing and locking the door for security.

  “Has thoo arrested me?” was the man’s first question as the lock went home.

  “Yes,” I said, for I did not want him to leave. Had I said, “No, you are just helping with enquiries,” he might have decided not to assist with the many enquiries I must make.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Suspicion of stealing that pig,” I said. ‘so where did you get it?”

  He sighed. “Aye, all right, Ah took it. From a sty over Brantsford way. Don’t know whose. If that truck o’ mine hadn’t brokken … ”

  I cautioned him and wrote his admission in my notebook, then obtained his name and address, age and occupation. He was Cecil Matthews of 56 Roselands Road, Ashfordly, forty-three years old and a general dealer. Having checked this, I said, “Right, I’ll have to get a sergeant to see you. So it’s the cells for you and for that animal!”

  I searched him, listed his belongings and placed him in Cell No 1, and then, by putting on the light of Cell No 2, persuaded the waddling, grunting sow to go in there. She seemed to like places that were well-illuminated because she went straight in. It was the Female Cell anyway, which I felt was appropriate, although it was very bare now that it did not house Alwyn Foxton’s chrysanthemums. He was replenishing his stock, I think. Having locked up my two prisoners, I rang Eltering Police to contact the duty sergeant.

  It was now after 2 a.m. I told my story and he said he’d come immediately. I made a cup of tea and took some in for my prisoner, then settled down for my break. I had sandwiches, a piece of cake, an apple and a cup of tea, then Sergeant Bairstow arrived.

  “Now, Nicholas old son. Where’s the prisoner?”

  “In the cells,” I said. “He’s admitted pinching the pig. I got a voluntary out of him. He can’t remember whose it is, but it’s from somewhere near Brantsford.”

  “Ah! A nice easy case then? Good for you. Right, I’ll have words with him, then I’ll charge him and bail him out from six o’clock. You stay here in the office until six, and then send him home. I’ll bail him to Eltering Court for next Friday.”

  “Right, Sergeant.”

  “And the pig? Where is it?”

  “In No 2 cell, Sergeant,” I said. “There was nowhere else … ”

  “The van? Why not leave it where it was?” he cried.

  “It got out,” I explained. “And there’s no way to get it back in. It’s docile enough … ”

  “Right, the minute somebody comes on duty at Brantsford, get them to find out whose it is, and have the bloody thing collected. We can’t keep pigs in the cells … ”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  And so the official procedures for prosecuting Cecil Matthews were put into action. Sergeant Bairstow dealt with him kindly but firmly, and then we placed him back in the cell until six o’clock. Sergeant Bairstow departed about three o’clock, leaving me in the office until my relief came on duty at six.

  Each half-hour I peeped into the prisoner’s cell to check that he was safe, but around four-thirty, he started to produce some ghastly noises. He began calling for help. I went in, wary that it might be a trick of some kind, but it was clear that the man was ill. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and his face was a dull, pasty green colour; he was holding his stomach and was doubled up with pain.

  I rushed to the telephone and dialled for Doctor Williams for I had no wish to have a man die while in my custody. After explaining the problem, he said he would come immediately, in spite of the hour. When he arrived only minutes later, a dour, heavy man, I showed him into the cell; he recognised Cecil and after a brief examination, said in his lilting Welsh voice, “stomach trouble, Constable, it is.”

  “Is it serious?” I was genuinely worried.

  “Not so that it will kill him, you know, but he’ll be very ill for a while. Gastric troubles, of long standing they are. Now, I have something in my bag which might be of help … leave him to me … ”

  I left the cell, glad to be away from the suffering man, but I then became aware of more awful noises, this time from the adjoining cell. Screeching, heavy snufflings and gruntings, painful cries. I hurried to the door, but was unable to open it. When I slid back the inspection hatch, I could see that the huge sow was lying against the door, holding it shut as she uttered the most pained and piercing of cries. It sounded like many pigs in distress.

  I was in two minds whether to ask the doctor for advice, but felt he might be offended; even so her cries were agonising and so I decided to call the vet. Not giving me time to explain the somewhat unusual story, he said he would come immediately.

  When he arrived, he made an initial examination through the inspection hatch and smiled.

  “She’s farrowing, giving birth,” he said. “Soon, the place will be full of little pigs … ”

  I groaned. “How many?” was all I could ask.

  “Ten or twelve perhaps. She’s a Large White, so she’ll have a lot. Large Whites always do, Constable. Some achieve twenty a farrow. Yours is she?”

  I explained in detail how she came to be here, and he laughed. “Well, there’s a bonus for the loser. He’s lost one and will gain many. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll hang on until she’s produced them all, just in case there are complications. She’ll roll clear of that door sooner or later, maybe to have a drink from that loo in the comer of the cell.”

  “Will you have a cup of tea?” I offered him.

  “Love one,” he said. “Three sugars.”

  I went off to make a cup of tea, and when I returned, I found Doctor Williams having a hearty laugh with the vet, a man called Harvey. We sat and discussed the patients, Doctor Williams saying that Cecil’s stomach would result in him being sick all over the cell along with some uncontrollable diarrhoea, and the condition would persist until his gastric trouble had eased. Mr Harvey said the pig would make a mess too, what with
giving birth and exercising her bowels …

  And as I sat there, I wondered what Jack Forster would make of it all when he arrived at half past six. But I was off duty at six. I decided not to wash the cups either.

  Chapter 2

  When I was at home, I was in a better place

  But travellers must be content.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)

  *

  Having been compelled to spend more time patrolling the lanes around Aidensfield and Ashfordly, it was inevitable that I should become more deeply acquainted with Arnold Merry weather’s rattling old buses. In their faded purple and cream livery, the pair of them were a familiar sight in Ryedale. They provided a vital means of transport and an equally valuable method of communication for many of the villagers. Those without cars relied upon Arnold’s buses to carry them to work or to the shops or merely on visits to relatives and friends; it was impossible to envisage a contented rural life without the service that Arnold provided.

  His buses were never off the road, a fact which meant that on several occasions, I had to speak to Arnold about the condition of his vehicles. In his rustic and carefree way, he managed to ignore the laws which governed the operation of passenger vehicles. He seemed to think that the laws which applied to large companies and city transport did not apply to his little business.

  He would use the aged buses as delivery vehicles and would carry parcels, goods and even livestock to market; I’ve even known him use a bus as a breakdown vehicle. Because they were always in use, their maintenance became somewhat suspect. In addition, his willingness to help others often led to him flouting or even breaking the law. Never did I prosecute him, although I found it necessary to constantly remind him of his statutory responsibilities. And, in his own way, he did try.