CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Read online

  I smiled ruefully as I handed in my ticket and lifted my cap from its temporary resting place. As I did so, I became aware of a man behind me.

  ‘Ah said thoo shouldn’t have bothered.’ It was the man from the railway carriage, and he was shaking his head. ‘Thoo hasn’t saved any time. See? We’ve caught thoo up.’

  Through the gap in the wall which was the exit, I could see the police station, a red-brick building on a hill about four hundred yards away. The ticket collector noticed me looking anxiously at it.

  ‘By lad,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a bit more about you if you’re going to be stationed in this spot! ’Specially with summer coming on. Some o’ these day trippers eat young lads like you! Now, next time, stay on this train till yon school-rush is clear of this barrier.’

  ‘Ah did warn you,’ muttered the fellow in the sports jacket, and now I could see the other passengers heading this way.

  ‘Thanks.’ I tried to show pleasure at their helpfulness, but my back hurt and I felt a real mess.

  It was one minute to nine as I left the portals of the railway station, and I struggled across the street with my battered load. I took a short cut across the forecourt of the bus station, hurried through a back street near a cinema and climbed the short, steep, cobbled hill towards the red-brick edifice which was Strensford’s police station, a building erected in Victoria’s reign.

  I was puffing and panting by now, with sweat pouring off me. My perspiration had gathered a good deal of flying dust during my tumble, and I knew my hands and face were stained and dirty. My hair was hanging limp and I could feel the mess I was in. My cumbersome baggage had made things worse. Items trailed from it, my cap kept falling off, and the infuriating coat insisted on slipping to the ground.

  Eventually I arrived at the entrance, which was along a level cul-de-sac, a side street leading off the cobbled hill, and which was marked by a blue sign saying ‘Police’. There was a row of bicycles parked against the wall but no outward sign of activity.

  I entered to memories of my early days here and hurriedly descended a dark flight of steps into the ageing bowels of this curious old place. I found myself at the hatch over which was a notice saying, ‘Enquiries’. I peeped through — there was an office full of policemen, so I walked in as I’d done much less confidently a few years ago.

  ‘Rhea!’ bellowed an all-too-familiar voice in my ear. ‘You’re late! Three minutes late on your first day’s duty. And look at the state of you! Has there been a train crash? Have you been fighting drunks already, Rhea? And that uniform! And you should not be wearing a mixture of civilian clothes with your uniform . . .’

  Sergeant Blaketon had also come to Strensford for a spell of coastal duty. I let him ramble on but did wonder how he had managed to arrive on time and why he had not brought me with him. I was to learn later that he had instructed one of the Ashfordly constables to drive him over in the official car, a privilege not permitted constables. Man and car had returned to patrol duties around my peaceful patch at Aidensfield.

  ‘You’re on nights, tonight, Rhea,’ Sergeant Blaketon was saying. ‘So you needn’t have got dressed up like that. Now, your digs are at the Breckdale Private Hotel across the street. Go there now. The rest have already arrived. Settle in, they’ll explain things to you, then report back here for duty at ten tonight. And Rhea, be smart and be on time. In fact, be early. Ten minutes to ten, on the dot.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant.’ Quite suddenly, I wasn’t looking forward to being a constable by the sea.

  * * *

  My first night’s duty wasn’t too bad. I knew my way around the town and had no real difficulty adjusting to this changed routine. Even so, there was a marked contrast between plodding a beat around farms and villages and treading featureless streets. Now my time would be spent visiting public houses to quell any possible fighting and to ensure they closed on time, or checking numerous shop doors to make sure they were locked and secure against prowling criminals.

  It was the latter task which almost landed me in more hot water with Sergeant Blaketon; the incident occurred during my second night on duty.

  By way of an excuse, I ought to add that I had been very tired even before embarking on that second tour of eight foot-slogging hours. Having arrived at nine o’clock on that Monday morning, I had been awake all that day and, without any sleep, had performed an eight-hour tour of night duty that night. I’d collapsed into bed just after 6.30 the following morning but had not slept at all. For one thing, I missed Mary; for another, a strange bed was not conducive to peaceful slumber, and the routine sounds of the hotel were not the best at lulling me to sleep. Finally, I was called down to lunch at one o’clock, so my sleep total was practically nil. It was not the best recipe for another tour of night duty.

  When I began that second tour, therefore, I was almost asleep on my feet even before parading for duty and put on what I hoped was a wide-awake appearance during the briefing in the muster room. Sergeant Blaketon was duty sergeant that night, and I caught him eyeing me once or twice as he informed us about the night’s work. There were unoccupied houses and shops to care for, likely trouble-spots outside dance halls and clubs, and a spate of burglaries by villains using stolen cars.

  ‘Are you all right, Rhea?’ he suddenly asked.

  ‘Yes, sergeant,’ I said, looking puzzled.

  ‘You look bloody awful,’ he commented. ‘Pale and tired. Is this townie style of bobbying too much for you?’

  ‘Not at all!’ I tried to sound very confident in my response. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Right,’ he addressed the entire complement of tonight’s officers. ‘To your beats.’

  I had been allocated No. 2 Beat, which comprised the town centre, and this meant I had lots of shop premises, office blocks, restaurants and pubs to check during the first half of my tour. Those mundane tasks would pass the time rapidly until my 2 a.m. break.

  To be honest, those first four hours flew past; I was so busy checking all the property for which I was responsible that I had no time to feel tired. This was aided by cheery home-going drinkers who always stopped for a chat with the patrolling policeman. Their good humour helped to while away the long night hours — as long as they were not troublesome. It is fair to say that very few of them did cause real trouble — we would often place a cheerful drunk into a taxi to help him home, the ‘penalty’ being the taxi-fare, but they rarely caused anything more serious.

  At 2 a.m., therefore, I adjourned to the station, where I thoroughly enjoyed my sandwiches and coffee.

  The worst was to come. The second half of a night shift is always a trial because, even with an adequate amount of sleep, there is that awful period between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. when the patrolling constable is at his lowest ebb. There are times when he is literally asleep on his feet, when he is walking like a robot, when he is not seeing anything and when he doesn’t know anything. It is a ghastly time and few escape it. Having been denied my fair share of sleep, that low ebb hit me hard. I was patrolling the second half of my beat, refreshed with coffee and sandwiches, and the time had reached 3 a.m. Daylight was not far away. But at five minutes past three, by now feeling exceedingly weary, I found an insecure shop door. It was not locked, although the shop lights were out and there did not appear to have been a break-in. I checked all the external windows and the back door, but it became clear that the shopkeeper had forgotten to lock his front door.

  This discovery kept me awake for a while, and I knew my next task was to search the shop for intruders. This was in the days before police officers enjoyed the support of personal radio sets, so I was alone. Snapping on my powerful torch, I entered the shop and began a thorough search in the darkness. It was a furniture shop on two storeys, and I made a meticulous search of every conceivable hiding place. There was no intruder, the till had not been forced and there did not appear to have been a break-in.

  The simple solution was to lock the offending door by dropping the latch, and then get th
e key-holder out of bed to ask for a check of his premises. This was always done, just to be sure that all was well. This rude awakening had the added effect of making the key-holder more careful in the future about locking up. But this lock was of the mortice type, and there was no key in the lock. I could not leave the premises insecure — there might be a shop-breaker lurking in the night, so I picked up the shop’s telephone and rang the police station.

  Sergeant Blaketon answered.

  He listened to my story then said, ‘Right, Rhea, I’ve checked the key-holders’ register and that furniture shop belongs to a chap called Raymond Austin. He lives out at Oakdale, and that’s a good half-hour’s drive, then he’s got to get dressed. I’ll ring him now and get him to lock his shop. You wait there until he comes — it could be three quarters of an hour; check it all over just to be sure nothing’s been stolen, and then make sure he locks up.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant.’ I replaced the telephone and resigned myself to a long wait. But there was one advantage about having to wait here — it was a furniture shop full of comfortable seats.

  I closed the front door but did not switch on the shop’s lights and with the aid of my torch selected a comfortable settee upon which to wait. It was nicely out of view of the windows—not that many folks would be passing by or window-shopping at this time of the morning, but I did not wish to be stared at during my lonely vigil. I settled down on the lovely soft surface of the settee, and in the warmth of the evening my eyes began to close and my head began to nod. My head jolted alarmingly as I fought to keep awake, and in an effort to do so, I walked around the shop once or twice, but the inevitable happened. Eventually, I fell fast asleep.

  When I awoke, daylight had arrived. The summer dawn arrived early on the coast, and when I checked my watch, it was four o’clock. Four o’clock? It took me a few minutes to gather my wits and to realize where I was, but then I recalled with horror that I was still in the shop and that I must have nodded off. I hurriedly left my cosy resting place, shivered and walked around for a minute or two, checking the time and wondering where the key-holder was. Surely it was time he was here! If there’d been a problem, Sergeant Blaketon would have rung back.

  I decided to have a look up the street, just to see if he was anywhere in sight. I went to the front door. It was locked. I shook it, I tugged it, I hauled on the handle, but it was as secure as a fortress.

  With my heart sinking fast into my boots, I realized what had happened. Mr Austin must have driven down from Oakdale and arrived at his premises while I was slumbering out of his sight; he’d simply locked his door and departed. I was now locked in.

  I walked around the shop, my heart thumping with worry, and I knew that I’d be in real trouble if Blaketon discovered my lapse. Sleeping on duty was almost a cardinal sin. I told myself to be calm as I wandered around, seeking a window which might open, or a key which might permit me to leave. But none of the windows was of the opening kind, save for a small one in the toilet, but that wouldn’t even admit a cat. And I could not find a key hanging anywhere.

  There was only one solution — I’d have to ring the station once more and hope that Sergeant Blaketon was out of the building. I’d ask whoever was on duty to ring Mr Austin again. I’d have to ask him to drive back into town to release me. I had to be out of the shop before six o’clock, otherwise I’d be late for booking off duty, and that would get me into severe trouble . . .

  Then it dawned on me that if the station duty constable could ring Mr Austin, why couldn’t I? Perhaps I could cover up my crass stupidity! I looked up his number in the directory which lay by the phone, checked my watch and realized he’d almost be back home. I knew he’d be horrified if he was roused again, so I wanted to catch him before he got back into bed. I was aware that he was liable to write a letter of complaint to the Superintendent, but it was a risk I could not avoid.

  I rang the number. The telephone rang for a long, long time but eventually a woman sleepily answered.

  ‘Oh,’ I said apologetically. ‘This is Strensford Police. It’s PC Rhea speaking. Is Mr Austin there?’

  ‘No, he’s gone to his shop. Your office rang about it.’

  ‘Ah, well, it’s urgent. We need to contact him.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but he left well over an hour ago, to lock up his premises, he said. It had been left open.’

  ‘Yes, well, he has locked it, but something urgent has arisen and I thought he might have returned home by now.’

  ‘No, constable, he said it was hardly worthwhile coming all this way back, so he said he was going fishing off the pier end. He said he’d stay there until it was time to open up at half-past eight. He often gets up early to go sea-fishing, constable; he loves every minute of it. That’s where you’ll find him, sitting on the end of the pier with his fishing rod.’

  ‘Oh, well, I need him urgently but can’t reach him . . .’

  ‘What’s wrong, officer?’ there was alarm in her voice.

  I took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to laugh at this, Mrs Austin, but I’m locked in your shop! I can’t get out,’ and I explained how this terrible thing had happened.

  She burst into laughter and I felt an utter fool. Finally, she said, ‘Look, there’s no need to worry. Look in Ray’s desk, right-hand drawer, in an old toffee box. There’s a spare set of keys with a bobbin attached. Use them, and pop them back through the letterbox when you’ve got out.’

  ‘Thank you!’ I breathed. ‘Thank you. You don’t know how relieved I am!’

  ‘Then come back into the shop one day and tell me. I work there too — there’ll be a cup of tea for you, and I know my husband would love to meet you . . .’ and she chuckled loudly as she replaced the telephone.

  I did find those keys, and I did let myself out, then I tried to resume my patrol as if nothing had happened. But I reckoned the story would surface one day — so I’m telling it now, without exaggeration. I made firm friends of Mr and Mrs Austin, but I often wonder if Sergeant Blaketon ever knew about my lapse.

  That morning, as I booked off duty, he asked, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘Is everything all right, Rhea?’

  ‘Yes, all correct, sergeant,’ I assured him.

  Chapter Two

  O well for the sailor lad

  That he sings on his boat in the bay.

  LORD ALFRED TENNYSON, 1809—92

  To walk the early morning beat in Strensford is an enchanting experience. Such is the appeal of the harbourside and the beach at the dawn of a summer’s day that holiday-makers and local residents alike stir themselves from their slumbers and journey to the sea, there to explore the coast and to witness the daily routine of the fishermen. These sturdy, hard-working men may begin their work at any hour of the day or night depending upon the timing of the tides. Sometimes they return to shore in the light of a new dawn, and sometimes they rise even before the sun to busy themselves about their boats or at the nearby fish market.

  There are times when the undulating waters of the harbour are hidden beneath a floating, constantly moving platform of fishing boats. Men clad in thigh-length waders and thick, dark blue jerseys known as gansers move from boat to boat with astonishing ease and confidence, while the boats themselves are moored both side by side and stern to prow. They form a solid, gently swaying platform which reaches midway across the water, and from many of them spirals of blue smoke rise from tiny chimneys as their motors idle with a strangely fluid sound. There is the scent too, the distinctive scent of the sea and of fish and fishing, a scent not unpleasant here on the quayside.

  In the summer, some of the boats belong to the local fishermen, but others do come to Strensford as visitors. Some hail from English ports, others come from Scotland, Holland and Scandinavia, but they all seek the shoals of herring which visit Dogger Bank and inhabit the North Sea.

  The visitors invariably live upon their boats, sleeping, eating and working within the spotless confines of their accommodation below deck. During their annual v
isit to Strensford, these ships are a combination of miniature floating homes, factories and fish markets. The men on board are dressed for combat both with the sea and with fish, for here you’ll find sou’westers, gansers, thigh-length sea-boots and one-piece pale blue denim tops with long sleeves and no buttons.

  And always, there is the ever-present scent of fish, the glistening fish scales, the huge boxes of cooling ice and buckets of fresh cleansing water. Cool wetness and fish seem to be inseparable, and in those days boxes of preserving ice were manufactured at local ice factories.

  To witness the careful work-a-day preparations by this multinational fleet is fascinating. Daily they brave the wrath of the grey North Sea in boats which seem too small and flimsy when viewed from the staithes but which are sturdy enough to cope with their tough, thankless task.

  It is this unique activity which so captivates the holiday-makers, and we policemen who then patrolled the town were privileged to see this routine during our normal duties. And in spite of seeing it time and time again, it never lost its appeal. Sea fishermen live in a self-contained world; it is a unique way of life which is an echo of the past. There was never any overt urgency in their behaviour, just a steady, methodical style born of generations of hard-working men whose chosen career faced nature at its most severe.

  Sometimes at night or in the very early dark hours of the morning, that same fleet would position itself far out at sea to undertake its work. From the shore, it could be seen as a distant town of gently moving lights, all arranged in straight lines like formal streets. I’ve known motorists high on the moors be puzzled by the appearance of the ‘mirage’ of a new town out in the blackness of the night-time sea, but those are the lights by which these men work to drag from the deep their full nets of struggling fish. And, when the night’s work is done, they will return to Strensford to unload and sell their catch, to prepare their boats and equipment for the following day and then to embark once again, depending not upon the passage of time but upon the sequence of high tides and a knowledge of the movements of the herring shoals, or the availability of whiting, cod and other fish.