Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Read online

  Inside stood a huge mangle with ancient wooden rollers, worn hollow in the centre by years of wringing out the washing of generations. Smiling quietly at the waiting man Vesuvius inserted the slender tube of the mouth end of the trumpet between the rollers and began to turn the handle.

  I am assured that cries of deep anguish echoed from the horrified scrap merchant as his precious trumpet was drawn into the mangle. He was kept at arm’s length by Vesuvius, who used his powerful free arm to turn the handle. Eventually, the trumpet appeared from the other side, flattened like a pancake. Vesuvius took it in his hands, seized the dirty collar again and propelled the hapless character outside. Not a word was spoken by Vesuvius as he led the Scrappy to his horse, tossed the trumpet among the other scrap on the cart, and closed his door on that episode.

  The slumbering Vesuvius was never again aroused by trumpet blasts.

  My respect for Vesuvius grew as I saw more of him. Due to our shift system we frequently worked nights together and those mid-shift meal breaks were regularly provided with entertainment by those terrible traffic twins, Ben and Ron. Their pranks upon Vesuvius seemed endless, although it must be said they were all harmless. Vesuvius, on his part, took them stoically and never grumbled or lost his temper. His nickname seemed all the more apt because the violent eruptions of Mount Vesuvius were not very frequent, although it did grumble and threaten from time to time. They were very similar, he and his volcano.

  It was nice to get him talking. On those occasions when the traffic lads did not arrive, Vesuvius and I would chat quite amiably. He would tell me of his early service in the Force, when discipline was strict and money was poor, but he was proud to remember the days when the public respect for the bobby was at its height, and when they appreciated the work done on their behalf. A few smartly clipped ears were infinitely better than either court appearances, the advice of social workers or the utterances of bureaucrats who had no idea of how to deal with people, but who were wizards with statistics. Modern law-makers were thinkers, not doers, Vesuvius would say, but he continued to act in his own way, apparently totally content with life.

  He told me the modern version of the Good Samaritan parable one night, relating how a social worker had found a poor man in the ditch. The man had been violently attacked and robbed by a gang of thugs. As the injured man lay bleeding in the street the social worker said, ‘What an awful thing to happen. Tell me who did this to you, so that I might find him and minister to him’.

  As we grew to understand each other. I realised that Vesuvius was highly intelligent. He was far from the slow and dim-witted person he pretended to be, and several little clues led me to this belief. The regular egg-smashing joke was one example of this. From snippets told me when we were alone he knew that Ben and Ron swapped the eggs, although he never allowed them to realise he knew of their pranks.

  Whenever he was caught by their tomfoolery, he continued to blame his wife for forgetting to hard-boil the eggs, but he craftily told everyone else of his knowledge. The result was that only the terrible twins were fooled by this and although it meant an egg-spattered tunic from time to time, the real fools of the incidents were Ben and Ron. Everyone else was secretly laughing at them and their ignorance. It was this attitude that gave me an insight into the complex character of the stolid, unflappable PC Ventress.

  He once told me he was waiting for the right moment to return their jokes; he would wait for months if necessary. When that opportunity did arise, it was marvellous and I was delighted to be present at their comeuppance.

  I was in the office at Eltering Police Station, enjoying one of those midnight breakfasts around two o’clock in the morning. It was a summer’s night, albeit cool and fresh and the moon shone brightly. Inside, Vesuvius was in his favourite chair, eating his usual pair of hard-boiled eggs with his napkin across his knees. Conversation was non-existent, for he ate in silence, and then the terrible twins entered. There was enough slamming of doors and noise for an army of men as they breezed into the office.

  “Grand night, Vesuvius,” smiled Ron, unbuttoning his tunic as he settled in the chair opposite.

  “Aye,” agreed Vesuvius, munching his cheese sandwich.

  Ben, meanwhile, had gone straight into the toilet. We heard the distinct crash of its door as he rushed inside, followed by the equally distinctive five minutes’ silence. Eventually, we heard the flush of the chain and the reopening of the door, followed by a somewhat anxious reappearance of Ben.

  “The keys!” he cried as he entered the office. “The bloody car keys!”

  “Keys?” puzzled Ron.

  “Yeh, I stuck them in my trousers pocket, like I always do. They must have lodged on the top, on my truncheon strap,” and he indicated the right-hand trousers pocket. The top of his truncheon was showing and its leather strap hung down the outside of his leg. Truncheons have a specifically made long pocket which runs down the inside of the right leg, to the knee, the entrance to which is adjacent to the usual pocket. It was not uncommon for objects to find their way into the wrong pocket, nor was it unusual for objects to get caught on the truncheon when it was in position.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “Well, there I was, sitting on the bog. I got up, my trousers still around my ankles and reached up to pull the chain. And as I stretched up, the car-keys fell into the bowl — right down. They fell in at the precise moment I pulled the chain! I was too late to stop pulling — I saw the bloody things fall in but couldn’t stop the flushing.”

  “They’ve gone?” gasped Ron.

  “Gone,” repeated Ben. “I couldn’t help it, honest. What can we do?”

  “Search me!”

  “The inspector will play holy hell! He’ll probably book us for loss or damage to county property, carelessness, dereliction of duty or some other trumped-up charge!”

  “Don’t you carry spares?” I asked.

  “We should,” Ron admitted, “but it’s the second time that idiot has lost ours. He lost the other set down a drain when he got out to deal with a road accident. Tonight’s keys were the spare set.”

  “Are you sure they’ve gone right down?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

  “Sure,” said Ben, sitting in a chair and removing his bait tin from his bag. “They’ve gone. I’ve checked.”

  Ron and I went to examine the toilet basin and it was totally empty. There was no sign of the missing keys. We searched the floor and the route back to the office, then out to the car and finally we made Ben turn out his pockets. Nothing. No car keys.

  “They went down, I saw them,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “I saw them fall in just as I flushed.”

  “I can get them back,” said Vesuvius quietly, having concluded his meal. He wiped his mouth and replaced the folded serviette in its tin.

  “You can?” they chorused, sitting bolt upright with relief evident on their faces.

  “Dead easy,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Come on, Alf,” cried Ron. “Give! Put us out of our misery!”

  “You know that manhole cover in the middle of the street outside, just in front of the door to the station?”

  Ben nodded. It always rattled when a car drove across it, and was a good warning that someone was approaching, like the Superintendent.

  “Well,” said Vesuvius slowly, “the channels from our station toilets go through there. I’ve been down before, clearing channels, years ago. That manhole is about eight feet deep, and several channels pass through the bottom of it. All you have to do is climb down inside — there’s steps built into the wall — and I could flush the chain until the keys are washed through. You’d get ’em back down there. Dead simple.”

  Ben’s eyes brightened.

  “You sure, Vesuvius?” he looked at me and then at Ron.

  “I’ve done it before,” said Vesuvius, standing up.

  “Right,” said Ben. “Let’s try it. You show us.”

  We tr
ooped outside and I carried the torch. Vesuvius took the poker from the fireplace and the four of us stood around the large, metal cover. Vesuvius prised up one end with the poker and we lifted it clear, placing it on the centre of the road. Somewhere, a clock struck 2.15. The town was at peace.

  “Torch,” someone called and I shone the light deep inside. It was a square-shaped well, clinically clean and lined with white-tiled bricks. A metal ladder was built into one wall and the bottom would be a good eight feet or even more below us. We could see the five channels entering the base from different angles, merging into one large exit channel. It was large enough for at least one man to climb inside; at a squeeze, two could make it.

  “The one on the left, nearest the exit route,” Vesuvius indicated to Ron. “That’s ours. If we flush our chain, the muck comes flooding down there and it’s carried along that other single channel, out of sight. If Ben gets down there, he can catch it as it comes past and get your keys. The tag will help them swim along to this point.”

  Ben did not like the idea at all. His face told us that. For him, the entire scheme was distasteful.

  “Ron, it’s got to be done,” said Ben. “You lost the bloody things down the hole.”

  “Have we any Wellingtons?” he asked. “I could stop the flow with my foot, eh? Stick my foot in that groove to halt things as they come through?”

  “No Wellingtons here, Ben,” said Vesuvius. “You could use your bare feet, eh? I’ve seen council workmen do that. Take your shoes and socks off, roll your trousers up to the knees and stick your foot in that groove. Your toes will catch the keys, eh? And you’ll let the other rubbish float past.”

  Ben looked down at his shoes. They were black leather, nicely polished, and he did not intend wasting them. Besides, feet could be washed.

  “All right,” he sighed. “There’s no choice. I’ll do it.” Standing at the edge of the hole Ben removed his socks and shoes, rolled up his trousers to the knees and prepared to climb down the cold, damp metal stairs. They would take him to the brown earthenware floor of the manhole with its array of tiny tunnels.

  “When I get down,” he said, “I’ll shout when I’m ready. I’ll stick my foot in that channel — are you sure it’s the right one, Vesuvius?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I’m sure. The one on the left, like I said. Stick your foot in it, toes pointing towards our building. When you’re ready, give us a shout and I’ll pull. I’ll keep pulling the chain until your keys are washed through. It’ll take a few flushes, I reckon, it’s a bit of a distance.”

  Ron stood at the top of the hole, looking down upon his pal as he clambered nervously down the ladder. The rusty rungs hurt his feet, but soon he was on the cool, smooth floor.

  “This one?” he stuck a toe into the narrow groove, as if testing the sea for the temperature of the water. Vesuvius said, “Aye,” and Ben therefore planted his bare foot firmly into the channel, effectively blocking it. His toes faced the police station, as suggested.

  “Right, I’m off,” said Vesuvius and he went into the police station, asking me to liaise with him. I had to dart backwards and forwards, making sure both parties were ready before the first pull of the chain. The distance between the toilet basin and the foot of that manhole would be some thirty yards or so, and I wondered how much effluent would have to be dislodged before the bit carrying the keys arrived at Ben’s big toe.

  I called to Ben. “Ready?”

  “I’m ready,” he replied, his face white as he peered up at me.

  I rushed inside to Vesuvius.

  “He’s ready when you are,” I announced.

  “Get yourself back to that hole,” he laughed. “I’ll give you ten seconds. You’ll enjoy this!”

  Puzzled by his final remark I hurried to the vantage point on the rim and looked down.

  “Count ten,” I said to Ben, for want of something more appropriate.

  Surprisingly, Ben did.

  I heard him counting — one, two, three, four, five… all the time staring at his white foot bathed in the light of my torch.

  “Nine, ten,” he concluded.

  Then I heard the sound of a heaving chain and the gurgle of an emptying cistern. Somewhere in Ben’s deep chamber I heard the whooshing of an oncoming flow of water, and I heard Vesuvius shout. “First lot coming.”

  “First lot coming,” I repeated for Ben’s benefit.

  Then I realised Vesuvius’ ruse.

  The pipe from the police station toilets did not emerge at the base of the manhole — it emerged near the top! It was about six feet above the base, dropping its discharges from a great height. It was the oncoming rush of water that warned me — the sound came from a series of pipes which entered the chamber at varying heights. I could see them now, a series of dark holes. And Ben was standing on the floor.

  Too late he realised what was about to happen.

  With a sighing, almost obscene noise the mess spluttered and rushed from the darkness just above Ben’s head and, in seconds, he was smothered from head to toe. I heard him cough and gasp as Ron burst into fits of laughter at the sight of his poor companion, whose uniform, face and hair were plastered with the foulest mess imaginable. He tried to climb out, but another whooshing noise was sounding. The toilet cistern couldn’t have filled already, so Vesuvius must have flushed another one. Another ghastly brew was on its way.

  Ben did manage to climb out, but only after three of Vesuvius’ pulls had discharged their evil contents over him. I didn’t know what to do. I laughed alongside Ron, and noticed Vesuvius framed in the light of the police station door.

  “Have they come through?” he called.

  There was no reply from the sorry man. It was at that moment that the telephone rang, so Vesuvius dashed inside to answer it and I followed. We left Ron to replace the manhole cover after helping his smelly friend out.

  “Right, I’ll tell them,” he said, replacing the telephone as I entered.

  “Malton Office,” he announced to Ron. “That was Sergeant Colbeck. There’s a domestic disturbance in town. You’re needed there urgently, both of you.”

  “Now?” Ben cried.

  “Straight away,” Vesuvius smiled. “No. 10 Welsh Terrace.”

  “We’ve no keys!”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Vesuvius grinned stupidly. “There’s always a spare set kept here, one set for every car in the Sub-Division and for all official cars which regularly call. Sergeant Blaketon’s idea, being a belt-and-braces man. I’ll get ’em,” and he pottered into the sergeant’s office, unlocked a drawer and lifted out a set of keys. They bore the registration number of their patrol car. “Sorry I forgot about those,” he said. “It’s not every station that has them — I’ve a bloody awful memory, you know.”

  “I’ll clean up in the car,” Ben said, the ordure dripping from him.

  “You bloody well won’t!” Ron snarled. “You’re not getting into the car like that! You smell worse than a pigsty — what a bloody awful mess!”

  “Worse than egg yolks, eh?” smiled Vesuvius. “That call was urgent, lads.”

  And so they had to leave. Ben hobbled to the car in bare feet and sat upon one of the rubber mats which he lifted from the floor and placed on the seat. The stench from his appalling bath was overpowering and they drove away with all windows open and Ben dripping ghastly fluids to the car floor.

  Vesuvius smiled.

  “They’re nice lads, really,” he said quietly, and then the telephone rang again.

  “Eltering Police, PC Ventress,” he answered. He listened for a moment and replied, “No, Sergeant. All’s quiet here. Nothing doing.”

  He replaced the handset and turned towards me. “Fancy a coffee, son?” he asked.

  Chapter 3

  From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties, And things that go bump in the night.

  Good Lord, deliver us.

  ANONYMOUS

  *

  Two fears must be conquered by the constable on nig
ht-duty. The first is the fear of the dark and the second is a fear of ghosts. There are constables who are subjected to one or both of these terrors, and for them a night patrol is a continuing test of courage and devotion to duty. Happily, I have never been afraid of either and was never worried about patrolling during the hours of darkness. In fact, it was very enjoyable, even in the town, but the countryside around Aidensfield offered far more than the streets of Strensford.

  The wide open spaces of the North Yorkshire moors offered little in the way of crime, but they did produce sounds which could terrify the townsman. There might be the cry of the vixen, the scream of the barn owl, the cough of a sheep or cow and the weird sobbing sounds of wild geese flying overhead. We called the latter ‘Gabriel Ratchets’ or ‘Hell’s Hounds’ for the older generation believed they were angels seeking the lost souls of unbaptised babies, or that they were the angels of death hovering over houses in which a death would soon occur.

  Policemen, as a rule, care not for ancient legends or the vagaries of nature, and our patrols were chiefly a crime prevention exercise. The presence of our vehicle made the public aware that we were out and about during the witching hours, and this was comforting to those who considered themselves at risk. For the lonely and the frightened there is something reassuring about the presence of a mobile police officer at night. In some respects he assumes the role of the guardian angel we were taught about in childhood. He is there if he is needed.

  With the passage of time every spell of uneventful night-duty conformed to a pattern. For my part, I would book on duty at Ashfordly, spend some time reading the latest horror stories featuring domestic rows, thefts, burglaries, shop-breaking or stolen cars, and having digested that unsavoury menu, I would sally forth into the market town. There I would diligently shake hands with lots of doorknobs. I would make my uniform seen by everyone who was out and about and thus create among the public the cosy feeling that the police were present and acting in their interest. We care about the communal safety of society and must make that care evident to those in our charge.