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

  Eventually the tall, slow-moving figure who was the focal point of the exercise came forward a few more paces. His hesitancy seemed to be evaporating and his confidence was growing. He seemed to accept that he had a nerve-jangling mission to complete and began to stride purposefully across the quiet churchyard, heading for the concealed man behind the gate. The meeting was nigh. I could feel the tension, especially in Sergeant Bairstow. He hardly dared to breathe.

  When the man reached a point directly in front of Sergeant Bairstow and myself, Bairstow whispered, “This is it, Nicholas!”

  I watched intently, holding my breath. The excitement was electric.

  Suddenly there was a ghastly shriek and I saw the earth move. A dim light appeared from the base of a tombstone directly across the path from our position, and I saw a horrible white face rise from the grave. A blood-red light accentuated the eye sockets and nostrils. It was an awful sight.

  With a sharp cry the tall figure turned and ran. I saw him galloping the way he had come, and at that point Charlie Bairstow burst into fits of laughter. The tall, running figure vanished through the gate and could be heard crashing his way through the undergrowth towards the town.

  Holding his sides with laughter giving pain and pleasure together Charlie Bairstow left his hiding place and walked across to the scene of the apparition, laughing uproariously. I went with him, shaken but interested in what had happened.

  My heart was pounding after the sudden shock but there, before us, were Ben and Ron, chuckling to themselves. Ben’s face was smothered in white flour and the two traffic men doubled up with laughter as they saw us.|

  It had been a well-planned joke against poor Lanky Leonard.

  I examined the scene. Covering one of the old graves at the side of the path was a large square piece of theatrical grass, a green mat-like material. It was the kind of stuff used in showrooms or upon the stage to simulate a grassy area and in the darkness looked most realistic. Ron had concealed himself behind the tombstone while Ben had lain full length upon the grave of some long-dead character. The grass-green coverlet had hidden him; with his face powdered a deathly white he had lain there with his hands crossed upon his breast, clutching the torch. At a shriek signal from Ron he had switched on the light. With the lens covered with a piece of red glass the light had shone from beneath the coverlet to spotlight his horrible face, shining from directly beneath his chin. Thus illuminated Ben had slowly raised himself into a sitting position with the green coverlet pinned to his tunic under the chin.

  From a distance it had looked for all the world like a corpse rising from its tomb and not the ideal sight for a highly nervous person like Leonard.

  Sergeant Bairstow and I had a good laugh, while Ben and Ron thought the whole episode hilarious. Charlie Bairstow had done it again — he had deliberately allocated this beat to poor Lanky Leonard, knowing his fear of ghosts and his even greater fear of the Superintendent. No one will ever know the conflict in Leonard’s mind as he struggled with his decisions that night. From his point of view it must have been horrifying and I must admit to a certain sympathy with him as he galloped to safety. It transpired he had gone straight home to report his going off duty, sick — suffering from diarrhoea.

  After the episode Ben and Ron returned to the office, taking us with them in their police car. Over a cup of congratulatory coffee we relived the prank which, I knew, would enter the annals of remarkable police legends.

  As we laughed and talked I remembered the other person who’d been at the woodland gate. Who was that? He wasn’t here, celebrating with us.

  “Who was that other chap?” I asked amid the laughter and gaiety.

  “Other chap?” cried Charlie Bairstow. “What other chap?”

  “At the top gate, the one leading into the Forestry Commission land. He was standing there just before Ben did his stuff. I saw him.”

  “Are you sure?” Charlie asked. “What was he like? Who was it?”

  “I dunno,” I had to admit. “It was somebody in dark clothing, hiding just outside the gate. I thought it was one of our lot.”

  “Bloody hell!” he groaned. “I wonder who it was?”

  We racked our brains before resuming patrol, and I realised I still had not been to the mysterious Forestry Commission hut. There was always another time for that pleasure.

  The next night, however, I knew the identity of the mystery observer.

  The Superintendent had reported sick, ostensibly suffering from a stomach complaint.

  Chapter 4

  The learn’d is happy nature to explore. The fool is happy that he knows no more.

  ALEXANDER POPE — ‘An Essay on Man’

  *

  The country policeman spends a lot of time walking close to nature and, in the still of the sleeping-hours, there is much to see and hear. Wild animals and birds appear to accept the presence of man at night in a way they would never tolerate during the daytime. Perhaps this is not an accurate assessment, but it certainly appeared to be true during my sojourns into the countryside of darkness. In some ways I was conscious of being an invader in their territory and yet their objections were never more than a mere whimper or a muffled cry of alarm. It is tolerance of this kind which makes one feel very humble and very sorrowful for the way man has treated nature in the past, and the way he will treat her in the future.

  Although a good deal of my night-duty was spent in and around small market towns I did spend many hours among the pine forests, moorland heights and green valleys, either performing a routine patrol or engaged upon a specific inquiry or observation of some kind. I enjoyed these very much.

  I spent one night, for example, in a draughty barn, keeping observations regarding a potato thief. The farmer, an interesting character called Bainbridge, cultivated a remote place on the outskirts of Briggsby and stored his season’s potatoes in a large, open barn. The spuds accumulated there to await collection by a local merchant, but over a period it was clear that someone was sneaking in and stealing them by the sacksful. One sack every week disappearing but unfortunately there was no pattern to the thefts. It was difficult organising observations while engaged on so many other duties away from my beat, although I did deign to spend the occasional overnight stint in his barn. I hoped the potato pincher would enable me to arrest him red-handed.

  One chilly night in late autumn, therefore, I informed Mr Bainbridge that I would inhabit his barn from midnight until three o’clock in the morning for the purpose of spud-watching. Thoughtfully, he provided me with a massive sandwich of bread and cheese, an apple-pie cooked by his wife and a quarter bottle of whisky, while I armed myself with my packed supper, a flask of coffee and a torch. It promised to be a long, boring vigil although food would not be in short supply.

  Inside the barn I settled among the neatly arranged sacks and found a position out of the draughts, one which provided adequate views of the various entrances. For a time my potato-filled seat was quite cosy, but the chill night air soon began to eat into my bones. I took several short walks to maintain the circulation of my blood, but it was a long, cold duty and I was never cosy.

  During my time in the barn I became aware of the intense animal activity in and around the place. Sitting immobile in the darkness, I could hear furtive scuffling and scratchings of all kinds, the sound of tiny creatures running about the dusty floor or investigating the sacks for morsels of food. High-pitched squeaks came from distant corners and I guessed they were mice or shrews.

  Now and again, I flashed my torch in the direction of those sounds, but seldom spotlighted anything. They were too quick for me.

  I discovered a large brown rat which scuttled away as my light struck its eyes, and once or twice I lit upon the scampering figures of mice, busy about their night-time chores. Cats were frequent visitors too, and if anything, they were more alert than the creatures of the wild, scattering into the farmyard outside at the slightest hint of danger. A fox came too; I heard his approach because some nerv
ous poultry in a nearby henhouse clucked their alarm as he sniffled and snuffled around their home. He knocked a bucket so that its handle rattled, but that didn’t seem to scare him off as he continued to investigate the flap of the henhouse. I listened and guessed it was Reynard, my supposition being proved correct when he entered the barn.

  I noticed his slouching gait as he cautiously entered the open barn, a dark, agile figure against a patch of light in the doorway. Then I flicked on my torch. I caught him squarely and bathed him in the light which highlighted his russet coat, his bushy tail with its white tip and those sharp, greenish eyes which glowed quickly against the beam. In a trice he was gone. He vanished as suddenly as he had come, and I never saw him again.

  On one occasion a barn owl flew right across my line of vision, its soft white underparts almost ghostlike as it moved silently in one door and out at the other side, doubtless hunting mice and other small creatures. Bats fluttered around too, albeit not many. These were pipistrelles, our smallest resident bat and they would be hunting late-night flying insects and finding their way around the pillars and contents of the barn by their remarkable system of radar. At times the place was filled with their squeaking cries.

  In spite of the chilliness and the hours of inactivity it was a fascinating session of duty because nature came so close to me. The problem was that the thief didn’t! I spent several nights in that barn but never saw him. Happily, he never came again. Maybe he was a local character who knew of my interest. I’ll never know, but it does seem that my vigilance was rewarded because there were no further thefts from that barn, or indeed from the village.

  My night-time country walks were equally enchanting. I have observed deer, foxes, otters, rats, mice, insects and a multitude of birds. I have found baby hares squeaking for their mums at my arrival, mother jackdaws nesting in ruined buildings, rabbits with their legs caught in snares and river birds with cruel fishing hooks stuck into their flesh, throats or feet; I’ve found nests of baby birds and lairs of baby animals and I’ve discovered dead animals of every kind, many having perished pointlessly at the hand of man. There is little doubt that man is nature’s greatest enemy.

  Of all the wild animals that I have witnessed at night, Belinda the badger is the most memorable. I called her Belinda because I felt she needed a name.

  We first met on a lonely and minor road between Elsinby and Ploatby. I had parked the police car in a small complex of buildings at the side of the lane in order to enjoy a half-hour stroll. Such strolls were necessary because the eyes and ears of a policeman on foot are infinitely better than the headlights of a car when seeking villains or preventing crime.

  That lovely lane is bordered on one side by young Scots pines and on the other by low-lying fields. It is a long, winding road, but I could walk into the heart of Ploatby and return to the car in time to make my one o’clock point at Elsinby kiosk.

  My boots had soft crêpe soles and I walked easily and quickly along the smooth surface of the road, enjoying the exercise and fresh night air, so full of the scents of the nearby pine forest. To my left was one of the open fields and as I approached its gateway I was aware of a creature scurrying through the corn stubble. Its progress was very noisy among the short, stiff stalks and I froze, my torch at the ready, waiting. I was about twenty yards short of the gate.

  It was fascinating, watching the outline of the rapidly moving animal as it neared the gate. When it was very close I could distinguish the unmistakable white face of the badger, so recognisable due to the black bars which run the length of the long snout. Not many humans have been privileged to see this lovely animal in its natural surroundings, let alone observe it at such close quarters, and I was enchanted.

  The running badger squeezed beneath the lower bar of the gate and started to cross the road directly ahead of me. Its next move was to clamber up the steep grassy verge at the far side of the road, and I could hear its sharp claws grating against the rocky surface beneath. I now decided to flash my torch because I wanted to see the badger more clearly and, as I switched on the powerful beam, it caught the fleeing animal like a spotlight.

  Its broad, powerful back was a lovely silver grey colour, the effect being produced by a mixture of grey and almost black hair. As it momentarily turned its head towards me I saw two tiny eyes set in that long face, then its short legs carried it rapidly up the hillside towards the sheltering forest. Long body hair almost concealed its legs, making it appear to be running on castors. It moved with astonishing speed.

  Still bathed in the light of my torch the badger had difficulty in clambering up the steepening slope, for it was a portly animal, but my presence and my annoying light spurred it to greater efforts. It reached the top and was then confronted by a tall wire fence, topped with two strands of barbed wire. I hadn’t realised the fence was there.

  The badger leapt at the barrier. I switched off my torch, not wishing to alarm it any further. I had no wish to panic the animal into doing something stupid, and I hoped it would not get its head fast between the top strands. It didn’t.

  Instead, it managed to get itself marooned across those wires. I did wonder if the barbs had got entangled with its thick belly fur, for the badger was well and truly stuck halfway across the fence. It was balancing on the centre of its stomach, with its head at one side and its tail at the other. Those tiny short legs were battling to secure a foot hold upon the wire below, but they failed. They were far too short.

  The result was that the badger was rocking to and fro on top of the fence, grunting and panting with frustration as it attempted to release itself from this embarrassing plight. Its long, fat body straddled the fence like a sack of flour, and I laughed involuntarily. It was almost like a Chaplin comedy.

  I couldn’t leave it like that. I climbed the embankment and talked soothingly, as if that would make any difference! Soon I reached a position directly behind and knowing the badger’s reputation as a hard biter, I kept well clear of the snapping teeth. With both hands I lifted the rump end and toppled it over to the far side, where it gathered itself, shook its entire body, and waddled high into the trees with never a backward glance or a hint of appreciation.

  But that was not the end of our association.

  The badger is a fascinating animal and I was delighted to learn that I had a colony of them on my beat. Almost every country dweller finds them interesting, so over the following months I made a point of travelling along that lane many times in the hope of seeing more of my local badger. Badgers are creatures of habit and I guessed that the route it had taken through the cornfield and under the gate to cross the highway had been used for many years by the local badger community.

  It is this hard-headed determination to use the same route without deviation that has caused so many badger deaths. If a motorway or main road is built across a badger route, the badgers will continue to use it in spite of heavy traffic. Invariably, this has disastrous results to the badger population, for they are slaughtered by fast-moving vehicles. Some thoughtful highway authorities have built badger tunnels under their roads to preserve this curious animal from further mutilation and death. This is a good example of officialdom catering for the needs of the wildlife of England.

  My patience was rewarded and I did see my badger from time to time. I did not make the mistake of shining my torch but allowed it to waddle across the road at its own pace. It always managed to clamber over the fence, achieving this without difficulty when it wasn’t harassed into panic movements. I realised that the bulk of the creature was due to her pregnancy. I now knew she was a female, and she grew larger as the weeks rolled by.

  My interest in the location of her home grew more intense and I began to enjoy the physical exercise of entering the wood to search for her sett, or ‘cett’ as it is sometimes spelt. It wasn’t very difficult to find because of the well-trodden path to the badger’s regular route across the road. I climbed high into the trees and there, near the summit of a small hillock among the s
cented pines, I located the badger’s home.

  By any standards a badger’s home is a remarkable piece of construction work, for this animal is perhaps the cleanest and most homely of the wild animals of England. This sett was typical, for it bore the tell-tale signs of occupancy by Brock. That is the name we give to the badger in North Yorkshire, a name which features in many place names and farm addresses like, Brock Rigg, Brocklesby and so forth.

  The entrance nearest to me was about a yard wide and eighteen inches deep, snugly situated beneath the roots of a straggling Scots pine. The area before the hole had been paddled down into a firm, earthen base by the regular comings and goings of the family in residence. Another sign comprised many claw marks on the trunks of nearby trees, the result of badgers sharpening their claws or cleaning them. Some twenty yards away were the dung-pits. The badger does not make a mess in its living quarters, but uses an outside toilet which it positions a short distance from its front door. Its cleanliness is further shown by its arrangement for other domestic waste. Down a slope was an area used to dump the waste from the interior of the home, like used bedding (a heap of grass and leaves) which had been carried out and thrown a discreet distance from the entrance. In winter the female might carry the bedding out to air and then return it for further use.

  I knew the inside would consist of a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, but I could not guess how large this particular sett would be. Perhaps there were other entrances and exits, but I did not have the time to search. I was happy that I had found her sett and made my way down the hillside to my waiting car.

  From time to time I returned to her crossing-place but seldom saw her. I decided then to christen her ‘Belinda’ for reasons which now escape me, and then I saw her again. She was crossing the road in that familiar ambling gait and managed to scramble over the awkward fence. This time she appeared even heavier with cubs, and I knew that a sow could carry anything up to five young. Maybe Belinda would produce a large family.