“What else has gone?” I asked, gazing in bewilderment at the conglomeration of equipment.
“Nowt,” said Jack. “I told you that.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“As sure as I’m standing here.” He folded his arms across his chest as if daring me to find his missing property somewhere on the farm.
“You’ve searched all these buildings for it, have you?” was my next question. So often, things reported stolen turned up on the owner’s premises, having been mislaid and forgotten, or moved by someone. This could be especially true in this case — there was so much stuff lying around the place. Really, I should have undertaken my own careful search, but I did not want to antagonise this fellow by suggesting he was incapable of doing that. Clearly, he had searched everywhere.
“By gum, Mr Rhea, you’re asking a lot of unnecessary questions. I thought you’d have been getting round all them other farms and gardens hereabouts and looking for it there, not here. But yes, I have looked everywhere. It’s nowhere on this farm and it’s not in our garden, I can tell you that.”
“There are certain procedures I must follow,” I said. “And one of them is making sure the stolen property has in fact been stolen and is not elsewhere on the premises. One person can move an object without another knowing about it, you see, with the result it’s thought to have been stolen. It happens a lot.”
“Well, I can tell you that neither my wife nor my daughter nor that feller of hers or the wife’s mother would have shifted that hedge trimmer, not without telling me. If I say it’s been stolen, Mr Rhea, then that’s exactly what’s happened to it. And it’s your job to find it, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’ll need a description of it,” I said.
“I can do better than that, I have a picture of it, a catalogue photograph in colour,” and he turned away and hurried towards the farmhouse with me galloping at his heels. He took me into the kitchen, pointed to the table and said, “Sit down there while I go into my office.”
Then he went to the kitchen door and shouted, “Elsie! The constable’s here and if I know him, he’ll not say no to a cup of tea and a slice or two of cake.”
Over the meal, which was more like a second breakfast than a snack, I completed the necessary statement forms and description of the missing hedge trimmer — a two-stroke fuelled chain-saw type of machine which could be held by hand and used by one person. It was for domestic use rather than cutting the tall, thick hawthorn edges which enclosed his fields. It was a Crowne make with green engine casing bearing white lettering, a twenty-four inch blade with cutting edges on a moving chain and it was about four years old, being worth around twenty pounds according to Jack.
I explained the procedures to him, advising him to notify his insurance company while I circulated the missing trimmer through our various channels. I’d also keep my eyes open and ask questions as I patrolled my patch, just in case the thief had sold it to someone else, and Jack said he would do likewise. I quizzed him about unexpected strangers who might have called on his farm, but he said there’d been no one whom he did not know, and none of the people he did know could be considered a suspect. Either he, or other members of his family were around the farm all day and every day, including his mother-in-law who lived there permanently. I got him to sign a statement to the effect that he had not given anyone permission to remove it. He thought the guilty person might be some itinerant thief passing in the night, someone who’d perhaps seen the trimmer and had stolen it during an opportunist moment while looking for somewhere to shelter from the weather. The trimmer was portable, of course, that was its very purpose; it was for use by hand and no vehicle would be needed to transport it from the farm, and its very portability meant it could be miles away.
“What am I going to do about getting my hedge cut, then?” he asked as he accompanied me back to my van.
“Ring your insurance man,” I suggested. “Your policy might allow you to hire one or pay someone to come in and do it. You do hire workers don’t you?”
“I do; I hire them by the day, Mr Rhea, generally for farm work like ditching, harvesting, hoeing turnips, that sort of thing. And I pay ’em in cash, on the day.”
“Could any of them have taken the trimmer?”
“I hope you’re not suggesting I pay good money to untrustworthy blokes,” he said. “The chaps I bring onto my land are all reliable types — I do let ’em borrow my stuff if they want and they allus fetch it back, and besides, some of ’em even leave their own stuff behind. Like that smart spade in that shed of mine, where the trimmer went from. The lad I had in to turn my garden over ready for winter left it, he said he’d be back.”
“Who was that?” I asked.
“I don’t know his real name, everybody calls him Sandy because of the colour of his hair. You’ll have seen him around, he has a motorbike with a trailer behind it for his tools; he hires himself out for gardening jobs. He hasn’t been doing it long; I think he got laid off somewhere so he set up on his own. He’s very busy, he seems to be rushing about these days, trying to cope with the demand.”
“Where does he live?” I asked. I couldn’t recall seeing this lad and wondered about the legality of towing a trailer with a motorbike. So far as I was aware, it was not permissible to tow a trailer with a two-wheeled motorbike.
“Nay, I’ve no idea. He just turned up one day looking for jobs so I gave him a couple of hours work and he made a good job of it, so I said he could come again. He comes every week now. Very reliable lad. Good worker.”
“I’ll look out for him,” I said. “He might have seen somebody snooping about the area. Right, I must go — and don’t forget to contact your insurance people.”
“And that’ll mean driving into Ashfordly. I could do without that, seeing how busy I am.”
I left Jack to his problem and drove to Ashfordly Police Station where I entered details of the theft in the necessary registers and typed the formal crime report. As I worked, Alf Ventress came into the office and as we discussed the theft, he said, “I wonder if it’s got anything to do with that wheelbarrow theft at Pattington?”
“Wheelbarrow?” I asked.
“It’s off your patch so you might not have heard about it, but someone went into the local market garden and disappeared with a wheelbarrow. A good one, fairly new. It was about a month ago, Nick. It was never traced.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not to my knowledge. The crime was never cleared up.”
“I’d better check the details,” I said. “Have we anything on file?”
“Only the weekly crime circular,” he said. “It’s not in Ashfordly Section so we won’t have much information here, as you know. You could always have a ride out there, have words with the loser and local constable.”
It seemed a good idea, but it meant obtaining the necessary permission from Sergeant Blaketon. If I was to conduct these enquiries off my own beat and in another sergeant’s section, there was local politics to consider. Blaketon understood the reason and gave his approval, so I rang PC Derek Warner, the local constable, and explained things to him. He invited me to visit him immediately and so I drove across the hills to Pattington, a journey of around fifteen minutes. This is a pretty place away from the moors and it boasts handsome brick houses, a pond, a fine church, garage and popular market garden.
Derek had suggested I meet him at the market garden where I could get details of the wheelbarrow mystery at first hand in an attempt to compare it with the trimmer theft. I arrived to find a well-tended plot surrounded by a high wire fence with two stout gates. The owner was a woman called Liz Bolam, a slender blonde in her mid-forties who had taken over the garden when her husband died. In her green overalls, she greeted us with a cheerful smile and led us into the premises where Derek explained my wish to discuss the missing barrow.
“It wasn’t a new one by any means, but it wasn’t the value that mattered.” She was almost apologetic at this intense polic
e interest in her barrow. “It was the nuisance of having to cope without it until I could get into York or Ashfordly to get another.”
“I see you’re well protected with a high fence,” I observed. “So how did the thief get in?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “That puzzled me and Derek . . .”
“The gates are locked each night, Nick, and yet I’m fairly sure the barrow disappeared overnight. I think chummy must have got over the fence somehow — it’s not impossible to scramble over it and it’s not impossible to lift something over either — like a domestic barrow.”
“So where was it taken from?” I asked.
“Well, I can’t be absolutely sure,” she said. “I keep it among my other gardening equipment, rakes, spades and so on, in a shed at the far end. Come on, I’ll show you.”
She led us to a long shelter with a corrugated iron roof; it was open on three sides and, rather like Farmer Jack’s sheds, was built against a high brick wall. The roof was supported along its length by pillars of brick and it was here that Liz Bolam kept her gardening tools and equipment. In one part of this long building I noticed an assortment of barrows, some with four wheels and handles at each end, others of the more conventional type and one specially made for carrying lengths of timber. She had arranged her equipment sensibly, with all the barrows in one place, all her spades and forks in another, the rakes and hoes in another, pruning shears and cuttings tools in another, trowels and hand forks on wall hooks in one place, plant pots arranged in sizes and shapes, and so on. All very orderly and neat.
“It went from here.” Liz pointed to the remaining barrows. “I don’t lock my stuff in because the surrounding outer fence is most adequate, and this is the first time anything’s been stolen. Mind you, somebody’s left me something — that watering can’s not mine, I’ve no idea where it came from. It’s huge, far bigger than a normal domestic one. I’m leaving it there in case the owner returns.”
“Where could that have come from?” In the back of my mind was an image of the spade left at Jack Shawcross’s farm.
“Oh, I get all sorts left here,” Liz shrugged. “Customers come in their cars to pick up their purchases, take things out of the boot to make room as they rearrange the space, then drive off and leave their belongings. You’ve no idea how many boxes of groceries I’ve had left here! One Saturday somebody left a box of new shoes and another time I found myself with a box of kittens.”
“But not many ten gallon watering cans?” I smiled.
“No, you’d wonder why somebody would want to bring a watering can of any kind to a market garden, but there’s no accounting for people’s peculiarities. They’ll come back, for it one of these days.”
As I looked around the market garden with Derek Warner and Liz, I realised it was quite possible for the barrow to have been removed while Liz was working out of sight and some distance away in one of the other areas — the office or one of the greenhouses for example — but she was adamant that it had not been removed while she was on the premises. Just as it was a puzzle how Jack’s trimmer had vanished from his outbuildings, so the disappearance of Liz’s barrow was equally baffling.
As I prepared to leave, thinking I had not learned a great deal from this visit, I said to Liz, “It’s a fine place you’ve got, clearly you must have help to cope with all this?”
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “I use a lot of casual labour, people from the village and surrounding area who want to earn a few pounds. Some are pensioners, others are youngsters who can’t get regular work.”
“Have you come across a youngster called Sandy? He’s got a motorbike and tows a trailer with it,” I said.
“Oh yes, Sandy’s one of my regulars. A real good worker, I give him as much work as he can cope with, but he does have a lot of customers.”
“He works occasionally for Jack Shawcross over at Briggsby,” I said. “Jack has lost a hedge trimmer.”
“Well, I would trust Sandy with anything,” she said. “He’s always in a rush, but he’s honest enough.”
“So he wouldn’t have taken your barrow?”
“No, but I have said he could borrow anything whenever he wants,” she said. “With him just starting his business, he’s sometimes short of tools or equipment. I don’t mind him borrowing my things, and he knows that.”
“Where does he live?” I asked. “And what’s his surname? Any idea?”
“I think he comes from Slemmington,” she told me, “but I don’t know his surname. He’ll be in his twenties, I expect, and he mentioned his parents once. He said something about his dad managing a shop in Eltering but I’ve no idea which one.”
“Right, thanks,” I said, making up my mind to interview Sandy if I could trace him — even if the lad could not help with my enquiries, I must admit I was intrigued by the idea of a motorbike towing a trailer. I would have to check on the legality of that.
I returned home, reported the rather unhelpful outcome to Sergeant Blaketon and then rang Jack Shawcross to say, “Jack, if that lad Sandy comes to work on your place again, can you give me a call? I’d like words with him.”
“Well, I’ve no idea when he’s due, he just turns up when he’s got some spare time but you don’t think he’s nicked my trimmer, do you?”
“No, but I am interested in his motorbike.” I decided not to suggest that Sandy was a suspect — but he was the common factor between the two recent crimes.
But before Jack rang me, there was another theft. This time, a Flymo had vanished from a splendid house overlooking the moors at Thackerston. The house was a sixteenth-century mansion with beautiful terraced gardens, lawns like billiard tables immaculately trimmed hedges and realistic topiary, superb borders and famous rosaries. Owned by a self-made businessman who owned properties for rental throughout Yorkshire, the gardens were occasionally open to the public to raise money for the Red Cross and other charities. It was called Thackerston Lodge and the owners were Mr and Mrs Fellowes — Philip and Josephine, a dog-loving couple in their mid-fifties.
“It’s Philip Fellowes,” he introduced himself when he rang me that Friday. “I have to report a theft, Mr Rhea, from my garden store. Can you pop in when you’re passing?”
“I’ll come immediately,” I said. “What’s been stolen?”
“My Flymo,” he said. “Wonderful machines you know, they float on a cushion of air and produce lawns like bowling greens . . . I love using mine.”
“When did it vanish?” I asked.
“Sometime during the past week,” he said. “I used it myself last Saturday; I like to cut my own front lawns. I leave the other grassed areas to my staff, but I enjoy caring for the two lawns directly in front of the house.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I assured him.
Mr Fellowes kept his gardening equipment in an outbuilding behind his mansion and although the door was always closed, it was never locked.
The Flymo was kept hanging on a hook on the wall, the recommended storage method. It was a fairly new machine with a red hood and two-stroke engine, and it was in good condition. It was worth around thirty-five pounds, according to Mr Fellowes. He could not be too specific about the time of the theft because he’d not been in the shed since last Saturday — and now it was Friday. I obtained a full description and asked if I might make a search of all the likely places on his small estate — he assured me he had looked everywhere, but with good grace, said he would accompany me upon a search of all his outbuildings, stables, garages and greenhouses. And there, in one of the loose boxes used to store garden tools, I found a hedge trimmer. It was a Crowne make and appeared identical to the one lost by Jack Shawcross.
“Is this yours?” I asked Fellowes.
“No, I do have one, but that’s not mine. Mine’s a Qualcast, bigger than that one. I think that one was left by one of my part-time staff. He used it to trim my hedges last week, it’s been there ever since.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Sandy,” said Fellowes. “He comes to me once or twice a month and does casual work around the place. A good worker he is too.”
As I quizzed Fellowes about Sandy, it appeared that the young man turned up on a motorbike and sidecar, sometimes with an additional trailer and sometimes without, and he did work by the hour, generally attending to the domestic garden. As Liz Bolam had said, Fellowes assured me that Sandy was a very good worker and totally honest, but no one seemed to know his surname or where he lived.
Rather like window cleaners turn up unexpectedly to complete their chores, so Sandy turned up unannounced to provide an hour or two’s work in the gardens he serviced, invariably on his motorbike with its sidecar in which he carried his tools. For big jobs, it seemed, he attached a small trailer which carried his additional equipment — and I knew that a motorbike with a sidecar attached was permitted in law to tow a trailer, provided the trailer did not exceed five hundredweight un-laden and was not more than five feet wide. A two-wheeled motorbike on its own could not do so.
Having dealt officially with Mr Fellowes’ larceny, I told him I wanted to take the hedge trimmer to Briggsby for inspection by Jack Shawcross, and Fellowes agreed, albeit with a proviso that I did not accuse him of stealing it! I explained about the other crimes which had come to my knowledge, adding that one factor appeared to be that when an object was stolen, another of a different sort appeared at the scene and Sandy with his motorbike was always in the background.
“I have told him he could borrow my equipment from time to time,” said Fellowes. “I said he need not ask permission on every occasion, provided he gets the items back to me when I need them . . . he’s never let me down, Mr Rhea.”
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 10
