I could see he was in dire trouble, but that was not our concern. I made a list of those to whom he owed money and decided I would interview them all to see if any of them admitted removal of the caravan. One obvious starting point was anyone on his list who had a car or Land Rover fitted with a tow bar. But when I discreetly inspected the vehicles owned by Farrell’s nominees, at least eight of them had tow bars . . .
It took a few days to trace and interview each of these suspects. I found them all, asked about the money that was owed to them by Farrell and then questioned them about the caravan. None admitted anything. In spite of our circulations, there was no news of its whereabouts, and it seemed it was going to be lost forever, adding one more undetected crime to our statistics.
Then, some five or six weeks afterwards, I got another call which, on the face of it, had nothing to do with this case.
‘It’s Hull City Police,’ said a voice. ‘D/C Casson speaking.’
‘D/C Rhea at this end,’ I replied. ‘How can I help?’
‘We’ve had a spate of housebreakings and shop-breakings in and around Hull,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a suspect in, a good ’un, I might add, and he’s implicated a mate of his. The mate is thought to be in possession of some of the nicked goods, household things. Among the identifiable stuff is a Bush radio — we’ve got the serial number; he’s got away with some tinned foods and crockery, and other odds and ends from houses. Apart from nicking cash, he’s also got himself kitted out for his holiday by pinching everything he needs.’
‘And you think he’s on holiday with his ill-gotten gains on our patch?’
‘We’re sure he is, him and his girlfriend. He’s called Mills, Peter Henry Mills, and his girl is Susan Dunn. We don’t think she’s implicated, but if you bring her in, she might be able to tell us something useful.’
I took details of the couple, and a description of their physical appearance, and then he said, ‘They’re holidaying in a caravan. The address we have is Mill Close, Pattington. Is that on your patch?’
‘It’s in this sub-division,’ I confirmed. ‘What do you want us to do, precisely?’
‘Arrest them both on suspicion of committing our crimes, seal the caravan in case it’s full of stolen goods and detain them in your cells till I get there.’
‘Right, I’ll have words with my D/S, but I can see no problem. Shall we ring to let you know when they’re inside?’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
Gerry Connolly and I drove to Pattington, which is a pretty village between Ashfordly and York. Brick-built houses line an interesting street, and we had no difficulty finding Mill Close in a small valley behind the church. It was a disused flour mill on the banks of a stream, and the old millwheel was still in working condition. Tucked into a corner of a field behind the mill were half a dozen caravans, most of which appeared to be occupied by visitors. Cars stood beside each one, so I looked for a car bearing a Hull registration plate, i.e. one with a sequence of letters ending in either AT, KH or RH. There had been no mention of a car by the Hull CID, but Mills would need one to reach here — besides, he might have borrowed one, hired one or even bought one, or his girl might have done likewise. This was not a cast-iron method of locating him, for he could have got his car from anywhere, but such checks often produced a good starting point. And in this case, it did. We found a Morris Minor beside a caravan, and it bore the Hull registration letters AKH.
As Gerry and I approached the caravan, I noticed it was a Nomad but at that stage had no reason to connect it with the one missing from Farrell’s farm. It was just one of many on this site, and it had been backed into a hedgerow, which meant we did not notice its number plate. And we never thought of looking.
The couple inside, who admitted being Peter Henry Mills and Susan Dunn, offered no resistance, although he protested his innocence at the accusations we levelled at him, and she stood up for him, in her innocence. We took the caravan keys and those of the car, which had been hired for the week, and locked both before we drove the couple to the police station pending the arrival of officers from Hull.
On the way into the office, Gerry was quietly quizzing them.
‘Your caravan, is it?’ he asked. ‘Do you rent the space all the year?’
‘It’s not mine,’ said Mills affably. ‘I saw this advert in the Hull Daily Mail, I rent it from a chap who lives up here; he’s got all those you saw just now. Chap called Crossley, a builder, he is.’
And then the warning bells rang in my head. I began to wonder if that caravan belonged to Andrew Farrell. Crossley was owed money, he did have a vehicle capable of towing such a caravan away, and here it was, anonymous among lots of others and now being rented out to holidaymakers.
I spoke nothing of my suspicions at this stage, but when we had placed Mills and Dunn in separate cells, having secured the services of a policewoman from Strensford to look after the woman, I voiced my suspicions to Gerry Connolly.
‘Seems you’d better have words with our friend Crossley, then,’ he beamed.
I found David Crossley at home that evening, and he welcomed me indoors; at my request, we went into the room which served as his office, away from his wife and family.
‘David,’ I said, ‘you might know why I am here.’
‘Still chasing Farrell’s caravan, are you?’ He was pleasant enough.
‘I think I’ve found it,’ I said. ‘On your little holiday site at Pattington, at the old mill. You let it to a wanted housebreaker from Hull, David. He’s just been arrested and the caravan has been sealed off.’
He laughed aloud. ‘A fair cop, isn’t that what they say? But I haven’t stolen it, Mr Rhea. I’m not dishonest. I’ve just removed it temporarily, hidden it from him, until he pays me what he owes. And when he pays me, he can have it back.’
‘A court would say that, as you have been making use of it for personal gain, you had every intention of permanently depriving Farrell of it. That makes it theft.’
‘Nobody else has used it, Mr Rhea; that couple from Hull, Mills and Dunn, came without booking — they’d seen my adverts in the paper for the other vans, and came on spec.’
He said they were a one-off let, that he’d had no plans to rent this particular vehicle.
I pondered upon his culpability. If he had a claim of right to that caravan, a claim made in good faith, and if he also had no intention of permanently depriving Farrell of his caravan, there was no crime. But that issue was not for the police to decide — it was for a court of law to determine.
I did not arrest Crossley but told him I would have to report all the facts for consideration by my senior officers. When I told Gerry Connolly, he threw his hands into the air in horror, saying, ‘Why does life have to be so bloody complicated? I’ll tell Farrell what has happened.’
When Farrell heard the tale, he expressed some relief but no surprise, and then said to Gerry, ‘Sergeant, I do not wish to press charges. I will not prosecute David Crossley.’
‘You’ve no choice,’ said Connolly. ‘A crime has been committed.’
But his desire not to prosecute did sway our chief constable, for he read the file because of its curious nature; he sought the advice of the county solicitor before deciding whether or not to send the papers to the Director of Public Prosecutions for his advice. Because of the odd facts, all the recommendations were for no prosecution.
And so Peter Henry Mills was taken to Hull, along with several identifiable stolen goods from the caravan, and Susan Dunn was released without charge. She said she would stand by him for ever and ever and accused us of planting the stolen radio in the caravan.
And when we examined the caravan more closely, we did find that it still bore the registration number of Andrew Farrell’s car. This was evidence in support of Crossley’s claim that he had removed the caravan as a means of retrieving what was owed to him.
It was three weeks later when I bumped into Andrew Farrell in the street.
‘Ah, Mr
Rhea,’ he said. ‘Thanks for sorting out that caravan job for me. I think your sergeant was very accommodating in the circumstances, but if I had known it was David Crossley, I’d never have reported it stolen in the first place. I’m letting him keep it as a holiday letting caravan for this season, or until he makes the equivalent of the money I owe him, with a bit extra, of course, for tax.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t want to bankrupt him, and it’s one way of helping me and him. I have found accommodation for my groom — he’s in the attic of our house. Angela did agree at length, and so things are working out now. I am making money with the horses too, so I will be able to pay my debts — in time, of course.’
‘So all’s well that ends well, eh?’ I smiled.
‘Well, actually, all this might have done me good, given me a superb idea for making more money.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Yes, a caravan site in our fields, for holidaymakers and caravan rallies. A site of static vans and touring vans, a large complex, of course, with toilets and shower facilities, and a farm shop, all to cater for visitors from overseas and even people in permanent residence . . . I think that is my next project, Mr Rhea, subject to planning permission, of course.’
I wished him every success but did wonder what Angela would think of masses of tourists and caravans defacing the views from her magnificent home.
I rather felt Andrew would have another fight ahead, but he was a trier. And for that, he deserved credit.
Chapter 8
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant?
CHARLES LAMB, 1775—1834
SNEAK THIEVES ARE AMONG the most loathsome of creatures. Through their personal greed and odious behaviour, they not only deprive people of their valuables but also cast a dark and depressing cloud of suspicion over many innocent people. In some cases, where the thief is not identified and caught, that suspicion can endure for a long, long time. For this reason alone, a sneak thief is one of the most repulsive of criminals. Sometimes, I think the word ‘sneak’ is an anagram of snake, snakes being the most lowly and despised of creatures, while ‘a snake in the grass’ is the term applied to a hidden enemy and a disguised danger. Those feelings may well apply to the sneak thieves who operate in any establishment.
It is a sad fact that these vermin are found in many places where numbers of people congregate. They frequent dance halls, sports centres, swimming pools, offices, factories and other places of work, private parties and even social gatherings of all sizes. Much of their evil trade never reaches the official ears of the police service because the organisation which harbours them prefers not to create even more alarm by encouraging an investigation. The result is that many sneak thieves, having created an atmosphere of distrust, continue to operate.
The police see an arrest as highly beneficial to all honest citizens and a release by many from suspicion. That is one of the real strengths of true liberty, the feeling of being free within the law. There is no civil liberty when innocent people remain under suspicion of being thieves while the real thief, for whatever reason, is allowed to continue his or her nefarious activities.
Thefts by sneak thieves range from the goods which they help to manufacture via the office supplies which help to keep the business in operation to cash and valuables taken from coats and bags left in cloakrooms. Some regard their thieving as a perk of the job and justify it accordingly, especially if they are on low wages, but police records are full of the names of people caught stealing from their place of work. This is theft, and today it carries a maximum penalty of ten years’ imprisonment, even if the thief only gets away with a piece of cheese, a brick or the contents of a charity collecting box. Clearly, sentences of that magnitude are not given for minor transgressions, but it remains the case that ten years is the maximum possible sentence for stealing.
It is a sad fact that some people cannot help stealing. There are kleptomaniacs everywhere — they steal cups and saucers from cafés, towels from hotels, spoons from British Railways, cash from their friends or families, food from the canteen or jars of coffee from the stockroom. They will pinch anything and seem not to care that their activities are crimes or that they place others under suspicion and, in some cases, put the jobs and livelihood of their colleagues at risk by pilfering from their employers’ profits.
It follows that, where the police are notified that a sneak thief is active, they make very serious attempts to arrest or at least deter the perpetrator. Happily, there are many scientific aids and modern technological methods which are capable of trapping persistent sneak thieves.
One aspect of their crimes is that they are usually repeated, not only once but time and time again. A thief who has successfully purloined a side of bacon from the firm’s canteen or stolen cash from the till will try to take more, then more, and yet still more . . . and in this way they generally trap themselves, with a little help from the police.
I found myself investigating this type of crime soon after I began my attachment to Eltering CID, and it involved the hall which adjoined the Anglican church of St Erasmus. The hall was a busy one and was in use most days of the week, with regular events such as hunt balls, dances, whist drives, evening classes and afternoon classes, craft fairs, private parties and a range of other popular events. It had even hosted a dog show, a model railway exhibition and a ballet dancing display. It was a fine, spacious building with a superb sprung dance floor of polished wood, a balcony for observers, an anteroom for use as a bar, and two large cloakrooms standing at either side of the impressive entrance hall.
The chairman of the St Erasmus Hall Social Committee was Mr Aaron Eyles, a retired butcher, and he called at the police station one Monday morning.
‘Ah’ve a bit of a delicate matter to discuss,’ was his opening remark, ‘summat that’ll not do with being spread around.’
The station duty constable knew old Aaron very well and managed to elicit the fact that he wished to discuss some crimes at the church hall, crimes of a highly sensitive nature, and so John referred him to the CID. Gerry Connolly invited him into his office and offered him a chair and a cup of coffee. I took in the two coffees, and Gerry said, ‘Sit down, Nick. Fetch your coffee in here,’ then introduced us. He made it clear to Aaron that I was utterly reliable and would not spread gossip about the town.
‘So, Aaron, these crimes,’ said Gerry. ‘What are they?’
‘Sneak thieves, Mr Connolly. Somebody’s pinching from t’ladies’ cloakrooms at St Erasmus’s. Bit o’ cash, cosmetics, purses, umbrellas even. Daft things like that — one woman’s lost a torch, and somebody else has had a new scarf pinched.’
‘Over what sort of period, Aaron?’ asked Connolly.
‘Six months mebbe. Mebbe a bit longer.’
‘And you’ve not reported any to us, is that right? I can’t recall any reports.’
‘Nay, we haven’t. T’committee thought they could fettle it themselves. Ah think some of them thought them thefts were not really thefts, tha knaws; they thought it was folks forgetting where they’d putten things, you know what folks are.’
‘I know what folks are,’ agreed Connolly. ‘So, when are the things vanishing? I thought you had cloakroom attendants at all your dos.’
‘Nearly all, Mr Connolly. Some of t’private hirings don’t use attendants; Ah mean, a wedding wouldn’t bother with ’em, and they sometimes don’t get asked for t’smaller jobs. It costs, you see; they get paid by the hour, and t’hirer has to pay.’
‘And are all the things vanishing from the ladies’ cloakroom?’
He nodded and there was sadness in his eyes. ‘Aye,’ he said softly. ‘That’s t’problem. You see, Ada Clarkson is attendant in the ladies’ end. Now she’s been doing that job for years, Mr Connolly, with never a hint of owt going wrong. Never a hint. Ah mean, she’s churchwarden, she cleans t’church and organises flower rotas, she’s into charitable work
in town, helps old folks, the blind, the infirm . . . you couldn’t find a more helpful, honest woman.’
‘And the stuff is going when Ada is on duty?’ I could see Connolly hated to disillusion this old man but he was merely echoing the thoughts that poor old Aaron was entertaining.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That’s true. At first, folks were reporting the thefts to Ada but they stopped when nowt was done. So they come to me or t’secretary now — that’s young Miss McCowey, Alec’s lass.’
‘And have you mentioned anything to Ada?’ asked Gerry.
‘Not for t’last month, Mr Connolly. Ah thowt Ah’d give her t’benefit of my doubts, in a manner of speaking, but Ah kept a record of complaints. There’s been four late dances, two evening classes and a demonstration of cooking by gas in the evening, and in all cases Ada was working. During each of the four dances, money went from t’ladies’ cloakroom, Mr Connolly, and Ah don’t know what to make of it.’
Connolly was firm with him. ‘Aaron, some of the most unlikely people turn to crime for all kinds of reasons. Ada is mebbe going through a crisis . . . is she passing through the menopause, eh? Doing things not in character? That’s if it is her. We might be making too many accusations without doing the necessary investigations. We might be making assumptions that are wrong.’
‘Aye, well, Ah’ve been through it time and time again, trying to tell myself it can’t be Ada, never in a million years, but it all points to her, Mr Connolly. Ah daren’t face her about it . . .’
‘Someone will have to, Aaron.’
‘Aye, Ah know. But Ah couldn’t. Ah just couldn’t. Ah’ll be honest with you. Ah couldn’t face her, not Ada, not after all t’happy times we’ve had and the wonderful work she’s done for t’church and t’people of Eltering. Ah mean, you couldn’t find a better woman, a more honest worker.’
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 68
