Leaving Philip Henderson to await his brother, I drove back to Ashfordly Police Station to enter the crime in our records, and to instigate the necessary procedures for circulating details of the theft. It was important that our patrols and all local cycle dealers were notified as soon as possible. Once I’d attended to the paperwork, I would return to Lairsdale to continue my enquiries, but inwardly felt it was a futile exercise. Whoever had stolen that bike would have ensured that no one saw him, as he’d done countless times already. However, once I began to talk to the people who lived beside the road, I did elicit a snippet of useful information. An isolated stone cottage with a thatched roof stood on the edge of the road midway up one of the steeper inclines some two miles from Lairsbeck.
It was called Heathercroft and occupied by a gamekeeper and his wife, the keeper working for Lairsdale Estate. He was John Hebden and his wife was Margaret. Margaret, a jolly red-faced woman in her late forties, had been weeding the little garden she’d created outside the gate of the house as a vehicle had approached up the steep hill. It was just before 10.30, she recalled, because John often popped home for a coffee and a chocolate biscuit around then. As the vehicle had driven slowly past, she’d straightened up, easing her back after a session of weeding. She described it as slightly larger than a Morris 1000 pick-up but smaller than Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s old truck. She thought it was a Ford but couldn’t be absolutely sure. However, it was a maroon colour in fairly good condition, and it had a covered rear section without any back doors. She’d noticed that the back contained what looked like an old green tarpaulin; it appeared to have been thrown inside because it was not folded neatly, but in that state it seemed to fill the back of the little truck. She had seen it quite clearly as the truck had chugged past her.
“But the thing is, Mr Rhea, I did not recognise the van. It doesn’t belong to anyone living in the dale, and I have no idea what it was doing here. I can’t remember seeing it before, but we do get strangers driving along the dale on Sundays but this one didn’t look like someone on a Sunday outing. There was a man driving, but I didn’t really see him except that he had dark hair. I’d say he was in his late twenties or early thirties, but that’s all. Anyway, the funny thing was the van came back about half an hour later which made me think he was looking for a house or a farm. But he didn’t stop to ask directions. I thought that was strange, particularly if he was lost, but when it passed me that time, it was going much faster. I watched as it drove away from me. The tarpaulin was still in the back and the same man was driving.”
“Was he alone?” I put to her.
“Yes, I’m sure he was. I didn’t see anybody with him.”
“Could you say what clothes he was wearing?”
“No, sorry. I couldn’t really see him very well — the light was reflecting from the windscreen.”
“I understand. So can you remember the registration number?” I asked in forlorn hope.
“Sorry, no, I never thought to memorise it.”
“Now, you mentioned a tarpaulin, or something like a tarpaulin. Could it have been hiding something underneath? I’m thinking of a cycle lying on the floor of the truck and being covered with that tarpaulin.”
“Well, it did look as if it had been disturbed that second time I saw him. I wondered if something had been taken out from under it . . .”
“Or placed under it?” I did not want to plant ideas in her mind, but at the same time felt I had to press for some kind of more detailed opinion.
“Yes, I suppose so. The way it was lying there, yes, something could have been underneath it. But you know how it is, Mr Rhea, with agricultural vehicles and trucks used by farmers, they carry all sorts in the back, logs, sacks of this and that, shovels and spades, tools of all kinds, rolls of wire or netting, even dogs and sheep. One thing just gets thrown in on top of another.”
“So do you think it was a farmer’s vehicle?”
“I don’t think so. It was too clean and even the tarpaulin or carpet or whatever it was, looked clean. There were no names or lettering on the truck, by the way, so I don’t think it was a delivery van of any kind, or a tradesman’s runabout.”
I quizzed her for a few more minutes until it was clear she could not provide any further information, then thanked her. I told her she’d provided the only clue to date in a long-running series of cycle thefts. Before leaving, I asked her to ring if she ever saw the truck again and, if possible, to note its registration number. She assured me she would — she felt she would recognise it another time. After leaving, I called at more houses and farms along the dale, but no one else could provide any information. One farmer made the point that on Sundays, all kinds of vehicles passed along the dale — tourists, hikers, day-trippers, bird-watchers and so it was difficult to identify any which were behaving suspiciously.
“Besides,” he reminded me, “whatever goes up that dale must come down again, except walkers. And us local chaps know all the vehicles kept in the dale — and there’s not a maroon truck among ’em.”
I asked the residents whether any had had a visit from the man in the maroon-coloured truck, but none had. None was expecting any kind of workman or a delivery of goods, so I felt increasingly sure the truck had been used to carry off the stolen bike.
Very pleased at this development, I hurried back to Ashfordly Police Station from where I could circulate a description of the van; I would also notify the other police forces which had suffered similar crimes so that they were aware of this possible link.
“Well done, Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, who came into the office as I was completing my report about the suspicious truck.
“It was a bit of luck, Sergeant,” I said.
“It was good police work.” He seldom praised anyone, so this gave me a small feeling of pride. “But before you circulate a description of that truck, it might be wise to contact the CID in the other forces, just to check no one’s keeping such a vehicle under observation. For all we know, there might be a target criminal somewhere with a truck just like that, and there could be some kind of scheme to catch him in possession of stolen goods. It might be that he must not be alerted to our interest at this stage.”
It was good and very practical advice. I rang the other police forces involved and discovered there had been no other reports of such a vehicle nor had any suspect come into the frame. After discussions with the relevant officers in charge, we decided it would be useful to circulate a description of the suspect vehicle, albeit with a request that its registration number be recorded and its location noted without any interviews of the driver — unless, of course, a cycle had very recently been stolen nearby and there was high possibility of catching the thief in possession of it.
The main purpose was to discover the name and address of the owner, and then to monitor his movements and his contacts. Later, we would raid any premises he frequented with a view to catching him in possession of one or more stolen cycles. If he was the guilty party, it was vital that we obtained the evidence necessary to secure a conviction.
The following Tuesday, Mabel Marshall asked if I could drive her to Scarborough to visit Joseph that coming Thursday and, after checking my duty sheet, I said I could take her to the afternoon visiting session. She told me that Joseph’s specialist wanted a word with her in private during that visit.
And so on Thursday, with Mabel beside me in her best hat and coat, and clutching a basket of cakes and fruit topped with some Get Well cards, I drove the winding route to Scarborough’s fine brick-built hospital along the Whitby road. During the journey she chattered about her family and grandchildren, interspacing her comments with tales about Joseph including his likes, dislikes, church work, Guild activities, reluctance to visit new places and his hobby of growing giant gooseberries. Judging by her nonstop chatter, I got the impression she was trying to keep herself cheerful as she approached the hospital. I must admit I did not say a great deal simply because I rarely had the opportunity, but I wonde
red what she expected to learn when she arrived. Had she been warned to expect some kind of unpleasant news?
Interested though I was, I decided not to press her for too much information in case I triggered a bout of tears or overt misery, so I endured her one-sided conversation. In due course we arrived in the car park and I accompanied her to Joseph’s bedside. Joseph was sitting beside his bed in an easy chair and was clad in a heavy dressing gown and slippers. His unused pipe lay on top of his bedside cabinet. His thin face lit up at the sight of Mabel. I ushered her in first and she planted a kiss on his cheek as I acquired some chairs for us.
“Now then, Joseph,” I said, shaking his hand. “I thought I’d pop in to see how you’re getting on.”
“And Mr Rhea drove me through, Joseph, it’s very kind of him.”
“Thanks, Mr Rhea.” Neither of them would relinquish their formality and I did not embarrass them by suggesting it. “It’s good of you.”
“So how’s things?” I asked. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m feeling all right now and my stomach pains have stopped. Nowt but a bit of belly ache, they said, caused by summat I’d eaten. I’d had the runs for a day or two, but things have cleared up now. Apart from that they’ve pushed all sorts of tubes and things into me from all ends, and sampled my water and my blood and had me spitting in jars, but they’ve found nowt. I’m still as thin as a rail, I know that, and I don’t weigh much more than one of my berries. I can’t work up an appetite, not even for that roast beef and Yorkshire pudding they put on this dinnertime.”
“There’s no pain anywhere else?” I asked him.
“Nay, lad. I’m not in pain. Never have been, apart from that belly ache.”
“So what do they say, Joseph?” Mabel asked, the concern showing in the lines of her tired face.
“Nowt,” he said bluntly. “They say they can’t find owt wrong with me. I’ve had all sorts of important-looking folks in here, looking in my eyes, down my throat, up my bum and then giving me stuff to drink and pass through for testing, but they’ve come up with absolutely nowt.”
“Does that mean you can come home?” she asked.
“I’ve got to wait for the result of one more test, it’ll be ready tomorrow, so they say. If I pass that, I’ll be allowed home later in the day.”
It was then that an important-looking doctor in a smart white coat came into the ward, shown towards Joseph’s bed by a nurse.
“Good afternoon, Mr Marshall, nice that you could have some visitors.”
“My wife,” said Joseph. “Mrs Marshall. And our local bobby, Constable Rhea.”
“You’re not in trouble with the police, I hope!” smiled the doctor.
“Nay, Doctor, he’s given my missus a lift in to see me.”
“Well, that is very kind. Now, Mrs Marshall, my name is Hindmarsh, I’m a consultant and first, I’d like a word with you,” he said. “In private. There’s a consultancy room just outside the ward. This way please.”
And so, looking at me as if for support or succour, she followed him like an obedient little dog.
“What’s all that about?” asked Joseph, as the pair vanished into the corridor.
“We’ll know very soon,” I said softly. “Now, I’ve got some nice berry trees in my garden, so what can you tell me about growing a prize-winning berry?”
Chapter 6
Mabel returned to Joseph’s bedside after some twenty minutes. She was alone, the consultant having continued his way on other business. Reaching her chair, she settled down without a word, the expression on her face telling me she had received something of an unwelcome shock from Dr Hindmarsh.
“That chap, Dr Hindmarsh, he says he’s been to see you quite a lot of times while you’ve been in here,” she addressed her remarks directly to Joseph and so I stood up and prepared to leave. The forthcoming discussion was clearly something of a very private and personal nature.
“No, sit down, Mr Rhea.” She waved me back to my chair. “I’d like you to hear this.”
“Well, if it’s something very private, perhaps I’d better not . . .” I began.
“No, it’s not private. In fact, I ought to tell the whole world how wrong these folks are . . .” she said, and I could see the anger in her eyes and in the way her cheeks were highly coloured as she clenched her teeth. “I’ve never come across such a lot of incompetents and such a bunch of ignorant folks in all my life. Really, I haven’t. And they call themselves experts! They know nowt, Mr Rhea, absolutely nowt.”
“So what’s brought all this on?” I asked.
“He should know!” Somewhat accusingly, she pointed to Joseph. “That Dr Hindmarsh says he’s been to see you a lot of times, Joseph, and given you all sorts of tests and examinations and he says he’s already told you what he thinks.”
“He has,” agreed Joseph. “I’ve never seen so much of one chap in such a short time. He always seemed to be examining me, wanting X-rays and prodding and poking about on my belly and my chest and private bits, taking samples of blood and water and asking questions, then checking what I said against what other experts have said, reading their reports about me. It makes me feel like summat in an antique sale.”
“And after all that, what did he tell you?” demanded Mabel.
“Well, he said they couldn’t find owt wrong with me,” said Joseph, with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief.
“That’s right. He said you’d been told this morning, and that’s what he wanted to see me about. So he’s just told me. They say there’s nothing wrong with you!” she snapped. “And do I believe a word of it? No, I do not! How can that be right? How can they say there’s nothing wrong with you? I told that doctor you’ve not been right for weeks and how much weight you’ve lost and your appetite has gone and then there was them belly aches, but he said there’s no reason for all that. Your heart and lungs are very fit and well, there’s no cancer in you, according to their tests, and there’s nowt wrong with your insides either or your waterworks.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“And,” she continued, “your blood pressure might be a bit on the high side, but it’s nowt to get worried about, not at your age. It’s nowhere near being too high. In short, Joseph Marshall, everything’s working as it should be and you’re not ill. According to them, that is.”
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” said Joseph.
“It is, if it’s true. And they said that stomach upset was nowt to get worried about. It was due to something you ate, and they think that’s cleared up. He says you’ve one more test and if that turns out all right, you can come home.”
“Yes, I had to pee into a bottle this morning, before breakfast,” Joseph announced. “It’s being tested today somewhere.”
“What are they looking for?” I felt I ought to contribute to this discussion.
“No idea, Mr Rhea. But it’s summat they wanted to check out as a last resort, in view of my stomach upset. To make sure whatever had upset me has gone clean out of my system, I think.”
“Did they give any indication of what time the result will be known? I’m thinking that we could take you home today if they’d allow us to. I’d be happy to wait.”
“No, it won’t be ready until tomorrow morning, they said,” Joseph told us. “My sample has to go off somewhere to be looked at and it’ll take a full day to get it there and back.”
“They’re not doing their jobs, Mr Rhea!” It was obvious that Mabel was unable to agree with the verdict of the hospital authorities. “I’ve known Joseph very near all my life, more than sixty years, and I know him well enough to realise things are not right. How can they be, with him losing all that weight? It’s not natural, and even if they use big words as they try and convince me he’s all right, I know deep down he’s not.”
“Can you recall exactly what Dr Hindmarsh said?” I wondered about the language he’d used to relay this information to her.
“Wor
ds I’ve never heard before, Mr Rhea, all jargon and incomprehensible to me, but I reckon they think he’s imagining things.”
“Imagining things? Me?” Joseph sounded mortified at the suggestion.
“That’s what they’re trying to say, so it seems to me. But how can you imagine you’re losing weight when it’s dropping off pound by pound like it has? There’s no imagination about Joseph’s loss of weight, Mr Rhea, anybody can see it for themselves. And his lost appetite is not imagined — it’s as real as I’m sitting here.”
“I’m just not hungry these days,” Joseph added for good measure.
“I’ve tried feeding him up with Yorkshire puddings and suet dumplings and plenty of mashed potato and gravy, along with some good stews and roast beef, with black puddings and bacon and sausages for breakfast, but he’s like a child, Mr Rhea, leaving half of whatever I give him. That’s not imagination, not when you’ve got to chuck out platefuls of good dinner. Them cats living near us have never had such a good time.
“What do you think I should do, Mr Rhea?” Mabel turned to me and I could see she was concerned at this unexpected development.
“This is what will happen,” I told her. “When the hospital has done all its tests and got them analysed and assessed, they’ll write to your doctor — Dr McGee that is — and he’ll call Joseph into his surgery for a chat. That will happen as soon as his final test has been assessed. I think all you can do is wait until Dr McGee has a word with you, that is — and then decide what happens after that. If nobody can find anything wrong with you, Joseph, then it might just be a question of giving you time to regain your weight and find your appetite.”
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 10
