He might be making a deliberate show of going along with my wishes and opinions in order to keep himself in my favour and at the same time shield the identity of the thief. I had a gut feeling that he knew more than he was saying — and if that was the case, the cycle thief might be alerted to my interest. But that was a risk I had to take — I could not lose the opportunity that Tin Lid had provided.
Upon leaving Tin Lid’s premises with my bag of paint tin lids, I decided that a swift visit to Eltering was necessary. I wanted to trace the owner of the former cycle shop in Finkle Street. Parking in a side street twenty minutes later, I donned my police cap and set about my enquiries, noting there was now no cycle shop in that street. It didn’t take many minutes of questioning the staff of a gentlemen’s outfitters to establish that Adam and Eve’s fruit and vegetable shop occupied the premises of the former Eltering Cycles. It had closed three years ago upon the retirement of the proprietor. He was called Sidney Suggitt and upon hearing this name, I thought Eltering Cycles was a better name for his shop than Sidney Suggitt Cycles. I also learned he had retired at the age of seventy and now lived in Pikelands Road. A quick check in the telephone directory at the gentlemen’s outfitters then established he lived at No. 45. Within minutes, I was knocking on his door. A rather stooped old gentleman responded. Had he been standing upright, he would have been over six feet in height but he was very bent with either osteoporosis in his back, or some type of rheumatic problem. Or, of course, his back was bent through years of riding bikes with dropped handlebars or stooping while effecting decades of repairs to his customers’ machines.
“Mr Suggitt?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, screwing his eyes to peer up at me. He was wearing poor quality, creased, grey trousers, an old cardigan and carpet slippers.
“PC Rhea from Aidensfield,” I introduced myself. “I have been trying to trace you, through your shop in town.”
“I don’t do repairs now, Constable, if that’s what you’re wanting, and if you’re going to ask if I’ll fit a new tyre to that police bike from Eltering Police Station the answer is no. The front wheel rim’s buckled, I’ve told ’em that time and time again, so it’s a waste of time, mine and theirs, to bother with it. Tell them to get a new one, Constable. A new bike, I mean, not a new wheel. That bike must pre-date the First World War; riding it is like trying to steer a tank around town.”
“It’s a long time since we had to use our official cycles,” I smiled. “But I’ll have words with our new sergeant at Brantsford, he’s a keen cyclist.”
“I think somebody should open a new shop in town,” he muttered. “There’s nowhere to get cycles maintained. I keep getting folks coming here wanting punctures mended, pumps repaired, or gears readjusted and ball bearings renewed. It’s all general maintenance really but I just don’t do that sort of thing now.”
“I’m not wanting you to do work for us, Mr Suggitt,” I said. “I’m trying to trace someone you used to deal with.”
“Oh,” he said, and there was a long pause as he struggled to come to terms with the fact I was not seeking his specialised services and I wondered if he was just a little disappointed about that. “So who is it you’re looking for?”
At this stage, I did not want him to think I suspected a former business acquaintance of being a clever thief, so I had to choose my words carefully.
“There was a man who used to deliver second-hand cycles to you, for you to sell,” I began.
“Oh, well, you’d better come in, Constable. Excuse the mess, I live alone now my wife has died. I can rustle up a coffee or cup of tea if you fancy one. It’s nice to get someone calling.”
And so I opted for a coffee and as he pottered into his kitchen to prepare it, I looked around his lounge. Filled with cheap, wartime furniture, it was full of cycling memorabilia ranging from photographs and certificates to cups and medals he’d won. As he waited for the kettle to boil, I occupied myself by admiring ancient photographs of Mr Suggitt on his cycle, sometimes in racing mode and sometimes standing in picturesque places with a touring cycle. He was shown either with friends, a woman I took to be his wife, or club members. Then he returned with two mugs of coffee, each wobbling dangerously in his shaking hands; I relieved him of one and he told me to sit down. An electric fire was burning in the grate, but it was casting out very little heat and I wondered how he kept warm in winter.
“I miss my Cynthia,” he said, referring to a photograph I’d been admiring upon his return. “She was very supportive in my work, and liked to get into the countryside on her bike. I’m too old now, Constable, although I still have my old Wyvern. Hand-built it was, because of my height. I’d have a job getting my leg over now let alone balancing the thing — and coping with modern traffic.”
I allowed him to reminisce for a while as we sipped our coffee, and then he asked, “So who’s this man you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know his name, nor do I have a very good description,” I admitted. “But he drives a maroon pick-up type of truck which has a covered back, but no rear doors. Quite distinctive in its own way. He’s a tall young man with dark hair, and I’m told he builds racing cycles, specialist ones possibly. I was told he used to provide you with cycles from time to time.”
“And who told you that?” he frowned at me.
“Tin Lid Talbot,” I said.
“Ah, Tin Lid! What would I have done without him? He removed all my unwanted scrap metal, Constable. Whatever surplus bits and pieces I had from my repairs or renewals, Tin Lid Talbot would remove them free of charge.”
“He’s good at removing things!” I laughed. “Although he doesn’t restrict himself to scrap metal!”
“Well, I can only speak as I found him. He was very reliable, calling at least once a week. What on earth he did with the stuff, I shall never know. But he did put me in touch with that young man you mention.”
“And then the young man supplied you with cycles?”
“From time to time, yes. Over the years, I obtained most of my general stock and spare parts from well-established manufacturers like Raleigh, Rudge, Elswick, Humber, Hercules, Whitworth and Sturmey-Archer, but sometimes I was asked for a racing machine, or even a special, built to order. And that young man could supply them at a very competitive price. I didn’t keep a stock of racing bikes, you see; really good ones are too expensive for me to lay out cash for them, so I supplied them to order.”
“What sort of specials were you usually asked for?” I put to him.
“Lightweight racing bikes of superior quality, hand-built most of them, and made-to-measure like suits, generally catering for very tall people. It’s often difficult getting a satisfactory rigid cycle frame for someone more than six feet three or four inches tall. But that young man would make bikes for tall people, Constable. With large frames. The bikes, I mean, had large frames. Not the people.”
“Ah!” I had a glimmer of a recollection that all those stolen racing bikes had twenty-four inch frames . . . it seemed he was stealing specialist cycles for tall people, repainting them and selling them to shops like Eltering Cycles.
And Tin Lid Talbot had mentioned something about big cyclists — not big as in Big Catholics or Big Gooseberry Men, but big in terms of physical size. “So who is this young man, Mr Suggitt? I’d like to have words with him.”
“He’s not in trouble, is he?” asked the old man. “He seemed such a pleasant young fellow.”
“Good heavens no, he’s not in trouble! It’s just that one of our new sergeants is a keen cyclist; he’s a tall chap and wants a large-framed, lightweight machine. He’s asked us all to keep our eyes open. Tin Lid thought you might help me find this specialist builder.”
“Well, to be honest, Constable, I do not know who he is. He never once said what his name was or where he came from. I would place an order for, say, a twenty-four inch racing machine with certain features, and he would supply it within four or six weeks. Beautiful cycles, they were; he called
them Wyvern after the winged dragon of European mythology. Customers had a choice of saddle, handlebars, type of gear, number of gears, mudguards or not, lightweight wheels, tubular tyres . . . the lot in fact, all supplied on request.”
“Did they have a choice of colour?” I asked.
“No, they were all light grey. That was his trademark, Constable. Pale grey, the colour of the dragon’s skin, but with red lines and highlights, and a red-coloured dragon logo.”
“Your cycle is a Wyvern, you said?”
“Yes indeed. It was the first I obtained from him. I wanted something to test the quality of his work, and that was it.”
“And you are happy with the bike?”
“Well, I got it about seven years ago, not long before I retired and haven’t had much of a chance to enjoy it. It’s a young man’s cycle, Constable, I was rather too ancient to make full use of it, but yes, it is a very good machine, a quality cycle, and a marque I was happy to sell. I’ve never had a single complaint from any of those customers.”
“Did you sell many?”
“No, only a few. As I said earlier, they were special orders, Constable, not the sort of thing your average bike buyer would want. All handmade. So far as I know, the fellow did not employ any staff, he did the lot himself. He turned out very few machines, but each was a masterpiece. He was a true artist, Constable.”
“So it would appear, but even so, you must have had a business arrangement with him, such as invoices, a telephone number or contract address.”
“No, Constable. He insisted on cash deals on every occasion, and never said where he operated from. The only way I could get in touch with him was when he called at my shop. He called regularly, every fourth Wednesday.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd?” I had to ask. “No paperwork, no contact address.”
“Yes, it did, as a matter of fact. I wondered whether he was trading in stolen cycles, and although I checked his work carefully, I never found any evidence of the bikes being stolen property. I did get the North Riding Constabulary’s Stolen Cycle Supplements, you know, and furthermore, Constable, I did study them. Not once did I find any reference to any cycle I’d bought from him.”
As he told me that, I thought it very feasible that the thief could steal a cycle in County Durham, take it home, respray it in grey paint, fit different parts, rename it Wyvern and sell it seventy miles away. Thus, someone studying the North Riding Constabulary’s Stolen Cycle Supplements would never know of that original theft, while linking a cycle stolen in one county with one sold in another in a different colour and under a different name would be virtually impossible.
I began to think that poor old Mr Suggitt had been dealing in stolen cycles without ever realising the fact.
“I’m surprised he managed to keep his name and business address such a secret,” I said. “Even Tin Lid said that. He’s seen the man and the truck he uses, but has no idea of his name or where he comes from.”
“Clearly he wanted to be anonymous, Constable, and there is nothing criminal in that. Actors and authors make use of pseudonyms in their business, and lots of shopkeepers never make use of their own names, so that dealer is doing nothing unethical or illegal.”
“If he was supplying you, then he must be supplying other cycle shops,” I said. “He must have lots of outlets for his work.”
“Oh yes, he did supply others. I once rang a friend of mine who has a shop at Guisborough, and he said he bought the occasional special from Wyvern. But he had no idea who the manufacturer was.”
Hearing this, I now began to realise that our cycle thief could be cheerfully supplying stolen cycles to a range of shops across the north-east of England. He was operating a cash-only system and all his machines were disguised to such an extent they’d never be recognised, even by their losers. If this man was ever to be caught, it seemed that the CID would have to be brought into the investigation and that some kind of trap or exercise would have to be generated to capture him. He’d been operating for years without being caught and seemed clever enough not to have grown careless in his evident success.
I began to feel that such an exercise was way beyond the capabilities of a country constable operating alone. I felt that a chat with our cycling Sergeant Craddock might be wise.
Before leaving Mr Suggitt, I had a look at his Wyvern and it was a superb machine. Lightweight but strong, with a beautiful grey frame adorned with red lettering and lines and a red motif in the shape of a winged dragon, it had all the trappings of a top-quality racer. It stood in his garage covered in dust and I felt Sergeant Craddock would love to get his backside on that slender saddle. But I also thought the CID might like to examine the machine in greater detail — if it had been stolen, it might still be possible to identify the real cycle beneath that covering of smart grey and red. But I could not seize the machine as evidence of a crime because I had no proof it had been stolen. Suspicion, yes; proof, no! Besides, I knew it would remain in Mr Suggitt’s house for a long time yet. It would be there should I need to have it examined.
I left Mr Suggitt after thanking him for his help and his coffee, then drove back to Aidensfield to decide my next course of action. But, as I drove towards my police house, I saw Father Simon’s car approaching from the opposite direction.
He stopped and waved me to a halt.
“I’d like a word, Nick, if I may,” he said as I went to meet him. “It’s important and quite urgent. It’s about Joseph Marshall.”
Chapter 7
Worried that the priest had some really dreadful news, I led him into the house. As he was a friend, I took him into the lounge rather than the more formal surroundings of the police office where Mary offered him a cup of tea. He declined, as he also declined our offer of a seat.
“No thanks, I’m in a desperate hurry. I’ve a lot of people to see, so I’ll have to say no.”
“So, Father,” I asked. “What’s this about Joseph?”
“Well, Nick, it arose out of the fact the hospital will not do anything for him — ”
“Hang on, Father.” I wondered how much gossip of this type had reached the ears of the priest. “That’s not right. The hospital hasn’t refused to do anything for him.”
“Well, should I have said ‘can’t’ do anything? Is that a better turn of phrase?”
“No, it’s not; if anything it’s worse. Each of those phrases implies his illness is so advanced or serious that nothing can be done,” I said. “It sounds as if he has no hope of ever getting better, and that is not the case.”
“Well, I must admit that’s the way I see it, Nick,” said the priest. “I understand he’s terminally ill.”
“I don’t think so.” I felt I had to express my views. “None of the experts in the hospital can find anything physically wrong with Joseph. That’s why he’s been sent home, Father.”
“Well, I must beg to differ, Nick. My understanding is that the hospital has decided nothing can be done for Joseph. They’ve sent him home so that he can end his days in the peace and comfort of his family.”
“It’s a question of interpretation.” I tried vainly to explain my understanding of the hospital’s verdict. “The fact is he’s not suffering from any fatal disease or illness. They’ve given him a very thorough examination and have concluded there’s nothing physically wrong with him. That’s the outcome of his tests.”
“You’re sure about that, are you?” he put to me.
“I am. Lungs, liver, stomach and bowels, heart, all his natural functions — everything is all right, except perhaps for a little high blood pressure. That’s what they mean when they say there’s nothing they can do for him. They’re saying he is not physically ill or diseased.”
“That’s not what Mabel told me,” he said.
“So what did she say?” I asked.
“She said there’s nothing they can do for him.”
“There is nothing they can do for him!” I said. “As I said before, Father, it depend
s upon the interpretation of those words. The truth is that his problem could be in his mind; he could be worrying himself sick about something. He could be suffering from some psychosomatic problem.”
“Not Joseph, surely?”
“Yes, Joseph, our calm and unflappable Joseph. He’s worrying himself sick about something. Physically there is nothing the matter except he’s lost weight and won’t eat.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about your interpretation, Nick, but Mabel told me she’d spoken to a specialist called Hindmarsh at the hospital, and he said there was nothing he could do for Joseph, so he’s better off at home with her. That’s a pretty clear indication to me that he’s terminally ill.”
“Mabel must have been too worried to listen carefully. She was fearing the worst, Father, she thought Joseph had cancer. I think she’s interpreted the specialist’s words accordingly.”
“We all think he’s got cancer, Nick, even though no one has said so.”
“I don’t,” I had to say. “Not now. After hearing what transpired at the hospital, I am more convinced he’s not physically ill, Father. That’s what Joseph was told himself — and he told me.”
“But if Mabel has put the wrong interpretation on the specialist’s words, then so could you,” he put to me.
“That’s a fair comment,” I admitted. “So, Father, I think a word with Dr McGee might be wise. As Joseph’s GP, he could get a positive answer from the hospital, and it would be sensible to establish the facts before too many rumours get flying around Aidensfield.”
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 12
