CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 7)

by Nicholas Rhea

  CONSTABLE

  ALONG

  THE LANE

  A perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

  Constable Nick Mystery Book 7

  NICHOLAS RHEA

  Revised edition 2020

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  © Nicholas Rhea

  First published in Great Britain, 1986

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Nicholas Rhea to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover credit: Colin Williamson

  www.colinwilliamsonprints.com

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  ISBN 978-1-78931-402-1

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  ALSO BY NICHOLAS RHEA

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  Chapter 1

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  How shines your tower, the only one

  Of that special site and stone!

  EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN, 1896—1974

  Among the unpaid benefits in the life of a village policeman is that of leisurely patrolling the beautiful lanes which pattern and serve our countryside. Every season has its delights and my patrols took many forms. Sometimes I toured the villages and hamlets in the section car, at other times I depended upon my official-issue small, noisy but reliable Francis Barnett motorcycle. But by far the most pleasant and rewarding way of performing my duty was to meander among the cottages and along the lanes on foot. The seasons did not matter — every day had its own charm, but this allowed precious time to see the sights, smell the perfumes and hear the sounds of England’s living and ever-changing countryside. There were times when my slow pace made me feel part of the surrounding landscape.

  By comparison, the car and motorcycle were speedy and functional as they presented the image of a busy police officer going about his vital work with the aid of modern technology. The latter was in the form of an official radio fitted to both the car and the motorcycle. The crackle of that radio, the zooming off into the unknown to go about some urgent mission, plus the polished livery of the police vehicles with the occasional flash of blue light or sound of a multi-tone horn, served to nurture an essential aura of efficiency and style.

  Early morning patrols by car or motorcycle were generally spent in the eternal search for cups of tea, people to talk to and the occasional evidence of criminal activity of the rural kind. If I am to be honest, our missions were seldom urgent, unless executed in response to a traffic accident; the truth is that those pastoral wanderings enabled us to see a great deal of the changing landscape and the people who lived and worked there. The car, but more often the motorcycle, carried me through the hills and valleys, across the moors and dales, past ruined abbeys and crumbling castles and along the highways and byways, invariably on a route which had been prearranged by a nameless senior officer.

  In fixing our routes, he would try to incorporate several villages and hamlets within, say, a three- or four-hour patrol, where we halted hourly in nominated villages. There we had to stand beside the telephone kiosk in case we were required. Someone in the office would ring us on those telephones if necessary. The fact that we were equipped with radios did not change that ancient routine because hourly points at telephone kiosks had been a feature of rural patrolling for generations. The system could not be abandoned simply because we now had radios! Senior police officers do tend to be belt-and-braces types, especially where their patrolling subordinates are concerned.

  In my rural bobbying days, they liked to know what their village constables were doing at every moment of their working lives. It was an admirable method of stifling initiative but it also revealed their lack of confidence in themselves and a corresponding lack of trust in us. Nonetheless, the system did ensure that every tiny hamlet, as well as the more populated areas, received a regular visit from a uniformed officer, particularly at odd hours of day and night. As a piece of positive policing, they were valueless but they did keep our supervisory officers content in the belief that they had us just where they wanted us. And the public did see us going about our endless missions and probably wondered why we were passing at such peculiar times when nothing had happened.

  But from my point of view, I did enjoy the early morning routes, as we called them, especially in the spring and summer, even if I had to drag myself out of bed at 5 a.m. at least once a week. But when the sun was shining, the birds were singing and the air was redolent with the scents of new blossom, it provided experiences I would not have missed for the world. I saw nature and the countryside at its beautiful best and the freshness of the morning made me glad to be alive and to be working in such amenable surroundings. To patrol with an accompaniment of the fabulous dawn chorus; to see young animals and birds enjoying their first taste of life and to hear the season’s first cuckoo never ceased to thrill.

  But even in such bucolic circumstances, it’s nice to dodge the official system. As I started those routes from my hilltop police house at Aidensfield, I did so in the happy knowledge that there were several calling places on my patch. There I could enjoy a break from the routine or a spot of refreshment and human companionship. Farms and bakeries provided early morning buns and cups of tea which were most welcome during a tour of duty. In addition, the tiny police station at Ashfordly also provided sanctuary.

  So far as Ashfordly Police Station was concerned, I had to be very careful; like all my rural colleagues, I had to enter without the resident sergeant hearing me, because if Sergeant Blaketon was woken by one of his tea-seeking constables, he would rapidly and effectively make his displeasure known and we would thereafter be denied that calling place.

  For an erring constable, life would be hell for a short time thereafter, and so we all adopted a simple technique. We would park our motorbikes some distance away and walk to the police station. This silent approach was most effective. After 6.30 a.m. however, the doors were open because that’s when Polly, the station cleaner, arrived. Approaching sixty-five, she was iron-haired with grey eyes and the clean, fresh complexion of a countrywoman. She fussed over our little station as if it was her own immaculate home; she polished the furniture and brasswork; she cleaned out the fireplace; emptied waste-paper baskets and, if the cells had been occupied, she cleaned them and aired the blankets. And if Alwyn’s chrysanthemum
s were in the cells, she would make sure they were tended.

  Polly’s strength lay in the fact that when one of the rural constables was performing an early morning route, she knew he was abroad because she could decipher the contents of the duty sheet. Knowing he’d love a cup of tea, she always had the kettle ready.

  This little ritual meant that at some stage between 6.30 a.m. and 7.30 a.m. (when Sergeant Blaketon usually left his bed), Polly would put the kettle on and brew a pot of hot tea, as a result of which the early patrolling constable would pay a visit to the police station. There he would enjoy tea, biscuits and a chat with Polly.

  If Sergeant Blaketon happened to wake early to try and catch us, Polly would hear him moving upstairs and would stand her mop in the front porch as a warning that Blaketon was likely to appear. This was the signal for us to head into the lanes of Ryedale and to the next kiosk on our agenda, thirsty but devoid of any slanderous criticism from our supervisory officer.

  Sometimes, though, Sergeant Blaketon would surprise everyone by creeping downstairs in his slippers. To cope with that eventuality, we always carried some reports or papers which provided us with an excuse for being indoors. “I’ve just popped in with these papers, Sergeant,” would be our excuse, at which he would retort, “Well, don’t hang about here, stopping Polly from working and don’t loiter when on duty!”

  But by and large, those many little subterfuges worked to our advantage. The police office at Ashfordly became a regular haven of refuge, one which was particularly welcome during winter patrols. During those dark and chilly mornings, when our fingers, toes and ears were frozen, Polly always had a blazing fire and her splendid cups of tea to warm us. But through every spring, summer, autumn and winter for years, Polly had been there with her fire, her cups of tea, her awareness of the sergeant’s movements and, in times of need, her warning mop at the door.

  Then a crisis came to Ashfordly Police Station.

  Polly retired.

  We made a fuss over her departure and had a farewell party in one of the local pubs. Sergeant Blaketon made a nice speech and presented her with a portable radio we had bought for her.

  That we missed Polly was never in doubt, but for a few idyllic days afterwards, we did honestly believe we could encourage any new cleaner to be as thoughtful and accommodating as Polly. But Sergeant Blaketon had quietly made his own decision about the kind of person who would be suitable for the appointment and we were to learn to our sorrow that his ideas did not correspond with ours.

  My first encounter with the new cleaner came that April. The appointment had been made only days before and upon my first tour of duty afterwards, I was performing one of those early morning routes. I had started at 5.30 a.m. from my police house at Aidensfield, and had made my first point at Elsinby at 6.05 a.m. with my second at Briggsby at 6.35 a.m. As Ashfordly lay only a five-minute ride from Briggsby, there was time for a quick visit to the police station before my 7.05 a.m. liaison with another in my allotted chain of telephone kiosks.

  If my colleagues had done their work efficiently, the new cleaner would have lit the fire; the kettle would be boiling and it would be known that a lonely, patrolling constable was in need of tea, warmth and amiable companionship.

  As I made my lonely vigil outside Briggsby’s kiosk, I wallowed in anticipation of a hot cup of tea. The early spring morning was, in Yorkshire terms, “nobbut a fresh ’un”, the real meaning of that description being that the morning was extremely cold. Indeed it was, for April can produce some very chilly northern mornings; it can also produce some memorable April showers, and in both achievements it excelled itself that morning.

  As I stood shivering beside my motorcycle with the cheerful singing birds for companionship, I wondered momentarily whether I was in the right job. After all, other folks were still in bed or had warm cars to carry them about their work. As I pondered upon the unfairness of a constable’s life, the heavens opened.

  In a matter of minutes, the beautiful blue morning sky had been obliterated by a mass of swiftly moving black clouds, some with delightful silvery edges. As they succeeded in shutting out the rising sun, they opened their taps. Huge dollops of heavy rain lashed the earth from that sombre ceiling and in seconds, the roads and fields were awash with urgently rushing water and dancing raindrops. In seconds, brown rivulets were gushing from the fields and roaring along the lanes.

  In my heavy motorcycling gear, I was reasonably prepared for most kinds of weather, but on this occasion, water ran down my neck and into my boots as the pounding rain bounced off my helmet and battered my face which was already sore from the effects of a chill morning breeze. The downpour persisted for several minutes, then the monstrous black clouds moved to a new venue upon their journey of misery and the sun came out.

  Brilliant and warm, it caused the roads to dry a little and the birds to resume their singing. As I climbed aboard my motorbike, little clouds of steam began to rise from the tarmac, and as I kicked the bike into life, I wondered if the rain had waterlogged the electrical essentials. But it started without any trouble and I chugged over the hills to enjoy the dramatic vista as I dropped into Ashfordly. As I motored sedately into the valley, I could see the beautiful effects of that awesome shower — the glistening pools in the fields as they reflected the morning sun; the patches of rising mist as the water evaporated in the bright coolness of the day; the sheer greenery of the panorama before me and the freshness of the new spring colours. It was as if the landscape had had its morning bath.

  But I was cold as the pervading dampness soaked into my clothes beneath my motorcycle suit. The one salvation was that a few minutes drying out before the lovely fire in Ashfordly Police Station would cure that problem. On the final run-in, I drove through some running rivulets, some lingering pools of muddy residue which the downpour had produced. Very soon, my boots, legs and machine were spattered with mud.

  When I arrived at the police station, therefore, I was soaked outside with the mud and residue of the roads, and inside my clothing with rain that had flowed down my neck. I coasted the final few yards to avoid arousing Sergeant Blaketon and having parked the little motorbike, I switched off the radio. With visions of hot tea before me, I prepared to enter the warm office.

  I was surprised when a powerful voice bellowed “Out!” It was a voice I did not recognise.

  I stood for a moment in the porch, stamping my feet on the doormat and I must admit that I did not immediately connect the voice with my arrival. I continued to stamp in an effort to shake off the surplus water and then the inner door opened.

  I was confronted by a short, thick-set fellow with a bull-like neck and cropped hair. It was still black but shaven so close that it looked like a well-worn black lead brush. Two piercing grey eyes stared at me from the depths of the heavy, pale features of a man dressed in a long, brown dustcoat. He’d be in his middle fifties, I guessed, and was only some 5 feet 5 inches tall. But he looked and behaved like a bulldog.

  “Out!” he ordered. “Get out of here!”

  I stood my ground, still shaking off the after-effects of that shower. “Who are you?” I demanded. “You can’t tell me to get out. I’m not even in yet!”

  “And you’re not coming in, not like that. I’ve cleaned the floor, I’m not having muck dropped and paddled all over. Taken me hours to get it something like it has, so clear off.”

  “Who are you?” I asked again, having stopped shaking off the water as he stood in the centre of the doorway to effectively block my entry. It would require a strong physical action to shift him, I reckoned.

  “Forster. Jack Forster, I’m the new caretaker.”

  “Caretaker? Cleaner, you mean.”

  “Caretaker,” he affirmed. “I takes care of this police station, so I’m a caretaker. Now, if you want to come in, you’ll have to go into the garage and get rid of that mucky suit. Leave it there to dry off and make sure your feet are clean. I’m not having you lot messing up my floors. So you and your mate
s can all get that into your heads right from the start. I don’t clean floors so that folks can muck ’em up again.”

  “I’m soaked, I want to dry myself in front of the fire,” I said. I wanted to see if there was any compassion in that squat, powerful frame.

  There wasn’t.

  “Not here,” he continued to block the doorway. “Yon fire’s not lit. I’m not lighting that fire while I’m working, it makes me too hot when I’m polishing. It’s laid, but I’m not lighting it today. So you’ve no need to come in, have you?”

  “I’ve got some official business to conduct,” I said. “Telephone calls to make, reports to read. I’m on duty,” and I stepped up towards the door, but he stood his ground, determined.

  “Then take them mucky clothes off,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll get Sergeant Blaketon to issue an order saying no motorbike suits allowed in here. I’m not having my floors messed up, no way. Look at you mud, water, muck everywhere!”

  I was in a momentary dilemma. He had no right to bar an officer from his own police station, but I was acutely aware that if I physically moved him aside, he might lodge a complaint. He seemed the kind of person who might claim he’d been assaulted by a policeman. Time and time again in police circles, we met cleaners and similar operatives who used their mundane tasks as a source of petty power over others; cooks, cleaners, domestics, car washers there was always one who lusted after power and who liked to exercise his or her own brand of dominion over others. This man was of that breed, and the fellow was here, in Ashfordly, blocking my route into the office.

  If I ignored his demands, he would, without any shadow of doubt, run to Sergeant Blaketon. He would then take great delight in banning us from using the office as a refuge and tea-room. This meant that I had the future welfare of myself and my colleagues to rapidly consider as I stood dripping before this little Hitler. The options flashed through my mind as I watered the floor of the outer porch. Already, I had created a distinctive pool of mud.