“Good, because I have received some advance intelligence from Durham County Constabulary. We have learned that six bus loads of fans from Crook are heading down the Great North Road, intent on the match this afternoon in Whitby.”
“Six bus loads of crooks, ma’am?” Blaketon was determined to take a rise out of this woman; he disliked women inspectors, especially when they were younger than him and more especially when they had fewer years of service in the force.
“Not six bus loads of crooks, sergeant! I wish you would listen carefully! Six bus loads of football fans from Crook. Now, I want no trouble in Whitby, no fighting…”
“I’m sure my officers will cope, ma’am, we will segregate the crooks from the home team fans
“They’re not crooks, sergeant!”
“Crook fans,” he grinned to himself. “We will separate the Crook fans from the Whitby Town supporters. That should prevent any riots or mayhem.”
“Good. Now, there have been two more reports of offertory box break-ins this morning, sergeant. Not in Ashfordly section, I grant you, but close enough to your boundary to be the work of the same person. This is not good enough, this man is making fools of us, so I want every effort to catch the thief…”
“But my best men will be at the football ground this afternoon
“That’s all, sergeant,” and she replaced the telephone.
Later that morning, PC Alf Ventress arrived for duty. He was carrying a knapsack over his shoulder and was smartly dressed in his best uniform, his shoulders surprisingly free of cigarette ash. As Alf waited, Sergeant Blaketon came through from his office.
“Ventress!” he boomed. “What’s this? We’re not going on holiday, you know.”
“It’s my refreshments, sergeant, in case we’re late back.”
“Refreshments? We’re going to Whitby, not Wembley, we’ll be back by teatime.”
“You never know, serge. Anything can happen in Whitby. Be prepared, that’s my motto.”
“Right, well, we’d best be off. We’ve Rowan to collect at Aidensfield and I hope that Inspector’s in a better mood this afternoon. She’s fretting about public disorder, she’s been told there’s six bus loads of Crook supporters coming to the match.”
“I’m sure we can cope, sergeant,” said Alf Ventress with confidence.
As they were about to leave, Phil Bellamy entered the office; he was casually dressed in civilian clothes, but sported a blue and white scarf around his neck. He was carrying a holdall and a pair of football boots.
“Up the Blues!” he grinned at Blaketon.
Sergeant Blaketon looked him up and down, then said, “I hope you’re not expecting a lift in an official vehicle while you’re dressed like that, Bellamy!”
“No, serge, I’ve got my own transport organised. It’s picking me up in ten minutes, but I’ve got some entries I hadn’t time to make yesterday, in the “Visits to Licensed Premises” register,” and Phil placed his bag on the floor, unzipped it and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I thought I’d best get them entered before I forgot.”
“You’d be too busy thinking about football, if I know you!” retorted Blaketon. “Football instead of police work! Well, get your entries made before you forget them altogether, and next time remember to do your administrative duties on time, at the time!”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Right, we’ll leave you to get on, then,” said Blaketon. “We’re off to collect Rowan and then we’ll see you at Whitby. And mind you’re not late for the match! I don’t want one of my constables being late for his own kick-off!”
“Serge!” smiled Bellamy.
“Oh, and Bellamy?”
“Serge?”
“Mind you score! I want a win, you know, no second best when an Ashfordly section man is centre forward!”
“I’ll score, serge, you’ll see.”
And so, leaving Phil to lock the office when he’d made his entries, Sergeant Blaketon and PC Ventress departed, with Blaketon at the wheel of the highly polished official car. When he was satisfied they had left the premises, Phil delved into his holdall and pulled out a gaily wrapped parcel and a birthday card in a crisp white envelope. He hurried into Blaketon’s office and placed the gift and the card upon his desk, then pulled a piece of paper from a drawer. With a black pen, he wrote upon it in large lettering: “Happy Birthday, serge, from the lads.”
With a piece of sticky tape, he stuck this on Blaketon’s office notice board, stood back to admire his work, and then left. Locking the office with his own key, Phil walked into town to await his lift to the football ground.
He was pleased his colleagues had been selected for duties at the ground — at least Blaketon would see him play and that thought gave Phil a sense of pride. He’d play his heart out this afternoon, he’d put on a real good show for his pals from Ashfordly section.
While Phil was awaiting his lift, Sergeant Blaketon was easing to a halt outside the Police House, Aidensfield. It was precisely one o’clock and so he pipped the horn.
“I hope Rowan isn’t going to keep us waiting, Ventress. I don’t want the new Inspector to think we’re slack timekeepers at Ashfordly!”
“He’s coming, serge,” said Alf who was dying for a smoke, but he knew better than to light-up in Blaketon’s immaculate car. He might find a quiet comer somewhere during the match, one of the toilets maybe, or some other sheltered place where he could have a puff at his cigarettes.
Nick, in his best uniform which was all pressed and clean, hurried across to the waiting car and climbed into the rear seat. “Good afternoon, sergeant, Alf,” he smiled at them. “You were nearly late then, Rowan!” grumbled Blaketon. “Or nearly early, depending on which way you look at it, serge,” chuckled Nick as he settled down. “But we’ll be in Whitby in good time, well before two o’clock.”
“So long as that Inspector doesn’t get a chance to have a go at us…you know, I’d be far happier staying in Ashfordly, trying to catch that offertory box thief!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, serge,” said Alf. “I do love a good football match, and it’ll do us good, getting out of a rut like this.”
“A rut, Ventress? I don’t regard the policing of Ashfordly as being in a rut! As the officer in charge, I regard it as a major responsibility, far better than wasting time at seaside football matches,” and the car set off.
“Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside,” sang Nick from the rear seat, at which Alf joined in. Soon, they were singing together in a very tuneless way, the familiar strains of “I do like to be beside the seaside, Oh, I do like to be beside the sea. Oh I do like to walk along the prom, prom, prom, tiddly aye, tiddly aye, tiddly pom, pom, pom!”
“Shut up, you noisy shower,” bellowed Blaketon. “I can’t hear myself think above that racket and besides, I can’t hear the official radio. We might just get a check call from the new Inspector and if she hears that racket. We are on duty, you know. Ashfordly section at its finest! You make me wonder what the worst would be like!”
They lapsed into silence as Sergeant Blaketon guided them across the wild expanse of the North York Moors and across the picturesque summit of Blue Bank above Sleights with its expansive views towards the coast. Nick never ceased to admire the splendid panorama as they continued their way to Whitby Town’s cliff-top football ground. When they arrived, Inspector Murchison, forbidding and unsmiling, was waiting.
She stood outside the high fence which surrounded the ground, hands behind her back and feet apart, as she watched the shining car ease to a halt at the kerbside. Sergeant Blaketon, muttering to his crew “Best behaviour, you lot!” put on his cap, brushed flecks of imaginary dust from his uniform with his hands, and then climbed out. He flung up a smart salute as he said,
“Ashfordly contingent present and correct, ma’am!”
Nick and Alf followed suit, each saluting the stolid figure of the woman Inspector. She looked at her watch.
“Nice timing, sergeant,”
she said. “You’re ten minutes early. But I’ll brief you all now. No time like the present, eh? So, line up against this fence.”
They obeyed and shuffled into position, like a guard of honour at a national monument. As they were preparing for her inspection, small groups of Whitby Town supporters were heading for the entrance and shouting “Up the Blues” as they waved their blue and white scarves. But Inspector Murchison ignored their presence as she said, “Right, Sergeant Blaketon and the Ashfordly contingent, these are your duties. I want no fighting, no litter, no swearing in a public place, no drinking alcohol in the street, no undue noise…”
Alf Ventress grinned.
“Are you referring to us or the public, ma’am?”
“And I want no frivolity from police officers on duty, PC Ventress!” was her cutting response. “We want no complaints from the public, especially those who live near the ground, and I want no grumbles about our service to the public. In every respect, gentlemen, this will be an orderly football match.”
She paused and looked at each in turn, daring them to contradict or disobey her.
“Now,” she said. “Your duties. You are all on street car parking and bus parking duties. Streets are allocated for parking. This is one such street and I want you to ensure that all vehicles are correctly parked and that there is no obstruction to other traffic.”
Alf Ventress spoke again. “Does this mean we won’t see the match, ma’am? We can’t, if we’re outside the ground.”
“That’s right, PC Ventress. You are on duty outside the ground, and sergeant?”
“Ma’am?” replied Blaketon.
“You are in charge of these officers, outside the ground.”
Sergeant Blaketon was resigned to this and simply said, “Yes, ma’am, whatever you say. So where will you be, should I need to contact you?”
“I shall be inside the ground, sergeant, for most of the time, that is. I may also tour the streets, just as a precaution you understand, to make sure things are going smoothly. But I do enjoy a good football match, sergeant.”
And with that, she walked away. Blaketon did not see the quiet smile of success on her face.
CHAPTER VIII
For the Ashfordly contingent of police officers, the football match between Crook and Whitby Town was extremely boring, even if it was a cup tie. Sergeant Blaketon, Alf Ventress and Nick had parked all their coaches and cars in the designated streets without any problems and the fans were all inside the ground, now the responsibility of other officers.
There was nothing to do until the fans began to disperse after the match but even so, Blaketon’s men had not been allowed into the ground. From their position outside, they could see nothing of the game. A high wooden fence, without any viewing holes, stood between them and the match and their only indication of progress was the noise of the crowd. But even that was not very informative. No-one emerged from the ground to update them on progress, and the shouts and cheers gave no indication of the strength of either team.
The only knowledge they had was that, by half-time, neither side had scored. That gem of information came from a newspaper seller who was leaving to collect a further supply of Evening Gazettes for sale to the crowd as they departed.
It was while hanging about, getting progressively more bored with the inactivity, that Nick realised Alf had vanished. Somehow, he had just faded from the scene — Nick guessed he’d slipped away for a crafty smoke somewhere, or a cup of tea.
Apparently, Sergeant Blaketon hadn’t noticed Alfs disappearing trick, so, to protect Alf wherever he was, Nick tried to keep the sergeant engaged in conversation.
“I wonder how Phil’s playing?” he tried to think of something sensible to say to the sergeant.
“Not very well, Rowan, if the score’s anything to go by,” retorted Sergeant Blaketon. “It’s not a very stimulating game if you ask me!”
“Well, it’s still nil-nil,” observed Nick. “So Phil’s teammates are containing Crook. They haven’t lost yet, so Phil must be doing something worthwhile.”
“He’s either chasing balls or chasing women,” mused Blaketon. “His mind should be on higher things, Rowan, like swotting for his promotion exam or studying criminology.”
“Give him time, serge, he’s not worried about his career prospects just yet.”
“I hope you’re thinking of promotion, Rowan, it’s not much fun being a constable all through your career, you’ve always got too many people telling you what to do. You need to get a step on the ladder of success, Rowan, think of your self-esteem, your career, aim for two pips on your shoulder or a splash of scrambled egg around the peak of your cap.”
“Yes, sergeant,” smiled Nick. “I don’t aim to be a constable all my life.”
“So do your job to the best of your ability and don’t get into trouble, Rowan. Which reminds me, my enquiries around Ashfordly show that your wife recently bought a screwdriver. From the ironmongers. A large screwdriver, Rowan.”
“That’s right, serge, with a three-eighths blade. I needed it to do some work on my MG, there was a stubborn screw in a bracket that had to come off.”
“And you ride a motor cycle, Rowan?”
“I do, serge.” Nick was puzzled by Blaketon’s sudden switch of conversation. What had all this to do with promotion examinations and career prospects?
Blaketon pursed his lips and looked steadily at Nick.
“I am thinking of good policemen, Rowan, policemen who would never commit a breach of the police regulations, let alone commit a crime.”
“A crime, sergeant?”
“I am thinking of those offertory box thefts, Rowan. The suspect uses a three-eighths screwdriver and arrives at the scene on a motor cycle, by all accounts…”
“Sergeant! God! You don’t suspect me, do you? I mean, I’m not a criminal, serge…I mean…well, Kate didn’t get that screwdriver till yesterday anyway, those boxes have been raided over the past few weeks
“I know, Rowan, I’m not for one moment suggesting you are a criminal, nor am I suggesting that you have been raiding those boxes. But, like lots of other people, I have been examining the evidence and the evidence does show that the raider is a person with a three-eighths screwdriver and a motor bike. If you see what I mean!”
“But surely people don’t suspect me, serge?” Nick was horrified at the thought.
“No, but I think it might be in your own interest to find out who else has got such a screwdriver, and rides a motor cycle, don’t you?”
“I see what you mean, serge.”
“And Inspector Murchison is putting pressure on to get these crimes detected, Rowan! Need I say more?”
“You had me worried then, serge!” breathed Nick.
“And now I intend to get Ventress worried. Where is he, Rowan? He’s skiving somewhere, I’ll bet, he’ll have sneaked away to have a crafty drag at those ghastly cigarettes of his. They smell like old socks, Rowan, and old socks worn by very old policemen on very old beats in very old boots.”
Nick glanced around but could see no sign of Alf.
“Sorry, serge, but I’ve no idea where he is.”
Blaketon began to stroll along the line of cars which were now parked along the street. Midway along, almost hidden by the other vehicles, was Blaketon’s official car and there, seated in the rear, was the contented Alf Ventress. He had his knapsack on his knee and a teacloth spread across his uniform trousers as he was preparing to enjoy a snack.
A flask of tea stood on the floor; it was already opened and Alf had a pair of hard-boiled eggs in his hands. One was in each fist and he was about to crack them together to break the shells when Blaketon opened the door and poked his head inside.
“Don’t you dare, Ventress!” he bellowed. “Not in my clean car…you are supposed to be on duty, not using my highly polished, dirt free, non-smoking official motor car as a mobile canteen!”
“But there’s nothing to do, serge! We’ve done the parking, those cars and b
uses will get away without us worrying about them.”
“We are here because Inspector Murchison has ordered us to be here, Ventress. Orders are orders. We are not paid to think, that’s the job of somebody else. Now, get out of my car, clean up that mess, and get back to your post.”
Alf looked at the two eggs.
“Serge, we should be going home, we’re wasting time here.”
“Ventress, orders are orders. Out. Now!”
“If you say so, sergeant,” and Alf reluctantly replaced the eggs, put the lid back on his flask and returned everything to the knapsack. Then he clambered out and put on his helmet. As Blaketon walked back to his original position near the tall fence, he said, “Ventress, you are the senior constable in Ashfordly section and so, to stop your boredom, I’m going to give you some responsibility.”
“Really, sergeant?” Alf looked puzzled.
“I am going to undertake a short supervisory patrol of the neighbouring streets, Ventress, to check on parking in readiness for the outflow of vehicles. I am going to leave you in charge of this stretch of the road. You may now rejoin PC Rowan.”
“Oh, very good, sergeant.”
And as Alf continued forward to rejoin Nick for a further period of inactivity, Sergeant Blaketon veered away and marched steadfastly towards the town centre.
“Where’s he going?” asked Nick.
“Search me,” Alf shrugged his shoulders. “He said he was going on a supervisory patrol!”
“I’ll bet he’s going for a cup of tea himself!” grinned Nick. “Crafty old beggar!”
With Blaketon out of the way, Alf decided he would make a recce of the vicinity in the hope there might be somewhere for a smoke or some means of viewing the second half of the match. As he wandered along the fence, he turned across a portion of waste ground with a rough lane running along it; the fence followed the lane for a hundred yards or so and finally, as he walked along, he found a missing plank. It left a gap in the fence — and it provided a wonderful view of the pitch.
“Nick!” he called. “Hey, come here. We can watch the match…I’ll get my flask and sandwiches, we can share the grub while we keep out of the public view…”
Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 7
