POLICE MEMORIES
Author
Bill Williams
This book recently updated, is fiction but inspired by similar real life events.
It is an insight to the working life of British police officers since the 1950`s onwards.
It is not a book of murder or other serious crime but of the everyday incidents the ordinary copper had to deal with.
It reflects a time when the ordinary officers on the beat were known to the local residents and they to them. A time, when officers were high profile on foot patrol, and yes, when required on mobile duties. But not neglecting to stop and chat with those they served.
A Chief Constable commenting on modernisation, said, “There is a limit to which mechanisation can be carried, it is not possible to provide any effective substitute in towns for the policeman on the beat.”
Some years later another said, “The primary task of a police force is to establish and maintain relationships with the public; these could be best achieved by officers working on the beat. The policeman on the beat is one of the most important assets we have.”
It is set in the background of a residential care home. Police Sergeant Claude Friendly an officer of 30 years dedicated police service in the Copton Constabulary finds himself being forced into residential care by unfortunate circumstances.
Whilst there, he relives his past, intertwined with life in the care home.
The story Commences in his youth in the 1950`s, his joining the police, his training during the 1960s and service onwards until his retirement.
The contents reflect, events and incidents that took place nationwide, and to the ordinary citizen and the way in which they were dealt with, almost on a daily basis.
The method of police training, the stories and incidents obtained from many retired officers may seem incredible, but the reader is assured this book is a true reflection of what life was like.
This book contains local slang and phrases which should not be confused with grammatical errors.
All Books are Copyright of
Bill Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrievable system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book was inspired by similar circumstances and events. The places, names and characters are fictitious and
any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
Chapter 1
It was a cold winter’s night, inside the cottage, the log fire was burning heartily the aged and only occupant had been sitting for some time during which period it had become dark outside, a dismal sight only surpassed by the sub zero temperatures. He did not feel like bothering to stand which would necessitate a further burden of walking across the room to switch on the light. Claude had been sitting in the semi darkness, with only the flickering reflections from the hearty log fire to give the effect of semi-darkness for some time.
Eventually the old Grandfather clock struck 11pm causing the now weary occupant to return to reality. He would now have to rise, this was his time to retire for the night, and he enjoyed a fixed routine. As the clock struck the final and eleventh stroke the old man turned and could just make out the date on the clock face 1798. He reflected, since the days of the long passed craftsmen who had fashioned the oak case and engineered the clock workings within, what stories the clock could tell of the people it had seen and the places it had been.
He rose with difficulty, his stiff joints were sending the unnecessary message, he was now old. Unnecessary he thought for there were now many other things he could no longer achieve a daily reminder, old age had definitely arrived. He made his way towards the stairs but having climbed only three steps he realised he had forgotten to secure the door of his garden shed. He turned and made his way across the living room, into the kitchen and finally outside into the cold winter air.
He had taken only three or fours steps when suddenly his world appeared to traverse and then stopped. When his senses returned he realised he must have slipped on a patch of ice. Lying on his back he attempted to get to his feet but was unable to do so. After some moments he realised at least one leg was transfixed under him.
He lived alone; his cottage was isolated, no near neighbours no help was at hand. He lay there wondering how he might alleviate his predicament.
As he lay there alone in the still cold air and the now complete darkness he realised his only hope of assistance was the early morning postman; he was anticipating a delivery, yes that would resolve his situation, the postman.
His shivering appeared to lessen then stop, he became tired his mind was cast back to the many films he had seen when victims in such a predicament as he, died of exposure after experiencing such symptoms. In those Hollywood films the victims were always advised to keep awake, yes that was it he would stay awake, keep talking.
After some time he was running out of daily thoughts to think and talk about so he cast his mind back to his police days and the many stories he had from those days.
There was that strange murder case, yes thought Claude, one like no other and surely now must have been some fifty years ago.
Mary Anderson lived in a very quiet scenic village just outside Copton. She was a lady in her mid thirties, always unkempt in her appearance, with long hair that appeared never to have been brushed or combed, let alone trimmed.
She was a recluse unmarried, had no friends and lived alone in a small terraced house. She had not been employed for several years and existed on state benefit. Her parents and only relatives lived far away in Inverness in Scotland; they saw little of each other. The Government of the day were now encouraging the long term unemployed to participate in the new back to work schemes. Mary had been unfortunate enough to be selected to attend such a course on the scheme.
She was not good at repair work and thus had employed a man named Charlton Edwards to carry out some minor repairs on the old pigsty, now an outside toilet.
Charlton was a loner himself, a labourer by occupation. Surprisingly for his occupation he was an obese man, sporting long hair and beard to match being in his early forties in some ways he was well suited to Mary.
One day Moira and Angus Anderson decided to make a trip south to visit their daughter, Mary. It was an off the cuff visit so they were not surprised to find there was no one at home. It was they thought, strange the house doors were insecure.
They waited some hours, when Mary failed to appear Angus made enquiries with neighbours. He had no success, Mary had not been seen for some weeks but nothing had been thought of it as Mary being a recluse kept herself to herself.
At the end of the day with no trace of their daughter the Andersons visited Copton Police Station reporting Mary as a missing person.
The officer took the details and the couple left for Scotland. Copton Police visited the house and made further enquiries establishing Mary had left home on a residential course in the Midlands.
Enquiries revealed she had been residing at a hostel but had left some weeks ago; her whereabouts were unknown to the staff. The police made many other enquiries from local residents and tradesmen, no trace could be found as to the whereabouts of the missing recluse.
Some days later Moira Anderson was surprised to find amongst the morning mail a post card from Mary, which stated she was on a break in Blackpool. The Andersons were relieved and telephoned Copton Police to inform them all was well.
Several weeks passed and the matter of Mary had been put on the back burner so to speak. It was one Sunday afternoon when the Constable on duty at the front counter at Copton Police station received the strangest
story he would ever be told.
The Andersons arrived at the desk; the officer looked up and said, “Can I help you?”
“You can," replied Moira, "Our daughter is missing and we have found her.”
“What is her name?” Enquired the officer
“Mary Anderson,” replied Reg.
“I don’t bring the name to mind,” replied the Constable “But I will check it out.”
Checks were made and finally the officer returned and said, “Mary Anderson reported missing several months ago, you called to say all was well a postcard was received from her.”
“Yes,” replied Angus, “The thing is she isn’t well.”
The officer asked, “She is not well, but you do know where she is and what her circumstances are?”
Nothing could have prepared him for the next reply Moira was to give him; she replied in what amounted to an incredible narrative.
“I retired last night, I lay in bed and before I went to sleep unusually, I thought of Mary. I then had a dream that Mary was dead, murdered and was buried in the garden at her home.”
“When I woke up this morning I told Angus of the dream and he just laughed. I pestered him until he drove us down here bringing his spade with him. When we arrived I could see Mary in my mind lying in that garden. I said to Angus, dig there.”
“I Dug down just a spades` width, the same as a posthole after a couple of feet I saw this foot, I stopped digging and here we are,” replied Angus.
The officer stood for a moment, then turned and went inside speaking with the sergeant who immediately picked up the telephone, calling to the legendary infamous people in the Police Force, Mr All and Mr Sundry.
The couple were “Invited” inside the main building and seated in an interview room accompanied by a policewoman, as they were known in those days. A detective officer arrived and on asking the couple to repeat their account, he received the same story.
Constable Sid Johnson, the local beat officer for the area was the first on the scene, he knew the area well. He was also conversant with Mary, not to say she had any previous convictions but rather over the years whilst he had been patrolling the area he had seen her from time to time. On occasions he had passed the time of day with her, especially he thought when visiting the local shop for a newspaper.
He stopped his police patrol motorcycle and walked to the centre house in the terrace, number 3, visiting the rear door as investigating officers do and on arriving he discovered the door was insecure. He entered the house looking around; it was crammed with furniture, and hardly room to walk between the items. The table was littered with dirty cups, saucers, plates and cutlery still some remains of food on the table. He saw no sign of any physical disturbance or a struggle of any kind so made his way into the garden which was located some 100 yards away along a path serving several of the houses in the terrace.
Opening the rickety gate he made his way into the large garden, his first thoughts were how on earth anyone could find anything in this place. The garden was very overgrown, measuring about 100 Yards Square. Walking for several minutes he eventually saw a small pile of what appeared to be fresh soil. He walked over to it and sure enough when arrived at the scene, on looking down into the hole he saw what appeared to be the sole of a shoe.
A voice called, “Johnson, have you found anything?”
He looked up and it was his Sergeant, Ron Lawton and the area Inspector, Tom Matthews, they walked over and saw the same sight as him, they looked at each other. The decision for the Inspector was, on this occasion very easy.
“Johnson, touch nothing, stand at the gate over there whilst I will go and update Division, no doubt all the troops will be here very shortly.”
Over the next few hours the area was transformed by the arrival of additional officers. A tent was erected over the original hole, officers were sent to make house-to-house enquiries; others were placed on guard to prevent the press or local sightseers from reaching the area.
Johnson was sent home, not to finish for the day on the contrary, to collect his boots. He knew what was coming; yes his original fears were confirmed. Over the next two days he and his colleagues, all uniform constables of course were working in pairs recovering the body. They commenced some feet away from the actually sight of the discovered foot and gradually spade and bucket full at a time exposed the area.
The position of the body was lying head down on its shoulders with one leg partly raised. It was generally accepted as remarkable that Angus Anderson should have dug down such a small hole and exactly over the foot of his daughter, neither to the left or right of it.
Back at Copton main police station the senior officers arrived faced with a difficult decision to make. The facts as known did not ring true, a dream albeit by a mother several months after a person had gone missing to have had a dream and from this was able to pin point the exact location to the very inch where the remains were concealed.
The inference was a parent or parents had committed the crime, their conscience had pricked them and they had made up the story of the dream and discovery. The vast and over grown location substantiated this.
In view of the ages and relationship of the suspects with the deceased the situation required careful handling. It was decided the parents would be treated as suspects but also as witnesses and not arrested or detained but as “Guests” and boarded in a hotel, with a police “Liaison” officer for support.
Extensive police enquiries were made Mr and Mrs Anderson eventually visited Mary’s cottage in company with the investigating officers and alleged several items were missing. A statement was taken as to the descriptions of the items; this was then circulated to the officers making the day-to-day groundwork enquiries.
A vigilant officer making routine enquiries to one house of many on his list noted an item in a house he had visited and reported the fact. The house was revisited, the item seized and the man arrested and taken into custody. The items were identified as that missing from Mary’s house.
The man was charged and the story the police later revealed was incredible.
He had done work for Mary, she had not paid him, and it was a derisory amount. One evening he had visited her and seeing her in the living room she was reading a newspaper he had crept up on her. He then strangled her and afterwards concealed here body under the kitchen sink; it was the old slop stone sink with a curtain around. After committing the murder and concealing the body he had left the scene for a night’s entertainment at a nightclub in Copton.
Some days later and hearing nothing of the case he had revisited the scene at night finding Mary’s body still lying where he had deposited it. He had then visited the garden; dug a hole found a wheelbarrow then loaded Mary into it, finally tipping her into it. In the darkness he overlooked the raised leg and foot. There was a conviction for the Murder.
The mystery of the dream, it consequences leading to the finding of Mary so explicitly, remained a mystery save to those who believe in dreams.
Thinking of this old and fascinating case Claude eventually dropped off to sleep despite the severe cold.
The Homestead was a new modern Care Home, providing state of the art facilities. It was located in a picturesque setting adjacent to the canal on the outskirts of the village of “Noital,” which in turn was near the town of Copton, described in guide books as a pretty rural and large town combination, boasting a long history dating back to Roman times. It was soon to become the home of a well-known local Personality Claude Friendly a retired Police Officer of some 30 years loyal and dedicated service, so he had convinced himself. Having retired, he had lived a mundane life until an accident or fate; he could never decide which suddenly changed his whole life.
It was 7 am Friday the 13th on a bleak January morning, Ned Edwards a postman in the small village of Newport for over 20 years arrived at Bleak Cottage. Leaning his red post office cycle against the hedge at the front gate he made his way down the slippery path reaching the front
door. Having deposited the mail into the letterbox he turned and on reaching the gate he hesitated, for he felt sure he had heard a cry. After a moments hesitation his initial suspicion was confirmed.
“Hello, is that you Ned?”
He turned once again to face the house, he saw no one, but he was sure he heard the call again and it appeared to originate from the rear of the property, he went to investigate. He saw Claude lying on the floor, his left leg at a distinctly awkward angle. Ned walked over, put down his bag and having made the usual, useless comment, “Are you Ok Claude?” Receiving only a mumble as a reply.
He reached into his coat pocket, after some irritating delay he found his mobile phone and dialled `999` for an Ambulance. He noted Claude was ice cold and an alarming shade of purple, indicating he had been lying outside in the winter elements for some time. Playing the Good Samaritan, Ned went into the house where he saw some coats hanging on a door peg; he lifted them off covering the victim with them in the vain hope of keeping him warm.
He looked at his watch, ten minutes had passed, no sound of an approaching Ambulance. Claude seemed settled he was breathing at least, thought Ned, then realising he needed further help as he would have to continue his round.
He made a further emergency call, the operator answered “Police, Fire, Ambulance.”
He replied, “Police.”
Within moments a female voice answered, “Police emergency is this life or death?”
Ned answered, “This is Ned, a postman from Newport, I have just found an aged man lying outside, and he seems to have been here for some time.”
“Have you called an Ambulance?” was the reply.
“Yes,” said “Ned.”
“Why call the police?” she replied.
“Well,” said Ned, somewhat stunned by her terse attitude.
“When I go, the house needs securing.”
Police Memories Page 1
