Bobby on the Beat

by Pamela Rhodes

  Aliens? My mind boggled at the thought.

  ‘Foreigners, aliens, who are living in Richmond – non-British citizens,’ he said, in response to my stunned expression. ‘We’re to check on a regular basis they are where they say they are.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. Should I say anything to them?’

  ‘You can remind Mr Leonie we need to interview him next week. He knows about it. Just remind him.’

  And off I went, on an official mission, to check on all the aliens in Richmond.

  The first address on the paper was Maria Campanella, 7, Willow Street. That was what PC Carter had called the posh end of town when he showed me the beats. It was a row of big Georgian houses all set back from the road, some with imposing shrubbery and trees hiding the house from the street.

  In the garden of number 7 there was a big fountain, with statues of Pan and Neptune spouting water and laughing. There was even a palm tree, which seemed extraordinarily exotic for Yorkshire. The front door was set between two Roman-style pillars and there was a huge red knocker in the shape of an eagle. I knocked, but I was so nervous and tentative it hardly made a sound. I knocked again, louder, but then this time it was so loud it set some dogs to barking in the house.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ said a woman’s voice from within. ‘Pascale, Benedict, do shut up,’ she said to the dogs who were whining at the door.

  A sixty-something woman opened up, quite glamorous-looking, in a peacock blue jumper and pearls, her hair set in a pristine bowl of red curls.

  ‘Yes,’ she said rather curtly, holding two giant Red Setters by the collars.

  ‘Morning. I’m here to enquire about …’ I looked down at the list, ‘Maria Campanella? Is she here? We’re just checking on … and she’s …’

  ‘I’m too busy for all this. We’re having a dinner here tonight. The mayor. Lord Tranton will be home any minute and I don’t want to attract attention with the police. So if you don’t mind …’

  She went to close the door, but I persisted.

  ‘Please. If you don’t mind, I have got a job to do. Please. Just confirm that Maria is still here.’

  I wasn’t sure where this unexpected burst of confidence came from, but it seemed to work.

  ‘Fine. She’s here.’

  At that moment, Maria herself came to the door, concerned by the noise.

  ‘Lady Tranton, is everything … ?’

  ‘Yes, girl. You just get back to work. Never mind all this.’

  Maria was a very thin, pretty young girl of about twenty-two. I wondered how she had ended up in Richmond working for Lady Tranton. I knew there were some Italian families who had been prisoners of war and stayed on. Perhaps her father had been a POW.

  Maria hardly said a word, she just half smiled and confirmed to me that yes, that was her name. It was clear she was where she was supposed to be, so I said goodbye, to deter any further trouble from her boss.

  The next location couldn’t have been more different. At the other end of town, by the train station, was a small garage, run by a couple of brothers, Max and Fred Dent. Max was incredibly tall and thin and never spoke but seemed to do most of the work, and Fred was short, stout and talked all the time, as fast as a moving train, but seemed to do very little.

  Max, the taller, silent brother, was meticulously polishing the wing mirrors of a large silver Bentley when I arrived, while Fred was barking into the telephone.

  ‘Well, it could take several days, weeks even, to get those parts, sir. Yes, she’s in fine shape,’ he went on. ‘All I’m saying is, we want to do the best job possible. It might cost … a little more, is all. I know you need the vehicle. I am aware of that fact. But this is hard times, sir. Since the war it’s been damn nigh impossible to get hold of parts. All I can say is we’ll do our utmost. Now I have to go. I have a visitor. Yes, sir. Goodbye, sir.’ An angry voice could be heard on the other end of the line as he slammed the phone down.

  ‘Blessed politicians, think they own the place! He doesn’t even live in Richmond. Holiday home, would you believe? Ooh, sorry, miss, didn’t see you there. What can I do you for?’

  ‘Mr … Dent?’ I deduced, looking up at the Dent Brothers sign above his head.

  The garage forecourt had a small petrol pump and a little shed, where another man was at work on the Bentley, and next to that was the little office where the telephone was situated.

  ‘I’m here to check on one of your employees, a Mr Leonie? Is he present?’

  ‘FRANK!’ he shouted, and made me jump almost out of my shoes. ‘A young lady to see you. A police lady.’ He put a knowing emphasis on the word lady both times.

  A man emerged from underneath the Bentley, put down the spanner he was holding and wiped his hands on a rag in his pocket. He was wearing blue overalls, and had a large grease smear across his face, and a shock of black hair and deep brown eyes.

  ‘Francesco Leonie?’ I asked, holding my notebook to make it all seem a little more official.

  ‘Yes. But they call me Frank. But then what can you do, eh?’ His English was good, but he had a strong Italian accent.

  Again, I wondered how and why he had chosen to stay in Yorkshire. He was older than Maria, about twenty-eight, so perhaps he had been a young prisoner of war himself. He was very handsome and seemed quite exotic and dashing compared to the lads I was familiar with in Scarborough.

  ‘I just need you to confirm your name, and I’ll tick you off as all present and correct,’ I said, attempting a bit of lighthearted banter. ‘Oh, and Sergeant Hardcastle says not to forget you’re to be interrogated next week. But he says you know about it.’

  ‘Interviewed,’ he said, the smile vanishing from his face. ‘Not interrogated. I think is the word you’re looking for.’

  ‘Yes, so sorry. I don’t know what I meant. I mean, yes, interviewed. Of course, sorry!’

  Perhaps the war had done funny things to our perception of these so-called aliens.

  ‘Don’t panic. I don’t hold the resentments for long. Not for young lady police ladies anyway,’ he smiled again and I hoped I was forgiven for my mistake.

  I wanted to ask Francesco all about his life in Italy. How he felt about ending up here in Richmond, and what his family did back home. But for now I just said, ‘Good. Well, I’ll let you get back to your job. Thanks again. Thanks, Mr Dent, and Mr Dent.’

  I practically ran down the lane back to the station, quite relieved it was all over.

  Being in rural North Riding meant my duties as an officer were many and varied. One minute I might be helping someone across the road, and the next sitting in on an interview with a lady of the night, or going down to check on someone in the cells. You never knew what would come round the corner.

  One of my first encounters with farming life in Richmond had been being chased by Bertie the bullock into a phone box on my first day. Once we had recovered from our shock, Farmer Joe had managed to get the beast tethered. I was in a hurry to get to work for inspection, so he led the animal back up the hill to his farm alone; I hadn’t seen him since. After a few weeks, that first day had begun to seem like a distant dream, until one morning when the Inspector came in with a job for me.

  ‘You’ve heard of swine fever?’

  ‘I think so, sir. A kind of animal flu, isn’t it? Affecting pigs.’

  ‘Yes. And it’s on the increase so we need to be vigilant. Farmer … what’s his name? … McGregor? He’s got some new animals, and I need you to go and check he’s keeping the pigs separate. That’s so if there is any illness it won’t spread through the whole lot of them.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied and put on my greatcoat. There was an autumnal chill in the air and the leaves were starting to fall. I was actually looking forward to a nice walk out of town and being able to take in some more of the local scenery.

  The great, swirling River Swale curved round the edge of the town, and in pride of place on the hill sat the castle, as it had for hundreds of years, w
atching over Richmond. I walked out of town, up the lane towards the farm, past a herd of cows grazing. And next to them, in his own field, was Bertie the bullock, nostrils flaring, pacing up and down like a sentinel. He looked even bigger than I remembered and I shivered slightly at the memory of our last encounter.

  The ground was wet as I trudged up the lane to the farmhouse and my lace-up police shoes, soon thick with mud, seemed woefully inadequate. Over the brow of the hill I saw Farmer Joe, strategically carrying two buckets of water that swished from side to side, miraculously without spilling a drop. He was a thin, wiry man with wispy, grey hair and a pointy nose, but strong-looking arms and the rough and ready skin of someone who has spent a lifetime outside.

  I wasn’t sure he recognized me at first and I felt quite out of place in my smart uniform, tunic, skirt and coat, slushing about in the mud against this rural backdrop. As I approached, a gaggle of geese marched past, followed by some chickens who seemed to think they were also geese, all being surreptitiously followed by a raggedy black cat in stealthy pursuit.

  ‘Joe!’ I shouted up the lane, as he shuffled along with his buckets. ‘How’s Bertie? Has he recovered from his ordeal?’

  ‘You again? What are you doing up here? I remember you. That animal is twice the size and ten times as heavy at least. How he didn’t knock you over flat I’ll never know.’ Joe spoke with a smile as he put the buckets down. ‘Are you here to check on him then?’ he asked, his grey whiskers twitching. ‘For he’s back there, in that field. You just passed him. He’s right as rain now. Fine animal. Best few pounds I ever spent that was.’

  ‘No. I’m not here about Bertie, though he is looking lovely. I hear you’ve some new pigs. And I need to check you’re keeping them all separate.’

  ‘Oh, the pigs, is it? Yes, we’ve got some new ’uns. Beauties. Pink as the soles of a bairn’s feet and healthy too. No need to check on them. They’re right all right,’ he said proudly.

  ‘I’m sure they’re wonderful, but I do need to check all the same. You know, regulations,’ I said.

  ‘Well. I suppose a job’s a job. That’s what the police seems to do these days. Check on this and that. No offence. But that’s the way it is now, I suppose. Not like in my day, when we was left to get on with it. Well, you might as well come in. The wife’ll make some tea, if you’re lucky.’

  So I followed Joe up the track and to the little stone cottage where the pair lived and we reminisced about the day with Bertie and the phone box. Joe and his wife had never had any children, so they had to run the farm on their own, with some seasonal help from some of the local lads.

  There was an air of sad decay about the place as we walked past the old cowshed and up to the little stone cottage, which had most of the slates missing from the roof and several cracked windows. There were a variety of farming tools scattered about the place and some old rusting tractors in varying states of disrepair.

  ‘I don’t have a moment to fix anything these days. And what with the arthritis, and the wife’s hernia … We’ll probably be the last generation to run a farm here, before some rich banker buys it up as his holiday home, I don’t wonder.’

  We went into the cottage through a tiny wooden door; we both had to duck to get in. Three mongrel dogs came bounding over, their tongues lolling out. One only had three legs but had worked out a miraculous way of running even faster than the other two.

  ‘We rescued that one. Well, the wife did. She’s soft for puppies. Abandoned in the river. She came home with him one day. Didn’t you, love?’

  As we entered the little kitchen, Mrs McGregor was at the sink, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes.

  ‘Didn’t I what?’

  ‘Found our Caspar. In the river.’

  ‘Oh, such a sorry-looking thing. All pink like a little squashed piglet. Hardly any fur on him at all. Now look at him. You can’t hold him back.’

  Caspar ran round and round in circles, trying to catch his tail. I wondered what he’d do with it if he ever did.

  ‘What can we do for you, anyway?’ asked Mrs McGregor.

  ‘She’s come to check on the pigs. But I think she’d much prefer a nice cuppa. Don’t you?’

  I felt bad for noticing, but I almost had to hold my breath to avoid being sick as I sat at the table. There was a distinctly sour smell, possibly emanating from the several dead rabbits and the pheasant hanging from the doorway to the larder. Then again, I also noticed quite a gathering of flies were congregating around a hollow sheep’s head on the table, the wool still on it.

  ‘Dinner, that is. Joe can’t get enough of a bit of sheep’s head.’

  A fly settled on my arm and rubbed its legs together. I brushed it away, but then another two immediately took its place, so I soon gave up and let them go about their business.

  ‘Do you take sugar, love?’ asked Mrs McGregor, waddling over with a tray, some cups and the teapot. ‘We haven’t got much but you’d be welcome. And you must try one of these jam tarts. Joe loves them. Don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, aye, she makes the best jam tarts this side of the Great North Road, and no denying that. Damsons fresh from up the woods.’

  ‘I’m not as nimble as I used to be, though,’ she said. ‘Hernia. Like a couple of old cart horses, almost beyond their working life, aren’t we?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’ve got a few years in us yet.’

  Mrs McGregor placed a plate on the table in front of me, and several flies swooped down gleefully from all directions towards the glistening confectionery.

  ‘Oh, thank you. But really I couldn’t eat a thing.’ I was actually starving hungry, but the sight of all those flies had quite turned my stomach.

  When I think back now I feel bad, because they were probably living close to the bread line on that farm, and their hospitality was generous and kindly meant. Farming was becoming increasingly difficult, especially for a family with no children to help out.

  After the tea, which I had to admit was tasty, Joe showed me down to the shed and his new pigs.

  ‘Aren’t they beauties?’ he said, leaning on the fence. ‘I got them at market, for a song,’ he explained as we looked over into the pig pen.

  The animals came grunting over to him and rubbed their prickly pink backs against the side of the fence. I leant over and stroked one on the nose.

  ‘They look like they’re smiling, don’t they? I never name them, though. Only Bertie. Otherwise you’d get too attached to let ’em go. If you know what I mean.’

  As I ruffled the pig’s snout it rolled over onto its back and looked as though it was about to burst out laughing.

  ‘She likes you,’ Joe said, and looked around affectionately at the animals on his farm. ‘So you see, these girls are kept quite separate from the others.’ He pointed next door to another pen, where some much larger pigs were lounging about, caked in mud, flies buzzing around their faces. A small sparrow had even sat on one of the pigs’ heads; it didn’t move an inch, even when the pig stretched and rolled over.

  I made a note in my pocketbook that I’d seen the pigs, with the time and date, and, satisfied, I bade my goodbyes to the farmer and his wife. As I walked away, they stood arm in arm and waved me off down the hill. I had a sense that they didn’t see many visitors and were a little sad to see me go. They carried on waving until I had rounded the corner, out of sight. The last thing I heard Farmer Joe say to his wife, as I departed, was: ‘She’s no’ but a lass’.

  I may have been ‘no’ but a lass’, but the next case I was to encounter would be a lot more shocking than some pigs on a farm and a few flies.

  5

  When I had first got my Stone’s Justices’ Manual as a trainee, all those months before, I remember the page falling open on the definition of ‘incest’, but I never thought I’d encounter it for real. It turned out life was never boring for long in Richmond, and just when I thought I’d be stuck in the station all day, Sergeant Hardcastle came in with the Inspector. They had been in
deep and serious discussions in the office all morning and, when they emerged, the Sergeant called me over.

  ‘You’ve been here a few weeks now, and you’ve shown you’ve got your wits about you, Rhodes. I need you to accompany me on something of a sensitive matter. A suspected case of incest. With a young girl. Twelve years old.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, trying not to sound too shocked.

  ‘Yes. It’s not a pretty story, by any means. The Inspector’s just been filling me in on the details. Her father, it looks like. So we’re to interview the mother. Not sure where he is, but we’re trying to trace him now. She’s a Mrs Taylor, but no sign of a Mr Taylor at that address.’

  We took the station car. We only had one car so it was a bonus if we got to use it and didn’t have to take the bus or train. There were no seatbelts in those days, so we slid about in the seats as we went round all the windy country lanes. I was struck by the contrast between the beauty of the fields and hills around us and the possible severity of the case we were about to investigate.

  The address the Sergeant had scribbled on a piece of paper turned out to be in a neighbouring village, among a huddle of neat cottages. As we walked to the door I noticed a gnome in the garden, holding a wheelbarrow. A woman answered the door. She had long black hair, and a flowing skirt made of a kind of exotic satin, with a swirling print across the front; quite different from the fashion of the time.

  ‘Mrs Taylor? Do you know why we’re here?’

  ‘Yes. I think so,’ said the woman, reluctant to open the door fully.

  ‘It’s in relation to your husband. May we come in?’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. I’m all over the place today.’

  Mrs Taylor showed us through into the living room, where two young girls sat together on the sofa, darning some socks. They were softly chattering to one another and didn’t look up when we came in. Mrs Taylor signalled for them to leave the room, which they did only after some persuading. When the girls had gone, Mrs Taylor looked us both full in the face.