“Thanks, we’re off to attend to it. Don’t alarm them.”
Twenty yards farther along the road Sergeant Bairstow halted and it is prudent to recall that this was long before the days when policemen had radio sets and motorcars. Our assets were two feet each, and our problem was that the two buildings in question were at least a mile from each other.
“We’ll check the Youth Club first, together. It’s the most likely to be done,” he advised.
The decision made, we hurried along the narrow streets to the building which housed the Youth Club. It had once been a school and was perched on a patch of land adjoining the river which twisted through Eltering. It was a tall building of Victorian bricks and boasted a lot of attics, staircases, roof windows and hidden corners. It was surrounded on three sides by a high brick wall, inside which was an area once used as a playground. Now it was marked with lines for a multitude of ball-games. The fourth side abutted the river, from which entrance on foot was impossible.
If the burglars were in here how had they entered?
The door into the yard was locked, so I had to climb over the wall. As it was over ten feet high I had to get a ‘leg-up’ from Sergeant Bairstow, but in no time I was perched on top and faced a long drop into the yard beneath. I lowered myself gently and dropped the final feet, striking the concrete well below street level. I was now alone in the enclosed area and moved gently across the yard, seeking indications of felonious persons. I tried the two doors which led into the buildings — there was not a sign of a break-in. The place was in darkness and was secure. I shone my torch on all the windows — all were locked and not one was broken.
Somehow Charlie Bairstow had clambered to the top of the wall and sat astride it, shining his torch on to all the roof windows, the roof lights and other likely places of entry. Nothing. It seemed this place was secure.
“I’ll check the river side,” I said. This meant inching my way along the side of the premises, through a narrow alley full of old bottles, leaves and tins, until I found myself peering over a high wall above the river. And there, moored to the wall, was a small rowing-boat. It was empty and parked on a patch of thick black mud.
My heart began to thump. They were here, inside, right now, if we could surround the building we’d get them!
I shone my torch along the wall and found a likely place of entry — a window set high in the riverside wall. I could just see it if I stood precariously on the wall, hanging on to a tree and leaning out across the exposed mud. But that window was not broken, nor was it open. I could even see the catch — it was locked. Maybe they’d got inside and closed the window to conceal their presence?
I ran back to Sergeant Bairstow and whispered to him.
“There’s a rowing-boat down there,” I said. “It’s tucked into the bank, just below a window, but the window is locked.”
“I’m coming down,” and he lowered himself gingerly into the yard. After I had showed him the stationary vessel we both checked every inch of that building and found not a solitary indication of felonious entry. Wherever possible we shone our lights through ground-floor windows, but never saw any indication of villainy.
“That boat’s got nothing to do with it,” he announced. “I’m sure of that. It’ll be a club boat, a privately-owned one even. Nothing to worry about.”
“Let’s get the key-holder out,” I suggested, wondering how we were going to climb out of the yard. The wall was far too high.
“Ring the office from the kiosk up the street,” he said. “Tell them to get the key-holder out and come here as fast as possible. Meanwhile, we’ll check the Youth Hostel. I’m convinced the burglars aren’t here.”
In spite of the boat I had to agree. We managed to climb out of the yard by teetering along the riverside wall and into the back garden of a neighbouring house. From there we tiptoed into the street via the garden path. Before leaving, we made a final check, but came away satisfied that not a solitary window or door had been burgled. That Youth Club was as safe as Fort Knox.
“It’s a queer job,” he said for no apparent reason as we turned for a final look at the deserted building. I felt it was offering us a challenge; was the felon inside, laughing at us? If he was he must have gone through the roof.
“Come along,” Charlie Bairstow said. “Youth Hostel next. I wonder if that telephone operator was imagining things?”
In a very isolated position, the Youth Hostel was known to have cash on the premises, in addition to food and drink. It presented a very likely target, so we hurried about our business. It stood near the castle, about a mile out of town and this meant a long, panting hike through the streets. With Sergeant Bairstow puffing and panting, we both climbed through narrow alleys to the long, low-roofed building. It had once been a row of miners’ homes, and had long since been converted into a youth hostel of considerable charm.
It was in total darkness. Like the Youth Club it was difficult for two of us to surround it, so we each went a different way, each creeping around the peaceful spot. We examined doors, windows and other points of possible entry. I found nothing insecure, and met Sergeant Bairstow heading towards me.
“Nothing, Sergeant. It looks secure.”
“So does my half,” he said. “Test mine, and I’ll do yours.”
And so both of us concluded a complete tour of the Youth Hostel without finding any insecurities. There was no trace of felonious entry. Our next task, to be completely certain, was to rouse the warden.
She was a fierce lady of indeterminate age and sex, but, considering we knocked her from her slumbers about one o’clock in the morning, she was surprisingly affable. When she had learned of our business we were invited inside; there we searched the office and examined the entire building, including the safe. And the telephone was still on its stand. This place hadn’t been burgled. So it must be the Youth Club.
We declined her cup of tea saying our inquiry had taken a turn for the urgent, and hurried back into town. My legs were aching after the variety of exercises they had recently endured, and Sergeant Bairstow was panting like ‘a broken winded gallower’, as we say in North Yorkshire. Before long, we were back at the dark and brooding Youth Club. The key-holder hadn’t arrived yet.
“I’ll check again,” so I ventured down the neighbouring garden path and along the wall which bordered the river. And I noticed the boat had vanished!
“Sarge!” I called, ignoring the need for caution. “Sarge, here!”
He came panting to the wall top and I worried momentarily for his safety as I pointed to the vacant space.
“That boat’s gone,” I said stupidly.
“We’ve missed ’em,” he sounded very sad. “You know, Nicholas, I’ve never caught a ’breaker red-handed in my whole career. And I could have tonight, eh? And they were there all the bloody time… How did they get in? It must have been a duplicate key job.”
As we discussed that and other possibilities I heard the sound of a large key in the lock of the gate which led into the yard, and I went with lighted torch to greet the key-holder. Sergeant Bairstow followed. A small meek man wearing a sweater and old slacks entered and blinked as our lights picked out his pale face.
“I’m Sergeant Bairstow,” said Charlie.
“Mr Woolley,” he said. “Youth Leader. They said it might be burglars.”
“We think so,” and the sergeant outlined the story. Nervously Mr Woolley approached one of the doors and inserted his key. It opened with a slight squeak and he stood back to let us in. I entered, followed by a tired Sergeant Bairstow, while Mr Woolley came a shaky third, putting on the lights. He led us to the office — sure enough, the telephone had been knocked from its stand and was still dangling at the end of its wire. The desk drawer had been forced and all the cash taken, together with other valuables like drink, cigarettes and sweets. It had been a thorough raid.
Mr Woolley sank to the floor and sighed heavily, while Bairstow cried, “God! We’ll cop it for this… We cou
ld have had them. I could have caught them…”
I was curious to know how they’d got in, and began a tour of the brightly lit place, seeking the point of entry. And I found it. I found a staircase which led from the centre of the club and twisted high towards other floors, four flights in all. Each landing had a tiny window and one of those had been broken; entry had been via this point, and I realised it was impossible to see it from ground level. It opened across a hollow in the roof and was totally invisible from below.
I wondered how they’d reached that point from the boat, for there was no drainpipe at that side of the building. They must have been human flies.
The outcome of our faux pas was that the CID were called in. They came to fingerprint the place, including the telephone, which was eventually replaced on its stand. A check by Mr Woolley showed that some £32 had been stolen, in addition to food and drinks worth about £9. I told the detective sergeant about the boat and he smiled, saying, “Crafty sods, eh? Coming in boat? Can you describe it, Nick?”
“Just a small rowing-boat,” I said. I hadn’t noticed its colour or anything else about it, except that it was small, perhaps a two-seater. I did remember seeing a small quantity of water in its bottom and told him that.
“We’ll run a check on all boats,” he promised.
And so we adjourned. We searched the town for signs of burglars wandering about, and I checked all the riverside boats to see if I recognised the one they’d used. I didn’t. Finally I went to bed, tired and upset that we’d missed the villains. When I came on duty the following night I found a note from the detective sergeant. It simply said, “Check the Youth Club again — we’re still interested in that boat.”
I wondered if this indicated information that they might return? CID intelligence must have unearthed some reliable gen. I might catch them red-handed this time! Accordingly, I journeyed to Eltering and made it my business to check the Youth Club once more, very, very thoroughly. I tiptoed through the neighbour’s garden as before and once again crept along the riverside wall.
My heart leapt!
It was there. Lying low in the water was the boat in exactly the same position as last night, and my heart was beating so violently that I felt it would disturb the burglars. I then realised that if the burglars were expected, the CID would have arranged a reception party.
They were probably inside too, waiting…
I shone my torch on the boat. It was a battered old craft, now that I began to examine it more carefully. And that damp patch in the middle… it was mud! Just like the surrounding mud of the river bed, now exposed. It had a massive hole in the bottom. It was derelict. It could never float in a million years, and couldn’t have sailed anywhere this century!
And high tide was coming in…
Even this far inland the river was tidal, and with a sinking heart I realised what had happened. In the time we’d been at the Youth Hostel, the water had risen a few inches, sufficient to cover the wrecked boat.
So they hadn’t burgled by boat.
They must have simply climbed over the wall, shinned up a drain-pipe and broken in through that lofty hidden window. And it wasn’t a dwelling-house either, so it couldn’t be classed as burglary.
We wrote it down as office-breaking, but the typist misspelt it as officer-creaking. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake?
In very erudite terms the detective sergeant told me to be more careful with my observations in the future and Sergeant Bairstow was instructed to keep a tight eye on local towns and villages at night. I knew the senior ranks weren’t very happy about our detection rate and did not want a repeat of the Youth Club fiasco. Sergeant Bairstow considered it his duty to teach the constables under his wing something of crime prevention techniques. He taught me how to walk in the shadows, to check suspicious vehicles, to note the movements of suspicious people and to record a host of other minutiae, any one of which could be instrumental in detecting a crime.
Charlie Bairstow became very burglar-conscious and persuaded the Crime Prevention Department to play its part. Together we advised shopkeepers and householders about leaving windows ajar, especially those on the ground floor, and we reminded them not to leave newspapers protruding from letterboxes, or allow full milk bottles to remain on the doorsteps for days. We described them all as invitations to burglars.
One of Sergeant Bairstow’s pet themes was ‘keys hanging on string’. If he had a favourite ‘don’t’ this was it. He would preach the gospel at schools and Women’s Institutes, for it was a very common practice by householders to leave the door key hanging on a piece of string behind the letterbox. How easy it is for the burgling gentleman to locate and use; Sergeant Bairstow failed to understand why intelligent people left their keys for burglars in this fashion. Lots did it, and lots got burgled. It was his antagonism to this practice that caused us a slight problem one night.
I was walking down Partridge Hill in Eltering, intent on checking an office block at the bottom, when I espied Sergeant Bairstow waiting for me. He stood beneath a lamp standard and smiled warmly as I approached.
“All correct, Sergeant,” I assured him.
“You’ve not checked those offices yet?”
“They’re next on my list, Sergeant.”
“Then tell me what you see wrong, Nicholas.”
I checked the door at the entrance and it was locked. All the ground-floor windows were also locked. The place seemed impregnable. Then I recalled his current obsession about keys on string and glanced at the front door. The letterbox was standing open; in fact, it was non-existent and in its place was a large, oblong hole through which letters were pushed. It was high in the door in a vertical position, like a large figure ‘l’ in the centre panel. And behind I could see a piece of string. I smiled.
“This, Sergeant?”
“Well done, lad. Good observation, you know. Yes, now that is a foolish example, isn’t it? We just lift out the string…” and he hooked his forefinger behind it and hauled about three feet out. A Yale key dangled from the end. Smiling at the success of this practical tutorial, he said, “and we fit it into the lock.”
Sure enough it worked. The key was clearly shared by all the users of the premises, for the door swung open. We went inside to check that burglars had not done likewise. The interior boasted half a dozen locked doors, and upstairs was a similar arrangement. These doors led into small offices rented from the owner of the building, and every office was secure. None the less, he had a valid point. A breaker-in could lurk inside, securely hidden from the outside world, as he carried out a furtive raid on one of the offices.
When we had been right round the internal route we returned to the front door. He paused and said, “We’ll remove it, for safety,” and with no more ado Sergeant Bairstow untied the string from its hook above the letterbox and said, “We’ll fix it to the bottom.”
A large screw protruded at the bottom end of the letterbox gap, and he carefully tied the string to it, saying, “This’ll prevent it being noticed so easily.” He left the key dangling inside the door, but its lifeline was now safely concealed from the outside world. We left and I slammed the door. The office block was now secure.
I was about three strides away when I realised, with horror, what we’d done.
“Sergeant,” I called, halting abruptly.
“Yes?”
“They can’t get in now, can they?”
“They can, they know where the key is. The burglars don’t.”
“But they can’t reach it. It’s hanging below the letterbox and it’s impossible to put a hand through that small gap to get hold of the string.”
He stood in silence for a few moments, and then said, “Oh, bloody hell!”
We examined the door. Sure enough, the gap was there but it was far too small to accommodate anyone’s fist, let alone a policeman’s. No one could reach that office key. I visualised lots of irate office workers tomorrow morning, all hammering on their door or ringing the Superinte
ndent to complain about interfering policemen. Try as we might we could not reach that string.
“Oh, bloody hell!” he said again. “What can we do?”
“We need a bit of wire,” I suggested. “A stiff bit to hook it out.”
“I know where we can find some.”
He led off at a fast trot and we were soon tramping around the backyard of an electrical contractor’s premises where scrap of all kinds abounded. His torch eventually located a length of thick wire about eighteen inches long. It was pliable enough to bend, yet strong enough to remain in any selected shape.
Marching triumphantly through the town with this up his sleeve he and I returned to the door. I now wondered if we were committing a crime of ‘possessing housebreaking implements by night’. The wording of the offence did qualify it by adding ‘without lawful excuse’, and I wondered if ours was a lawful excuse? It was too late to worry about our actions, because Sergeant Bairstow was already at the door, asking me to stand guard in case anyone came. I had to whistle if someone approached.
From my vantage point I saw him shape the piece of wire into a long, straight piece with a large, angled hook at the bottom and a type of handle at the top. Carefully he inserted his improvised key retrieval device into the narrow letterbox. He missed. He cursed. He must have missed several times and he cursed several times before he asked me if I could help, as my fingers were probably more nimble than his. I did. I inserted the hooked wire and played around with it inside the door, groping for the elusive length of string. I must admit it took a lot of finding and I missed it several times. Then I felt it. The key moved and rattled lightly against the timbers of the door and I gently lifted my piece of wire. And out it came. Sergeant Bairstow was delighted. He proudly opened the door and we restored the key to its former place.
Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Page 16
