I drove Mrs Shaw home and together we searched the house yet again, this time with me opening the doors of wardrobes and cupboards, searching the loft, looking under beds and in outbuildings, checking the boot of the car and looking into dustbins and tea-chests plus a hundred and one other places where a child might hide but which an untrained searcher would never consider. I rang the school from Mrs Shaw’s home too but the answer was still negative. Stephanie had not arrived.
The school and its buildings, along with all the other public and several private places, would have to be searched by police officers, but that demanded more officers and it would take a long time. I then decided to ring Sergeant Blaketon to ask him to mount an official search for Stephanie Shaw. By now it was just eleven o’clock in the morning and we had the whole day ahead of us, even if it was foggy, damp and dull.
From the office of my police house I rang Ashfordly police station. Alf Ventress answered. I explained the problem and he said, ‘Hang on, Nick, Sergeant Blaketon’s here.’
Blaketon came to the telephone and, upon hearing my account of events, said, ‘Right, I’ll ring Division and recruit some assistance. Police dogs will help, I’ll request their attendance. We’ll make a thorough search and I’m sure the villagers will help once word gets around. Meanwhile, Rhea, you take another recce around the village; check the school yourself and I’ll meet you there in an hour. 12.30 at the school. Right?’
‘Very good, Sergeant.’
While awaiting the sergeant and his team of searchers, I went to the school and searched the entire complex with Miss Blacker, indoors and out, and we drew a blank. Miss Blacker assured me that Stephanie was not a problem pupil, she enjoyed school and had lots of friends there. A little dreamy perhaps, but she was not bullied or teased by her classmates and the headmistress could think of no reason why the girl had not arrived this morning.
‘You said she was a little dreamy?’ I put to the teacher. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘She lives in a world of her own sometimes. Day-dreaming I call it. Sometimes in class she will be concentrating on something in her head so much that she’ll exclude everything that’s going on around her. I just wondered if she’d wandered off in a bit of a dream this morning.’
‘Has this caused problems before?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ smiled Miss Blacker. ‘Although when she did a lesson about Jesus walking on the water, she went down to the river to try it. I think she thought she was Jesus!’
‘She fell in?’
‘No, the minute the cold water got into her shoes, she stopped — it was almost like snapping out of a trance. She does have a very strong imagination.’
‘So what lessons did you do yesterday? Anything that might have promoted a similar reaction?’
‘No, I did consider that but it was a very ordinary day of reading, writing and arithmetic.’
This snippet of information was important, I considered, and I began to wonder whether Stephanie had undergone one of her strange experiences before disappearing. It was something I must pursue and something I must put to her mother. Still at school, however, I found one of Stephanie’s friends who had seen her this morning. She was called Carol Hodges. After questioning the child, she told me she’d seen Stephanie near the war memorial just after half past eight; she’d been wearing her distinctive yellow mackintosh with the hood up.
‘But if she was near the war memorial,’ I put to her, ‘Stephanie must have been walking away from the school? Did she say where she was going?’
‘No,’ said Carol. ‘I said I would walk to school with her but she said no, she’d catch me up.’
‘Catch you up?’
‘I sometimes walked to school with her from her house but she was going the other way today. She just said she would catch me up.’
‘Did she say anything else? Who she was going to meet, or where she was going? Why she was at the war memorial perhaps?’
‘No, she didn’t say anything.’
‘Was she going to the shops, maybe?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I went to school. When Stephanie didn’t come, I told Miss Blacker where I’d seen her.’
Miss Blacker interrupted now. ‘That’s when I became rather concerned, Mr Rhea, and rang Joy Shaw.’
‘Was anyone with her?’ I had to ask Carol, ‘A man or woman, another boy or girl? A car maybe?’
‘No, she was all by herself.’
‘Was there a car or a lorry anywhere nearby?’
‘No, nothing. She was just standing there all by herself.’
‘Did you see where she went from the war memorial?’
Carol shook her head. ‘It was drizzly and I had my hood up, I just came to school and went straight inside.’
Having elicited as much information as I could from Carol, I then addressed the entire class of children and asked if any of them had seen Stephanie this morning. Two small boys had seen her walking towards the war memorial and their sightings confirmed Carol’s version. But as all had been heading away from the distinctive stone cross, none had seen where she had gone from that point. The fact that she had walked to the war memorial was odd because it did not lie on her route from home to the school. To reach it, she had to make a considerable detour — if she had gone straight to school from there it would have added five or ten minutes to her normal journey.
I decided to ask at the nearby shops before Blaketon arrived; surely some of the shopkeepers had seen the child in her bright yellow raincoat and carrying her satchel. All those whom I questioned said that Mrs Shaw had been asking earlier in the morning and only one of the storekeepers had seen the child; he’d not been able to recognize her but had seen a little girl in a bright yellow raincoat standing near the war memorial just after 8.30. Like the other witnesses, he had not seen her leave that point.
As I heard these stories, there was a growing dread in my mind that she had been picked up by a passing vehicle. If that had happened, then she was at great risk; we might even have a murder investigation on our hands. But even that possibility did not explain why she had walked to the war memorial, a diversion from her normal route to school. If the child had been in some kind of trance it might explain her actions, but this seemed a rather remote possibility.
Then Sergeant Blaketon’s familiar little black car arrived and I went to meet him. He was alone, Alf Ventress being left in Ashfordly police office to man the telephones and radio.
‘Anything further to report, Rhea?’ he asked as he donned his cap and came towards me.
I provided an update on the recent information but had to say that the girl’s disappearance was a total mystery. I did express the fear that she might have entered a motor vehicle although we had no description or sighting of one.
‘Well,’ he added, ‘Division say the new inspector’s coming out to lead the search. She’s going to use police college techniques with maps and compasses and things.’
‘Hadn’t we better get started?’ I asked. ‘The child’s been missing for nearly four hours . . .’
‘Orders are orders, Rhea, and if our new inspector says we must wait for her arrival, then wait we must.’
‘Did she say that herself?’ I put to him.
‘No, it was Division, relaying orders. “Inspector Pollock will rendezvous with you at the village school” was what they said. “At 12.50.” Twenty minutes to go, that’s all. What I want to know is how these young women police inspectors can improve the way we operate, Rhea. God, it’s going to be tough. I’ll be glad when I reach retiring age.’
‘She might not be quite what you think, Sergeant,’ I ventured, allowing him to continue thinking Pollock was female.
‘She could be worse,’ he added. To occupy the time before the arrival of Inspector Pollock I gave Sergeant Blaketon a guided tour of the school, re-examining all the places I had searched and introducing him to Miss Blacker. He repeated al
l the questions I had previously asked, and assured her that we would make every effort to find the child.
Then we went outside and he stood nervously beside the school gate, awaiting his new boss. A smart black police car appeared in the distance, followed by a personnel carrier containing ten constables and another sergeant.
‘Here comes the cavalry,’ he grunted. ‘Led by Boadicea.’ Sergeant Blaketon was clearly nervous; he fidgeted with his feet and flicked imaginary specks of dust from his uniform as the little procession approached. Eventually the leading car turned into the parking space before the school and came to a halt. Inside, the outline of a figure in police uniform could be seen collecting documents, placing a cap on its head and checking its appearance in the driving mirror.
‘She looks a bit on the bloody masculine side to me,’ whispered Blaketon. ‘Short haircut . . . wide shoulders . . .’
As his gaze was concentrated upon the new inspector, the personnel carrier came to rest beside the car and its assortment of constables disembarked, led by the sergeant. By this stage, news of Stephanie’s disappearance had circulated among the villagers and a small knot of bystanders began to assemble. In the meantime, the school had broken for lunch and the children were in the playground, shrieking and shouting as only a playground full of children is able. Miss Blacker, the only teacher in the small school, came across to join us. She asked if the children could help in the forthcoming search, but we declined; we didn’t want more of them getting lost!
But Sergeant Blaketon’s eyes were upon the inspector, now leaving the car. I watched Blaketon watching the inspector; the expression on his face became a frown as he realized that this was indeed a very mannish person; short hair, sturdy walk, the frame of a man and not a woman; wearing trousers, not a skirt.
‘It is a man, Rhea! That new woman inspector is a man!’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘It looks very masculine to me.’
‘Who said it was a woman?’ he hissed from the side of his mouth.
‘You did,’ I replied.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Sergeant, Christine Pollock, you said. It’s actually Crispin Pollock . . .’
‘Crispin? What sort of name is that?’
‘He’s the patron saint of cobblers, Sergeant,’ I replied. ‘St Crispin that is, not Inspector Pollock.’
‘Cobblers?’ he smiled wryly.
‘And the same to you, Sergeant,’ I returned as the new inspector came forward. Sergeant Blaketon and I each slung a crisp and smart salute and chanted, ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ as Inspector Pollock approached with a large map in his hand.
He was a short, rather squat individual with a very neatly cut head of light brown hair; his uniform was immaculate and his shoes were polished so that they reflected the dull light of the day. His face was rounded and plump, almost childlike in the clear state of his skin; it looked as if he had not reached the stage of shaving because his skin was soft and pink and his eyes were a light blue. It was a baby-face, I realized, but when he smiled his teeth were pure white and evenly positioned, and there was a look of genuine pleasure on his features.
‘Sergeant Blaketon, I presume?’ were his first words. ‘And PC Rhea?’
‘Yes, sir,’ we chanted in unison.
‘Good, well, let’s get moving. There is no time to waste on pleasantries. I have brought reinforcements from Strensford and the dog section is en route. Now, Sergeant, what have you discovered to date? We need a description of the missing child and then we can commence the search. We will quarter off the village and its surrounds, as per this large-scale map, and I will co-ordinate the search, using techniques I studied at the police college. My car will be the control point; we have field radios and other equipment in the personnel carrier and loudhailers to maintain contact with any civilian volunteers who join us. Now, PC Rhea, you have made enquiries in the village? And you have made a perfunctory search?’
‘It was more than that,’ I had to tell him. ‘It was a careful search, sir, done with the intention of examining all the likely hiding places in and around her home, her school and the key points of Aidensfield. It was thorough but it produced no results. She was last seen at the war memorial at half past eight and . . .’
‘It will be repeated,’ was all he said. ‘Now, I will explain how I propose to search the district, including the school, her home and every building in Aidensfield, then we shall expand into the outlying fields, moors and woods.’
‘It’s very foggy and wet, sir,’ warned Sergeant Blaketon. ‘Visibility in the woods and on the moors will be extremely limited and we shall have to exercise the utmost care when despatching our searchers. We don’t want them to get lost.’
‘The police college system allows for such problems, Sergeant. Right, men, gather around. And any volunteers — please join in.’
Inspector Pollock was clearly enjoying the challenge; on his very first day of duty he was able to put theory into practice in a most public way. He was showing no sign of nervousness or lack of experience. He was putting on a very confident show and I must admit I was impressed by his initial action. As he was speaking to his team of men a handful of villagers had gathered, among them Mrs Shaw, and they were ushered closer by a constable. Having made the introductory remarks and explained the task that lay ahead, Inspector Pollock outlined his plan of action. As he spoke, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and Alfred, his lurcher dog, materialized from the fog. They stood at the back to listen. I saw Claude whispering to Mrs Shaw.
Inspector Pollock suggested that each constable be accompanied by at least two volunteers from the village. Then, laying his open map on the car bonnet, he proceeded to allocate areas for each group to search. He began with the imported constables. As he was performing this task, Greengrass sidled around to my side. Mrs Shaw came with him.
He whispered, ‘A minute of your time, Mr Rhea.’
‘I hope it’s important, Claude,’ I said. ‘We’re about to start an urgent search.’
‘Well you’ll need to begin with Beckside Woods,’ grunted Claude. ‘I saw that lass there this morning, nine o’clockish, in her yellow mac. I’ve just been asking Joy about her . . .’
‘What was she doing there?’ I asked.
‘Heading deep into t’woods,’ said Claude.
I turned to Mrs Shaw. ‘Joy, why would she go into the woods?’
The tearful Mrs Shaw shook her head. ‘I can’t say, I’ve no idea . . . we’ve been there for walks, with Stephanie, but she’s never mentioned going there alone, certainly not this morning.’
I then decided to ask Mrs Shaw about Stephanie’s alleged day-dreaming and her mother confirmed this. ‘Oh yes, she gets so wrapped up in things. When she read Alice in Wonderland, she went out looking for the White Rabbit and the entrance to Wonderland, and . . .’
‘Joy,’ I put to her. ‘What did she read last night? Or perhaps she watched television? What was on?’
‘There was a repeat of that old film, The Adventures of Robin Hood, you know, the 1938 version with Errol Flynn. She was absorbed by that, the men in Lincoln green, their lives in the woods and so on.’
‘That’s it,’ said Claude quietly. ‘There is a Robin Hood’s Cave in those woods of ours.’
‘My husband said something about that!’ and for the first time there was a smile on Joy Shaw’s face. ‘During the film, he said he’d tried to find Robin Hood’s Cave in Beckside Woods when he was a small boy, and he never did find it! He mentioned a legend about a tunnel going to Robin Hood’s Bay . . . yes, I remember him saying that . . . I bet Stephanie heard him . . .’
‘Where is this cave, Claude?’ I asked him.
‘Well,’ he said, blinking his eyes rapidly. ‘There’s a few, six or eight caves, and all of ’em said to be where Robin Hood rested. The genuine one has an underground passage leading to Robin Hood’s Bay, so they say; he used it as an escape route when the authorities were after him.’
‘Do you know where they are?’
I asked. ‘And have you used that tunnel when the authorities have been pressing you?’
‘Well, there’s no tunnel, that’s just a tale. But as to where the caves are, well, I might know and I might not, I mean, it’s not as if I go trespassing on private land, Mr Rhea. Them woods are private, you know, they’re on Lord Ashfordly’s estate.’
‘Come off it, Claude! Stop being so defensive — and besides, there is a public right of way through the woods. But this is serious, you’re not breaching your principles to help the police, you’re helping the people of Aidensfield to find a little girl.’
‘Aye, well, if you put it like that. Right, well, I know where most of ’em are, they’re just caves, you know, holes in the rock, nowt special about ’em.’
And so it was decided to abandon Inspector Pollock’s wider plan of action in order to concentrate upon the woodland caves. His map did show the woodland and its paths, of which there were several, and he began to divide the wood into areas, each of which would be searched by a team of police and civilian volunteers. A constable would remain at the car for radio contact and the rest of us would search the four square miles or so of Beckside Wood. To search the caves, we were issued with electric torches from the personnel carrier, but it was decided that the field radios would be an encumbrance — besides, they’d probably not function over the distance between the village and the wood. Mrs Shaw asked if she could come, but we suggested not.
‘You’ll be far better at home,’ suggested Pollock. ‘If Stephanie does return home, she’ll want you there, won’t she? Not in the wilds of the North York Moors looking for her!’
‘Yes, of course. But the moment you know something . . .’
‘We’ll let you know,’ smiled Pollock.
And so the massive search began. Carrying a map in a waterproof cover and strung around his neck like a rambler, Inspector Pollock marshalled his troops and allocated them each a section of the wood. Sergeant Blaketon and Sergeant Lazenby from Strensford were each given half of the wood to supervise while the constables’ task was to search the undergrowth as well as any caves, just in case the child had fallen and injured herself. In addition to the torches we were equipped with long sticks with which to probe the undergrowth.
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 2
