‘He’ll be here when I return, I expect, but he’ll be there tonight, won’t he, at my party?’ He closed the window and I knew it was a very sad moment for him, so I said nothing, other than to confirm that Alf Ventress would be at his party. At that moment I thought he looked so much alone, so isolated in those final hours and I could only guess what was going through his mind.
To be honest, I had no idea what to say because a tide of emotion threatened to overwhelm me. In my own sadness, therefore, I watched him drive out of Ashfordly Police Station yard for the final time as a police officer. When he returned it would be without the status and power he’d enjoyed while in command of this small but active police station. I continued to watch until his car was out of sight among the town’s traffic, then turned to leave for Aidensfield and home. It was quite moving to think that no longer would Oscar Blaketon be my section commander; I wasn’t quite sure how to react to those new circumstances.
After tea I went down to the hotel ahead of the other guests so that I could check the final details of tonight’s party; I’d done everything, I was sure. The superintendent had agreed to come along and make the presentation of the golf caddie, along with a suitable farewell speech; the food was being prepared and laid out in a private room — it was a buffet supper for a hundred guests. The pub had arranged a special bar for our private party along with a barman and barmaid, and the band of three musicians had arrived to set up their amplifiers and other equipment, saying they’d play to suit all tastes and would play records during their supper interval. They had been booked until 1 a.m., and the landlord had arranged the necessary extension of hours so we could buy alcohol until 12.30 a.m. For a police party one had to be sure one obeyed the law!
I’d specified eight o’clock as the commencement time and so, by ten minutes to eight, the guests were beginning to arrive. Mary, my wife, arrived about ten to eight, having arranged a baby-sitter and by half past eight the place was almost full.
I reckoned everyone would be here by nine, so I suggested to the landlord that we had supper at 9.30, with the presentation to Blaketon during that interval. But as the clock ticked away and the musicians began to fill the place with their music, I began to feel anxious and worried because three guests were noticeably absent. One was Oscar Blaketon himself, the other was his wife and the third was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. I wasn’t too concerned about Greengrass’s absence, but the star of the evening should have been here at eight with his wife, if only to welcome his guests. But there had been no word to explain his late arrival. I must admit I began to grow concerned, especially when people like the superintendent and other fairly important guests began to ask, ‘So where is he, PC Rhea? Don’t tell me Blaketon’s forgotten his own party! It’s not like him to be late . . .’
As my worries began to increase, at about a quarter to nine I received a telephone call at the pub. The landlord, George Ward, called me and said, ‘Nick, there’s a telephone call for you. Take it in the office.’
In the comparative peace of the office I lifted the receiver and announced my name, when the woman’s voice said, ‘It’s Mrs Blaketon, Nick. Is Oscar there?’
‘No,’ I told her. ‘We’re all getting worried. He’s not here, Mrs Blaketon, I expected him before now. He must have been delayed. He did say he was coming; I saw him this afternoon and he confirmed he’d be here at eight. I’m still expecting him, and you, of course.’
‘He was looking forward to it,’ she said. ‘And I am too, I’m really looking forward to seeing everybody, but I don’t know where he is.’
‘You don’t?’ I was horrified at this. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he went off to Northallerton with his uniform this afternoon and he’s not come home. I rang them at Headquarters, but all the admin offices are closed now, and Control Room hasn’t heard anything, and there’s been no accident. When I told them why I was ringing they contacted the store’s manager at home and he said Oscar had been in this afternoon to return his uniform. Then he left Headquarters to come home. That’s all he could tell us. Control Room were very good, they checked the hospitals to see if he’d collapsed or anything, but he’s not been admitted. They made a note of his car number in case their patrols come across it, but I said I felt it was too early to make a big official search. I mean, he might just have popped in to see an old friend and forgotten what time it is. But it is rather odd there’s no word from him. He seems to have vanished into thin air. I just don’t know where he is or what to do. It’s very worrying. I wondered if he’d come to see you about something connected with his party; you know what he’s like, wanting to check everything or see to some last-minute change, he’s such a stickler for detail.’
‘There’s been no word from him and he’s not been here,’ I had to tell her. ‘I just don’t know what can have happened. He’s not depressed, is he? About having to retire?’
‘No, not at all. He’ll miss the police, of course he will, but he has the post office to look forward to and he was looking forward to his party as well, I know that. No, Nick, he won’t have done anything silly, like going off to sit in his car on the moors to brood or weep, or worse; he’s much stronger than that.’
‘He was all right when he left Ashfordly office to go to Headquarters,’ I said. ‘And he said he was looking forward to this evening.’
‘If he told you he’d be there at eight, then that’s what he would intend doing. It’s all so strange, on his very last day as well.’
‘I could bring you here to await developments, you’d be among friends,’ I said to her, ‘but I think you’d be better sitting by your own telephone in case he tries to make contact at home.’
‘Yes, you’re right, of course. I’ll just sit and wait, but you will try to find out something, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ I reassured her.
When I returned to the party room it was evident that several people had noticed I’d been called away, and because they’d also noted the absence of our star guest, they linked the two incidents. It was Inspector Harry Breckon, the officer in charge of our Sub-Division at Eltering, who approached me.
‘Everything all right, Nick?’ he asked, and I could see the concern on his face. ‘Has something happened to Sergeant Blaketon? He’s not arrived yet, has he?’
‘He’s disappeared,’ I had to tell him quietly. ‘He went to Headquarters this afternoon to hand in his uniform and his wife hasn’t seen him, or had word from him since he left home. She’s checked with Control Room; he arrived at the clothing store and handed in his stuff, then he left to return home but there’s no report of an accident and he’s not been admitted to any of the hospitals. They’ve got his car number in case their patrols come across it. He’s not rung me either.’
‘He’s not done something stupid, has he? Jumped off a cliff or gassed himself with his car exhaust?’
‘She says he wasn’t depressed about retiring and she doesn’t think he’d do anything silly. There must be some logical explanation, sir.’
‘I agree, he’s not the sort to end things like that. Well, if Control Room’s been alerted and done those checks, and if his wife is sitting at home expecting him to ring, there’s not a lot we can do. We’ll just have to await developments, but it’s not like Oscar Blaketon to miss his own party!’
‘Shouldn’t we do something, sir?’ I asked. ‘Like raise the alarm, or organize a search?’
‘We don’t want to create unnecessary panic, Nick, and where would we search? There’s a lot of countryside between here and Northallerton. Control Room has details of his car so if that’s found somewhere, it’ll give us a starting point.’
‘Mrs Blaketon wondered if he had popped in to see an old friend while he was at Northallerton, perhaps losing track of time?’
‘That’s the sort of thing some of us would do, but not Blaketon. I agree with his wife — if he said he’d be here at eight, then he would be here at eight. Let’s give him another half-hour, Nick,
then we might have to consider a search of some kind.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I was pleased someone of more senior rank had the responsibility for deciding about future action, and I returned to the festivities. Word of Blaketon’s non-appearance had circulated to everyone by this time and both Inspector Breckon and myself began to field enquiries, each trying to play down the situation.
But we were worried and very soon that air of concern began to affect the party atmosphere. Happy gossip and cheerful reminiscing turned into worried speculation about the missing sergeant and it was Alf Ventress who reminded me of another matter.
‘Greengrass is missing too,’ he told me. ‘I saw him in Ashfordly this afternoon and he said he wouldn’t miss Blaketon’s farewell party for anything! He laughed and said wild horses couldn’t keep him away because he wanted to be sure Blaketon was actually leaving! He thought it might be just a mischievous rumour.’
‘That is odd, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Even if this wasn’t Blaketon’s farewell party, Greengrass would be in the bar by this time. He’s never away from the pub at this time of night.’
I told Alf what had transpired between Mrs Blaketon and Control Room, and of Inspector Breckon’s decision, and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, what else can we do? You will keep in touch, Nick, you will let us know if you hear anything? Everyone’s getting very concerned.’
‘Sure, Alf,’ I promised.
At this stage, in order to keep the narrative in some kind of chronological sequence, I shall now relate what happened to Sergeant Blaketon, as later told to me in his own words. He told me about a long-running series of incidents which had been occurring over the past months on the A19 trunk road and also on the Great North Road, otherwise known as the A1. All these occurrences had happened in the North Riding Constabulary area but well away from Ashfordly and Aidensfield.
My local officers and myself had no part in this — the scenes of those incidents were many miles to the west. This is what was happening. On many reported occasions, and we believe in many instances which were never reported to the police, motorists on those two arterial roads had been stopped apparently by a uniformed police officer in a marked police car, and after suffering a fierce reprimand from the officer, had been fined on-the-spot for whatever minor traffic offences had been committed. The offences included things like dirty registration plates, broken or ineffective headlights or side lights, defective tyres, exceeding the speed limit, faulty windscreen wipers and washers, out-of-date excise licences, defective exhausts and failing to obey mandatory traffic signs.
It was difficult to know how long this series of incidents had been occurring because I am sure some of those fined drivers felt they had got off lightly — they did not have to appear in court, their roadside fines were modest — £10, £15 and £20 or thereabouts and, according to the ‘constable’ who’d booked them, their willingness to pay their fine on-the-spot meant their licences would not be endorsed or put at risk. In their minds they were guilty because they had offended and were relieved they had been swiftly dealt with in a very fair manner.
But motorists do talk to each other and some of them talk to police officers. After a time it became evident that this road traffic officer was not a genuine policeman. The fixed penalty system did not embrace on-the-spot fines and in any case, it was not applicable to moving traffic offences; it was restricted to minor breaches of the parking regulations, lighting offences and highway obstruction.
No British police officer or traffic warden would or should accept cash from an offender. In the fixed penalty system offenders were issued with a ticket which they had to produce when they paid their fine at the Magistrates Clerk’s Office, and the alternative was to contest the case in open court. This traffic ‘constable’ did not give his motorists that opportunity — he demanded cash immediately and I think he made quite a lot of money from his activities.
Eventually, some motorists did begin to suspect he was a fake — his uniform did not seem quite right, his language when dealing with the ‘offending’ drivers was most certainly not correct, and the forms he produced when demanding his spot fines were not official police documents. They were poor imitations — and of course, he should not have been accepting cash from his ‘customers’.
A senior officer from the North Riding Constabulary had been made aware of the growing incidence of these fake cases and had decided not to publicize the matter. Indeed, even the majority of serving officers were not informed about this man in case knowledge of our interest reached him — there was always a possibility he had links with a serving officer. Publicity would alert motorists to the danger from this man, but it meant we would also alert him and that might mean we would never bring him to justice — whoever he was. It was felt we should do our best to catch him in action and then to make an example of him through the courts, with maximum publicity so that his earlier ‘customers’ might come forward. We felt that few would come forward — perhaps thinking they might be fined again for the relevant offence by the real police!
A softly-softly approach was decided, which is why so few of us were aware of this man and his blitz on motorists. One problem with restricting information to a few real officers was that one had to be literally on the scene if we were to catch him — clearly, he would never operate if a police car was patrolling in the area and even an undercover car might not provide the right kind of trap to catch him.
What had been learned from those who had spoken to the real constabulary was that he drove a black Ford Zephyr in immaculate condition and it bore a blue flashing light with a police sign on the roof. It looked just like a police car; indeed, the North Riding Constabulary used black Zephyrs for their road traffic patrols. The driver wore a police uniform complete with silver numerals and buttons, and a black peaked cap sporting a silver police badge. His age was difficult to estimate because he wore the cap with its peak well down, but it was thought he was in his early forties with dark hair, clean shaven, about five feet ten in height and of average build. He had no discernible accent, but when booking a motorist, he became extremely agitated and excited. His MO was to suddenly appear behind a driver in the Zephyr, overtake the car and wave the driver into the side of the road or perhaps a lay-by or minor road, there to levy his fine for whatever offence he had allegedly discovered. It was thought he waited in a private side road until a suitable victim appeared, although the known cases had occurred on differing stretches of both the A1 and A19. Clearly, he had his own hunting ground with which he appeared to be very familiar. He might even have access to police broadcasts.
And that is what happened to Sergeant Blaketon.
He told me he’d been driving home in his own car along the A19. As Mrs Blaketon had guessed, he had called upon a former colleague in Northallerton and so it was around 6.30 p.m. when he’d left. He reckoned he’d be home about 7.15 p.m. which allowed enough time to prepare for his party. As he’d been driving along the A19, around 6.45 p.m., he’d suddenly become aware of a police car in his rear-view mirror. It was a black Ford Zephyr with a blue flashing light, and it roared past him with the driver making waving signals which were incomprehensible to Blaketon. But eventually, the Zephyr pulled a considerable distance ahead of him and eased into the entrance to a caravan and camping site. That entrance was very wide, almost like a lay-by, and the driver leapt out to flag down Blaketon. Puzzled, Blaketon had obeyed, pulling his own car off the road and on to the parking space. He’d then got out of his car but had left his driver’s door standing open and his engine running while he went to confront the policeman.
‘I knew he was a fake,’ he told me. ‘The minute he got out of his car I could see things weren’t right. Dirty shoes instead of polished boots, a uniform that had been found in a theatre, I think, because it looked more like a 1930s style than the 1960s, and the numerals on his epaulettes had a divisional letter before them, like the London Met police; we don’t use divisional letters like that. And I could see the car was fa
ke too, the sign was held on by a magnet, I think, and there was a wire running from it through the window and into the car. I think the Zephyr might have been a former police car, it was just like our fleet and good enough to fool a nervous motorist in the heat of the moment. But he wasn’t going to fool me, Nick!’
‘So, what did he do?’ I asked.
‘He started to give me the dressing down of a lifetime, saying I’d been driving carelessly — I did swerve suddenly to avoid a dog but caused no danger to anyone. He was highly agitated, manic almost, then he said one of my brake lights wasn’t working and after he’d got really worked up with me trying to say my piece and him refusing to let me get a word in — he said he would have to fine me. He said I could pay a fixed penalty of fifteen pounds cash, in which case I would not have to attend court and my licence would not be endorsed. If I paid him the cash, that would be the end of the matter. He told me that was the new system. And he began to write out some kind of notice on what appeared to be a printed pad of paper. By this stage I had stopped trying to compete with his verbal outburst and I was observing him and his car, taking note of his appearance, his uniform and so forth.’
‘You were behaving like a real policeman, Sarge!’ I smiled.
‘Yes, but when he asked me for my money, I told him he was under arrest for demanding money with menaces and impersonating a police officer, in addition to any other offences which might be disclosed. I told him I was Sergeant Blaketon of the North Riding Constabulary, stationed at Ashfordly.’
‘And?’
‘He demanded proof! And I did not have a warrant card — I’d handed it in and so I could not prove who I was, and I was in my own private car! He didn’t believe me! Damn it, Nick, I was a policeman until midnight on my last day of service — I was a policeman during all that carry on, even if I didn’t have my warrant card!’
CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 21
