Constable by the Sea

by Nicholas Rhea

  Roderick, a large and jolly gentleman, had taken time off during a business trip to Strensford so that he could roll up his trousers and for a few minutes paddle at the edge of the North Sea, just below Strensford Pier, where the sea was shallow enough for him to keep his smart grey suit dry. So he had pottered into the water and had allowed it to soothe his size 10s. He had enjoyed the caresses of the slimy seaweed, the feel of the shifting sands under his soles and the coolness of water about his ankles. Then something had clamped itself around his toes.

  I can well imagine his terror but when he lifted his foot from its shifting base, he found a set of false teeth lying there, awash with sea-water and sand.

  Recognizing them as high-quality masticators, he retrieved them from their briny resting place, put them in his pocket and, during his return to normal business routine, managed to locate me on patrol.

  ‘Ah, constable,’ he beamed as he came to rest before me. ‘I’ve some found property to report,’ and he produced the clean set of dentures from his pocket. As he told me the circumstances of his discovery, I cringed. I guessed the reaction I’d get from the station! But knowing the rules which surrounded this delicate topic, I could hardly advise him to forget them or to throw them into the harbour, and so I had to produce my pocketbook and make a full report of the occurrence.

  I took the teeth from him and examined them. I hoped they might bear some kind of dentist’s or manufacturer’s identifying mark, but I found nothing.

  I’m sure their maker could have identified them, but the expense and time involved in scouring the nation for their birthplace could hardly be justified in this instance. It was not as if we were engaged in a murder enquiry or the identification of a dead body.

  ‘You keep them,’ I said when I had recorded all the necessary information. ‘And if they are not claimed within three months, they are yours.’

  He backed off rapidly, leaving me holding the teeth.

  ‘Oh, no, constable. I don’t want them. I just thought some poor devil would be wandering around Strensford unable to chew his whelks. They’ll surely be reported lost at your office, won’t they? And you can restore them to the loser … Goodbye …’

  And thus I was lumbered with this unattractive item of found property. I shuddered to think of the reaction from the duty sergeant when I presented the teeth to him for official documentation and for issue of a receipt to Mr Holroyd. But it was not my task to question official procedures.

  ‘Rhea!’ Sergeant Blaketon was duty sergeant this afternoon. ‘You blithering idiot. Who in their right mind would accept these from a finder? You realize what this means? It means records, receipts, these teeth occupying valuable space in the found property cupboard for three months, then letters to the finder to ask if he wants to have them back …’

  ‘I was just following Standing Orders, sergeant,’ I shrank beneath his onslaught, for I knew he could not argue against this. Rules were his forte, he lived by rules and regulations, and so there was no way out of this dilemma.

  He had to accept the teeth and he had to initiate the necessary procedures. I left him to it.

  No one came to report losing them or to claim ownership, and during my three months at Strensford they remained on the front of a shelf in the cupboard, grinning at all who placed further items there. Shortly before I completed my tour, the three necessary ‘finders’ months were complete, and no one had claimed the teeth.

  ‘Rhea,’ said Sergeant Blaketon one morning. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant,’ I stood before him in the office.

  ‘You can send an official form to your Mr Holroyd to inform him that three months have expired since he reported finding those false teeth and that, as no one has claimed them, they now officially belong to him. Ask him to come and collect them. Then we can get the things written off.’

  And so I completed the necessary forms and posted them to the finder. Mr Holroyd rang the office next day just after 10 a.m., and by chance Sergeant Blaketon and I were there, working an early shift.

  Blaketon took the call and listened carefully. I heard him trying to persuade Mr Holroyd to collect the teeth next time he was in town, but he declined. He wanted nothing more to do with them. And then I heard Oscar Blaketon ask, ‘In that case, have we your authority to dispose of them?’

  The answer was clearly in the affirmative because Sergeant Blaketon endorsed the register ‘Finder declines to accept after three-month period, and authorizes police to dispose of this item of property.’

  ‘There, Rhea,’ he said. ‘This little seaside saga is almost over. Now, here’s your teeth!’

  ‘They’re not mine, sergeant!’

  ‘You will dispose of them,’ he said to me ominously. ‘That’s an order. We have the official owner’s permission. It’s all in the books. So there you are, take them and get rid of them.’

  And he pressed them into the palm of my hand, now wrapped neatly in some tissue paper.

  ‘Yes, sergeant,’ I had to agree. I stuffed them into my uniform pocket and made a mental note to dispose of them in the station dustbin. But by the time he had finished instructing me about car-parking problems, bus-parking problems, youngsters in pubs and the illicit dropping of litter, I had forgotten about the teeth. I walked to my beat and passed the station dustbin en route.

  A few minutes later, I found myself patrolling along the harbourside. It was when I arrived at the very place where I had been handed those teeth three months ago that I remembered them and became very aware of them sitting in my pocket. I removed the tissue package and simultaneously smelt the briny harbour water. A brisk breeze wafted the scents of the sea towards me, and I recalled that the teeth had been rescued from a watery grave. Quite impulsively, I felt that a return to the ocean would be eminently suitable for these teeth. It was far better than a dustbin, I felt, far more permanent and almost symbolic.

  I moved into the shelter of a herring shed and then, making sure I was not observed, flung the teeth far across the harbour. With immense satisfaction, I saw them plop into the water and sink out of sight. The file was closed.

  I resumed my patrol, glad it was all over.

  Five minutes later, a small gentleman hailed me.

  ‘Oh, er, excuse me, officer,’ he began. ‘Can I mention something to you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit funny, I suppose, but, well, three months ago I was on holiday here, a short break you know. And well, I went for a swim, just below the pier. I’m not much of a swimmer really and swallowed a lot of water, a huge gulp it was. Well, I coughed and spluttered and lost my false teeth in the sea, you understand. They just shot out, a new set.

  ‘I looked all over but didn’t find them, and, well, friends said I should have reported it to the police, just in case they’d been found. But you see I live a long way off and had to rush for my bus, and then, well, this is the first time I’ve been back to Strensford, so when I saw you, I thought I’d mention it. I don’t suppose they have been found, have they? I mean, it would be odd, wouldn’t it? A chance in thousands, really, but, well, I thought it might be worth asking … You never know, do you?’

  ‘No, you never can tell,’ I agreed, taking out my pocketbook to make a note of the matter.

  Much found property is of little cash value, and it has more of a sentimental meaning to its loser. But there are times when the situation changes. I am reminded of an incident which occurred as I was patrolling the harbourside one fine August afternoon on my first spell of duty in Strensford, some years before this visit.

  I spotted a roadsweeper moving steadily towards me. He was a small, chubby fellow with a flat cap and a dark-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was manœuvring a barrow which was really a dustbin on wheels. This was the tool of his trade, and it contained a space for his brush and shovel. With the stiff-bristled brush, he was sweeping litter from the gutters and footpaths. It was a thankless task but he was obviously anxi
ous to make Strensford as smart and as clean as possible, in spite of visitors’ efforts to frustrate him.

  I don’t think he was aware of my presence barely a few yards ahead of him as he slowly moved about his careful work. With his head down, he kept his eyes on the road and the gutters, and his mind upon his solitary task. He swept all before him until it formed a medium-sized pile, and then, after removing his shovel from its resting-place on his barrow, he collected the debris and dropped it into his bin. His work was slow and methodical.

  As I carelessly observed him, not really watching him but being merely aware of his presence, he scooped up a shovelful of waste and placed it inside his bin. Then he halted his routine and delved deep inside the bin; this change of action and routine caused me to take a little more interest. I saw him lift out a bundle of paper. From a distance, it looked like a screwed-up mass of newspaper or other white paper with printing upon it, but he was making a very careful study of it. Then he glanced around, noticed me and began to walk quickly in my direction, holding the bundle as if it was hot.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s money. Fivers. Ah’ve just fun ’em in t’gutter.’

  I took the bundle from him, and sure enough, they were £5 notes of the large, white variety, now obsolete but then very much in vogue. One of them represented something approaching a week’s wages for some workers. With the little fellow watching, I expressed my amazement and then carefully counted them before his eyes.

  There was a total of sixty notes, £300 in all, very close to a year’s wages for the roadman, and not far off a year’s wages for me either!

  ‘Phew!’ I breathed. ‘You found all this money, down there in the gutter?’

  ‘Aye,’ he grinned weak smile, a nervous one almost and showed thick, brown teeth. ‘Just there, sweeping up. Noticed ’em on my shovel, just in time.’

  ‘We’ll have to report the find,’ I informed him. ‘Can you come with me now, to the station? I think you ought to be present when I record this.’

  ‘Ah’ve all this length to finish before knocking-off time,’ he said.

  ‘I think that can wait, under the circumstances.’

  I wanted him to come to the station for two reasons. First, in view of the amount involved, I felt he ought to be there when the official procedures were set in motion, and secondly, it was more than likely that someone had already reported the loss of such an amount. If so, the money could be very quickly restored to its rightful owner, and there might be a reward for the sweeper. He agreed to come along with me, albeit with some reluctance, and so we proceeded through the streets, with the little fellow in firm control of his barrow and with me hiding the wadge of notes in my uniform pocket.

  At the station, a Sergeant Moreton was on duty and looked in amazement as I entered with the roadman.

  ‘An arrest is it?’ he asked as I entered the office.

  ‘No, sergeant, it’s found property,’ I said.

  I told my story, after which I plonked the £300 on the counter before him. His eyebrows rose in surprise and he looked at the roadman with admiration.

  ‘Enter it in the register, son. Now, in view of the amount involved, we cannot let the finder retain this. But, strange though it may seem, we’ve had no report of a loss. Not yet. I suppose there’s time for that. And, if there is no report of a loss, it will go to the finder, and that’ll make you a rich man, eh?’

  The roadman smiled briefly. I went through the formalities, recording that his name was Lawrence Briggs who was employed by the council as a roadsweeper and who was sixty-four years old. He had an address on the council estate across the river. I explained the formalities to him and told him that if the money was not claimed within three months, it would be his.

  ‘It’ll be a nice retirement present,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You’re retiring soon, are you?’ I asked.

  ‘November,’ he said. ‘When I’m sixty-five.’

  ‘If this isn’t claimed, it could give you a holiday,’ I suggested.

  ‘New furniture more like,’ he said. ‘Me and the missus has never had much, not on my wage. I’d love a television and some good furniture, a nice settee …’

  ‘It was very honest of you to report that money,’ I commented. ‘I’d bet some wouldn’t have.’

  ‘Aye, well, mebbe so. But I’m honest, officer. Somebody’ll have lost that and it’ll mean more to them than me. No, I wouldn’t dream of keeping it.’

  ‘OK, well, it’s in safe hands now. So if it’s not claimed within three months, we’ll be in touch with you and you can come and collect it.’

  He smiled and left the office, and I saw him trundling his barrow down the cobbled hill and back into the busy streets. With luck, he’d get his length finished by knocking-off time, but I did find myself marvelling at his honesty.

  ‘You know, son,’ said Sergeant Moreton two hours later. ‘This is very odd. No one’s reported losing that cash, not a whisper. It’s a fortune, you know; I mean, what sort of person carries that amount with him, let alone loses it and doesn’t say anything?’

  Like Sergeant Moreton, I could only marvel at the story but knew we dare not publicize the finding, otherwise all kinds of dishonest folks would suddenly ‘remember’ losing the money.

  But in time someone did report its loss. The call came later that evening.

  ‘It’s Bridlington Police,’ announced the caller. ‘Sergeant Youngman speaking. Now, have you had a report of any cash being found in Strensford? A lot of cash. In notes. Fivers. I don’t expect you to say you have, because if anyone found it, they’d say nowt.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant,’ I said. ‘We have had some found.’

  ‘£300 in fivers, was it?’

  ‘Yes, it was found close to the harbourside.’

  ‘Then I’ve got a very relieved loser here right now. He lost £300 in fivers today. He’s a Mr George Kenton from Surrey. He came to Strensford on the SS Princess from Bridlington today and, when he got back on the boat for the return trip, realized he had lost his holiday cash. He couldn’t report it until the boat returned to harbour here, and well, he came straight to our office to tell us. I’ll ask him to come over to Strensford as soon as possible to collect the money. Now, who’s the honest character who found it?’

  I explained how the roadsweeper had found the cash and provided his name and address. Sergeant Youngman said he would inform the loser of those details. Mr Kenton would come tonight, I was told, so after thanking Sergeant Youngman for his call, I made a note in the Occurrence Book so that the next shift would be aware of the situation.

  I went off duty before the money was handed over to its rightful owner, and it seems he arrived late that evening to claim his cash. It was handed over against his signature and the matter was closed.

  But he did not leave even a shilling reward for the roadsweeper. There was not a penny and not even a letter of thanks for his honesty. We all knew that he would not wish any thanks or a reward but would gain satisfaction from knowing that his honesty had been ratified by the money going to its rightful owner.

  We waited a few days, but nothing came, and so Sergeant Moreton, who was friendly with the local reporter on the Strensford Gazette, decided to tell the tale to the papers. If Kenton was not going to give some reward, the story of the roadman’s honest was strong enough for the local and even the national papers. And so it won headlines in some papers and more than a few column inches in others, and we made sure a copy was sent to Kenton at his home address. But not even that prompted a response.

  Happily, although the publicity did not prompt a response from Kenton, there was a small but touching flood of postal orders, cash and cheques for the roadman from readers all over England. If the loser did not appreciate his remarkable honesty, the public did. All the police officers at Strensford had a whip-round for him too, and he was able to buy himself a new settee with those generous donations.

  Another odd use of the Found Property Register occurred late o
ne night when I was working a night shift during that three-month spell of duty. I was sitting in the office around 2.15 a.m. having my break when a rather rough-looking, brusquely spoken character presented himself at the enquiry desk.

  His name was Brian Stockfield, a taxi-driver in his early forties who was renowned in the town for his bad temper, his loud voice and awful, critical treatment of his fellow men. No one had a good word for Stockfield; he complained incessantly about everything, criticizing the council because of the rates, the police for letting holiday-makers park all over the town, the holiday-makers for crowding the streets, the children for their noise, dogs for barking … Every facet of Strensford’s society was criticized by this chap, and the outcome was that those who knew him kept out of his way. He had not been in Strensford during my initial spell, so I had never come across him until now.

  Stockfield earned his living by running a one-vehicle taxi business, and his premises were a small wooden garage close to the harbourside. He criticized other taxi-drivers for taking business from him, he wrote to the newspaper about their activities and claimed that some had not taken out the correct insurance for their vehicles, or that their hackney carriage licences were not in order. He was a regular caller at the police station, where his growing list of complaints was logged. In short, he was nothing but a confounded nuisance to everyone.

  It was through chats with the local police that I discovered one of his unpleasant traits – perhaps, though, he had just cause for this particular behaviour.

  When the police in Strensford came across a drunk who was not troublesome or a danger either to himself or to anyone else, they hailed a local taxi and persuaded the driver to take the drunk home. This system was very sensible, because it kept the cells empty, it saved the drunk from the trauma of a prosecution, it saved the police a lot of work and the courts a lot of time dealing with simple drunks. Furthermore, it helped to retain the friendly relationship between the residents and the police, for the people would resent any heavy-handed treatment of local merrymakers. It made a lot of sense to deal with them in this gentle way. Another aspect was that it kept all the taxi-drivers in business too, because they made useful, honest sums from their merry fares.