When I arrived at the police station, other cars were assembling and Sergeant Blaketon was jotting down the names of those who had arrived.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked Alwyn Foxton, the duty constable at Ashfordly.
‘Two men raided the pub at Stovingsby,’ he said. ‘After hours. Not long ago in fact. They got in through the back dour, tied up the licensee and his wife and got away with cash and jewellery. They crashed their car into a tractor while escaping — their car’s a write-off and they’ve taken to the moors on foot. We’re the search party. We’re assembling here. The dog section’s been called out. Once we’re all here, we’ll get our orders.’
My dismay must have been evident. I thought of poor Mary.
‘Where were these characters last seen?’ I asked.
‘Heading across the moor towards Gelderslack. On foot,’ he said. ‘We’ve got other cars coming in from the north and traffic division’s establishing road blocks, but finding those two won’t be easy. The dogs might catch them,’ he added.
‘Have I time to ring Mary?’ I asked, wondering if there was a free telephone.
‘Sure, there’s a few more of us to come before we get briefed. Use the one in my house,’ he offered, for his house was next to Ashfordly Police Station.
Mary was not at all pleased.
‘But you said you’d definitely be home.’ I could hear the disappointment in her voice. ‘And I promised those ladies that I’d go … I can’t let them down. How long will you be?’
‘I don’t know.’ I couldn’t offer any indication of a home-coming time, but added, ‘I might be away all night, it depends.’
‘What can I do then?’ There was a note of desperation in her voice.
‘Try Mrs Quarry,’ I suggested. ‘Surely she’ll baby-sit at short notice, if she knows the reason …’
‘But we put on her far too much, she’s so good.’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Through Alwyn’s window I could see Sergeant Blaketon calling everyone indoors. ‘I must go, we’re assembling for our briefing now. And good luck with the talk.’
She didn’t reply as she put down the telephone and I knew she must be both angry and upset, but what could I do? I just hoped that Mrs Quarry was able to baby-sit. I had no way of keeping in touch with Mary as I received my briefing for the search. From the information received, the two men had broken cover to run into the hills above Lairsbeck, heading for the forests and open moors of Lairsdale. A farmer had seen them running and had called Eltering Police, and so one dog unit, two cars and eight officers had been directed there instead of attending our briefing. They would maintain contact. The hunt was on, and with the aid of radios and police dogs, we felt sure we would trace and capture the villains.
My brief was to patrol the higher points of Lairsdale, touring the isolated farms and cottages in that remote, widespread community to warn the widely scattered residents of the fleeing robbers and to record any possible sightings. It was seven o’clock when I left the office armed with a list of names taken from the electoral register and a map showing the position of remote farms and cottages in the higher reaches of Lairsdale. I wondered how Mary was getting on, but our official radios could not be used for contacting home. Although we had a radio on our official vehicles, the rural constables did not have official radios in their offices. Sometimes, if we were engaged in anything exciting, our wives would listen on our own portable radios — coded messages might sometimes be transmitted!
Mary would sometimes listen to my voice at work by tuning in to the police wavelength. Lots of people used this technique, including journalists, and so they could listen to a very one-sided commentary as we went about our more exciting duties. There was nothing illegal in listening — it became illegal if anyone, other than the police, acted on the information thus acquired. But Mary would not be listening tonight — hopefully, she’d be entertaining the WI members. I raced into the hills, anxious to get this job finished as soon as possible — I was hungry too, having been dragged away from any chance of having my evening meal on time! The sooner we got this job over, the sooner I would eat.
As I motored high into the dale with my radio burbling constantly, I saw a lonely roadside telephone kiosk. I’d ring Mary from here. But when I got through, Mrs Quarry answered.
‘She’s gone,’ I was told. ‘Not five minutes ago. Your supper’s in the oven for when you get back … How long will you be, Mr Rhea?’
‘I don’t know,’ I had to say. ‘But thanks for stepping in at short notice.’
‘She said she should be back by ten,’ Mrs Quarry told me.
‘I might be in before then.’ I was hopeful of an early finish. ‘Or I might be later. I’m heading for Lairsbeck — we’re hunting two robbers,’ I added for dramatic effect.
‘It was on the news,’ she told me. ‘But watch out and be careful.’
‘I will,’ I assured her.
‘Don’t forget to search Low Holly Heads while you’re up there,’ she added.
‘Why, what’s at Low Holly Heads?’
‘Nowt,’ she answered. ‘It’s a ruin now. My grandfather used to farm there years ago, for the estate. It’s not far from the track that goes over those heights, though. A good hiding spot, I’d say, especially if those chaps are heading that way like the radio said they were.’
‘Thanks, I’ll check it out.’ I was pleased to be provided with this piece of local information. All I had was a list of occupied farms, not ruins.
I’d bear it in mind, and a glance at my map showed it was close to my intended tour of the occupied premises. My initial visits produced no information; none of the farmers or cottagers had seen the runaways but at least they now knew of our interest and promised they’d contact us if the men did appear. By the time I’d visited all those outlying places, it was almost 8.30; darkness would fall around nine and if the men had not been traced, they might go to ground for the night. From reports over my official radio, I knew there had been no more sightings in other areas and our dogs had lost the trail near a stream. I decided it was now time to look at Low Holly Heads. I could take the van to within some three-quarters of a mile of the ruined farm, the final stretch of the old road being impassable to cars now. And so, as darkness began to fall, I walked down the track.
It led through a steep field, across a stream in the gulley below, and then climbed up the far side through a pine wood. The old farm lay on the slopes above that wood. I could see it in the distance, a stark stone-built house with most of its roof missing and its walls tumbling down. But parts were tiled and it did offer some shelter. As I hurried down the steep track, I heard voices and then a shout — they’d seen me! Two men were running away from the farm, climbing higher along the steep hillside. I’d be quarter of a mile away from them … should I chase them, or call for help?
If I chased them on foot, I’d lose them, of that there was little doubt in this rough, expansive terrain, and so I ran back to the van, waited a moment to gain my breath and then reported to Control. I explained the difficulties due to the rough nature of the landscape, the lack of tracks, the steep hillsides leading to open moorland, the acres of heather and bracken, the gulleys and streams. Dogs would be needed, lighting would have to be available, a field radio system would be an asset — this was before the advent of personal radios for police officers.
I was told to wait at my van and to rendezvous there with the members of search party as they arrived. Two units of dog handlers had been despatched and the dogs would be put on the trail, consequently no one must interfere with the scent which led from Low Holly Heads. I confirmed that I had not trampled upon the men’s tracks and this pleased Blaketon: so many villains have escaped due to police officers confusing the dogs by trampling all over the fresh scent trails.
I looked at my watch. It was nine o’clock. The sun had set and darkness was beginning to envelope the dramatic landscape as I wondered how Mary was faring with her talk. She should have finished b
y now. My radio was in constant action by this time, asking me for updates, for directions to the scene and for a recommendation as to the use of specialist vehicles, like a four-wheel drive truck which could be borrowed from the mountain rescue service.
Was there any track for such a vehicle to use? My own knowledge of the area combined with judicious use of the Ordnance Survey map suggesting the fleeing men would quickly reach the bridleway which formed a northern boundary to Lairsdale Moor; the track formed a semi-circle around the bulk of the rising moor and led to both east and west. It was used by Forestry Commission vehicles, ramblers and horse riders. I suggested that units be despatched to each end of that bridleway …
Within half an hour, Sergeant Blaketon arrived, rapidly followed by a mass of other police vehicles and officers, some of whom had been called out an hour early to begin their night duty. They’d started at nine o’clock instead of ten — I wondered how many of those had missed their suppers! The inspector had been dragged away from his and had opted to operate from the western end of the bridleway, taking with him several more officers. And so a huge search was mounted. Blaketon despatched two units of dog handlers to Low Holly Heads Farm where they succeeded in picking up the trail. Off they went, noses following the scent like bloodhounds, while I remained with my van and its radio, acting as co-ordinator for this end of the search because of my knowledge of the terrain.
It was a dog handler who caught the men. Having fled at the distant sight of me trekking towards their hiding place in Low Holly Heads, they had crossed the open moor to find shelter in an old sheepshed.
The absence of officers in hot pursuit had convinced the men they had evaded us and so they had settled down, whereas in fact we had been consolidating our search. The triumphant dog handler and his happy Alsatian escorted the captives back to their vehicle and so to Eltering Police Station. And they were still in possession of the stolen property; their guilt would never be in question.
It was 10.30 when I returned to Ashfordly Police Station to record my part in the search, and quarter past eleven by the time I arrived home. Mary was back, I was pleased to say. I kissed her and said I’d be with her in just a few moments, when I had taken off my uniform and booked off duty. I knew she had rustled up a fresh meal for me — I knew that the moment I walked in from the scent of cooking which wafted from the kitchen. I then realized how famished I was. Now (hopefully) finished for the day, I put on my slippers and settled down to ask Mary about her evening. I found that, in spite of the late hour, she had set the table in the dining room; there was a candle in the middle and a bottle of wine already opened …
‘Hey!’ I was very pleasantly surprised. ‘What’s all this for?’
‘They gave me a bottle of wine for talking to them, and, well, I thought I’d been unreasonable with you earlier, you know, getting cross with you when you’re only doing your job … so I did this, for both of us.’
I kissed her and cuddled her warmly, thanking her for this generous thought, and then we settled down to the meal. I asked how she had coped at the WI meeting. She smiled.
‘Great!’ she beamed. ‘I took our portable radio … I told them about the demands on us both, on you especially, not knowing what was going to happen next, and then we listened to that manhunt on the radio. I used it as an example of the things you get involved in, switching it on and off every so often to illustrate points. We could only hear one side of the broadcasts, but we did hear your name mentioned several times, especially just after you’d seen those men and were co-ordinating the chase … the ladies loved it …’
‘What a brilliant idea!’ I congratulated her and we discussed our respective evenings as we enjoyed that romantic and very welcome meal. But as we were just finishing the coffee, the telephone rang. Mary looked at me and I looked at her. I groaned and said, ‘Oh, not again!’
Mary said, ‘I’ll answer it. I’ll say you’re still out …’
She went into the office to take the call and returned moments later.
‘It was just Mrs Quarry,’ she laughed. ‘She wanted to know if you’d got back safely and if you’d searched Low Holly Heads Farm like she told you to.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her you had. I said you’d pop in to thank her and tell her all about it sometime. I said you’d caught the two men who had been there …’
‘It’s been a very successful night.’ I felt content now.
‘It’s not over yet,’ she said, taking my hand and leading me upstairs. I hoped the telephone wouldn’t ring now.
9. Brotherly Feuds
Peter and Paul were brothers. Peter was the elder at forty-nine years of age, while Paul was two years younger. Both lived in Crampton and were neighbours, each boasting a fine detached house in the upper part of the village, not far from the church. Their homes had extensive views over the dale to the north and east, with open fields to the south; the ancient church with its fine tower blocked their view to the west. Both had nice wives and two children, a son and daughter each. Peter’s wife was called Emma and Paul’s was called Sandra.
Their surname was Almsgill, their father being Percy Almsgill, then in his mid-seventies. Percy also lived in Crampton, albeit in a pleasant bungalow whose lawns reached down to the banks of a stream which flowed into the gently moving river. He and Mrs Almsgill had handed over the family firm to their sons some ten years ago, hopefully to enjoy a peaceful retirement. They were keen gardeners and, having made a success of their building business, now had the wealth and the time to make their garden a showpiece.
P. Almsgill and Sons had been a prosperous and thriving local building firm, but some eight years ago the two brothers, each called P. Almsgill, had fallen out. Peter and Paul had had an almighty row.
No one knew the reason for the dispute, although the villagers had their own ideas, some based on rumour and some on speculation. It is doubtful whether anyone knew the truth. The rumours and speculation included tales that Peter had been found in bed with Paul’s wife; that Paul had been found in bed with Peter’s wife; that Paul had been fiddling money from the business; that Peter had been fiddling money from the business; that Peter worked hard while Paul spent his time socializing; that Paul had made a disastrous deal which had cost the firm lots of money and that Peter had invested the firm’s profits in stocks and shares that had failed. But all these and sundry other notions were unproven — there might have been a little piece of truth in every tale, or they might all have been totally false. No one really knew.
Whatever the cause of their split, the two brothers each decided that they would continue with their building business and so there were two builders in Crampton, each still known as P. Almsgill and Sons. Each claimed theirs was the original P. Almsgill and Sons and neither would change the name of their business. They even continued to share the same yard. Old Mr Percy had acquired some derelict farm buildings years ago and had converted them into a very useful builders’ yard. Hert were his piles of stones and tiles, roof timbers and doors, kitchen sinks, bathroom suites and toilets, some under cover and some in the open air. He also acted as a builders’ merchant, selling items to customers who called.
But in their feud, the brothers had agreed to use separate parts of the yard, although they did share a common entrance. Each had an office in what had once been pigsties, and each had his own stocks of commodities and equipment.
How the postman and those who came seeking work found the right P. Almsgill remains a mystery, although everyone suspected that it was the two wives who sorted out the mess. Somehow, the right bills reached the right office and the right orders arrived upon the right desk.
There was little doubt that Emma and Sandra were responsible for keeping sanity in the yard and helping to sort out problems that would otherwise be intractable. Two charming and lovely women, they had not fallen out and there is every reason to believe they regarded their husbands’ behaviour as childish. The wives remained good friends and each act
ed as secretary to her husband’s firm, dealing with representatives, taking orders, arranging deliveries to their premises and sites currently in work and generally retaining sanity among the work force, the villagers and the customers.
The older and original P. Almsgill, i.e. Percy, kept out of this altogether — his view was that he had retired and if those b — stupid sons of his were daft enough to throw away their prospects by dividing the business, then it was their loss, not his. And he and his wife remained on good terms with both sons and their wives.
In time, the village had grown to accept this nonsense. Somehow, most of the villagers knew whether to deal with Peter or Paul on any given matter — they went to Peter if they wanted a house built and to Paul if they wanted a cowshed. They asked Peter to fix the tiles of their roofs and Paul to lay a new drive. Peter would build a conventional cemented wall around a garden while Paul would construct a drystone wall around a field or paddock. Somehow, the local people created their own demarcation lines and so the two builders found themselves specializing in certain types of work — Peter did domestic work while Paul seemed to deal with agricultural matters.
Outwardly, therefore, the two businesses appeared to thrive in a peaceful manner; certainly, the two sets of workers co-operated with each other, sometimes helping one another when the occasion demanded. I’d seen Peter’s workers helping Paul’s to finish a new stable block before the onset of one winter, but was later to learn that this had arisen due to the common-sense attitude of the respective wives. The brothers had known little of that deal.
As the village constable, this kind of dispute was no real concern of mine. I was aware of the problem, even if I did not know or understand the root cause, but such family matters were of no professional interest to me unless, of course, they resulted in trouble of the kind that might bring the matter into the realms of a breach of the peace.
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 16
