This was brought home to me by the case of Jill and Paul Knight. I felt sure the council would never allow them to be thrown on to the street or taken into a hostel of some kind, but the wheels of official departments turn so very slowly and with such a lamentable lack of feeling or compassion. The officials would have no concept of the heartache involved in the long periods of waiting and hoping.
As I worried about the future for Jill and Paul, I received a visit from the postman.
“Mr Rhea,” he said as he knocked with my morning mail, “somebody’s broken into that little cottage down the village, St Cuthbert’s.”
My heart sank.
“Much gone?” I asked.
“Dunno,” he shook his head. “They got in by smashing a window at the back, in the kitchen. It’s still open.”
“Right, thanks,” I said. “I’ll go and have a look.”
As he’d said, entry was by smashing a pane at the back. The burglars, or housebreakers, had opened the kitchen window and climbed through. Once inside, exit had been through the kitchen door by unlocking the Yale catch. I could not tell whether anything was missing for I had never previously been in the cottage, and the intruder(s) had not made a mess.
I now had a crime in Aidensfield. If the breaking and entry had occurred after 9 p.m. and before 6 a.m. it would be classified as a burglary. Outside those times, it would be recorded as a housebreaking. Since 1968, due to a change in the law, all such breakings have been categorised as burglary.
I contacted the key-holder, Miss Cox, who lived two doors away and together we made a brief examination. I asked her not to touch anything, but to look around and tell me what was not in its usual place.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” she muttered as she surveyed each room at my side. “Oh, dear, oh dear, how awful.”
She was a fussy little woman of indeterminate age, probably in her sixties.
“Can you tell me what’s been taken?” I asked, notebook at the ready.
“The television,” she said, pointing to an empty comer.
I quizzed her and found out it was a black and white Murphy set, with a 12’ screen.
“The radio,” she said in the kitchen. This was a Bush portable in a red and cream case, with a plastic carrying handle. “And a vase, a nice old vase in green glass.”
“Thanks.”
We searched the entire cottage, but nothing else seemed to have been stolen. She checked it regularly, but could not say it was secure at 9 o’clock last night. So we recorded it as housebreaking, a lesser crime than burglary. I thanked her, and obtained the telephone number of Mr Porteous; then called in our CID and Scenes of Crime experts; they would examine the cottage for fingerprints and other clues.
My next task, apart from completing the formal written Crime Report, was to make house-to-house enquiries around Aidensfield in the hope that someone had either heard or seen something. The CID would do their skilled work after obtaining a key from Miss Cox and I asked the local plumber to reglaze the broken window.
From my office, I rang Mr Porteous to break the bad news. After assuring him that all possible had been done, and that his cottage would be secure before nightfall, he decided not to drive up from Leicester. I said it was not necessary.
Funnily enough, another two cottages in a deep moorland village were raided about a fortnight later, but in each case, the MO was different from the Aidensfield crime. I was sure the Aidensfield housebreaker had not broken into the others but those crimes did prompt a telephone call from Mr Porteous.
“Ah, Mr Rhea,” he said. “I’ve just seen the paper — two cottages have been burgled on the moors. Is this a regular happening in your area?”
“It’s becoming more commonplace,” I had to admit. “Some of these holiday homes, with expensive furnishings, are easy meat, you know. They’re empty for long periods and it doesn’t take a genius to realise they’ve got things like TVs and radios inside; all easily disposable.”
He paused. “We’re going abroad for the summer,” he said, “so we won’t be using St Cuthbert’s Cottage for our fortnight’s holiday. It’ll be empty from now until October; that’s six months. Miss Cox will pop in from time to time, but you’ll keep an eye on it for me, will you?”
“Of course,” I said, “but it’s always at risk, you know that.”
“I know. I’ve heard about these people who live in houses for you, house-sitters or something. Have you anyone in your area who would do that? For a fee, of course.”
I was about to say I knew of no one, when I remembered Jill and Paul Knight.
“I know a young couple who would do a good job for you,” I said. “They”d be willing to house-sit for you, for six months or whatever it takes.”
I told him all about Jill and Paul, and how they were now waiting for allocation of a council house. He recalled their pleading letters.
“I didn’t commit myself before,” he said. “After all, I don’t know them and at that time I did intend using my cottage most weekends … but, well, for a gap of six months … ”
“They are on the council waiting-list,” I stressed, “but this would be useful to both you and them.”
“Ask them to ring me,” he said, “I’ll discuss terms; I was willing to pay someone, so I may decide to allow them the cottage rent free or possibly a nominal rent, for legal purposes … ”
Three days later, they moved in.
Five days afterwards, the stolen goods were found in an old van which was rotting in a quarry. They were quite undamaged and after successfully testing them for fingerprints, they were restored to St Cuthbert’s Cottage. It was good news for Mr Porteous.
My enquiries into the crime drew a complete blank but it was a remark I overheard from a drinker in the Brewers Arms which caused me to think.
“By gum,” said the man over his pint one night, (he was chatting confidentially to a pal, but I heard him), “it’s a rum sort of a do when you’ve got to burgle a house to get folks to take notice of you. Still, yon lad’s got a roof over his head now.”
From time to time, I still reflect upon that unsolved crime.
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Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 18
