She gave me a cup of tea and a scone as I took descriptions of all the missing objects, and I assured her that details would be circulated among the local second-hand and antique dealers. The value of the missing items was low, and I could not understand why anyone had stolen them — it seemed to be the work of an opportunist thief who had taken the cash and anything else that might make a few shillings.
The three cats seemed to be the most interesting — they were each carved from ebony and, according to Mrs Harland, they had green eyes ‘that shone a bit’ and ‘claws made oot o’ gold-coloured stuff, and each wore a leather collar studded ‘wi’ bits o’ red glass’.
Each was in a sitting position, one being six inches or so in height, one about four inches and a kitten about two and a half inches high. They were linked together with a gold-coloured chain which was threaded through their collars. Without seeing these objects, I had to rely on her description of them, but I did wonder if, in fact, those ‘green eyes that shone a bit’, the ‘bits o’ gold-coloured stuff on their claws and the ‘red glass’ on their collars were genuine gold and real jewels. Mrs Harland could not put a financial value on the cats and so, for the record, I recorded them as being worth £10 for the set. In our reports, we had to show the financial value of stolen goods.
Sergeant Connolly said I should tour the second-hand shops in town and other places that might sell the stolen goods, and so I did. But no one had been offered them. After those initial enquiries, there was little more that could be done, for new crimes were being recorded and investigated and the theft from Mrs Harland looked like being just another undetected crime.
It would be a month later when I received a second call from Mrs Harland.
‘Mr Rhea!’ she shouted into the telephone in the manner of one unaccustomed to using such new-fangled inventions. ‘Them cats o’ mine, Ah’ve come across ’em.’
For the briefest of moments, I could not recall the cats about which she spoke, and then, just in time, I remembered.
‘Have you?’ I said. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘In a house window ledge, up Curnow Street, No. 3. Ah’ve made a note o’ t’number.’
‘Can you be sure they’re yours?’ I would have to exercise enormous discretion if I was virtually to accuse a householder of stealing them; they could be identical, or very similar, copies.
‘Aye,’ she sounded hurt. ‘’Course Ah can; yan on ’em has a claw missing, middle cat, left back leg.’
‘I’ll go and ask about them,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll come back and let you know how I go on.’
‘So long as I get my cats back, that’s all Ah want,’ and she slammed down the telephone.
I told Sergeant Connolly, and he felt she could be mistaken, but I remembered the incident of my own stolen coat. I knew my own coat, just as Mrs Harland most surely know her own cats, cats that were part of her family history. Connolly listened to my arguments on her behalf and said, ‘Fine, right. Go and sort it out, Nick. But for God’s sake be careful. We don’t want folks complaining that we’re accusing them of housebreaking and theft.’
I knew the dangers, and it was with some trepidation, therefore, that I walked to Curnow Street to sort out this dilemma.
Curnow Street comprised semi-detached and detached houses with large-paned windows overlooking tiny gardens which abutted the street. No.3 was a pleasant, brick-built semi with pretty curtains at its window. As I approached, I saw no cats sitting there. I wondered how I would tackle the delicate accusation I was duty bound to make. But my immediate worries were solved. As I was about to walk up the short path to the front door, someone opened it. A young woman in her early thirties, with a pretty face atop a rather heavily built body, was trying to manoeuvre from the house a wheelchair containing a large child. The child was a girl of about twelve with long, dark brown hair and sad eyes, and a rug covered her lower regions and legs. The plump young woman was battling to lower the chair down two steps and, at the same time, keep the heavy door from slamming shut. I went to help her.
‘Thanks.’ She clearly welcomed the extra pair of hands, and I coaxed the heavy chair down the steps and onto the path. And then I saw the three cats; they were laid on the lap of the girl, on top of the all-embracing blanket. I had to make use of this Heaven-sent opportunity, so I picked up the cats and tried to make contact with the girl. But she was a spastic, I felt, and communication was not easy.
‘They’re nice,’ I said, half to the girl and half to the woman, whom I assumed was her mother.
‘They’re Eve’s,’ I was told. ‘She loves cats and we had a big black one, but she got knocked down by a bus a couple of weeks ago. She had kittens once, a year or two ago, but they died. Eve was heart-broken.’
Eve tried to speak to me about those model cats but I could not understand her. I wished I could communicate with her, for her hands were moving around in her attempt to speak. I replaced the cats in her lap, having seen that they corresponded in every detail to those stolen from Mrs Harland.
‘They’re lovely cats, Eve,’ I said gently.
‘I found them on a bric-à-brac stall in the market last Monday,’ said the mother. ‘Eve was with me and I knew she wanted them, so I got them. They were only £3, a real bargain.’
‘They look like ebony,’ I said.
‘The man on the stall thought that too,’ she said. ‘He thought they’d been carved in Africa or India.’
I did not tell this lady, whose name I learned was Mrs Ann Reynolds, of the real reason for my visit. I allowed her to think I just happened to be passing, and I did not tell her I was a policeman; I felt a twinge of guilt at my deception but felt, in the circumstances, it was justified.
It was Monday that day, so I went to the market and found the bric-à-brac stall. It was there every Monday.
‘You had some black cats here last week,’ I said, without saying who I was. ‘Three of them, ebony I think, linked with a gold chain.’
‘Sold,’ he said. ‘A little lass in a wheelchair wanted them, so I let her have ’em cheap.’
‘Can I ask where you got them?’ I put to him.
‘You the police, then?’ he put to me.
‘CID,’ I said. ‘We’ve had a report of some cats like that being stolen locally.’
‘A feller came to me only last Monday morning with ’em,’ he said. ‘Scruffy chap, two or three days’ growth of whiskers, bit of a down-and-outer, I’d say. He sold ’em to me, said they were his. I mean, Officer, I don’t deal in knocked-off stuff, never have. Mind, I do get offered stuff that sometimes I wonder about, and if I’m worried, I leave it alone. But them cats, well, they’re the sort of thing you can pick up in any souvenir shop.’
I disagreed with his assessment of their merits but did not argue with him. I believed his story and made a note of his description of the man who had sold the cats. I did not feel that this man knew he had bought stolen goods, and he was not therefore culpable, but he would have to feature in my crime report. However, who was the rightful owner of the cats, assuming they were the ones stolen from Mrs Harland?
She must inspect them and identify them as her property before any further legal proceedings could be taken. I knew I should have taken possession of those cats until the matter was determined, but I had shrunk from that action, rightly or wrongly. Mrs Harland, the loser, did have an obvious claim to the cats, but so did Mrs Reynolds, who had purchased them in good faith. If a battle over ownership did result, it was not the duty of the police to sort it out. That rested first upon the respective claimants and, if they could not agree, recourse through the civil courts was available — they would determine true ownership. But that was a last resort. In the event of a criminal prosecution of the thief, a court could order the return of the cats to Mrs Harland, and possibly some compensation to Mrs Reynolds. But first we had to catch the thief — his description would be circulated. In the meantime, I decided to pay a visit to Mrs Harland to acquaint her with the day’s odd circumstance
s.
She welcomed me and I knew, by the expression on her face, that she had expected me to be clutching her three cats upon arrival. She took me into the parlour, produced a cup of tea within seconds, plus a buttered scone and some strawberry jam, and said, ‘Well now, Mr Rhea, so you’ve not found my cats.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, and I launched into the story of my enquiries, and of Eve’s role in all this. Mrs Harland listened intently and I concluded by saying, ‘What you must do now, Mrs Harland, is accompany me to the Reynolds’ home to identify those cats formally. If they are yours, we can then take charge of them until the ownership has been determined or until the thief is arrested and dealt with.’
‘Now that’s a rum ’un,’ she said, and she fell into a long silence which I did not interrupt. I wondered what she was thinking.
Then she brightened up and said, ‘Mr Rhea, Ah’d like yon little lass to keep ’em. I’ve no daughter to pass ’em on to, no son either, and yon invalid lass is welcome to ’em. She has no idea they were stolen, has she?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Her mother bought them in good faith from the market. She has no idea where they came from before that.’
I now realised I had problems of my own, for the writing-off of this reported crime would create some administrative problems. I started to explain the difficulties to Mrs Harland but she was equal to the occasion.
‘The way Ah sees it,’ she smiled, ‘is that Ah was mistaken when Ah spotted them cats in yon window. Ah’ve had a closer look, and they’re not mine. Similar, mebbe, but definitely not mine.’
‘That would keep the books straight, Mrs Harland.’ I had to admire her decision.
‘And it’ll keep a little lass very happy, eh?’
‘It will,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
And as I left, I recalled the old Yorkshire belief that, if a black cat enters a house, it is a sign of good luck. I hoped three ebony ones would bring a spot of good fortune and happiness to little Eve Reynolds and her family.
Chapter 6
Death, in itself, is nothing.
JOHN DRYDEN, 1631—1700
IN POLICE CIRCLES, THE quotation from John Dryden given above is very true. Police officers deal with death in all its forms, and it is surprising just what a large part this most unavoidable of natural states plays in their daily work. Murders, manslaughters, infanticides, homicides in all their mystery and cruelty, suicides, sudden deaths, deaths from unknown causes, deaths in mysterious circumstances, accidents with motor vehicles, firearms or other devices, drownings, poisonings and druggings, falling off cliffs or down mine shafts, leaping off bridges or out of aircraft, and a whole host of other curious forms of leaving this earthly life are the lot of the constable on duty. A straightforward natural death, where someone simply drifts cheerfully into the hereafter, is therefore of little consequence, a matter only for doctors, clergymen and undertakers, plus, of course, the friends and family of the dear departed.
On many occasions, however, the distinction between a natural death and a suspicious one is not easy to determine. Complications arise, sometimes due to the place in which the demise occurred, sometimes due to the curious manner in which the departure from life took place. In such cases, the police do have a duty to examine the circumstances and to involve others — coroners, forensic experts, doctors and pathologists — in an attempt to determine whether or not foul play is suspected.
Being involved in an enquiry into a mysterious death is truly fascinating, and most officers, when undergoing their basic training, are advised that their manner of investigating these deaths is a fine introduction to CID work. It is also a wonderful way of performing a service to the public, because a considerate but efficient investigator, when working so closely with the bereaved relatives or friends, can rapidly enhance the stature of himself and the entire police service. I have known very determined anti-police citizens revise their opinions of the force as a direct result of being involved in such an enquiry, especially when it was conducted by a sensitive and efficient constable.
In most parts of the country, the investigation of a sudden or mysterious death is the responsibility of the officer to whom the report is made, as a consequence of which many uniformed constables find themselves engaged in this work. In other areas, particularly in urban communities, a constable is appointed to the post of Coroner’s Officer and undertakes all such routine enquiries. It demands a special kind of sympathy and understanding of human nature to cope with sudden death every day of one’s working life, but these officers perform their duties in a cheerful and professional manner.
There are times when the police officer is the only friend the family has in their loss, the only one to offer help without complications.
The CID are called in only when the suspicious death is confirmed as being truly worthy of their interest as a possible homicide. At Eltering, because it was a small town, the CID took an interest in most suspicious deaths (as in Chapter 2), even though there was little likelihood of their being a homicide. Nonetheless, one or two further intriguing cases of death came my way during those few weeks as an Aide to CID.
One such example occurred on a Saturday morning, and it illustrated the curious way that some people have of behaving in the face of events which are outside the normal scope of their work and daily routine. As a result of this case, and the one which follows, I realised that there are people who simply cannot cope with the dramatic, unusual or unexpected; they categorically will not accept any responsibility over and above that which their job entails. To avoid such pressures, they simply behave as if the dramatic, unusual or unexpected has never occurred. There are times when I think this would make a fascinating matter for research, to show how a human being can avoid coping with something that is presented before his or her very eyes.
This trend often manifests itself during a crisis in the streets or other public places — passers-by simply ignore what is happening and walk on, even if someone is dying or being raped or mugged. I have often wondered how such passers-by can live with their consciences, knowing that their immediate action, had they done something, could have saved a life or prevented a crime, even if that action required nothing more than making a fuss or ringing 999. But so many citizens refrain from ‘getting involved’, as they term it — they do absolutely nothing. Police officers cannot behave like this. However terrified and uncertain they are, however young and inexperienced, they must cope with everything from lost dogs to exploding bombs via crashed aircraft, crimes, dramas of every kind, whether large or small, and, of course, sudden or unexplained deaths.
The case which follows is a fine illustration of this tendency, and it started with a telephone call from an estate agent.
‘My name is Walters,’ he told the duty constable, PC John Rogers. ‘I’m employed by Pendle Smith and Watson, estate agents. I have just found a dead man in a house we are selling. The house is empty by the way . . .’
The only uniform constable on duty in Eltering that morning was dealing with a traffic accident at the roundabout in the High Street, and so Gerry Connolly suggested I went along, ‘Just to have a look and see if he’s not imagining things.’ I said I would be pleased to do so, and off I went.
The house was a pretty terrace cottage, No. 14 High Forest Terrace in Eltering, a loftily situated row of stone-built houses overlooking Low Forest Terrace. I arrived within five minutes to find a worried-looking individual on the doorstep. He was a small, mild-mannered man with thinning dark hair and he clutched a briefcase to his chest.
‘I’m D/PC Rhea,’ I introduced myself. ‘Are you Mr Walters?’
‘I am, yes, and this is terrible, Mr Rhea, it really is. I mean, fancy coming to check a house over and finding a corpse . . .’
‘Show me,’ I asked him.
The body was that of a late-middle-aged man, probably in his mid-sixties, and it was fully dressed in grey trousers, a blue shirt, grey pullover and black shoes; the unfortunate fellow was lying
on the bare floorboards of the main bedroom of this empty two-bedroomed property. I touched the corpse on the cheek; it was stone cold, and rigor mortis had set in; he was dead all right.
This man had died in a sleeping position, for he was laid out as if he was still in the Land of Nod, and his corpse was as stiff as the proverbial board. I could see no sign of visible injury but would have to strip him at the mortuary to check those parts of his body that were clothed. That was one of the jobs of an investigating officer — in this case, me.
There was the smell of death in the air as, with Walters following me around, I did a quick survey of the windows and doors to see if there had been any forcible entry. This death was certainly suspicious — after all, what explanation could there be for it?
‘Who is he? Any idea?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, no. I’m new, I didn’t handle the sale of this house, you see; one of my colleagues did. He’s gone off on holiday, to Tenerife; he did the sale, you see, and I was just checking that the outgoing owner had cleared his furnishings, a courtesy, you know, towards the incoming owners . . . we make a practice of checks of this kind before we let the new purchasers in. They’re due very soon — today, in fact.’
‘So you are saying this house has been sold?’ I asked.
‘Yes, completion is today. The owner is a Mr . . . er . . .’ and he examined his files. ‘Er . . . Mr . . . Clough, Mr Martin Clough, yes. Well, he had to be out today and our new owners are moving in this afternoon. This is rather, er, well unexpected . . . embarrassing . . . To be honest, Officer, I do not know what to do . . .’
‘They won’t be too happy about having a body on the floor, will they?’ I said. ‘So who is this dead man? Is it Mr Clough?’
‘Well, er, I don’t know. I haven’t met him, you see.’
‘If it is Mr Clough, where is all his furniture?’ I put to the estate agent.
‘Well, that’s a puzzle as well, isn’t it? I mean, so far as I know, the removal men were due this morning . . . maybe they’ve been, maybe Mr Clough came back for something and died . . .’
CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9) Page 9
