CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9)

by NICHOLAS RHEA

  ‘Sure, but without my toupee, no one knows me; I just walked through that crowd in there, and no one stopped me. You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m the village policeman, by the way, PC Rhea.’

  ‘Glad to know you. I like this village, Mr Rhea, and your countryside. Marvellous, but I must hurry. My hosts’ll wonder where I’ve got to.’

  He went into the unlit toilet, a brick-built square which had a urinal channel and a battered water closet in a separate cubicle. But there was no light, and the only ventilation was via the open top of the affair, for it had no roof.

  I returned to Mary, and as I was talking, Crosby came back into the hotel, pushed past the crowds and reached me. He recognised me.

  ‘Sure is a quaint john,’ he said quietly, chuckling as he moved back into the dining room without anyone recognising him.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked my pal Malcolm.

  ‘Bing Crosby,’ I said.

  ‘Never . . . I don’t believe that . . .’

  ‘He’s taken his toupee off,’ I told him. ‘He likes not being recognised, and he looks smaller than he does on screen . . .’

  ‘But I wanted to meet him . . .’

  ‘You nearly did,’ I grinned.

  And then the rugger team started to sing. Word of our illustrious guest had reached them, and they launched into ‘White Christmas’ with all the fervour a rugger team can muster. I groaned, and I could see that George was angry and upset at their behaviour.

  ‘Shut up!’ I heard him appeal to them. ‘We don’t want the evening spoiled . . .’

  But they continued in fine voice, doing a repertoire of Crosby’s songs, and George was growing more and more embarrassed. The more he tried to persuade them to end their singing, the more determined they became to sing, and we felt sure their music would reach the ears of the party in the dining room. George decided to apologise to Sir Eldric and his party and went across to the dining room. At least no one was hanging around outside its door. I watched from the distance, and then George came out, closely followed by Crosby.

  Crosby came into the bar and stood behind the counter with George, who rapped for silence.

  ‘Quiet, everybody!’ George’s loud voice filled the bar, and he rapped it again with an ashtray. Even the rugger team fell silent.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he shouted, for there was still a babble of excited chatter at the appearance of Crosby at his side, ‘Mr Bing Crosby.’

  The pub filled with cheers as Crosby said, ‘I’ve enjoyed my visit to your inn.’ We all cheered again. ‘And so I thought I’d join your choir with a few songs . . .’

  And so he did. Led by Bing Crosby, the combined choirs of the Vale of Mowbray 1st XV, the regulars of the Brewers’ Arms and a handful of visitors from surrounding villages sang a medley of the best-known Crosby songs led by the maestro himself. And we ended by singing ‘White Christmas’.

  Crosby had to leave with his party but he had given us a fine concert, and George bought drinks for everyone that night, even for the visiting rugger team. Two or three weeks later a signed photograph of Crosby arrived, and it was placed in a position of distinction behind the bar.

  But perhaps the best news of all came a month or two later. George showed me the letter he had received from the brewery which owned the premises.

  It announced that new indoor toilets for ladies and gents were to be installed.

  People who consider themselves important, but who are probably not in the least meritorious, often find themselves in situations which are embarrassing. A lot of this is due to their opinion of themselves, some believing they are God’s gift to the world and that, as a consequence, nothing they do is wrong, while others blithely jog along in the erroneous view that they are indispensable to the nation which has nurtured them. To be very well known is indeed a severe handicap. That became evident in this next tale.

  Such a person was a Very Famous TV Personality. I am not allowed to name him here, nor even to create a fictitious name which might, with some astute detective work, lead to his identification. And so I will call him VFTVP — Very Famous TV Personality.

  That he was talented, handsome and popular was never in doubt, but it was known to those closely associated with him that his desirability and attractiveness concealed a person who was not very nice at all. The police in whose area he lived knew of his peccadilloes and of his more serious wrongdoings, one of which was a conviction for rape when he was a teenage lout.

  His appearances on the screens of our national television network had made him a modern household name, and those of us who knew of his background and of his seedy private life sometimes wondered how the public would react if they knew the truth about him. But we, as police officers, could never reveal a confidence of that kind. We knew about his past, and we respected his efforts to forge a new future.

  As part of his new image, he had married a delightful young actress, and the publicity shots of them together in their current bliss did seem to suggest he had reformed. Certainly, it made the old ladies and the middle-aged ladies who were his chief fans think he was wonderful, kind, considerate and generally quite charming. But we knew he was an out-and-out bastard, a womanizing drunkard, and that he beat his wife without mercy. Time and time again our men had been called to the cottage he rented on the moors to quell the violent disputes he created at his home. And then, next morning, he would be his usual charming self.

  Oddly enough, one of his fans was D/PC Wharton, with whom I worked in Eltering CID. He had seen the programmes that featured the VFTVP, and we knew that he modelled himself on the man. The clothes, the hair-do and even some of the jargon he used had come from the screen image of that appalling man. He knew of the rape conviction but reckoned that the worst of men could be reformed and redeemed. And that is what he felt about our VFTVP. It required a murder investigation to change his mind.

  The body of a woman had been found in woodland close to Eltering, and she had been strangled. Her clothes had been scattered around the area, she had been savagely raped and her life had ended with her own tights being tied around her neck. She was twenty-four years old and the daughter of a local racehorse trainer.

  The body was found at four o’clock one August afternoon, and we managed to keep the news of the discovery out of the regional TV and news programmes; it would be released at nine o’clock in readiness for blanket coverage in the following day’s newspapers. Our aim was not to deny news to the public but to try to trap her killer.

  We reckoned that lack of news that evening would compel the killer to return to the scene, just to see if his handiwork had been discovered. Several of us were therefore detailed to keep observations in that forest. I found myself doing the 8-to-10-p.m. stint with Paul Wharton. Our mission was simple — we had to conceal ourselves in the forest so that we could overlook the patch of land where the body had been discovered. As a forest track passed between that patch and our hiding place, we had also to note the registration numbers and descriptions of cars which passed along that route.

  There were no incidents of major interest until at almost 9.30 p.m., a Rover 2000 eased to a halt outside our patch of forest. We could see it contained two people, a man and a woman. Then it reversed into the trees. It moved along a wide track covered with pine needles, and we could see the two people talking for a few minutes, and then they climbed out and got into the rear seat. There were further animated movements of arms, lots of kissing and passion and then, with a scream, the woman flung open the car door and ran into the trees, her clothing torn and flying behind.

  The man ran after her, shouting obscenities which rang through the woodland as the girl was calling, ‘No, don’t, no . . .’

  ‘Time for Sir Galahad to rescue a fair maid, you think?’ said Wharton.

  ‘You take the girl, I’ll get him,’ I said, more in hope than expectation.

  Wharton ran. We did not need torches in the half-light, and as I galloped to he
ad off the chasing man, he called after the girl, ‘It’s all right, it’s the police . . .’

  I was closing on the man with great speed, for it was clear that he was physically out of condition. When I was behind him, I called for him to halt, but he refused. He was clearly terrified of me and Paul Wharton, not knowing what he had let himself in for.

  ‘Police!’ I shouted as I closed in. ‘Halt . . .’

  He replied with a stream of abuse, and so I accelerated over those closing yards and brought him down with a flying rugby tackle. We crashed head first into the soft carpet of pine needles, his body acting as a cushion for mine as I knocked the wind out of him. I picked him up and snapped my handcuffs on him before he could do any more harm, then held his manacled arms as I steered him back to his own Rover. He never spoke during that walk. As I approached the car, I saw that Paul had caught the girl and they were walking back together, Paul supporting her with his arms.

  ‘So,’ said Paul as my man sank against the car for support, ‘what’s all this?’

  ‘He tried to rape me, that’s what! I know I agreed to a cuddle and a spot of music on the radio, but he went berserk.’

  ‘She led me on, I thought she was game . . .’ and the face turned around to reveal his identity. It was our VFTVP.

  ‘I did no such thing, you evil bastard . . .’ she bellowed at him. ‘You are filthy, you are evil, you want locking up . . .’

  Paul, his dreams shattered, was horrified. ‘But it’s . . . you are . . .’

  ‘Sod off, you stupid copper!’ snapped the VFTVP. ‘I want my solicitor. This cow is a prostitute . . . I’ve paid her to come here tonight . . . I’ll ruin her in court, so help me . . .’

  ‘I’m not, I’m not, I thought you loved me!’ wept the girl.

  ‘You are under arrest for attempted rape,’ said Paul, his face as grim as the granite rocks which surrounded us. ‘You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be taken down in writing and given in evidence.’

  ‘That bitch is a slut, a cow and a pro. Put that in your notebooks and see if I care.’

  We radioed our control room to report this arrest and, in view of the fame of our prisoner, were told to take him to the Divisional Headquarters, where a detective chief inspector would interview him.

  For Paul Wharton, there had been the shattering of an illusion, and he no longer believed in the truth of screen images. For me, there was disappointment too. In spite of what we had witnessed, we could not proceed against the VFTVP because the girl refused to make a formal complaint and declined to be a witness. This case occurred many years before the anonymity procedures which now protect victims and suspects alike, and the girl did not want her name dragging through the courts and newspapers. She did not want to be regarded as a loose woman, a slag, a prostitute or a rich man’s plaything. And so we could not prosecute him — besides, it was a very doubtful case of attempted rape anyway. We might have secured a conviction for indecent assault — but we got nothing.

  For the general public and all his thousands of adoring fans, the VFTVP continued to charm those who saw him in action on their screens. None knew of his darker side but I did learn, two or three years later, that some of the tabloid press were quietly investigating his life-style and were compiling a dossier. One day, I felt, all would be revealed.

  And for the detective chief inspector, there was hope.

  ‘I think he killed that lass,’ he said to me many days later. ‘That story told by your girl, about him ripping off her clothes and so on, well, it all fits with the murdered lass.’

  ‘Did you ask him about his whereabouts at the time of her death,’ I asked.

  ‘We did. He said he was in London, reading scripts at his flat. Alone. He won’t say anything else without his solicitor present. I’d love to nail him for that job, you know. I’m sure as hell he’s guilty.’

  ‘But what a way to return to the scene of a crime, sir, to bring another woman and have a go at her . . .’

  ‘Exactly, young Nick. Exactly what I thought. By doing it like that, no one would suspect his part in the first crime, would they? Except experienced CID men . . . What a clever sod, what a cunning bastard he really is . . . How he can come over in such a charming way on screen beats me, it really does . . .’

  ‘So what are you going to do now, sir?’

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Wait with my eyes open and with that file never closed.’

  And that file is still open.

  Chapter 10

  A brief reflection solves the mystery.

  BISHOP WILLIAM STUBBS, 1825—1901

  AS I MENTIONED EARLIER in this book, I’m sure most young constables have ambitions to arrest a suspected murderer. Certainly, many fostered this dream when I joined the service, so when I started work within the CID, I looked forward to such an occasion.

  I knew that if another murder was reported, I would be drafted onto the enquiry as a member of a team. For those purposes, a team comprises two detectives. They are either two detective constables or a detective sergeant with a detective constable. They are based at the incident room, which is an office established for the duration of the investigation. Each team is allocated specific tasks which are called ‘actions’, and in this way each team investigates a particular aspect of the crime until that aspect has been totally exhausted and, if possible, clarified. The outcome of this action is made known to those in charge of the incident room, so that the result can be filed and recorded. The result of one team’s enquiries may have relevance to another action being dealt with by another team — collation of such links is the work of the clerical staff within the incident room.

  The incident room can be established in a police station, perhaps by using a recreation room or even a games room — anything will suffice so long as it is large enough to accommodate all the stationery and paraphernalia of a big investigation, in addition to some forty or more detectives working in teams of two. In remote situations, the incident room may even be based in a village hall, community centre, schoolroom or any other suitable accommodation. A detective sergeant runs the administrative side of the work in this room, while overall charge of the work of the incident room, and allocation of actions, is in the hands of an experienced detective inspector or chief inspector. In charge of the overall enquiry will be a detective superintendent or perhaps a detective chief superintendent, depending upon the size of the police force involved or, of course, the nature of the investigation.

  I knew that all detectives felt the thrill of the chase when instructed to attend a briefing following the report of a murder; it meant working a twelve-hour day, usually from 9 a.m. until 9 p.m., until the killer was caught or the enquiry ended. But the camaraderie and excitement of this vital aspect of crime investigation are never exhausted, even in the most experienced of detectives. And, fortunately for the expansion of my police experience, albeit with the utmost sympathy for the victim, we did receive a report of a murder while I was an Aide.

  It came at 8.45 a.m. one Monday morning, just as we were all arriving for the day’s work. PC John Rogers took the call.

  I heard him say, ‘Just a moment, Mr Flint. I think you ought to speak to the CID.’

  Detective Sergeant Gerry Connolly heard this interchange, nodded his understanding of its nature and went through to his office to take the call. He came back a few seconds later and said to us, ‘I think we’ve got a murder on our hands, lads. I’m going round to have a look — No. 16 Driffield Terrace. Nick, you come with me. John, send a car round to that address, will you? With a uniformed man to seal off the house. Tell him to liaise with me there. Don’t do anything further until you hear from me, and don’t tell the press, not at this stage. And John, call the doctor; ask him to meet me there urgently.’

  He asked me to go with him because I happened to be the only other CID man present on duty; Paul Wharton was working a late shift, and it was Ian Shackleton’s day off. On the way to the house, wh
ich was a five-minute drive, Gerry told me that the first thing was to examine the body without touching it and without touching anything else in the house. The doctor would be required to certify death, however, and as the local police doctor, he would be advised on the need to touch as little as possible and not to move the body. It was vital that the scene of a murder be interfered with as little as possible.

  We arrived to find a youth standing in the doorway of the terrace cottage. He looked pale and ghastly, and I guessed he was suffering from shock. He came to meet us, recognising Connolly.

  ‘In there,’ he said, almost sobbing the words. ‘In the kitchen . . .’

  ‘You’re Mr Flint, are you?’ asked Connolly.

  ‘Yes, I’m . . .’

  ‘Wait here,’ Gerry said to the youth. ‘Nick, follow me and don’t touch a thing; in fact, put your hands in your pockets.’

  The front door led directly off the street into a narrow passage, and I noticed a Daily Mail stuck in the letter-box. Inside, I was tempted to pull it from the letter-box but resisted in time. I could see the date — it was that morning’s edition. Inside, the stairs ascended to the left while the passage continued through the building. On the right was the front room, with a door opening into it from that passage; further along was a dining room, also with the door standing open. The passage was carpeted with a long, dark maroon runner and bore one or two pictures along its walls; there was a mirror, too, and a small stand for walking-sticks.

  At the end of the passage was the kitchen. This was at the back of the house, and as I peered beyond Gerry’s bulky shape, I could see the legs of an elderly lady who lay on the floor.

  ‘I’ll have to go in,’ he said gently. ‘You stand at the door and look into the kitchen; keep your hands in your pockets and just look around. Note things in your memory, the position of everyday things . . . Has she washed up? Used the kitchen table? Had a meal? Is there anything odd about the scene?’

  As Gerry entered the kitchen with all the caution of his years in CID work, I stood and watched. The dead lady was in her nightdress and was laid with her head touching the outer door and her neck at an awkward angle, twisted savagely to the left. Blood covered the tiled floor in the region of her head; it was dark and congealed. She wore slippers but her legs were bare and her hair was covered with an old-fashioned hairnet. Gerry stood at her side, mentally noting a hundred and one tiny details before he carefully leaned forward to touch her forehead.