‘How long would it take to do this?’ was a question I had not considered, but it was one that Derek asked the Pattington groundsman, George Baxter.
‘It’s not dug very deep, as you can see,’ George pointed out. ‘Almost skimmed the surface but enough to cause deep cuts in the turf and turn some over. You can’t play cricket on that. Time to do this? Not long. Ten minutes at the most, I’d say.’
‘Right, I’ll ask around,’ said Derek Warner. ‘And I’ll see if any of our locals have a rotavator. I’ll keep in touch, Nick.’
‘Does this mean today’s match is cancelled?’ I put to George.
‘Almost certainly,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can repair that wicket in time as we were due to start at two this afternoon. If the damage had been confined to the outfield, we might have managed. But the wicket’s damaged, that’ll take some time to repair and it needs doing properly. I’ll have a look around for another venue, but that’s never easy at short notice.’
Although only one of these acts of damage had been committed on my beat, both teams were within the same local cricket league, the Southern Moors. For that reason, I decided to circulate details to Eltering Sub-Divisional Headquarters so that all constables whose beats contained teams from that league were alerted. That initiative resulted in a telephone call from Inspector Breckon who quizzed me about the incidents and then said he would ensure that everything possible was done to locate the culprit and protect cricket pitches through the subdivision.
But we did not prevent the same thing happening at Crampton a week later. As there had been no midweek attempt upon any local cricket pitch, perhaps due to our high profile police patrolling, I think the league’s clubs relaxed their vigilance and reduced their night watches. Crampton’s splendidly maintained pitch, located within the grounds of Crampton Hall, had been attacked in precisely the same way as the others.
A rotavator had cut the surface of the grass in a diagonal furrow, once again affecting the wicket area and, like the others, it terminated in the hook of the letter J. On Saturday morning, the groundsman, Jeff Winters, rang me almost in tears.
‘I’d just got it right, Mr Rhea, for the match with Lord Crampton’s eleven this afternoon . . . who’d do a thing like this?’
I drove down to Crampton and met him at the cricket field. Although it was within the grounds of Crampton Hall, there was a separate entrance and in fact the field was several hundred yards away from the big house, out of sight behind a hillock on top of which was a copse of sycamores. I found Jeff, who was employed as a gardener by Lord Crampton; he was now in the cricket pavilion, marching up and down in his frustration.
During our discussions, the familiar pattern emerged — an isolated cricket field, a club belonging to the Southern Moors League, the turf cut during the night with a rotavator in the form of a letter J, and no one had heard anything or seen anything untoward. Jeff could offer no suggestion as to a motive or a culprit, adding that Lord Crampton had been informed and had given Jeff time off this morning in the hope the pitch could be salvaged in time for this afternoon’s game. In his case, the field was owned by Lord Crampton, but he let it to Crampton Cricket Club for a tiny rent, one of his contributions to the local community.
As I compiled the preliminary crime report in my office at home, I began to wonder whether the fields of every team in the Southern Moors League would eventually be attacked.
With this in mind, I cut a printed list of the league teams from the local paper and tucked it into my pocket book, marking those which had already been attacked; next, I examined their locations on the map, particularly as they related to one another in terms of distance and connecting roads, but I could not identify any particular association or relationship between the victims and any other team. I began to wonder if the culprit was nursing a grudge or a motive which was not linked specifically to the game. And yet it was someone who knew about local matches — every attack so far had occurred the night before a game. It seemed the idea had been to prevent that particular match. But why? At this early stage of the season, there was no championship or cup at stake and the pressure to achieve great things was not so great now as it would be towards the climax of the cricket season. To my knowledge, none of the threatened matches had been of any particular importance, a fact which made the rotavator raids even more peculiar.
It was at that point, I wondered who the opponents of the victimized clubs had been. The first, Thackerston, had been due to play a friendly match against Elsinby, but with the local weekly paper on my desk, it was easy to find out who Pattington’s opponent had been last week. It was also Elsinby. I wondered if this was a coincidence, and then turned to the same paper for a list of this week’s matches — and Lord Crampton’s eleven was scheduled to play against Elsinby this Saturday afternoon. The three victimized clubs had all been due to play against Elsinby, also a member of the Southern Moors League. And they’d all been home matches — home to the victimized team, that is, and all due to be played the day following the raid.
I sensed that these factors suggested rather more than a mere coincidence and began to wonder if the clue to this problem lay within Elsinby cricket team — or a particular member of it. As my newspaper did not give me the fixtures for the following week, I would have to either obtain a fixture list from one of the clubs or have words with one of the local officials. I knew the captain of the Aidensfield team fairly well; he was Stan Calvert, a tall, fair-haired man who lived in the council houses. I guessed he would be playing somewhere this afternoon and, as he was not on the telephone, I hurriedly put on my cap and drove down to his house. He was having an early lunch when I arrived.
I explained the purpose of my visit and he listened carefully, then replied, ‘Next weekend we’re playing Elsinby.’
‘At home or away?’ I asked.
‘At home,’ he told me. ‘On the Aidensfield ground.’
‘Then you might be next on Rotavating Ronnie’s list,’ I warned him. ‘He’s always attacked the grounds the night before a match, and it’s always been the ground of the team due to play against Elsinby. So I think we need to discuss some kind of overnight security for your cricket field, Stan.’
‘Right, Nick, thanks for the warning. Look, I’m rushing off now. Come and see me later in the week; meanwhile, I’ll get some mates to give us a hand.’
‘Get them to keep it to themselves, Stan,’ I warned him. ‘I don’t want Rotavating Ronnie to know we’re onto him; I want to catch him in the act.’
‘Fair enough.’
I told Sergeant Blaketon about my theories and he agreed with my proposals to lay a trap for Rotavating Ronnie; he would give me an extra hand in the shape of PC Alf Ventress and we would take up our positions from dusk on Friday evening. We would conceal ourselves on the cricket field to await developments.
But all that was in a week’s time. During the interim period, I decided to make a few discreet enquiries in and around Elsinby, partly to ascertain if any member of the cricket team owned or had access to a rotavator, and partly to determine whether or not there was any internal political matter within the club which might have resulted in these attacks. So far as the rotavator was concerned, my very carefully conducted investigation showed that no member of the team owned such a machine, nor had any of them been known to borrow one. I had seen a full list of all club members, officials and players and could not point the finger of suspicion at any of them. The only snippet of gossip was that one of the team members, Miles Dyson, the fast bowler, had taken a shine to the away scorer, a stunning blonde 20-year-old girl called Moira O’Sullivan. Miles was unmarried and was a tall, rather dashing 25-year-old whose father ran some local racing stables. Miles did not work with horses nor indeed did he follow horse racing, preferring cricket as his sport, girls as his pastime, a bright red MG tourer as his means of transport and a career in advertising at York by which he earned enough money to finance his varied interests. Everyone thought he and Moira, a lithe
blonde who lived with her parents at Longview House, Elsinby, and whose well-to-do father owned a chain of garages in the area, were ideal for one another.
They’d met when Miles had bought his latest car from one of the O’Sullivan group of garages, Moira being the receptionist at that particular outlet in Galtreford. My quiet enquiries did not show how this liaison might have led to the damage of cricket pitches. Having spent some time on these background investigations without producing any hint of a motive by anyone in the Elsinby club, I turned my attention once again to the rotavator. These two-stroke-fuelled, hand-controlled digging machines were not very common at that time and if there was one in the vicinity, then most of the gardening enthusiasts or allotment holders would know about it. But none did. I’d asked all over the area, even visiting local garages to see if anyone called regularly to buy fuel for a rotavator, but drew a blank.
Then, on the Friday of that week, I went to Ashfordly while I was off duty. I was due to work a late shift because tonight I’d be keeping observations on Aidensfield cricket field from around nine o’clock. I was due to begin my duties at 6 p.m., working through until 2 a.m. or until such time as we caught our rotavating rogue. I was in civilian clothes and had some banking to do as well as some shopping for decorating materials, my mission being to decorate one of our children’s bedrooms. As the marketplace car park was full, I sought some other convenient place and found myself in a short cul-de-sac fairly convenient for the town centre. As I drove in, I noticed some new premises: the sign said Ashfordly Agricultural, with a secondary one announcing repairs, maintenance and servicing to lawn mowers and other small agricultural machines. And in the window there was a new rotavator.
I could not miss the opportunity and went in. The owner, a breezy man in brown overalls, came to attend to me and when I expressed interest in the rotavator, he began to explain its merits and functions. His sales patter went on to say that these were becoming very popular with people who had large gardens and not a lot of time to tend them.
When I asked if anyone living nearby had bought one recently, he said, ‘You’re the bobby from Aidensfield, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Rhea’s the name.’
‘Well, a chap near you at Ploatby’s just got one, a couple of months back. He’s delighted with it. You could always go and watch his in action if it’s any help. He made that offer to me; he said he was breaking new ground — his little joke, I might add — but said if anyone wanted a practical demonstration, he’d be willing to give one.’
‘That sounds a good idea. Who is he?’
‘Walter Nelson, he lives at Sundial House, Ploatby. A fairly recent arrival in the village, I’m told, a chap in his fifties. I think he’s something to do with the catering industry. He came here from Leeds. I think he owns a food distribution business. Very affable and friendly, a most obliging man. Nice wife and lovely red-haired daughter too. They’ve bought Sundial House. It was a bit run down and they’re doing it up, making it like a palace and making a vegetable and herb garden out of the old lawn area. He’s obviously got a bit of cash behind him.’
I thanked my new contact and decided that tonight, when I came on duty at 6 p.m. I would drive out to see what Mr Nelson could tell me about rotavators. He lived close to Elsinby — Ploatby was only a mile and a half away along a narrow country lane. I knew his name had not appeared on the list of Elsinby Cricket Club members, players or officials and did not consider him a suspect. But then caution set in. I thought — if he is the only rotavator owner living near Elsinby and if he is a suspect, then my visit this evening — this very important evening — might alert him to my professional interest. He might not therefore launch his attack on Aidensfield cricket field which meant we would not catch him red-handed, and that would leave him free to continue his rotavating raids.
We had to stop him and the only way was to catch him in the act tonight. Somewhat reluctantly, I decided not to visit him this evening. If we did not catch the culprit, then I could call on him at some future date.
My first task after coming on duty at six was a brief chat with Stan Calvert, the Aidensfield captain; since I’d talked with him earlier in the week he’d recruited three volunteers to help keep watch on the cricket field, and I said they would be of great use in our bid to catch the Rotavating Ronnie. I arranged to meet Stan, his helpers and Alf Ventress behind the pavilion at eight o’clock. Each of us would be equipped with a powerful torch, a flask of coffee and something to eat. By the time we had made ourselves comfortable, darkness would have fallen and we’d be on site to plan a reception committee for our troublesome visitor. I had to explain that any arrests must be made by the police.
At the due time, we assembled as planned, Alf bringing his police vehicle on to the field to park it behind the pavilion well out of sight. He ensured it showed no lights, but it was needed to provide a means of communication during Operation Rotavating Ronnie. The plan was that the cricket field should appear to be absolutely normal which meant the access gate would be standing open. It always did stand open, but our plan was to have one volunteer concealed nearby; he would close and lock the gate the moment the rotavator was in situ and started. Stan had thoughtfully found a padlock and chain so that the gate could be locked. In that manner, we would contain both the rotavator and the vehicle in which it was transported. Even if the perpetrator managed to flee from the scene, we’d be able to seize his vehicle and the machine as evidence of his culpability. As our plan was put into operation, we decided that Alf would immobilize the vehicle by removing the ignition key and switching off the engine and lights; because I was the younger of the police officers present, I would carry out the arrest, if necessary by chasing the villain on foot, and our endeavours would be illuminated by our torches. The villain’s arrest would follow as sure as night follows day.
I explained to our team that we had to allow the suspect to park on the field and then give him time to unload the rotavator, start it and even cut one or two slices of turf — only by that way could we prove his intention to cause damage. If we stopped him before he actually cut anything, he could deny all responsibility for the crime of malicious damage and I had to impress upon our volunteers that there was no criminal offence in merely driving a van and a rotavator onto a cricket pitch.
The civil offence of trespass was not a police matter. If we pounced too early and prevented him committing the crime, we’d have to let him go and, unless he made a voluntary confession, he’d never appear before a criminal court of law. Our plans made, therefore, we settled down for our indeterminate wait not knowing what time we would be called upon to display our arresting skills.
Nothing happened until after midnight. The parish church clock struck twelve and we began to wonder if our presence had been noticed, but then a pair of powerful headlights illuminated the skyline as a vehicle headed in our direction. It was the cue for total silence on the cricket field. Our gatekeeping volunteer, a portly gent called Ernie, scuttled around the boundary towards the open gate and concealed himself behind an elderberry bush as the lights approached. Soon, I could determine that it was a small vehicle and it was heading in our direction. I called out for stillness and silence; each of us knew our impending role and Alf’s official radio was turned to its lowest volume. A hush descended upon Aidensfield cricket pitch.
Very shortly afterwards, the oncoming lights approached the gate and entered the field, the vehicle bouncing down the slight slope before coming to a halt with its lights blazing and its engine running.
‘It’s him!” breathed Alf Ventress. ‘We’ve got him . . . caught in the act . . .’
‘Not yet, Alf,’ I said. ‘We haven’t got him yet. Give him time . . .’
‘For God’s sake don’t let him ruin our pitch . . .’ breathed Stan.
Whatever our suspect was doing, it seemed to be taking a long time, but eventually I saw a dark figure emerge from the van and go around to the rear doors.
I heard the doors being o
pened and this was followed by further noises which I understood to be some planks of wood being placed in position to form a ramp from the rear of the van to the ground, and then the unloading of the heavy rotavator. And all the time, the vehicle engine continued to run and the lights shone across the centre of the pitch. Once the rotavator was on the ground, we could hear the carburettor being primed and the starting handle being pulled; it spluttered into life with the chug-chug sounds of a two-stroke engine and we then saw the handler manoeuvre it towards the centre of the field. At this stage, it was not cutting the turf but was merely being wheeled into position.
‘Now?’ breathed Stan, thinking of his precious turf.
‘Not yet,’ I hissed. ‘He’s not digging yet . . . he must be caught digging, we’ve got to get evidence of damage . . .’
It wasn’t many minutes before the tone of the engine changed as the miniature ploughing system was put into operation; as it began to dig into the turf of the outfield, I hissed, ‘Right, go, go go.’
Already, the gate had been closed; Alf Ventress ambled at his fastest speed in the darkness around the boundary as he made for the van while I made a bee-line for our suspect. One of the cricketing volunteers followed Alf as a back-up and another followed me for the same reason while Stan’s job was to immobilize the rotavator, prevent further damage and make sure it was not removed by the suspect.
But, as we all ran towards our intended targets, the suspect heard our panting approach. He abandoned the rotavator and legged it into the all-embracing darkness.
I was now faced with the task of catching the swiftest-moving part of our quarry. Knowing the geography of the field very well indeed, I decided not to switch on my torch; in the reflections from the vehicle headlights, I could see well enough to pursue the dark, slender figure which fled before me and I was pleased to note that my helper emulated my actions. He did not put on his torch either and he knew the layout of the field very well indeed.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 20
