CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  Three o’clock in the morning is never a good time to arouse anyone from sleep, let alone one’s superior officer, but he was very good about it. He said I could use his precious car to chase the thief. Actually, he had no alternative — to have refused would have created all manner of problems if I had had to explain to an even higher-ranking officer how I had been refused permission for operational reasons. So the chase began.

  This crafty character selected a winding route which twisted through many villages. I knew it well, even though it was pitch black and even if I was perhaps a little more tired than I should be. But I knew the roads this thief was using, and, like the previous case, I guessed he would not realise he was being followed by a keen young constable.

  I pressed the accelerator and the finely tuned car responded. It took me into those bends and along those roads with a whirr of tyres and a flash of speeding hedges, villages and lanes. I was enjoying myself, this was great. It was better than watching Edgar Lustgarten’s films or re-enacting a Scotland Yard chase in a Jaguar or something equally splendid. I was thrilling myself as I hurtled along those roads in the Superintendent’s lovely vehicle.

  Everything went well until I ran off the road. I still cannot remember where the road went, but I do recall sitting in the car and leaning forward at an alarming angle. The front wheels were in a ditch and the rear ones were spinning uselessly in mid-air. I switched off the engine, disengaged the gears and clambered out, dropping like a pilot from an aircraft as I landed on the grass verge beneath. The car smelled very hot and there were enough sods of grass lying about to carpet a cricket pitch.

  I was totally alone. The place was deserted, and I had not arrested this thief. Luckily, the car radio still worked, so I called for assistance.

  I had a very long and painful report to submit when I returned, and the Superintendent said he had no wish to see me.

  I understand he was very upset about it.

  Because policemen rarely owned vehicles they experienced great pleasure when sitting in the passenger seat of a shining black police patrol car. Riding in one of these gleaming machines was the next best thing to owning one, and the truth was that official motorcars remained a luxury in many forces even into the second half of the 20th century. Supervisory officers did use them but not constables on routine patrols.

  It will be appreciated therefore that the opportunity to actually drive a powerful police car was considered one of the greatest possible honours. This honour was occasionally bestowed upon selected personnel who formed a specialised unit known as the Road Traffic Division.

  Men selected for this duty were undoubtedly the crème de la crème of any police force. Not only had they proved themselves good practical police officers in the traditional style, but they had also shown themselves highly skilled in driving, even managing to retain their smartness in spite of the shiny seats of their trousers and the paunchy bellies which resulted from too many hours in the driving seat. These were the swashbuckling heroes, men with hair styles reminiscent of RAF officers during the war, always well-groomed and eye-catching. These were ladies’ men, an elitist group with a penchant for obtaining cups of coffee in highway cafes and an ability to control a speeding car in all conditions. They were to the police service what fighter pilots were to the Royal Air Force.

  They created legends in their own time. There were tales of skilled patrol car drivers waltzing their cars beautifully on ice, tales of high-speed drives across the moors to rescue suicidal men hanging by ropes from beams of ancient inns and daring chases to capture stolen vehicles or meet superintendents at rendezvous points. Whatever they did became a talking point over coffee from our night-duty flasks; it was all thrilling stuff.

  For the young policeman whose mode of conveyance was his feet this was a lifestyle to dream about. To become a patrol car driver was the ambition of many and the lot of a few. As if in answer to our dreams it was deemed by higher authority that all young constables should undergo a short attachment to Road Traffic Division.

  This was to familiarise us with the miracles performed by this group of specialists so that we knew their abilities and capabilities. Thus in the course of our duties we could call upon their expertise, and it was hoped we would make greater use of these fine fellows in moments of stress or dire emergency. The cars used by these giants were different from ordinary police vehicles — they had radios for one thing, and their speedometers had been rigorously checked over a measured mile in order that speeders could be safely prosecuted in court. These cars had signs right across the front which said POLICE, and which could be switched on at night. Their commodious boots were full of paraphernalia to deal with traffic accidents, like a broom for sweeping up broken glass and a shovel to put it on, a tape measure, cones for warning oncoming drivers, a first aid box, balls of string, lifting gear and a host of other useful things. Unlike modern police cars they did not have blue flashing lights, noisy horns and sneaky computers like VASCAR to trap speeders.

  There is no doubt that these shining black cars held a certain enchantment and offered a romantic interlude in the average bobby’s career. An attachment to Road Traffic Division, however short, must be considered a step towards this Valhalla. It so happened that my fortnight’s attachment coincided with a period of night-duty, which meant I was allocated a night patrol in a warm police car. The arrangement was that I patrol my patch as usual, albeit in the company of a seasoned patrol driver, and our joint manoeuvres would satisfy his patrol requirements in addition to providing supervision of my beat during those nights. It seemed a reasonable compromise and I looked forward very much indeed to my introduction to Road Traffic Division’s marvels and mysteries.

  On the first evening I presented myself at Ashfordly Police Station where it had been arranged that my driver for the shift would collect me at 10.20. I was armed with a flask of coffee, tin of sandwiches and my trusty torch. At the appointed time my heavenly chariot arrived. It was a shining black Ford Consul known as Mike One Five, pronounced Mike One Fifer in phonetic jargon, and alternatively referred to as MI5. The car’s unfortunate call-sign led it to being known as Mystery One Five or the Secret Service car and its driver was PC Rupert Langley.

  He was a thirty-year-old married man with a lovely wife and two equally lovely children. Rupert and his family had transferred to the North Riding Constabulary from Kent because his wife loved horses and wide, open spaces. Malton, with its racing-stables and accessibility to the moors and dales, seemed a perfect posting although her love was for hunting and hacking rather than racing. None the less it was an ideal place for the Langley family to grow up.

  Rupert was at least six feet two inches tall with a slim, athletic build topped by a mop of wavy black hair. The women he met a work and at play fell instantly in love with his dark, thoughtful eyes and it was said that many deliberately drove their cars carelessly or parked illegally in the hope he would take down their particulars. In spite of his sun-tanned magnetism he never strayed from his family home and was always faithful to his wife.

  Few disliked Rupert, and I was delighted he was to show me the work of Road Traffic Division. He was highly articulate and very amusing, two talents that were quickly in evidence as he introduced himself and showed me around his car. It was clearly an object of pride for him as he explained how to operate the radio and how to use the various call-signs favoured by Road Traffic Division. He explained all about the speedometer, so accurate and tested regularly for evidential purposes, the specialist tools and equipment in the boot and finally the PA. I did not know much about the latter device, but studiously observed him as he operated a switch on the dashboard.

  “That switches on the PA,” he said, as if I knew all about it.

  “Does it?” I wondered whether to show my ignorance, but he recognised my uncertainty.

  “Public address system,” he clarified the point. “About half our fleet is fitted with the public address system. It’s a loud hailer device, really, worked
off the battery. I just speak into the handset of the official radio,” he picked up the handset “and switch it on. Then I can talk to crowds of people outside all at once or get cars to move aside or stop. Warn folks about lost drugs or bad road conditions. That sort of thing. It’s marvellous. You can tell a whole street about a gas leak in no time.”

  To demonstrate it he switched on and said into the handset, “Good evening, friends.” Outside the car his words boomed and echoed about the police station and I felt sure they would be heard as far away as the marketplace. I wondered what the townspeople would think as those words filled the night air and guessed a drunk or two might suddenly become sober.

  Having seen the magic of the car I climbed in. I was now officially an “observer” and as such would be responsible for noticing offenders and incidents during this shift. I would also have to provide supporting evidence for any court case secured by Rupert.

  Not knowing what excitements lay in store we set off smoothly, the beautifully tuned car transporting us in sheer luxury. We accelerated out of the police station yard and made for the tiny town centre. The official radio burbled quietly from the dashboard. It was my job to show Rupert around Ashfordly and district and I felt he was worthy of being shown some of our secret places, where tea and buns could be obtained at all hours. It was his task to educate me about the skills of his specialist department and our mutual task was to police the area tonight.

  Rupert talked freely, and I found him easy and entertaining to listen to. As a southerner, he had found the North Riding people to be somewhat blunt at first but had since grown to like and respect them for their toughness and straight speaking. He had grown fond of the North Riding countryside too and talked of making it his permanent home. He liked his work, he was happy with his car and appreciated the opportunities provided for him. In short, he was happy; a rare and contented man.

  Our first tour of duty was spent getting to know each other and attempting to understand each other’s mode of working. Nothing of any great significance arose but our second shift was to prove much more interesting. We stopped one or two motorists to advise them about faulty lights, and I toured my vulnerable properties to check for signs of illegal entry. In this way we successfully combined our roles, and my beat remained peaceful.

  Towards midnight we found ourselves in Brantsford marketplace and Rupert decided to park for a few minutes to observe the passing scene. This is always a useful exercise, although Brantsford dies at 10.30. That is the time the pubs close and, as that event had passed quietly, our vigil was distinctly lacking in action and pace. To be truthful, that was the situation until a stray dog appeared.

  It was a cur dog, a type very common among the moorland farmers of this region. They are small, hardy animals, predominantly black with patches of white fur, and this one emerged from a side street to sniff the cool night air. It cocked its leg against a lamppost and wandered into the main street. It was quite alone.

  I noticed Rupert lift the handset of his radio, but I did not link that action in any way with the dog. Next, he pressed he PA switch. This meant the public address system was alive.

  That which followed was quite surprising. Rupert lifted the handset to his mouth and began to produce the most realistic sounds of a dogfight I’ve ever heard this side of Percy Edwards. The amplified battle cries reverberated across the town and it was as if all the hounds in hell were fighting in Brantsford High Street. The innocent cause of this commotion stood in the middle of the road, highlighted by a streetlamp with its hair standing on end, its tail as erect as a flagpole and its teeth bared in a realistic grimace as it sought its hidden foe. Rupert continued to growl and snarl until several doors opened and many lights came on; people came to see what was happening and one pub was cast open to discharge a late-night party into the street. Everyone wanted to observe the fight but all they found was a very puzzled cur dog alone in the middle of the street.

  Then Rupert stopped.

  It was amazing how busy the small town had become, and we now had something and somebody to watch. From the excited voices of the pub crowd it seemed they were members of a twenty-first birthday party which was being held for the landlord’s daughter. The entire gathering from the pub was now in the street, all clutching glasses of drink and seeking nearby nooks and crannies for the dogfight. Up and down the street windows had opened both upstairs and downstairs, and curious folk leaned out, asking questions of one another and expressing their concern about uncontrolled dogs. The partygoers provided a backcloth of coarse humour for the roused residents, and among all this speculation and commotion the bewildered dog wandered about, now totally unconcerned about the flap it had caused.

  Rupert sat with a big smile on his face and I laughed quietly at his side. It was almost like watching a live stage performance with no idea what was to follow.

  “You’ve certainly livened up this place!” I chuckled. “It’s quite busy now.”

  “It works wonders when things are quiet,” he said, taking out his pipe and lighting it. “I find it fascinating to watch people as they hunt the dogfight. When they go in I’ll do it again briefly. They’ll all rush out again — they’ll talk about it for ages afterwards.”

  And he did. Ten minutes later the cur had vanished and the drinkers had returned to their party. The windows had been closed, the doors had been locked and the town restored to its normal state of tranquillity. Rupert’s second impression resulted in the ghastly amplified sound of dogs fighting to the death, two killers snarling their vengeance upon each other, howling and barking in the darkness.

  From our vantage point we enjoyed a repeat performance as more lights came on, more doors opened, and the partygoers rushed out once again, laughing and shrieking as they nervously sought the Hound of the Baskervilles. By now my sides were aching with suppressed laughter but Rupert simply sat there, nursing his pipe as he observed the bewildered people trying to solve the mystery. I wondered what kind of rumours would be rife in the little town tomorrow and tried to visualise what Sergeant Blaketon would do when the tales reached his ears. He’d probably arrange a purge upon stray dogs.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Rupert said quite suddenly, stuffing his pipe into the car’s ashtray. We left the warmth and security of the car, walked into view of the people and patrolled the High Street much to the relief of the residents. Several asked if we’d heard the dogfight, and Rupert denied it. He explained that we’d just arrived, although he did mention a cur dog which was now trotting peacefully home along Junction Terrace. The final scene in this drama was an invitation to join the birthday festivities. We did this and enjoyed them tremendously. I could see that Rupert’s talent was already paying dividends.

  During the nights which followed I was to learn more of his unique and fascinating talent. In similar moments of inactivity I would ask him if he could mimic particular sounds and would challenge him with requests to copy things like squeaking gates or a roll of thunder. Invariably he could oblige.

  Sometimes his art was undertaken in the privacy of the car without coming to the notice of the general public, but by far the most interesting sessions were those broadcast through the public address system of his patrol car.

  I have seen women blush delightfully at a loud and sincere wolf-whistle coming from somewhere beyond their ken. I have seen those silly people about to jaywalk or drive their cars out of parking areas without looking, pull up sharply in the face of Rupert’s stem warnings. I’ve known him bid “good morning” to his friends in this way and “goodnight” to home-going drunks. I’ve seen him remind his wife, whom he noticed out shopping, to bring home his favourite cheese or some meat for the cat. I’ve also watched him mischievously make totally unidentifiable sounds — one example is a simple clicking noise, the sort one does with one’s mouth to encourage a horse to trot. When done through an amplifier in the street the noise can be very baffling and it’s good fun to watch the genuine bewilderment on the faces of those who cannot
identify it. Other small intriguing noises included clicking his fingernails into the mike, drumming his fingers on the side of the microphone, scraping a matchbox’s sandpaper with a thumbnail or simply yawning loudly.

  But it was his ability to imitate specific sounds which I found most interesting. He could produce an excellent cuckoo and I’m sure he was the cause of many rural folk writing to their newspaper to boast of hearing the season’s first cuckoo. I have often wondered how many early cuckoos were Rupert idling his time in a layby. The blackbird’s alarm call and the honk of a pheasant were nicely done too, and I’m sure he created despondency among the wildlife on my beat. I could imagine the local birds and beasts hearing these alarm calls and accepting them as genuine before scurrying to safety.

  It is difficult to highlight the most memorable of his imitations but two remain etched in my memory. The first occurred in the very early hours of one morning when we had been diverted to the seaside town of Strensford upon a rather urgent enquiry. It was almost an hour’s journey from our beat, but, as Rupert was the only patrol car driver on duty that night, it meant we had to undertake the task. We left Aidensfield at eleven to arrive about midnight and deal with the inquiry. It was no more than a traffic inquiry from a southern police force, but it demanded the knowledge of an expert Road Traffic officer because it involved the misuse of a Goods Vehicle Carrier’s Licence. I didn’t understand the urgency but went along and learned something of this branch of traffic law. We concluded at 1.30 and decided to have our meal break at Strensford.

  We could have gone to the police station, but it was a lovely summer morning with a clear, bright sky, so we decided to enjoy our sandwiches and flasks on the cliff top. There we could enjoy the superb views out to sea and watch the coasters sailing by. Rupert knew the town sufficiently well to select a quiet parking place overlooking the harbour.