“Course!” he cried, “Bloody hell, Constable, you’ve not been around, have you?”
“No,” I admitted. “Not a lot.”
“Then leave it to me . . .” he said. “I’ll get us on to that train.”
“I’ll have to handcuff you through Victoria,” I said.
“No need,” he assured me. “I’m not leaving you blokes. You’ve got my ticket, remember?”
“I can’t let you walk through London without them!” I began to worry about this.
“Walk? Who’s going to walk, Constable? Run you mean, run like hell. We run like hell, me leading and you chasing. If you don’t, we miss that bloody train home, and I don’t want to wait until the early hours. I want my bed tonight, and my wife and little girl, and that white tea cloth . . . I’m going to get all that, mate. All of it. And soon.”
The train was slowing on its final yards and Soldier was on his feet, waiting at the door and clutching his belongings.
“Come on!” he said. “There’s no time to hang about. Keep with me, and don’t get left behind. If I lose you,” he said, “I’ll see you at King’s Cross barrier . . . I can get through the tubes all right . . . don’t need tickets if you know the ropes . . .”
“I’d better just put these on . . .” I pulled out the cuffs and dangled them before him.
“No time,” he said. “Come on, lads, run!”
And as the train slowed to its grinding halt, he opened the door and leapt on to the platform before the train halted. He was galloping towards the ticket barrier, shouting for us to follow him, Alwyn was coughing and spluttering and I was dithering.
“You’ve done it, Nick!” he cried, “That was a bloody stupid thing to do . . . he’s away . . . he’s a con man, you know . . . that’s you and me for the high jump . . .”
But I was already jumping from the train in advance of the other passengers and galloping after Soldier. He saw me, waited a moment, and waved urgently.
“Come on!” he shouted. “Don’t hang about.”
Alwyn gathered his wits and we all passed through the barrier together, flashing our tickets. Soldier darted off again, rushing through the crowded station at Victoria and heading for the nearest tube. We followed, Alwyn puffing with advancing age and me desperately trying to keep Soldier in view.
He kept looking behind and waiting for us; he knew exactly where he was going, and we had no alternative but to run with him. Already, he could have escaped and ruined our careers, so we simply galloped through London’s crowds with my eye on the back of his bobbing head.
To this day, I cannot remember which way we took. Not being accustomed to London, its web of tube stations and the crowds of stolid faced humans, I simply followed Soldier and shouted at Alwyn to keep pace. Barrier after barrier was crossed, escalator after escalator was galloped up or down, crowds were parted and people apologised to, and then, as if by magic, we were rushing across the platform at King’s Cross.
“Two minutes to go,” Soldier smiled. “Not bad.”
We hurried along the platform, seeking an empty compartment, but every one was full. People were even standing in the corridors, and as the guard looked at his watch, we opened the nearest door and leapt aboard, panting and perspiring.
“My God!” said Alwyn. “I never thought we’d all get here.”
“Me neither,” beamed Soldier. “I thought you blokes were going to let me down.”
We laughed, and settled down for a long haul home in a crowded corridor. The guard looked at his watch.
“One minute,” grinned Soldier, and at that precise instant, a newsvendor walked down the platform with one or two papers still in his satchel. Like lightning, Soldier dived for the door, opened it and leapt on to the platform.
“Get him!” shouted Alwyn.
But I couldn’t move. There was a fat woman directly in front of me, and the guard was shouting and blowing a whistle. I watched with horror as our prisoner galloped up the platform, but he halted before the newsvendor, handed over a coin for a paper and raced back to the open carriage door. Even as the train began to move, he leapt inside, slammed the door and gave the two-fingered sign to the harassed guard.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I like a read when I’m on a train,” and opened the London Evening Standard.
I breathed a sigh of relief, but daren’t look at Alwyn. My poor heart must have missed many beats.
At the first stop, seats became vacant, and we took our places in a crowded compartment, Soldier remaining silent as he studied every word in the paper. I grew increasingly tired and felt like dropping off to sleep, but knew I must not do so. After all, I did have responsibilities.
It was a long, tiring and boring journey with many halts. Soldier solved his boredom by falling asleep but left his paper to be shared by Alwyn and myself.
We were due into York around midnight, so far as I remember, and we were all tired, hungry and travel stained. As we neared the city, I nudged Soldier into wakefulness.
“Come on, Soldier,” I said, “Get ready to leave. We’re coming into York.”
“Then you’d better handcuff me,” he said. “The sergeant wouldn’t like to see me loose like this, would he?”
“No,” I said, thankful he’d reminded me. Having organised ourselves for disembarkation, I slipped the heavy cuffs around his wrist, locked them securely, and smiled at the reaction of our travelling companions. I didn’t offer any explanation — they would come to their own conclusions about us, I’m sure.
At York, we left the train and walked sedately along the platform where the tall, gaunt figure of Sergeant Oscar Blaketon awaited. He looked grim and forbidding, but relaxed as he noticed our little party.
“Ah, Foxton and Rhea. You made it then?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” I said.
“No problems with him?”
“None, Sergeant,” I confirmed.
“Right, the car’s waiting outside,” and so we were marched through the final barrier. Soldier and I climbed into the waiting police car to be driven home by Oscar Blaketon while Alwyn brought the other car home. Sergeant Blaketon seemed to think there was safety in numbers.
Until this point, Soldier had not spoken to the sergeant, but once we were settled in the car, handcuffed together in the rear seat, Soldier asked, “Is my wife waiting for me, Sergeant?”
“Wife? No,” he said, expressing surprise at the question. “Didn’t she come to say she’d be surety for me, for my bail?”
“No,” said Blaketon equally bluntly, “nobody’s been.”
“You’ll go and ask them for me, won’t you?” he addressed the sergeant, leaning forward from the rear seat.
“Rhea can go round when we get to Brantsford.”
Without a surety for bail, he would have to spend his time in our cells until his court appearance. I could see his world beginning to crumble. I could see his precious dream fading, and felt terribly sorry for him.
We arrived at Brantsford Police Station and placed him in the cells. It would be just after one o’clock in the morning, but I went around to his home address to see if his wife was there.
I knocked but got no reply. I peered through the windows, but the house looked deserted. And there was no white cloth on the table.
I had to go back and break the news.
“Sergeant,” I said, “could I act as surety for him?”
“You, Rhea? Don’t be silly,” was Blaketon’s response, and so I went home.
Next morning, Mary listened to my story and said, “Well, bring him here for tea. I’ll put a white cloth on.”
I found an excuse to visit Brantsford Police Station that afternoon, and learned his case was due for hearing at Eltering the following morning. Among the other outstanding crimes, he was to be charged with yet another case of false pretences, and I went to see him.
I stood at the cell door, where I spoke through the small square hole in the heavy woodwork.
“Any luck?” I aske
d.
“No,” he said. “She’s not been.”
“You can come to our house for tea,” I said. “When this is all over, give me a call, and my wife will put a white cloth on for you. I mean it, Soldier. I owe you a favour.”
“Thanks,” he said, and I noticed the merest hint of a tear in his eye. “Yeh, thanks. I will. They’ll send me down again, you know. I’d have done it willingly, if I could have spent last night at home . . . with the wife . . . and Susie . . .”
“I know,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Nice to have met you, Constable.”
“I’m at Aidensfield,” I said. “Rhea’s the name.”
“I’ll look you up, honest,” he said.
And I left.
He was sentenced to another twelve months imprisonment for his outstanding offences and he never called for his tea. To this day, I do not know what happened to him, but I never saw him at his own house, nor did I ever see his wife and child.
But I will never forget that gallop through London, hard on the heels of my prisoner. So much could have gone wrong, but everything went right because a Yorkshireman wanted a cup of tea and cakes on a white table-cloth with his wife and baby.
* * *
There is little doubt that hardened law-breakers do respond to thoughtfulness and kindness from police officers. I was given a perfect example of this late one Saturday night during a noisy dance at Ashfordly Town Hall.
The dance attracted many lively youngsters from neighbouring market towns and villages, and I was drafted into Ashfordly that night to increase the strength of the local force. My presence made it two constables on duty that night — two against about 250 revellers.
There was the usual noise and loud music from the hall as the dance was in full swing, but little or no trouble. If there was to be a problem, it would start as the local pubs turned out, when young men, full of fiery liquid, attempted to show who was the best at whatever caught their fancy. Much of it would be a show of bravado richly combined with stupidity, for such antics generate a lot of noise but little else. High spirits at this level can be tolerated.
As the pubs closed their doors, therefore, Alwyn Foxton and I separated and patrolled the town to reveal the presence of our dark blue uniforms in strategic places. In those days, the police uniform was respected, and it did not encourage trouble; many of the noisy youths simply continued their noise but did not reduce themselves to fighting. Instead they formed a modest procession from the pubs into the dance hall, filling it almost to capacity.
Once they were inside, we could breathe a sigh of relief. When the majority were indoors Alwyn and I slipped into the caretaker’s office for a welcome cup of tea. It was now 11 p.m.; the dance ended at quarter to midnight, and we reckoned to have the market square clear by the stroke of twelve.
We did not prolong the cup-of-tea break; within ten minutes, I was heading for the stairs which climbed to the dance floor, my purpose being to poke my nose through the door of the hall to show the uniform yet again. Such periodical displays of our dark blue suits did achieve results. These dances generated very little trouble.
But as I climbed the stairs, a pretty girl of about twenty in a delightful blue dress called me and her voice had a note of urgency.
“Mr Rhea.” She knew my name; I recognised her as a girl called Sandra who worked in a local shop. “Mr Rhea, quickly, up here.”
She turned and raced up the stairs, her slim legs and swaying body being enough to make the most sluggish of hearts miss a beat or two. I followed, trotting in her wake until she paused outside the gents’ toilet.
“In there,” she said.
“Trouble?” I asked, panting after my race up the stairs.
“My boyfriend,” she said. “He’s hurt.”
And as I entered the toilet area, I noticed large drops of blood on the wooden floor. Fresh blood. I could see a trail of it along the landing and into this toilet; it led from the rear staircase. I had no idea what to expect.
Inside, I found him.
A scruffy, long-haired and rather surly youth was sprawled across the two washbasins, one of them taking his weight while the other, with its running cold tap, was full of brilliant red blood made brighter because it was mixed with the flowing water.
He was alone; only his girl hovered outside as I approached.
“Now then,” I said inanely. “What’s happened?”
“Oh,” he stood up, clutching his wrist with the uninjured hand. “Oh, I fell,” he said. “It’s cut bad.”
He kept his bleeding hand over the washbasin as the swirling water carried away the lost blood; the fact that it was bright red blood stirred memories of my first-aid training and I knew it came from an artery, not a vein. He was bleeding profusely and this was no ordinary cut. I noticed the display of agony and worry on his pale face.
“Let me see.” I took hold of his wrist and turned his hand palm upwards so that I could see it, making sure it did not spill on to the floor. Due to the blood welling from the wound, I could not see it clearly, so, gently I returned his hand to the tap to wash away the fountain of blood. And there, right across the palm of his hand, was a long, clean cut almost like a slash from the blade of a sword. It was a clean, but deep and severe wound.
This would need rapid treatment; it required more than first aid or the botched-up bandaging of an amateur of any kind. This lad required urgent and professional medical care.
“You said you fell?” I said, attempting to stem the flow by finding a pressure point.
“Yeh,” he said, assuming something of a cocky air.
“Where?” I was desperately trying to find a pressure point in his arm, searching in the requisite places beneath his biceps or near his wrist.
“Down the steps,” he said vaguely. I knew he was lying. No fall could produce such a clean cut, unless he had fallen on to a knife or some glass. But there was no time to waste investigating his claims; I had to find a doctor. I don’t think the lad realised the danger he was facing as his life-blood was being swilled down that sink, being pumped out of his body by his youthful heart.
“Stand still,” I said. We were now attracting an audience. Some of his friends had arrived, and his girl still hovered near the door, her face showing genuine concern but her upbringing keeping her out of the gents’ toilet.
“You all right, Kev?” asked a huge, unruly looking ruffian.
“Cut hand,” said my patient. “Leave us be, the cop’s doing his best.”
“You’re not taking him in, are you?” came the question.
“I’m taking him to a doctor,” I said. “This cut needs expert attention.”
“All right, Kev?” His pals sought Kev’s agreement to my course of action.
“Yeh,” said Kev, and they slowly dispersed, leaving the worried girl, and myself with the pale youth.
“Ah!” I had found the pressure point beneath his biceps and squeezed tightly. “Can you hold your own arm there?” I asked him.
“What for?”
“To stop that blood coming out of your hand. You can do it better than me, because we’re going to the doctor. Just grip your arm like this,” and I demonstrated the correct method, “and that’ll stop the blood gushing out.”
Holding his injured hand in the air, Kev searched until he found the pressure point, then squeezed hard. He was a fit youth, with the powerful hands of a labourer, and his left hand gripped his own arm and he watched with some fascination as the blood ceased to flow.
“Have you a clean handkerchief?” was my next question.
“I have.” Sandra had now ventured into the toilet and she produced a large white handkerchief from her handbag.
“Good. Now, Kev,” I used the name I’d heard his pals call him. “I’m going to put this over the cut, right? Just close your fist lightly, and hold it in place. Don’t squeeze. Got it?”
His hand closed over the rolled up handkerchief which rapidly changed colour to a brilliant red, and wi
th Kev holding his own brachial pressure point, I escorted him out of the building. Sandra came with us, worried and anxious about him, but I now reassured them that the matter was under control.
As we walked between the cars parked in the market place, he regained much of his lost confidence and said, “I did fall, Officer, I did, you know.”
“I’m not arguing, Kev,” I said. “If you say you fell, then you fell, although my natural curiosity asks how you managed to get a cut of that sort just by falling. But my concern is to get you fixed, and to get it done by a doctor. There’s a surgery just opposite, over there,” and I pointed to a large green door in a building with a brass plate bolted to the wall.
He said nothing as our little procession halted outside the imposing door. It was nearly twenty minutes to midnight and the whole house was in darkness. I ventured up the alley alongside, but there was no sign of a light. The doctor was in bed.
The bell-pull was one of those old-fashioned knobs with a cable attached and I hauled on this to produce a loud ringing sound within the huge house. I rang several times to produce what I hoped to be an indication of urgency, and in the meantime looked at the pale Kev beside me.
“Release the pressure for a few seconds,” I advised him. “We don’t want to cut off your whole arm’s supply of blood. The handkerchief will stop it spurting.”
He smiled briefly and nodded.
“Maybe he’s away,” said Sandra.
“I hope not!” I murmured, hauling once again on the strong bell-pull. This produced lights. I rang the bell again to confirm my message of urgency, as behind me the first rush of dancers began to leave the hall. Suddenly, the market place was full of laughing, chattering people, getting into cars and hurrying home, some alone and some with their evening’s conquest. I hoped the doctor didn’t think the bell ringer was a late-night reveller doing it for a prank.
But more lights came on, and I could hear the deep grumbling tones of Doctor William Williams, a fiery Welshman, as he unlocked the large door.
“Pressure point on?” I smiled at Kev.
“Yeh,” he said, clinging to his arm. Sandra had an arm about his waist and I could see the shock beginning to affect him. He was starting to quiver and his face grew deathly white.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 83
