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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Morning.” I smiled at Mr Jack Watson, the boss of this busy but small business.

  “Hello, Mr Rhea. Quiet, isn’t it?”

  “For a Sunday, yes,” I agreed, “but the trippers will start soon. The market place’ll be full of buses and cars by lunchtime.”

  “So long as they call here for petrol, I don’t mind. Well, what brings you here? Pleasure or business?”

  “It’s always a pleasure to pop in,” I smiled, “but this time our sergeant has asked me to make a little enquiry from you.”

  “Summat serious, is it?”

  “Very,” I said sternly. “Have you got our bike? The official one?”

  “No,” he said immediately. “Should I?”

  “I don’t think so. Sergeant Bairstow asked me to see if it was here for repair.”

  “Nay, Mr Rhea, it’s not been here for months. The last time we had it in was when t’back wheel needed straightening up, and that was nigh on a year ago.”

  I returned to the police station at 11.30 to make a point there, in case anyone called from Divisional Headquarters, and Sergeant Bairstow was sitting with the cycle’s record in his hand.

  “Well?” he asked urgently as I entered.

  “It was there about a year ago, Sergeant,” I told him. “A job on the back wheel.”

  “It’s logged on the card,” he said, “and the last time it was used, according to this, was eight months ago. It hasn’t been returned to HQ for scrap, has it?”

  “If it had, that card would have been marked accordingly,” I told him.

  “I’ve talked to everybody else about it,” he sighed. “Alwyn was the last to use it, and he put it back in the garage, beside the car, and it was in good condition then. And that was eight months ago.”

  “That garage is often left open when we’re out in the official car,” I said. “Maybe someone’s borrowed it?”

  “Who?” he asked. “There’s one at Brantsford, one at Eltering and two at Malton. We got rid of one a year ago, because we’re motorised and you lads have motorbikes. That bike was kept in cases of emergency, like a broken-down car.”

  “Are you saying it’s been stolen, Sergeant?” I put the question to him.

  “Now, Nick, dare I suggest a thing? Who is going to make an official report to acknowledge we’ve been careless at Ashfordly by letting somebody steal our official bike? Just imagine what fun the Press would have — to say nothing of other police forces!”

  “Maybe it’s just been borrowed?” I tried to sound hopeful.

  “Without permission? We can’t go lending official bikes without permission. Besides, if it was someone local, we’d have seen it around the town, wouldn’t we?”

  “What are you going to do? Shouldn’t it be reported?”

  “I’m not reporting it, Nick. Not me! I’m too long in the tooth to go around raising hares like that. Just pass the word among the rest of the lads and I’ll do the same. We might see it up a back alley, or hidden in a field or something. Then we can sneak it back without anyone knowing.”

  “Will you tell Sergeant Blaketon?” I asked.

  “Would you?” he put to me. “If old OB gets to know, the balloon will well and truly go up. You know what he’s like with his rules and regulations. Everybody will be under suspicion of pinching it, or selling it to make money. He’ll have the C.I.D. in to make a full-blooded investigation, and all our lives will be miserable. No, Nick, for God’s sake don’t tell him.”

  “He’s bound to find out,” I said.

  “Then let him. Let him be the one to make the awful discovery, and let him have the problem of deciding what to do about it.”

  And so the matter rested, at least for a few days. All of us who used Ashfordly Police Station as our Section office spent our spare time seeking the elusive black police cycle, with its distinctive colour and size. Large black bikes, with POLICE written in white on the crossbar, are not easily overlooked, but we failed to recover this one.

  One thing I could not understand was how its loss had never attracted the attention of the ever-vigilant Sergeant Blaketon.

  His eagle eyes and passion for checking every detail of his working environment must surely have revealed this loss. But he was away, and we could not, or would not, ask him.

  On market day the following Friday, I was again in Ashfordly, doing yet another of my patrols due to the absence of other officers, when the station telephone rang. It was the police at filtering, our Sub-Divisional Headquarters.

  “Vesuvius here,” came the distinctive gruff tones of P.C. Ventress. “How’s life, Nick?”

  “Fine,” I said. “It’s market day here, so there’s a bit happening.

  “Well, I’ve some information for you. There’s more about to happen. Is Sergeant Bairstow with you yet?”

  “No, he’s due any minute now.”

  “Well, tell him to be sure to be at Ashfordly Police Station at 12 noon, will you? The Inspector’s coming over to check the station inventory and wants Charlie Bairstow there to sign it.”

  “Right,” I said and after some domestic chatter, I replaced the telephone.

  When Sergeant Bairstow arrived, he exuded cheerfulness and pleasure, but this rapidly turned to misery and anxiety when I told him the news. “Never mind patrolling the town, Nick, find the list and help me check it. And what about that bike, eh? What’s the Inspector going to say when he finds out it’s missing?”

  I was unable to reply. I just did not know the answer. With Sergeant Bairstow, I carefully checked everything else, from typewriter to official car, and all were present, or could be accounted for. Except the bike. And it was eleven-fifteen now. Forty-five minutes to zero hour.

  “Nick,” Charlie Bairstow said to me confidentially, “before half-past eleven, you must acquire a bike. I don’t care where it comes from, or how long we can keep it, but just get one. Right?”

  “But, Sergeant . . .”

  “Bike, Rhea,” he said in a very official voice.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” and I walked out on my errand of mercy.

  There wasn’t a great deal of time left to find a suitable replica of the station bike, and as I walked into the town I didn’t know where to start. Then I remembered Watson’s Garage and its cycle-repair business.

  Jack Watson greeted me with a wry smile. “Now then, Mr Rhea, still looking for that bike o’ yours, eh?”

  “No,” I said. “Another one, just like it.”

  “Have we a thief with a liking for black bikes, then?”

  “Who said anything about stolen bikes, Jack?” I laughed. “Now, do you know anybody who’s got a big black bike like ours? I want to borrow it.”

  “Oh, is that it? Well, I haven’t any, but the Council chaps have.”

  “Council chaps? Which council chaps?”

  “Round at the Highways Depot. They bought one off me years ago, a big black Raleigh like yours. It was supposed to be used by the lengthmen as they inspected their bits o’ road, but it didn’t really get used. It’ll need a lick o’ paint, I should think, but it was t’marrow o’ yours.”

  “Jack, you’re a life-saver!” and I hurried around to the Council Depot. In the office, I found a man who lived in Aidensfield; I knew him as John Miller, and he was a quiet, shy man who kept himself very much to himself. In fact, this was the first time I knew where he worked, although I’d often seen him around both Aidensfield and Ashfordly.

  “Hello, Mr Miller.” He looked at me and his face bore that look of apprehension that greets most uniformed police officers. “So this is where you work?”

  “Oh, er, yes, Mr Rhea. Yes, this is where I work.”

  “I’m here on a peculiar mission,” I said to put his mind at rest. “Have you got a large black bike here?”

  “Black bike? Er, yes. It’s very old and it’s not used a lot.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Can I borrow it for the morning please?”

  “Well, it’s got flat tyres, Mr Rhea, and is not in
very good condition. Rusty, you know. Lack of use.”

  “That’s fine, so long as it’s a big black bike.”

  “A clean-up would do wonders, Mr Rhea, an oily rag or something.”

  “Could we borrow it then?”

  “Well, you’ll have to ask the foreman; he’s in the yard, but I don’t see why not.”

  “We just want to show someone what a police bike looked like, and yours is like the ones we use. Ours are all at Divisional Headquarters now.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure it will be fine. Yes, I’m sure it will.”

  I went into the yard, found the foreman, and presented him with my proposal.

  “Aye,” he said readily. “Take it. Keep it, Mr Rhea, if you want. Nobody bothers with it here, we never use it.”

  “No, that would not be allowed. It’s Council property,” and I went across to the lean-to which housed the cycle, along with other machines and implements. It was certainly in an awful state, and I half carried it out.

  The foreman ambled across to me. “Where’s thoo taking it, Mr Rhea?”

  “Round to the police station. We’re just borrowing it for the morning.”

  “Stick it in that dumper, I’ll run it round. Hop on yourself.”

  I looked at the cycle. Its tyres were flat, the chain was rusted and the spokes looked unsafe. I would feel a real idiot pushing this dusty, rusty monster through the streets on market day, and so I accepted his offer. We lifted the rattling cycle into the square, dish-like container of the dumper, and he started the engine. I climbed aboard the little yellow machine and we sailed out of the yard in fine style.

  We chugged through the town at walking speed, the strong motor causing the dumper to throb and jerk as it progressed, and the ancient cycle rattled in the carrier. I stood beside the driver’s seat, and we must have looked an odd outfit; within minutes, we pulled up at the police station and I lifted out the bike.

  “Thanks!” I shouted above the noise.

  “Think nowt on it; give us a buzz when you want us to fetch it back.”

  “Thanks,” and he was gone.

  I half carried the cycle into the garage, and was placing it against the wall in the position normally occupied by the official bike, when Sergeant Bairstow came in.

  “Was that you aboard that thing, Nick?”

  “It was, Sergeant, and I have found us a bike.”

  “Is that a bike?” he laughed as he pointed to the rusty thing.

  “I’ll clean it up, Sergeant.”

  “I think you’d better. Is this the best you could do?”

  “It’s the twin sister of ours,” I informed him. “It’ll pass the inspector’s casual gaze.”

  “I hope it does,” and he left me to find a rag. I started to polish the framework, and after twenty frantic minutes, no one would have recognised this as the junk I’d brought from the Highways Department. The ironwork had been covered with a thick layer of greasy dust and this had protected the frame; the wheels were the same and were soon restored to a fine chrome which glistened in the morning light. I oiled the chain, and borrowed a pump from the man across the road. My hectic session with rag and polish had transformed it.

  Ten minutes before the inspector was due, Sergeant Bairstow came to examine my handiwork, and was pleased. The inspector came, did his tour of the premises, accepted what he saw and signed the record of our inventory. Off he went to Brantsford to do the same, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

  That afternoon, I took the bike back to the foreman. Now I was not worried about my appearance when wheeling it through the town, and he was delighted.

  “By gum, Mr Rhea, thoo’s made yon bike shine for us. Thoo can borrow it anytime!”

  “Thanks,” I said, not thinking I would ever have to accept his offer.

  But less than a month later, I was once again in the office at Ashfordly, when Sergeant Blaketon loomed above the counter. He looked bronzed and fit after his holiday.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” I stood up to greet him. “You look as though you enjoyed your holiday.”

  “I did, Rhea. Yes indeed. It was excellent. We took one of those chalets, a self-catering place, on the Cornish coast. Very cheap and very nice.”

  “I must do the same sometime.” It wouldn’t be easy, taking all our youngsters to such a place.

  “Do that, Rhea. I can recommend it. Now, down to business. When I left that holiday chalet, I had to check its inventory with the owner, item by item.”

  “That’s done in a lot of those places, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Rhea, but it reminded me that I have not checked the inventory of this station for some time. I thought I would remedy that defect today. Now, I have an appointment at the council offices in twenty minutes, and I expect to be there an hour.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” my heart was thumping. Of all the things to decide to do! And with our bike missing . . . he’d spot it. Even if we substituted the Council bike, old O. B. would notice. Nothing escaped his eagle eye.

  “Right, then. Get things organised for when I return. Say eleven thirty.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  I had hoped, as I’m sure we all did, that Oscar Blaketon would return from his holiday feeling in a benevolent mood, but it had only made him more chillingly efficient. I could imagine him sunning himself on the Cornish coast, and thinking of new schemes for Ashfordly Police Station and its members. But there was no time to lose. I needed that bike again.

  I waited until he walked around to the council offices, which were fortunately several streets away from the Highways Depot, and then hurried around to my friendly foreman. Once more, I borrowed the bike, and once more he ferried the machine and me back to the police station.

  It did not require a great deal of cleansing this time, but I gave it a cursory rub for luck, then positioned it where the official bike should be. Having done this, I went into the office, made sure all the objects and equipment were present, and waited.

  Sergeant Blaketon came back from his meeting looking happy and efficient, and said, “Right, Rhea. Inventory!”

  I passed him the piece of paper which listed all our equipment. He set off at a fast gallop, touring the station and its curtilage and ticking off the articles as he found them in order.

  Finally, it was the turn of the garage. My heart began to thump and I tried to anticipate his line of questioning when he found the replacement bike. He ticked off the car, the bucket for washing it, and the hose-pipe. He checked the tool kit, the spare wheel, the first-aid kit and fire extinguisher, and went carefully through his list, ticking off the items.

  I felt sure he would hear my pounding heart, as I waited for our ruse to be discovered. I closed my eyes as he turned to examine the contents of the rear of the garage, but he saw the bike, looked for it on the list and said,

  “Bike. Here.”

  And he ticked it off the list.

  As he turned back to me, I saw a strange expression on his face. It was practically indescribable; I could not decide whether it was a look of utter pleasure and relief, or whether it was one of surprise. Sergeant Blaketon was not noted for showing emotion, and later, as I thought about it, I think he was very, very relieved to see a bike there.

  If one had not been there, there would have been all kinds of questions and accusations for him to answer as officer-in-charge of Ashfordly Section, and I think he guessed there was some sort of skulduggery because he did not closely inspect it. That was contrary to his usual practices; he did not, for example, check to see if POLICE was painted on the crossbar, nor did he inspect the serial number.

  For once in his lifetime, I felt he’d taken the easy way out, although I could never be sure.

  But on the way from the garage, he said, “You know, Rhea, I think you ought to be put in charge of the station bike. Then, when we have an inventory check either by me or by the inspector, you could make sure the bike is clean and well-maintained. Do you think that is a good idea?”

>   “Yes, Sergeant.” I couldn’t say anything else.

  Afterwards, it did occur to me to ask the Council foreman if we could keep the cycle at the police station, for safe custody of course, and then he could ask for it if his bosses ever wanted to carry out an inspection.

  Chapter Seven

  At once on all her stately gates

  Arose the answering fires.

  THOMAS MACAULAY, 1800–1859

  Police officers spend a proportion of their time near fires, either watching the Fire Brigade extinguish them, or warming their cold posteriors in moments which are stolen from the critical gaze of the general public. By this means, they discover the truth of the old saying that “If you wish to enjoy the fire, you must put up with the smoke”.

  From their back-side warming moments, many officers steadfastly confirm the old legend about Noah sitting on a leak in his ark. If you don’t know this story, it attempts to explain why men enjoy standing with their rumps on offer to a blazing fire. The story is that Noah’s Ark sprang a leak, and one of the two dogs on board attempted to stop the leak by sticking its nose into the hole. That brave act has since been commemorated by all dogs, because they all have cold noses. However, the leak became so large that the puny nose of the dog was too small, and so Noah offered to sit on the hole. And so he did; his stern endeavour kept the water out and since that time it has been the misfortune of male members of the human race to suffer from cold bottoms. For this reason, men love to stand with their backs to a fire. Some fires, however, are too large for this to be done in comfort.

  Of the unexpected fires attended by police officers, some are the result of arson, some the outcome of carelessness, some arise from accidents and many occur through sheer stupidity. The sources of some blazes remain unknown, or they arise through natural causes, but it is a fair comment to say that the discovery of an unwanted fire prompts urgent action by those who find it.

  Here in rural North Yorkshire, however, the definition of “urgent action” is relative. What is urgent to a city man is not necessarily urgent to a countryman, and I had a wonderful example of this at Eltering Police Station one sunny afternoon.