So far as normal lost and found objects are concerned, it might be wise to briefly explain some of the police procedures. These are followed meticulously because police officers have found themselves accused of stealing found goods when in fact the owner was more than careless when he or she lost it, or the finder less than truthful. To deal carelessly with found property can cost a police officer his or her career.
A good example of the risks can be shown when a wallet is reported found. Suppose a man lost a wallet which contained his personal papers and £100 or so in cash. Another person finds it, steals the cash and throws away the empty wallet. A third person then finds it and hands it to the police. If the policeman does not immediately, and in the presence of the finder, check the contents down to the last piece of dust, either he or the honest finder could be accused of stealing that missing cash. It is difficult to prove otherwise.
Due to the wide range of immense temptations which surround this curious aspect of police work, the handling of found property is very tightly controlled by printed orders, internal regulations and a mass of paperwork which involves meticulous records and the careful issue of receipts.
Police involvement in this social problem probably arose through well-meaning people bringing objects into the police station which they had found and which they believed to be the proceeds of crime. For this reason, every item of found property is checked against lists of stolen goods. In my time at Strensford, this was a manual task; now it is done by computer on a far wider scale.
Property which is reported lost is entered into a Lost Property register, which is compared with the Found Property Register, and it is very gratifying, through this system, to restore some precious thing to a loser.
One reason for people reporting so much lost property is, I am sure, because they believe their goods have been stolen, rather than lost. Sadly, there is often no proof that a crime has been committed when something has gone missing, and so the object is recorded as ‘lost’ rather than stolen. One simple example is when a woman goes shopping with a purse sitting on top of her basket — when she wants to pay her bill, she finds it has gone. Has it been stolen or has she merely lost it? Who can tell? Without clear evidence of a theft, the object will be recorded as ‘lost’.
It goes without saying that there is a tremendous amount of administrative work involved with both found and lost property, and most police forces operate very similar systems.
When an object is reported found and the owner of that object is not traceable, or the object is not likely to produce a risk of any sort, like a bomb, a gun, a small boy, a kitten or a box of apples going rotten, the police will ask the finder to retain it for up to three months. A report of the finding will be made, and the finder will be told that if the thing is not claimed within three months, he can keep it.
‘Finder retains’ is a lovely entry in the Found Property Register because it provides the solution to a lot of problems. For one thing, admin, problems are reduced, and space in the found property cupboard is saved.
Some finders, however, are determined not to retain the objects they find, which means they must be stored in the police station for three months in case the owner turns up. If he does turn up to claim his treasure, the problem is solved; if he doesn’t, the property must be disposed of. The finder will be offered it, and if he does not want it, it will be disposed of in a manner appropriate to the object in question.
This well-tried system was truly tested when Mr Roderick Holroyd, a businessman from Halifax in the then West Riding of Yorkshire, found a set of false teeth. It was a full set in very good condition, and at first he thought he had annoyed a crab.
Roderick, a large and jolly gentleman, had taken time off during a business trip to Strensford so that he could roll up his trousers and for a few minutes paddle at the edge of the North Sea, just below Strensford Pier, where the sea was shallow enough for him to keep his smart grey suit dry. So he had pottered into the water and had allowed it to soothe his size 10s. He had enjoyed the caresses of the slimy seaweed, the feel of the shifting sands under his soles and the coolness of water about his ankles. Then something had clamped itself around his toes.
I can well imagine his terror but when he lifted his foot from its shifting base, he found a set of false teeth lying there, awash with sea-water and sand.
Recognizing them as high-quality masticators, he retrieved them from their briny resting place, put them in his pocket and, during his return to normal business routine, managed to locate me on patrol.
‘Ah, constable,’ he beamed as he came to rest before me. ‘I’ve some found property to report,’ and he produced the clean set of dentures from his pocket. As he told me the circumstances of his discovery, I cringed. I guessed the reaction I’d get from the station! But knowing the rules which surrounded this delicate topic, I could hardly advise him to forget them or to throw them into the harbour, and so I had to produce my pocketbook and make a full report of the occurrence.
I took the teeth from him and examined them. I hoped they might bear some kind of dentist’s or manufacturer’s identifying mark, but I found nothing.
I’m sure their maker could have identified them, but the expense and time involved in scouring the nation for their birthplace could hardly be justified in this instance. It was not as if we were engaged in a murder enquiry or the identification of a dead body.
‘You keep them,’ I said when I had recorded all the necessary information. ‘And if they are not claimed within three months, they are yours.’
He backed off rapidly, leaving me holding the teeth.
‘Oh, no, constable. I don’t want them. I just thought some poor devil would be wandering around Strensford unable to chew his whelks. They’ll surely be reported lost at your office, won’t they? And you can restore them to the loser . . . Goodbye . . .’
And thus I was lumbered with this unattractive item of found property. I shuddered to think of the reaction from the duty sergeant when I presented the teeth to him for official documentation and for issue of a receipt to Mr Holroyd. But it was not my task to question official procedures.
‘Rhea!’ Sergeant Blaketon was duty sergeant this afternoon. ‘You blithering idiot. Who in their right mind would accept these from a finder? You realize what this means? It means records, receipts, these teeth occupying valuable space in the found property cupboard for three months, then letters to the finder to ask if he wants to have them back . . .’
‘I was just following Standing Orders, sergeant,’ I shrank beneath his onslaught, for I knew he could not argue against this. Rules were his forte, he lived by rules and regulations, and so there was no way out of this dilemma.
He had to accept the teeth and he had to initiate the necessary procedures. I left him to it.
No one came to report losing them or to claim ownership, and during my three months at Strensford they remained on the front of a shelf in the cupboard, grinning at all who placed further items there. Shortly before I completed my tour, the three necessary ‘finders’ months were complete, and no one had claimed the teeth.
‘Rhea,’ said Sergeant Blaketon one morning. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’
‘Yes, sergeant,’ I stood before him in the office.
‘You can send an official form to your Mr Holroyd to inform him that three months have expired since he reported finding those false teeth and that, as no one has claimed them, they now officially belong to him. Ask him to come and collect them. Then we can get the things written off.’
And so I completed the necessary forms and posted them to the finder. Mr Holroyd rang the office next day just after 10 a.m., and by chance Sergeant Blaketon and I were there, working an early shift.
Blaketon took the call and listened carefully. I heard him trying to persuade Mr Holroyd to collect the teeth next time he was in town, but he declined. He wanted nothing more to do with them. And then I heard Oscar Blaketon ask, ‘In that case, have we your authority to dispose of
them?’
The answer was clearly in the affirmative because Sergeant Blaketon endorsed the register ‘Finder declines to accept after three-month period, and authorizes police to dispose of this item of property.’
‘There, Rhea,’ he said. ‘This little seaside saga is almost over. Now, here’s your teeth!’
‘They’re not mine, sergeant!’
‘You will dispose of them,’ he said to me ominously. ‘That’s an order. We have the official owner’s permission. It’s all in the books. So there you are, take them and get rid of them.’
And he pressed them into the palm of my hand, now wrapped neatly in some tissue paper.
‘Yes, sergeant,’ I had to agree. I stuffed them into my uniform pocket and made a mental note to dispose of them in the station dustbin. But by the time he had finished instructing me about car-parking problems, bus-parking problems, youngsters in pubs and the illicit dropping of litter, I had forgotten about the teeth. I walked to my beat and passed the station dustbin en route.
A few minutes later, I found myself patrolling along the harbourside. It was when I arrived at the very place where I had been handed those teeth three months ago that I remembered them and became very aware of them sitting in my pocket. I removed the tissue package and simultaneously smelt the briny harbour water. A brisk breeze wafted the scents of the sea towards me, and I recalled that the teeth had been rescued from a watery grave. Quite impulsively, I felt that a return to the ocean would be eminently suitable for these teeth. It was far better than a dustbin, I felt, far more permanent and almost symbolic.
I moved into the shelter of a herring shed and then, making sure I was not observed, flung the teeth far across the harbour. With immense satisfaction, I saw them plop into the water and sink out of sight. The file was closed.
I resumed my patrol, glad it was all over.
Five minutes later, a small gentleman hailed me.
‘Oh, er, excuse me, officer,’ he began. ‘Can I mention something to you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, it’s a bit funny, I suppose, but, well, three months ago I was on holiday here, a short break you know. And well, I went for a swim, just below the pier. I’m not much of a swimmer really and swallowed a lot of water, a huge gulp it was. Well, I coughed and spluttered and lost my false teeth in the sea, you understand. They just shot out, a new set.
‘I looked all over but didn’t find them, and, well, friends said I should have reported it to the police, just in case they’d been found. But you see I live a long way off and had to rush for my bus, and then, well, this is the first time I’ve been back to Strensford, so when I saw you, I thought I’d mention it. I don’t suppose they have been found, have they? I mean, it would be odd, wouldn’t it? A chance in thousands, really, but, well, I thought it might be worth asking . . . You never know, do you?’
‘No, you never can tell,’ I agreed, taking out my pocketbook to make a note of the matter.
* * *
Much found property is of little cash value, and it has more of a sentimental meaning to its loser. But there are times when the situation changes. I am reminded of an incident which occurred as I was patrolling the harbourside one fine August afternoon on my first spell of duty in Strensford, some years before this visit.
I spotted a road sweeper moving steadily towards me. He was a small, chubby fellow with a flat cap and a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was manoeuvring a barrow which was really a dustbin on wheels. This was the tool of his trade, and it contained a space for his brush and shovel. With the stiff-bristled brush, he was sweeping litter from the gutters and footpaths. It was a thankless task but he was obviously anxious to make Strensford as smart and as clean as possible, in spite of visitors’ efforts to frustrate him.
I don’t think he was aware of my presence barely a few yards ahead of him as he slowly moved about his careful work. With his head down, he kept his eyes on the road and the gutters, and his mind upon his solitary task. He swept all before him until it formed a medium-sized pile, and then, after removing his shovel from its resting place on his barrow, he collected the debris and dropped it into his bin. His work was slow and methodical.
As I carelessly observed him, not really watching him but being merely aware of his presence, he scooped up a shovelful of waste and placed it inside his bin. Then he halted his routine and delved deep inside the bin; this change of action and routine caused me to take a little more interest. I saw him lift out a bundle of paper. From a distance, it looked like a screwed-up mass of newspaper or other white paper with printing upon it, but he was making a very careful study of it. Then he glanced around, noticed me and began to walk quickly in my direction, holding the bundle as if it was hot.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s money. Fivers. Ah’ve just fun ’em in t’gutter.’
I took the bundle from him, and sure enough, they were £5 notes of the large, white variety, now obsolete but then very much in vogue. One of them represented something approaching a week’s wages for some workers. With the little fellow watching, I expressed my amazement and then carefully counted them before his eyes.
There was a total of sixty notes, £300 in all, very close to a year’s wages for the roadman, and not far off a year’s wages for me either!
‘Phew!’ I breathed. ‘You found all this money, down there in the gutter?’
‘Aye,’ he grinned weak smile, a nervous one almost and showed thick, brown teeth. ‘Just there, sweeping up. Noticed ’em on my shovel, just in time.’
‘We’ll have to report the find,’ I informed him. ‘Can you come with me now, to the station? I think you ought to be present when I record this.’
‘Ah’ve all this length to finish before knocking-off time,’ he said.
‘I think that can wait, under the circumstances.’
I wanted him to come to the station for two reasons. First, in view of the amount involved, I felt he ought to be there when the official procedures were set in motion, and secondly, it was more than likely that someone had already reported the loss of such an amount. If so, the money could be very quickly restored to its rightful owner, and there might be a reward for the sweeper. He agreed to come along with me, albeit with some reluctance, and so we proceeded through the streets, with the little fellow in firm control of his barrow and with me hiding the wodge of notes in my uniform pocket.
At the station, a Sergeant Moreton was on duty and looked in amazement as I entered with the roadman.
‘An arrest is it?’ he asked as I entered the office.
‘No, sergeant, it’s found property,’ I said.
I told my story, after which I plonked the £300 on the counter before him. His eyebrows rose in surprise and he looked at the roadman with admiration.
‘Enter it in the register, son. Now, in view of the amount involved, we cannot let the finder retain this. But, strange though it may seem, we’ve had no report of a loss. Not yet. I suppose there’s time for that. And, if there is no report of a loss, it will go to the finder, and that’ll make you a rich man, eh?’
The roadman smiled briefly. I went through the formalities, recording that his name was Lawrence Briggs who was employed by the council as a road sweeper and who was sixty-four years old. He had an address on the council estate across the river. I explained the formalities to him and told him that if the money was not claimed within three months, it would be his.
‘It’ll be a nice retirement present,’ he said quietly.
‘You’re retiring soon, are you?’ I asked.
‘November,’ he said. ‘When I’m sixty-five.’
‘If this isn’t claimed, it could give you a holiday,’ I suggested.
‘New furniture more like,’ he said. ‘Me and the missus has never had much, not on my wage. I’d love a television and some good furniture, a nice settee . . .’
‘It was very honest of you to report that money,’ I commented. ‘I’d bet some wouldn’t have.’
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br /> ‘Aye, well, mebbe so. But I’m honest, officer. Somebody’ll have lost that and it’ll mean more to them than me. No, I wouldn’t dream of keeping it.’
‘OK, well, it’s in safe hands now. So if it’s not claimed within three months, we’ll be in touch with you and you can come and collect it.’
He smiled and left the office, and I saw him trundling his barrow down the cobbled hill and back into the busy streets. With luck, he’d get his length finished by knocking-off time, but I did find myself marvelling at his honesty.
‘You know, son,’ said Sergeant Moreton two hours later. ‘This is very odd. No one’s reported losing that cash, not a whisper. It’s a fortune, you know; I mean, what sort of person carries that amount with him, let alone loses it and doesn’t say anything?’
Like Sergeant Moreton, I could only marvel at the story but knew we dare not publicize the finding, otherwise all kinds of dishonest folks would suddenly ‘remember’ losing the money.
But in time someone did report its loss. The call came later that evening.
‘It’s Bridlington Police,’ announced the caller. ‘Sergeant Youngman speaking. Now, have you had a report of any cash being found in Strensford? A lot of cash. In notes. Fivers. I don’t expect you to say you have, because if anyone found it, they’d say nowt.’
‘Yes, sergeant,’ I said. ‘We have had some found.’
‘£300 in fivers, was it?’
‘Yes, it was found close to the harbourside.’
‘Then I’ve got a very relieved loser here right now. He lost £300 in fivers today. He’s a Mr George Kenton from Surrey. He came to Strensford on the SS Princess from Bridlington today and, when he got back on the boat for the return trip, realized he had lost his holiday cash. He couldn’t report it until the boat returned to harbour here, and well, he came straight to our office to tell us. I’ll ask him to come over to Strensford as soon as possible to collect the money. Now, who’s the honest character who found it?’
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 6