‘Grab that cable and hook, Nick, and lead it out to Mr Whitburn as I unwind it. He’ll take it. There’s no need for you to get wet. Ask him to link it around the back axle of his Jag, and we’ll haul it out.’
And so we did. In minutes, the car was back on dry land, a little wet on the outside but very wet on the inside. It was a very relieved Mr Whitburn who began to splutter his thanks, as the water sloshed about the floor of his car. The carpets would be ruined.
‘Forget it,’ said Joe amiably. ‘It’s all in the course of duty. There’s no harm done, is there?’
‘You’re both very kind,’ he managed to say. ‘We might have been drowned . . .’
‘I trust the newspapers won’t get hold of the tale, Mr Whitburn,’ smiled Joe, adopting that amiable smile once again. ‘You know the sort of thing they’d print — “Local Magistrate in High Tide Love Drama” . . .’
‘You won’t tell them, will you?’ There was a sudden flash of concern across that podgy face. ‘I mean, you are not allowed to talk to the Press, are you?’ There was more than a hint of menace in that squeaky voice, even in these circumstances.
‘Some things are forbidden, Mr Whitburn, things like internal police matters, the secrets of criminal investigations, a person’s criminal record, that sort of thing. But, well, brave rescues by policemen always make a good press. But,’ and now Joe spoke very slowly. ‘I’m sure that if you adopt a more sympathetic approach to our men in court, that you bury whatever grievance you are nursing against my colleagues, then we’ll say nowt about this unfortunate little episode. There’s only us know about it, and Mrs Beckett, but I reckon she’ll not say much.’
It seemed to take a long time for the import of this statement to filter through to his anxious brain, but in time it did and Whitburn said, ‘Well, I’m only after the truth, you know, for the sake of justice. We must have the truth in court.’
‘Precisely,’ agreed Joe.
‘I’ll try to listen more carefully,’ promised the unhappy Whitburn as he thanked us again and then went to examine his dripping Jaguar. We left him to his worries and together strolled contentedly back to the police station.
‘I think we should have got him out earlier,’ I said with a twinge of conscience. ‘We could have saved his car from damage.’
‘Nick, young man,’ said Joe. ‘That old bastard could have ruined a good marriage, that teacher I mean, Mrs Beckett. She’s a good woman, but silly to get tangled up with him. I reckon I’ve saved that marriage tonight, I might even have saved Whitburn’s own marriage too, I’ve certainly done something to uphold the good name of the magistracy by keeping a scandal out of the papers — imagine what would have been said if they had drowned, and both of them in the nude too! And I’ve done our lads a little service as well. And the cost? Well, there’s some embarrassment to Whitburn and Mrs Beckett, and a spot of sea-water damage to an expensive car. It’ll always have a salt-water tide-mark round it from now on, as a small reminder of his experience. In all, I’d say he’s learned a lesson, and for everyone it was a bargain, well worth the price.’
We arrived back at the station at 2 a.m. Sergeant Blaketon was the duty sergeant and asked, ‘Well, Rhea? Tapley? Is everything correct on your beats?’
‘All correct, sergeant,’ we assured him.
* * *
Oddly enough, Joe Tapley and I were involved in another, more dramatic rescue from the sea, and it occurred within yards of the place where Whitburn’s car had floundered. On this second occasion, some three weeks after the car incident, I was patrolling a night shift and had taken a long stroll along the pier. It was a peaceful, quiet night with a warm August breeze blowing off the land; it was an ideal night for long walks in peaceful contemplation. Indeed, it was pleasant on such a night to be a patrolling policeman; anyone out on a night like this owned the world. There was nothing to interrupt that peace and tranquillity; it was a blessed state which was there to be enjoyed.
Making use of a spare twenty minutes or so just after midnight, I had circumnavigated the lighthouse and had regained the streets of the town. I was waiting near the circular bandstand about half-past midnight because I knew Joe would pass this way en route to his next point. We made use of such meetings for brief chats, always a welcome respite during a lonely night patrol, and so I stood beside the bandstand, waiting in the warm night air.
I could see Joe’s distinctive, rather ambling figure moving steadily towards me down the winding slopes of Captain’s Pass, and as I watched him, I became aware of a young couple, a man and woman in their early twenties, racing towards me with their arms waving and shouting with enough fervour to rouse the whole town.
Joe had obviously heard them too, because he started to run towards them at the same time as I, and we all arrived together at the top of one of the concrete slipways. The couple were panting heavily, and I saw that their feet were bare, wet and sandy — obviously they’d just raced up from the beach. It was some time before they could pant out their news.
‘Take it calmly,’ said Joe, always a sobering influence. ‘Easy now. Get your breath back.’
The man was pointing to the sea; we could hear the regular slap of the waves in the darkness beside the pier, just down the slipway behind us.
‘Man, down there. Drowning . . . we tried to get him . . .’
‘Right!’ and with that Joe darted off with me in hot pursuit. He didn’t wait for anything further but took immediate action. We raced onto the wet sands, and as we left the streets and houses of the town, the darkness hit us. We used our torches but the movement of the sea and our own rushing footsteps made it difficult to see anything in the bobbing lights. The couple had caught up to us, and the man was pointing.
‘About here,’ he said. ‘In the sea. He waded in, fully dressed. I tried to stop him, but he hit me and said he was going to end it all.’
‘When?’ asked Joe.
‘Just now, minutes before I found you. We could make nothing of him . . .’
‘Jerry tried to drag him out,’ panted the girl.
‘Is he a local chap, then?’ asked Joe.
‘Dunno,’ said the man called Jerry. ‘I’m not. We’re on holiday.’
As we talked, we ranged the circular glow of our torches across the sea, and then the beach, and then the sea again, but saw nothing. I began to wonder if we were too late, if the fellow, whoever he was, had gone under the surface for ever. The sea was well out; the tide was turning and would soon sweep in across those bare sands.
I lifted my own torch and searched the waves further out. Only a matter of yards from the shoreline, they rolled in majestically before breaking and roared up the beach. And there, suddenly, I caught sight of him. My beam reflected upon his wet clothing and hair, creating a momentary burst of brilliance out there in the wet darkness, and so I shouted and held my light on him. He was attempting to wade out in the face of the incoming waves; they were making his progress difficult as he breasted each new wave, the strength of it lifting him onto his toes as he fought to make progress.
There were no boats here, save the lifeboat tucked away in its shed, and there was no time to raise its crew; thinking as one person, Joe and I threw off our jackets and caps and waded in. We passed our torches to the young couple, asking them to keep the twin beams on the figure ahead of us. They would have to be our guides in the darkness.
‘Don’t shout,’ said Joe. ‘Just wade like hell.’
But it was easier said than done. When the sea was higher than our knees, we found the going very tough, but we forged ahead; sometimes the fellow would stop as if contemplating his fate, and this allowed us to gain a few precious feet, but in no time the water was up to our waists.
‘We can’t hang about too long,’ said Joe. ‘The tide’s coming in. Come on, he’s not far off now.’
The man, with the sea up to his chest, was finding the going more difficult than we did, but as it rose to our chests we had the same trouble. Then, with a terrible cry
, he fell headlong into the water, arms outstretched; the torch beams shone into the unseen distance, and for a moment or two we lost him.
‘Keep them shining near us!’ bellowed Joe, and so we began to hunt for him among the rise and fall of the incoming tide.
‘There!’ I had seen him, floating face down apparently determined to drown himself, even if his clothing and the air in his lungs kept him afloat. He wore a fawn mackintosh which floated around him, making him fairly visible in the dark water.
The action of the incoming tide carried him closer to us as we waded out, and this helped us to reach him. The light of the torches was bobbing about close to us and helped a little. Without speaking, Joe and I separated as we closed in, and each of us seized an arm and lifted the man out of the water. He struggled in our grasp, coughing and spluttering, but we knew how to contain a person and in no time had our arms tight under his so that we could walk out of the sea, with him trailing behind and moving backwards towards dry land.
We carried him high onto the beach and laid him gently down. He was now silent. The couple came closer and shone torches on him. He was a very thin person, a man about forty with a head of lank, black hair and very white face. He wore a suit under his old raincoat, and a white shirt and black tie.
Joe slapped his face.
‘Leave me alone. I want to die,’ he said. ‘I just want to die . . .’
‘That’s not allowed,’ said Joe. ‘At least, not while we’re about. So, you’re not dead yet, which means we’ll take you to hospital. Come on, on your feet.’
The man just lay there, so we turned to the couple to obtain their names and address, for we’d probably need a statement from them about the affair. Then we went off to locate our hats and jackets.
But in those few seconds, the man had leapt to his feet and was running back into the waves.
‘Bloody hell, you can’t turn your backs for a minute!’ shouted Joe. ‘Come on, Nick, here we go again.’
In those few moments the determined self-destructor had gained ten or twenty yards on us, and by the time we had thrown our belongings back to the ground and shouted for the couple to shine their torches upon him once again, he had reached the water. By the time we caught him, he was up to his waist in strong sea-water, thrashing ahead with enormous splashes as if he intended wading across the entire North Sea.
This time we caught him before he had time to lie down in the water, and we executed the same move as previously. But this time it didn’t work. He began to thrash his arms and simultaneously kicked, shouted and struggled; he became like a human dynamo and windmill combined as he created a huge maelstrom in the water. In spite of this, we did manage to haul him to the shore, although both Joe and I got several knocks to our faces and bruises about our wet bodies. It was exhausting work.
As we arrived on the beach, he fell to the ground rather like a child who does not want to go for a walk, so we drew him along the sand and laid him down once more. He lay like a saturated rag doll.
‘Let me die,’ he was sobbing now. ‘I just want to die. Why can’t I die if I want to?’
Joe addressed the young man who was still hovering about with Joe’s police torch shining upon the saturated fellow.
‘Jerry,’ Joe had remembered the man’s name. ‘Be a good chap and call an ambulance, will you? There’s a kiosk near the bandstand, where you found us, and the hospital’s number is 2277. Tell them to come to the West Pier, and you wait there until they do, then call us.’
Jerry ran off to perform this useful task, while we and the girl stood around as the would-be suicide lay on the beach, weeping and covering his face with his sandy hands. We stood close enough to prevent him from another sprint into the waves. The girl, now shivering violently, stood at a discreet distance with her teeth chattering.
‘What will happen to him?’ she asked, with obvious concern in her voice.
‘We’ll get him to hospital,’ said Joe. ‘They’ll see to him. I would imagine he’ll come back to his senses after a day or so.’
‘I’m pleased you rescued him,’ she smiled, holding a cardigan tight about her slender body.
‘He owes his life to you,’ I said. ‘You noticed him and did something about it — promptly too.’
The man was struggling to get to his feet, and we were very wary of his next move. Already, I could feel the beginning of a black eye from his earlier thrash, and as I helped him to his feet I was very aware that he might attempt a new trick. But he didn’t. He stood beside us, dripping wet with his head hung low.
‘What’s your name?’ Joe asked him.
‘I’m not saying. I’m not saying anything,’ was his reply.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Joe. And so we waited in silence and then, after about five long minutes, Jerry returned, waving the torch once again.
‘It’s come,’ he called. ‘The ambulance, it’s waiting at the top of the slipway.’
‘Come on,’ Joe took the man’s arm, but in a flash he had shaken free and was once more sprinting like a gazelle across the beach, heading for the crashing waves.
‘This joker does not give up!’ and with a cry, Joe and I set off in hot pursuit.
This time we reached him before he gained the water, and although I do not claim to be a Rugby football player, I did launch myself at him in what could be described as a flying tackle. I brought him down among cascades of sand only feet from the water’s edge, and he promptly began another fierce and powerful struggle, with Joe and me battling for control. This time, it was a fierce and bloody fight. I got a bloody nose from a flailing fist, Joe had a tooth loosened, but it seemed impossible to subdue this man whose insane strength appeared to grow greater as ours weakened.
It was like fighting with a whirlwind; his crazy mind seemed to have driven him berserk, and as we fought on that beach, he was just as determined to drown himself as we were to stop him.
It was Joe who stopped him. With a mighty blow to the man’s stomach, Joe winded him, and as he doubled up in breathless agony, Joe delivered a punch which would have delighted any boxer. It caught the man on the chin, and it felled him.
‘Sorry, old son,’ said Joe to the unconscious man at his feet. ‘But we can’t mess about all night.’
We carried him to the ambulance, thanked the young couple and walked back to the station to arrange some dry clothing.
The following day, as we paraded for duty, the Inspector was waiting for us at 10 p.m.
‘Rhea and Tapley,’ he said. ‘Report to my office before you go to your beats.’
We went through and stood before his desk, and he joined us soon afterwards. He looked us up and down, then said, ‘Would either of you describe yourself as violent?’
Joe and I shook our heads and denied such a possibility.
‘Well,’ said the Inspector. ‘We have received, via the hospital, a complaint against two of my constables. It seems that a patient alleges he was swimming in the sea last night, and was assaulted by two uniformed police officers. Now I know this occurred in the area which formed part of your beat, both your beats, in fact. I need not say that I regard this as a very serious allegation, and I want you both to think very carefully before making any response . . .’
‘No comment,’ said Joe.
And I concurred.
‘Well done, the pair of you,’ he smiled.
Chapter Seven
Husbands, love your wives
Be not bitter against them.
ST PAUL (TO THE COLOSSIANS)
If there is one aspect of human behaviour which stands out more than any other in police work, it is the multitude of ways in which husbands and wives manage to deceive one another. Within the broad range of their miscellaneous duties, observant police officers see and learn much about the way that life is actually lived, rather than the way it appears to be lived, and this marital quirk is constantly observed.
In the area of supposed domestic bliss, therefore, the police are guardians of many secre
ts. They keep their eyes and ears open but their mouths firmly shut, for they know, often to their cost, that strife between man and wife causes more serious trouble than anything else.
Domestic rows in varying degrees of ferocity are a nightly feature of police work; one spouse engages in noisy and violent battle against the other, often over some trivial matter, and when the neighbours call the police in an attempt to restore order, the warring pair band together to assault the unfortunate peace-keeping constable. So police officers everywhere learn to cope with these outbursts.
Most ‘domestics’, as we call them, are concluded as rapidly as they arise, although some do spill into the streets as the whole neighbourhood joins the mayhem. Quite often, a good time is had by all.
Problems that arise through a man or wife misbehaving sexually, however, call for a different technique. The fact is noted, possibly for future use, but a discreet silence is maintained, even if the people in question are prominent in local public life. Discretion is an essential quality of police officers. The Yorkshire motto of “Hear all, see all and say nowt” was probably coined by a policeman with a long experience of others’ illicit affairs. Every police officer has, at some stage of his or her service, had to cope with a domestic problem of some kind.
It is not often that real love or genuine respect by one spouse for another causes those kind of problems. Usually, it is lack of those virtues which creates the agonies. Yet on two occasions at Strensford, love or respect, or possibly a combination of both, did cause domestic problems in which the police were involved.
The first concerned Mr and Mrs Furnell, Edward and Caroline to their friends. They owned and ran a splendid private hotel on the cliff top; it was a veritable treasure house of style and culture, the sort of place frequented by very discerning visitors with money enough to pay for their expensive and exclusive pleasures. The sheer cost of staying there kept at bay those of lesser quality, and there is no doubt that the genteel luxury of “Furnells”, as it was simply known, did establish standards which set it apart from the average seaside hotel.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 10