The CO came to the Superintendent to ask if there was any premises which would provide primitive accommodation for his men during that Saturday night. A church hall would be ideal, as they’d bring sleeping-bags. But the Superintendent, being a man of imagination, had a brainwave which was due somewhat to another call from the matron of the Memorial Hospital. She had a further complaint about pimpers.
‘Matron,’ he oozed, ‘I know that beneath that starched front of yours, there is a heart of gold. Now, I need help — can you accommodate forty-five young men next Saturday night? I need beds for them between about 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. They’ll be out by six next morning at the latest. They’re soldiers, and they’ll bring sleeping-bags.’
‘Soldiers? In the hospital? You must be joking! They’re not ill, are they?’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the hospital, matron. I was thinking of your Nurses’ Home, all that empty space. That would be ideal. Haven’t you a large number of empty beds?’
‘But I can’t mix soldiers with my nurses, in the same building!’
‘I thought each floor was self-contained,’ he continued.
‘Well, up to a point, but there are common areas, such as the lounge, kitchen and so on, and there are internal linking staircases.’
‘I thought these men might help us catch those pimpers,’ he added shrewdly. ‘I can imagine a pimper finding a soldier there instead of a nurse . . .’
‘You could make use of the room, I’m sure, Superintendent, if they were not being used by my girls. With the consent of the hospital authorities, of course, but . . .’
‘I’ve accommodation for ten people in the police station, matron. We’ve good, warm, cosy beds. They used to be the single men’s quarters, so they’re very well appointed. We keep them in case of emergencies . . . ten men could sleep here, and thirty-five could come to your spacious home and use the upper floors.’
‘I cannot have mixed sexes under one roof, Superintendent. That is final. But I have had a thought. I might persuade those girls who are here on that Saturday to come down to the police station, under supervision, of course . . .’
‘I would arrange for a woman police officer to be on duty,’ he said, craftily smiling to himself.
‘And if I had an emergency at the hospital, your men would run any nurse to the wards, to be in attendance just as if she had been in the home?’
‘Of course,’ he beamed. ‘And then all the soldiers could make use of your premises, just for one night. There is no question of feeding them, or supplying bed linen. They just need a bed to support their sleeping-bags, nothing more.’
‘I’ll have to put it to the nurses in question,’ she said.
They thought it was a marvellous idea. The prospect of all those men so near was a thrill too, so the nurses, only eight of them, agreed to use the single men’s quarters at the police station for just one night while their own beds, on all floors, were utilized by the soldiers.
The officer in charge, a young captain, was asked to visit the Superintendent, who sought assurance that there would be decorum from all ranks. The matron must not be upset.
‘Oh, and Captain,’ said the Superintendent. ‘There is one other matter. Over the recent months we have had bother from pimpers around that Nurses’ Home. Ask your fellows to close their curtains, eh? Especially those on the ground floor? We don’t want pimpers spying upon a lot hairy soldiers, do we?’
‘I’ll acquaint them, sir,’ said the captain.
He did, and some promptly left their curtains open and kept watch, hoping to teach the said pimper(s) a lesson. It should provide an evening’s sport.
It was midnight when there was a scuffle in the entrance to the police station, and I was on night duty. I left the security of the office and saw two soldiers dragging a youth into the interior. He was crying, and they were dressed in pyjama tops with army uniform trousers.
‘We’ve got your pimper, mate,’ said one, throwing the hapless youth to the floor. ‘The lads got him, mind, and gave him what-for.’
‘What was he doing?’ I asked as I gripped the collar of the youth and dragged him to his feet. He was small and limp and weeping softly.
‘Pimping through the curtains,’ said one of them. ‘A few minutes ago, as the lads were undressing.’
‘Right,’ I said to the youth. ‘Get in there. So you’re the one who’s been bothering those nurses, eh?’
‘No, sir,’ he simpered, his wrists hanging limp and his body wriggling like a worm. ‘I haven’t been to see the nurses. I just like looking at soldiers . . .’
Chapter Nine
Our deeds still travel with us from afar,
And what we have been makes us what we are.
GEORGE ELIOT, 1819—80
When I was patrolling the sea front at Strensford, there were times when I wondered how the holiday-makers acquired the amount of money they spent so freely. Young people, some with tiny children, appeared to have limitless amounts of cash which they spent on their endless fun.
My police income was so small that it allowed me to feed and clothe my growing family, who were at home while I enjoyed this spell of seaside duty, but there was nothing left for holidays or luxuries. I knew it was wrong to be envious of others because, after all, I had chosen this career and had known the salary structure before I joined. If I wanted their kind of riches and a life of holidays and fun, the remedy was in my own hands. I would have to leave the Force and do something else. But what could I do? Besides, what other job offered such a variety of work, with such a lot of contact with the public and so many interesting and varied occurrences?
Nonetheless, I must admit that I did wonder what other people did for a living; I wondered how they could afford so much time off with so much spending money.
Those musings reached their pinnacle one Saturday night as I patrolled Strensford’s West Cliff area. It was here that the best hotels could be found, and in the summer months they were always busy. One or two of them organized Saturday-night dances, or even dinner-dances, and while these were chiefly for the benefit of guests and their friends, some were open to the public — at a cost. It was the high price which kept at bay the riff-raff who frequented other Saturday-night hops and who caused trouble of various kinds.
There were few major problems at those hotel dances although we did patrol the streets outside, partly as a deterrent to passing or possible trouble-makers, and partly to ensure that visiting cars were correctly parked and lit. A small number of streets remained illuminated throughout the night but an unlit parked car on a dark street could be a hazard.
Such cars provided one of our minor worries. In those days, all cars which were parked on the streets overnight were supposed to leave their sidelights burning, and although the police did occasionally turn a blind eye to some, such as those in cul-de-sacs or quiet side streets, we did insist that those on the main roads, thoroughfares and busy streets should conform to the law, if only for reasons of safety. Many visitors were caught out by this because in some larger towns the local councils had made byelaws which allowed overnight street parking without lights in designated areas. Visitors from those areas wrongly believed that their system applied throughout the country, and they got a ticket.
But we seldom took the offenders to court. We put a ticket on the offending car, and eventually the owner received a ‘caution’ — a warning letter from the Superintendent stressing that he must not in that way offend again.
One surprising aspect of these vehicles was that many visitors left their car doors unlocked all night, and it is fair to say that thieving was not the problem it is today. It was very seldom we received a report of a theft from an unlocked car, but this act of trust (or carelessness) did enable us to switch on the lights of many cars which were left parked on the main roads. That small act was our good turn for the driver, even if it did flatten the battery.
One Saturday night, somewhere around 11.15 p.m., I was making my slow way around my beat. I was
moving along a wide main street which boasted several hotels, and the largest, the King’s Head, was having one of its dances. A row of expensive cars was parked outside.
I noticed that the one at the front was not displaying any lights, and so I approached it to see if the driver was still there. He wasn’t, but I strolled around to examine and admire it. It was a gleaming Jaguar in dark blue. Because of its colour, it would be difficult to see by an approaching motorist, and for safety’s sake it needed lights. I tried the driver’s door, and it was unlocked. I reached inside, and as I did so, the strong scent of leather upholstery and rich carpets met me. The car reeked of quality. After a few moments searching, I found the light switch. I switched on the sidelights, but while my head was inside the vehicle and the interior lights were on, I took the opportunity to admire the interior — the intricate dashboard, the walnut fascia, the dials, the plush seats, the position of the interior lights . . .
It was then that I noticed a briefcase. It was lying on the back seat and was like a small, black suitcase; furthermore, it was open, and astonishingly it was full of money. There were notes galore, £5 notes and £1 notes. I had never seen so much cash, not even on a bank counter.
This placed me in an immediate dilemma. If I left it as it was, so easily visible from the pavement, someone might steal it. I could not secure the car — there weren’t internal locks on all doors as there are in modern vehicles. I could, I suppose, close the case lid to conceal its contents, and then push it out of sight under one of the seats. Or I could take the case down to the police station for safe custody.
In those days, without personal radio sets or the help of the Police National Computer, immediate assistance and advice were not available. For one thing, I could not trace the name of the owner of the car. That would have to wait until the Local Registration Office opened on Monday morning.
The boot was locked, so I closed the lid of the briefcase and removed it to the driver’s seat, where I placed it on the floor, partly under the seat. It would not fit completely beneath, so I placed a rubber floor-mat on top of it, hoping at least it would be safe from prying eyes and therefore less open to temptation. I could lock the rear doors by depressing the internal handles and likewise the front passenger’s door. But I had to leave the driver’s door unlocked, for without a key I could not secure it.
I now decided to search for the driver. He was surely at the dance in the King’s Head, so, having made a note of the car number, I went in. At the reception desk, I checked to see if the owner was a resident, for the hotel register contained the residents’ car numbers, but it was not there. I asked the receptionist if she would use the tannoy system to ask the driver to come to the front foyer, where I would meet him. I explained it was an urgent matter.
I heard the Jaguar’s registration number being relayed throughout the hotel and its dance floor, but after five minutes and two repeats of my message, no one appeared. I thanked the girl and requested that if the driver did come to her desk, she ask him to check his car thoroughly. I thought a vague sort of message would not draw too much unwelcome attention to it.
An hour later, I met Sergeant White, our supervisory officer for that shift, and told him of my discovery and my actions.
‘Oh, bloody hell! Is he in town?’
‘You know him?’
‘Know him? Everybody knows him. Wasn’t he at that dance?’
‘If he was, he never emerged when I called him. Who is this man, sarge?’
‘Leo Farrand. A real character, once seen, never forgotten. Forget about the money — he’s so bloody careless, he wouldn’t know, or even care, if it did get nicked.’
‘You’re joking!’ I cried. ‘There must have been thousands of pounds in that case.’
‘He always carries about five thousand around with him, in cash. And when he gets drunk, he gives it all away. Seriously! I’m not joking.’
I learned from Sergeant White that Leo Farrand lived, at least some of the time, at Keldholme Hall, which lay in a fold in the valley about five miles out of Strensford. When he was not in residence there, he lived in London, and the sergeant said that Farrand’s antics had caused the local police to believe he was involved in big-time crime in London, or that his money was forged. Accordingly, they had contacted Scotland Yard for discreet enquiries to be made into his background, but he was no criminal, nor was he ever suspected by them of being one. In fact, he was a Harley Street specialist, a very clever man whose specialization was dental matters.
‘Because of our suspicions,’ continued Sergeant White as we patrolled the streets, ‘we got hold of some of his notes, but they were genuine. It seems he is honest, if somewhat stupid. Now, whether he comes up north just to get away from the pressures of the city, we don’t know, but when he does come, he certainly makes his presence felt. He does so by getting drunk and throwing money away. He throws it about like confetti. Literally, I mean.’
I asked the sergeant to describe him so that I would know him, and he told me that Farrand was very tall, probably about six feet two or three inches, and on the thin side. He had a mop of thick black hair and wore a black moustache and a small black, neatly trimmed goatee beard. He was about forty-five years old, and he always dressed in a flamboyant fashion, often wearing a black cloak with a purple silk lining. I could imagine this character dressed in a top hat and tails, being a magician on stage or an actor in a Gothic drama of some kind. I could visualize him in a horror film or acting as a handsome lover in manorial surroundings. He sounded fascinating, and so I thereupon decided to do my best to catch sight of him.
But I did not see him that Saturday night. My beat took me away from the vicinity of the King’s Head, and when I returned in the early hours, the car had gone. There was no report of his cash being stolen, so I guessed he’d gone quietly home.
Within two weeks I did see him. I was despatched upon a spell of duty at Glenesk Mart, a busy cattle market two miles into the valley of Strensbeck. Because the local constable was sick, I had to deputize for him by issuing licences at the market.
I positioned myself in the little wooden hut for the afternoon and set about issuing dozens of licences which authorized pigs to be removed from the mart to various destinations. This was really a form of record in case swine fever or foot-and-mouth disease broke out. Through these licences, the police or the Ministry of Agriculture could trace the movements of any suspect animal. It wasn’t a difficult job, but some market traders and attenders were merry because the pubs were open all day. This was known as a General Order of Exemption, and it locally extended normal licensing hours so that the pubs were open all day for the refreshment of those who were attending the market.
It seemed that Leo Farrand had decided to attend that market and that he had also availed himself of the abundance of liquor. I learned of this when there was a good deal of shouting at a disturbance near the pub, so I had to temporarily abandon my pig licences to find out what was happening.
From Sergeant White’s description, and the actions of the central character of that fracas, it was easy to recognize Leo. I walked to the scene of the bother — we always walked slowly to any centre of bother, the reason being that we had time to determine our course of action before arrival. It also allowed some of the aggravation to evaporate before it was our turn to join in. This simple strategy invariably paid dividends. By the time we arrived, the protagonists had knocked themselves silly, and we simply swept up the pieces.
As I approached, I could see Leo’s tall, dramatic figure. He was violently waving his arms as he showered money around the front door of the pub. Even as I approached, the air was full of paper money which fluttered to earth as a crowd gathered around him.
To my surprise, none of the crowd seemed to be keeping the money. As Leo delved into his briefcase and hurled untold numbers of notes into the sky, the crowd were rushing around and collecting them, then stuffing them back into his case. And he simply threw them sky-high again. He was laug
hing as he did so, and it seemed more like a very expensive game than something which could develop into a fight.
I began to wonder if this could be considered ‘conduct likely to cause a breach of the peace’, for among greedy people such behaviour could certainly intensify into a mad scramble for the cash, with fists and feet flying as everyone tried to acquire Leo’s free riches. But I could imagine the comments in court and in the Press, if I arrested a man for throwing away his own money.
Leo saw me as I approached.
‘Why, hello,’ he boomed, his loud, strong voice matching his personality. ‘It’s the law. Now, constable, are you coming to join the scramble for gold?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘And I think you’d better stop too.’
The crowd began to grumble — I was spoiling their fun, so I had to think fast.
‘These notes are all fakes,’ I shouted at the crowd. ‘We’ve been after this chap for a long time. Anyone caught with a fake note in his possession could be sent to prison. So, come on, put them all back and let’s settle down.’
My subterfuge worked. Several people threw notes onto the ground, and Leo and I spent time packing them into his case.
‘They’re not fakes, constable,’ he said with a slight slur to his words as we rammed the notes into the case. ‘It’s real money, every single note of it.’
‘I know, but you can’t go throwing your money about like that!’ I said. ‘It’s just not done.’
‘Why not?’ he stood to his full, majestic height. ‘Why can I not throw money away? It is mine. I can do as I please with it, surely?’
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 14