At that point, there was a tremendous rumpus in the rear and some heavy object caused the pick-up to rock and sway, so I hurried to the back. A massive pig, a Large White sow, was struggling to climb over the tailboard, and as I reached the back, she half-tumbled, half-climbed from the vehicle into the road. Fortunately, she did not gallop off; judging by her massive size she would have difficulty even in walking, so she stood close to the vehicle, snuffling around the rear wheels. I saw that she had a rope attached to one leg but there was no way I could get her back into that vehicle. He must have had a ramp of some kind for her to climb up.
It was then that the contents of a crime circular of some weeks ago echoed in the recesses of my mind. There’d been regular thefts of livestock in the area over a period of months and some livestock owners had reported seeing a small, darkened vehicle leaving the scene late at night . . .
I grabbed the end of the rope and clung to it, then said, “This pig. Is it yours?”
The fellow in the pick-up made a non-committal response. I followed with a request for his name and address, and asked where he had obtained the pig. He produced more non-committal and indecipherable replies.
“Come along, out you get,” I said. “Leave the van here. We’ll talk about this at the police station.”
“No, Officer, Ah can explain . . .”
“In the police station!” I had made up my mind to question this fellow in the security of the station. The van was in a quiet lane and was parked on the verge where it was not a danger to other traffic. After noting its make, size, colour and registration number, I discovered it was not taxed either. There’d be a catalogue of traffic offences here, so I seized the driver’s arm with one hand and kept the pig’s rope in the other. “Police station!” I said as I guided man and pig towards Jack Forster’s shining palace.
The fellow shuffled along, sometimes groaning and sometimes uttering words which I did not understand. I jollied the huge sow along the road by slapping her ample back from time to time as she waddled contentedly through the streets. She was clearly domesticated and seemed unflustered by this turn of events.
Sometimes, she would stop for a snuffle in the hedge bottoms, but she was no real trouble. Her companion was no trouble either as he walked, with some support from me, towards the station.
Sergeant Blaketon was having a day off, so I knew I must not arouse him. I told my captive to hang on to the pig’s rope, which he did, as I unlocked the door of the office. As I switched on the light, the big sow hurried inside, dragging the man with her, and I followed, closing and locking the door for security.
“Has thoo arrested me?” was the man’s first question as the lock went home.
“Yes,” I said, for I did not want him to leave. Had I said, “No, you are just helping with enquiries,” he might have decided not to assist with the many enquiries I must make.
“What for?” he asked.
“Suspicion of stealing that pig,” I said. “So where did you get it?”
He sighed. “Aye, all right, Ah took it. From a sty over Brantsford way. Don’t know whose. If that truck o’ mine hadn’t brokken . . .”
I cautioned him and wrote his admission in my notebook, then obtained his name and address, age and occupation. He was Cecil Matthews of 56 Roselands Road, Ashfordly, forty-three years old and a general dealer. Having checked this, I said, “Right, I’ll have to get a sergeant to see you. So it’s the cells for you and for that animal!”
I searched him, listed his belongings and placed him in Cell No 1, and then, by putting on the light of Cell No 2, persuaded the waddling, grunting sow to go in there. She seemed to like places that were well-illuminated because she went straight in. It was the Female Cell anyway, which I felt was appropriate, although it was very bare now that it did not house Alwyn Foxton’s chrysanthemums. He was replenishing his stock, I think. Having locked up my two prisoners, I rang Eltering Police to contact the duty sergeant.
It was now after 2 a.m. I told my story and he said he’d come immediately. I made a cup of tea and took some in for my prisoner, then settled down for my break. I had sandwiches, a piece of cake, an apple and a cup of tea, then Sergeant Bairstow arrived.
“Now, Nicholas old son. Where’s the prisoner?”
“In the cells,” I said. “He’s admitted pinching the pig. I got a voluntary out of him. He can’t remember whose it is, but it’s from somewhere near Brantsford.”
“Ah! A nice easy case then? Good for you. Right, I’ll have words with him, then I’ll charge him and bail him out from six o’clock. You stay here in the office until six, and then send him home. I’ll bail him to Eltering Court for next Friday.”
“Right, Sergeant.”
“And the pig? Where is it?”
“In No 2 cell, Sergeant,” I said. “There was nowhere else . . .”
“The van? Why not leave it where it was?” he cried.
“It got out,” I explained. “And there’s no way to get it back in. It’s docile enough . . .”
“Right, the minute somebody comes on duty at Brantsford, get them to find out whose it is, and have the bloody thing collected. We can’t keep pigs in the cells . . .”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
And so the official procedures for prosecuting Cecil Matthews were put into action. Sergeant Bairstow dealt with him kindly but firmly, and then we placed him back in the cell until six o’clock. Sergeant Bairstow departed about three o’clock, leaving me in the office until my relief came on duty at six.
Each half-hour I peeped into the prisoner’s cell to check that he was safe, but around four-thirty, he started to produce some ghastly noises. He began calling for help. I went in, wary that it might be a trick of some kind, but it was clear that the man was ill. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and his face was a dull, pasty green colour; he was holding his stomach and was doubled up with pain.
I rushed to the telephone and dialled for Doctor Williams for I had no wish to have a man die while in my custody. After explaining the problem, he said he would come immediately, in spite of the hour. When he arrived only minutes later, a dour, heavy man, I showed him into the cell; he recognised Cecil and after a brief examination, said in his lilting Welsh voice, “stomach trouble, Constable, it is.”
“Is it serious?” I was genuinely worried.
“Not so that it will kill him, you know, but he’ll be very ill for a while. Gastric troubles, of long standing they are. Now, I have something in my bag which might be of help . . . leave him to me . . .”
I left the cell, glad to be away from the suffering man, but I then became aware of more awful noises, this time from the adjoining cell. Screeching, heavy snufflings and gruntings, painful cries. I hurried to the door, but was unable to open it. When I slid back the inspection hatch, I could see that the huge sow was lying against the door, holding it shut as she uttered the most pained and piercing of cries. It sounded like many pigs in distress.
I was in two minds whether to ask the doctor for advice but felt he might be offended; even so, her cries were agonising and so I decided to call the vet. Not giving me time to explain the somewhat unusual story, he said he would come immediately.
When he arrived, he made an initial examination through the inspection hatch and smiled.
“She’s farrowing, giving birth,” he said. “Soon, the place will be full of little pigs . . .”
I groaned. “How many?” was all I could ask.
“Ten or twelve perhaps. She’s a Large White, so she’ll have a lot. Large Whites always do, Constable. Some achieve twenty a farrow. Yours is she?”
I explained in detail how she came to be here, and he laughed. “Well, there’s a bonus for the loser. He’s lost one and will gain many. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll hang on until she’s produced them all, just in case there are complications. She’ll roll clear of that door sooner or later, maybe to have a drink from that loo in the corner of the cell.”
“Will you ha
ve a cup of tea?” I offered him.
“Love one,” he said. “Three sugars.”
I went off to make a cup of tea, and when I returned, I found Doctor Williams having a hearty laugh with the vet, a man called Harvey. We sat and discussed the patients, Doctor Williams saying that Cecil’s stomach would result in him being sick all over the cell along with some uncontrollable diarrhoea, and the condition would persist until his gastric trouble had eased. Mr Harvey said the pig would make a mess too, what with giving birth and exercising her bowels . . .
And as I sat there, I wondered what Jack Forster would make of it all when he arrived at half past six. But I was off duty at six. I decided not to wash the cups either.
Chapter 2
When I was at home, I was in a better place
But travellers must be content.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564—1616
Having been compelled to spend more time patrolling the lanes around Aidensfield and Ashfordly, it was inevitable that I should become more deeply acquainted with Arnold Merryweather’s rattling old buses. In their faded purple and cream livery, the pair of them were a familiar sight in Ryedale. They provided a vital means of transport and an equally valuable method of communication for many of the villagers. Those without cars relied upon Arnold’s buses to carry them to work or to the shops or merely on visits to relatives and friends; it was impossible to envisage a contented rural life without the service that Arnold provided.
His buses were never off the road, a fact which meant that on several occasions, I had to speak to Arnold about the condition of his vehicles. In his rustic and carefree way, he managed to ignore the laws which governed the operation of passenger vehicles. He seemed to think that the laws which applied to large companies and city transport did not apply to his little business.
He would use the aged buses as delivery vehicles and would carry parcels, goods and even livestock to market; I’ve even known him use a bus as a breakdown vehicle. Because they were always in use, their maintenance became somewhat suspect. In addition, his willingness to help others often led to him flouting or even breaking the law. Never did I prosecute him, although I found it necessary to constantly remind him of his statutory responsibilities. And, in his own way, he did try.
“Aye, Mr Rhea, Ah’ll see to it,” he would say. “One o’ these days, Ah’ll get it fixed” or “Ah’ll get Hannah to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
But he seldom did get it fixed, whatever it was, and he relied on Hannah, his huge conductress, to exercise her own judgement over the events which occurred on board the service bus.
Miss Hannah Pybus, with her loud voice, masculine appearance and authoritative manner, kept order and, in her own way, helped Arnold’s business to thrive. Unattractive though she was, there was always a hint of romance between Hannah and her boss. Thick-set Arnold, with his mop of ginger hair now greying slightly as he progressed towards his sixties, seemed an ideal partner for the tall and equally thick-set Hannah. Her heavily freckled face and mop of sandy hair complemented his features and even if she did walk along his aisles with the swaying gait of a sailor, we all knew there was some attraction between them.
But their romance never blossomed. I think this was because Arnold spent all his working days either behind the wheel or in the depot in Ashfordly effecting repairs. In addition, his limited leisure time was spent in the Brewers Arms telling Irish bus jokes and drinking Guinness.
His only contact with Hannah was on board his bus. After work, she would mount her trusty cycle to ride home to Thackerston. Occasionally if the weather was bad, Arnold would place her cycle in the bus and take her home, but he never went in. He never took her to a restaurant, the theatre or cinema, or even to the local pubs. One reason was that his only mode of transport was his bus! Hannah would say, “If you think you’re taking me to the pictures in that, you’ve another think coming!” The result was that not once, to my knowledge, did Arnold enjoy a social outing with the formidable Hannah.
For those who have not been introduced to Arnold’s bus service through my Constable Around the Village, he operated along the picturesque lanes and through the pretty villages between Ashfordly and York. Each day, one of his groaning coaches, furnished with wooden seats bolted on iron frames would leave at 7.30 a.m. and weave its slow way through Briggsby, Aidensfield, Elsinby and beyond until it arrived in York.
It made a return journey, and then a second trip from Ashfordly to York, making a final return trip at 5.15 p.m. On Fridays, Arnold’s other bus made a special run to Galtreford because it was market day and lots of rural folk regarded that as a day out.
During these runs, Arnold carried the village workers into the city where he did bits of shopping and ran errands for those who could not make the journey. He collected eggs en route, delivered laundry, and performed a whole series of useful deeds, many of which probably infringed the various laws which governed the use of public service vehicles.
Arnold’s helpfulness is illustrated in an incident in which he came to the aid of the constabulary. The same incident also highlights the importance of a village policeman’s knowledge of his patch and the things that occur on it. In this case, that knowledge involved the route, timing, halting places and general modus operandi of Arnold’s bus service.
Just after eight o’clock one Wednesday morning, I received a frantic telephone call from Abraham Godwin, an animal feeds salesman who lived in Aidensfield.
“Mr Rhea,” he panted into the mouthpiece, “my car’s been stolen, just now. Less than a minute ago . . .”
The urgency of his voice propelled me into action, although I had just got out of bed, having worked until two o’clock that same morning. I was not feeling on top of the world. In less urgent circumstances, I would have adopted the well-proven procedures of having details of the car immediately circulated to all our patrols. I’d have then recorded the details in a statement before filing the event in the criminal records and stats files. It would rest upon some other distant police officer to locate the vehicle when eventually it was abandoned.
But as the thief had just struck, it didn’t make sense to follow the normal procedures. With only a minute’s start, it might be possible to catch the villain.
I’m sure that thought was also in Godwin’s mind.
“Which way did it go?” I asked.
“Towards Elsinby. The thief’s dumped another in my drive, Mr Rhea, an old Ford,” he panted.
“Right, what’s your car number?” I asked.
“DVN 656C,” he said. “A red Hillman . . . you know it.”
“I do, but my colleagues don’t. So,” I said, “I’ll come to see you soon, but I’ve work to do right now if we’re to catch him.”
And I slammed down the telephone. I knew it was utterly futile dressing in my motorcycle gear to give chase. That would take several minutes. In the meantime, the stolen car, especially if driven by a thief, would be racing away and I would never catch it. It was time for immediate, albeit unorthodox, action.
I looked at my watch. It was five minutes past eight and I knew that Arnold’s bus would be trundling towards York. If I was right about the habits of an opportunist car thief, he would also be heading for the city, either to vanish there or to steal another car to continue his journey. The fact he’d dumped one in Godwin’s drive suggested he was hitching lifts through the countryside by stealing a succession of available cars.
I looked at my map. I tried to recall the day I’d once used Arnold’s bus on its circuitous journey into York and reckoned his bus would, at any moment, be calling at Hollin Heights Farm.
He called regularly to collect a load of eggs and actually took the bus into the farmyard to do so. I rang Jim Harker, the farmer, and he answered.
“It’s PC Rhea,” I said. “Has Arnold’s bus got to your spot yet?”
“Just coming doon oor lane, Mr Rhea.”
“It’s urgent that I speak to him,” I tried to stress the urgency o
f this call, but I knew old Jim Harker could not rush. That was something he found impossible.
“Ah’ll tell him,” said Jim, and I heard the handset being placed on a hard surface. I could only wait. But surprisingly, only a minute or so passed before someone picked it up.
“Merryweather,” said the voice.
“Arnold,” the relief must have been evident in my voice. “It’s PC Rhea. I need help.”
“Fire away, Mr Rhea, Ah’ve time to listen while they’re loading t’ eggs.”
Once before, I’d advised Arnold not to carry loads of eggs on his bus because it was illegal but there was no time to worry about that. I explained that Godwin had just had his car stolen and that it seemed to be heading towards York. I began to describe it, but Arnold said, “I know it, Mr Rhea, that red Hillman.”
“I wondered if you could halt it, Arnold,” I said. “I know there might be a risk, but if . . .”
“If that car comes up behind me, Mr Rhea, Ah’ll stop him. Then Ah’ll call you,” and the phone was replaced.
It was a long shot, but it might work. I now made the necessary formal circulation of the stolen car’s particulars by ringing our Control Room and Divisional Headquarters. I arranged for the CID to visit Godwin’s home to examine and fingerprint the dumped vehicle and executed all the formalities that were associated with a reported crime.
Having done this, I hurried down to Godwin’s house, explaining to Mary that if Arnold rang, she should contact me there. To save time, I drove down in my own private car. Godwin, extremely upset at the audacity of the thief, was still in a state of anxiety, but I suggested he take me into the kitchen where I asked his wife to brew some coffee. The performance of a mundane domestic chore often removes a good deal of tension; besides, I hadn’t had my breakfast.
Godwin explained that after starting his car, he had driven it on to his forecourt where he had left the engine running to warm thoroughly. After locking the garage, he’d gone into the house to collect his briefcase and papers. While doing that, a strange car had entered his drive and driven onto the lawn. A slim youth in his early twenties and dressed in a pale green sweater and jeans, had then jumped out and had got straight into the waiting Hillman. Then he’d driven off at speed towards Elsinby and York. For sheer cheek and opportunism, this theft was almost unique.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 19