CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

‘Members will, repeat will, inspect for defects such as faulty lights, worn tyres, defective windscreen wipers, brakes and steering, and any other fault, mechanical or otherwise, which might infringe either the Road Traffic Acts or the Construction and Use Regulations. The van will not, repeat not, be driven upon a road if it is in such a condition that statutory provisions are infringed.

  ‘It will be the responsibility of drivers to thoroughly check the roadworthiness of the van; responsibility will be deemed to devolve upon the person driving it when such a fault develops. It will therefore be in the interests of all members to check the vehicle meticulously before taking it on the road. Any defects or damage then discovered will, repeat will, be reported immediately.

  ‘Members will, repeat will, ensure that the vehicle is filled with petrol at the conclusion of every tour of duty, and that the oil, water and tyre pressures are checked, and if necessary, replenished. Details will, repeat will, be entered in the log-book, and in the pocket books of the officers concerned. It is imperative that this instruction is obeyed. Failure will be considered a disciplinary offence.

  ‘Members will, repeat will, ensure that the vehicle is driven courteously at all times and that drivers set an example to the public by the high standard of their driving.

  ‘Members will not, repeat not, consume food or drink within the vehicle.

  ‘Members will, repeat will, at all times be correctly dressed when using the vehicle. Caps will, repeat will, be worn, tunics will be fastened correctly and ties will be knotted. When meeting a senior officer of or above the rank of inspector, members will emerge from the vehicle before saluting.

  ‘Members will not, repeat not, carry unauthorised members of the public, friends or family in the vehicle, unless their presence is necessary in the performance of their duty, e.g., upon arrest or other emergency.

  ‘Members will, repeat will, ensure that ashtrays are emptied regularly and that the vehicle is thoroughly cleansed inside and out at the conclusion of every tour of duty, unless the exigencies of the service prevent otherwise. In these circumstances, a report will be submitted to explain those exigencies’.

  Having written out his instructions, he handed them to me and as I began transferring them to paper, he went outside to examine the van. He spent some minutes and I saw him stooping to examine the tyres and to seek evidence of any damage, however minor, that might be present. He looked inside, checked the radio for its effectiveness and the ashtray for residue, looking into the log-book and then lifted the bonnet. He dipped the oil and spent some minutes tugging at plug leads and checking internal engine matters. Next he tested all the lights, the flashing indicators, the windscreen wipers and washers and even the interior light.

  Then he took it for a brief drive around the block, and, satisfied that it was absolutely correct, took out his own pocket-book and made a note to that effect. Woe betide an officer who might suggest the vehicle had been delivered with a fault. Blaketon’s record showed that it was in perfect order upon arrival, therefore any faults which developed would be the responsibility of the driver at the time. I knew that we must all treat the van as if it were our very own and I also knew that some officers, upon damaging an official vehicle (even accidentally) would not mention the matter, hoping that a subsequent driver would be careless enough not to check the vehicle before taking it out. Thus blame or responsibility could be avoided and the unwary innocent saddled with another’s sins. We all knew the value of being ultra-cautious in such matters.

  I completed Blaketon’s piece of typing and made no comment as I passed it to him for signature. By the time I had finished my own work, copies had been signed and one was prominent upon the office notice-board.

  ‘So the van’s yours for today and tomorrow, Rhea?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’ After studying the duty sheets, I understood the arrangements.

  ‘So when you knock off duty tomorrow night, at ten, you will deliver it to Falconbridge beat?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Make sure it’s filled with petrol,’ he said. I nodded.

  ‘Shall I book off duty late then, or will PC Clough come on duty early?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t follow your logic, Rhea.’

  Knowing his attitude for precise timing, I said, ‘If I arrive at PC Clough’s house at 10pm to hand over the van, and he then drives me home, I will not be able to book off duty until 10.20pm or thereabouts. I will be in uniform, in an official vehicle, with an officer who is on duty. So I will be on duty, won’t I? And this will happen every time the van is handed over. One of us will have to work extra time either before our shift or after it. Shall we all claim overtime for the hand-overs, Sergeant?’

  He looked at me steadily, his dark eyes never showing any emotion . . . . .

  ‘Rhea,’ he said, ‘a constable is never off duty.’

  ‘So if the van is involved in a traffic accident as I am being taken home, and I am injured, will I be able to claim that I was injured on duty? It makes a huge difference if there is a question of compensation or an entitlement to an ill-health pension, Sergeant.’

  He knew I was right, and I guessed this aspect had never occurred to him, or to those who had dreamt up the system of change-overs in this way. He was thinking rapidly, mentally assessing the enormous legal complications which could accrue from any incident which might happen within those disputed few minutes.

  ‘I will ask the Superintendent to authorise half an hour’s extra duty for at least one of the officers involved in every change-over,’ he said. ‘I will ask for it to be included on your overtime card and to be taken off when duty commitments allow.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ he knew, and I knew, that this matter had to be determined right from the outset; minor though it appeared on the surface, there could be immense ramifications which might affect the officer or his family if something went wrong during those contentious few minutes. For an officer to be killed or injured when on duty differed hugely from one killed or injured when off duty.

  The next problem, unforeseen by Sergeant Blaketon, occurred when the Superintendent visited me at the beginning of one of my tours of duty. The little van was parked on the hard-standing in front of my police house and the Superintendent parked behind it, awaiting my emergence from the house. He did not come to the office which adjoined but preferred to wait outside to see if I was late on duty; that’s how some senior officers operated. But I had seen the arrival of his black car and went outside prompt on the stroke of two o’clock. I was to perform an afternoon shift from 2pm until 10pm and had custody of the van because PC Clough of Falconbridge was enjoying a rest-day.

  As I emerged, therefore, I slung up a smart salute and smiled as the Superintendent clambered from his car.

  ‘Now, Rhea,’ he said. ‘Anything to report?’

  I updated him on events which had occurred on my beat over the past few days and he nodded approval at the way I had dealt with them. Then he turned his attention to the mini-van and asked my opinion upon its suitability.

  I enthused over it but refrained from mentioning the handover complications. Sergeant Blaketon would have seen to that — it was a matter of internal politics.

  Then the Superintendent began, ‘I came past your house last night, Rhea, around midnight.’

  ‘I finished at ten last night, sir. Same hours as today.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And when I drove past, I saw the van standing there, on the hard-standing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It was not in the garage, Rhea. There is a garage at your police house, and I would have expected you to garage the van there, for security and safety.’

  ‘It’s a private garage, sir, my car’s using it.’

  ‘The official motorcycle used it, Rhea.’

  ‘There was plenty of room for both, sir, I could park the bike alongside the car. That garage was added to the house long before official cars and motorbikes were issued. Garages adjoining rural-beat hou
ses have always been used for the officer’s private car.’

  ‘Then I feel the practice must cease, Rhea. Now that you have the official use of a van, the van must surely take precedence over your private vehicle.’

  I noticed that he did not directly order me to garage the van nor was I ordered to remove my car. I felt there was scope for manoeuvre which in turn suggested there was some official doubt about the rights of the occupants of police houses. After all, the police house was my home but unlike some civilian tenancies, there was no rental agreement. A police officer simply moved in and out when instructed and obeyed orders if there was a dispute. I knew of no order which dealt with the current matter and the only condition of occupancy that came to mind was that I could not take in lodgers without permission!

  As I pondered the Superintendent’s remarks, I realised that if I was unreasonable in my attitude, he might post me to a less-than-pleasant urban area, and I felt sure there was scope for discussion or flexibility.

  ‘You are responsible for the care of the van while it is in your possession,’ he reminded me. ‘It is a police vehicle and it does contain valuable police equipment, such as a radio. The van and contents are your responsibility, Rhea.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ was all I said. I understood the import of his remarks.

  ‘It will not be resting at your house every night,’ he reasoned and I saw a twinkle in his eye. ‘Others will be making regular use of it and it will be used for night shifts, so I think a little common sense will sort out this dilemma, don’t you, Rhea?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed.

  And so it was. My private car continued to occupy the garage at my police house, and from time to time, I would give the mini a treat by placing it inside for the night. Then I discovered that if I parked the mini on the front lawn, it was obscured from the road by the privet hedge. Neither the Superintendent nor Sergeant Blaketon was in the habit of coming into the house or office, preferring to wait outside at the other side of that tall, thick hedge. And if they could not see into my garden, then neither could potential breakers-in of police vans . . .

  Common sense did prevail and no one grumbled about the van’s open-air life.

  The van, its other drivers and I soon settled into a trouble-free working routine and we had no problems; indeed, the little vehicle proved its worth over and over again. Its tiny engine and small size coped with the large constables it had to carry, and the steep hills of this dramatic part of Yorkshire. It was most useful for carrying assorted objects and for protecting us from the English weather, thus enabling constabulary duties to be performed with far greater ease than hitherto. But on one occasion when I was surreptitiously carrying a load of rather doubtful legality, I found myself face to face with the redoubtable Sergeant Blaketon.

  It happened around 10 o’clock one Wednesday morning.

  I was working a day shift from 9am until 5pm, a rare treat. Such routines are few in a police officer’s life and I was looking forward to the evening off. At 9am, therefore, I began work in the office which adjoined the house and by 9.45am was ready to begin my patrol.

  Just as I was leaving, my wife, Mary, rushed in.

  ‘Oh, thank heaven I caught you!’ she panted. ‘The car won’t start.’

  An immediate problem was presented, for it was Mary’s turn to convey seven or eight children to the village playschool. Elizabeth, our eldest, had started playschool and thoroughly enjoyed it, and the mums worked on a rota system, each taking their turn to tour the nearby farms and cottages to collect pre-school-age youngsters. It was an important part of village life, a bonus for the children and a welcome tonic for the mums.

  I had a quick look at our car and decided the battery was flat; it had been causing problems in recent weeks and I had never got around to replacing it. Now I had no choice and would obtain a battery today, but first, we had pressing commitments to keep. Those youngsters and their mums would be awaiting collection at farm gates, isolated spots and remote cottages.

  ‘I’m going out on patrol,’ I said. ‘I’ll collect them. Give me a list.’

  And so, armed with a list of children’s names and addresses, I set about this mission. Most of the mums saw nothing odd in their local constable collecting their offspring in a police van, while the children thought it was marvellous. Squatting on the cold, hard metal floor, they pretended they were chasing robbers as they listened to the dour voice from the police radio. They blew the horn and Elizabeth showed them how to flash the blue light, as a result of which we flashed the light at every halt to announce our arrival. By the time I returned to Aidensfield, the rear of the van, and the front passenger seat, were full of small, noisy but excited children. I had lost count of the number on board, but they seemed so happy at this change in their routine.

  They babbled and chattered, made police siren noises, caught robbers, arrested thieves, chased speeders, battered my brain with questions, and generally created something of a party atmosphere in the back of the little van. The bouncing didn’t seem to bother them, for in their minds, they were keen police officers engaged upon a matter of grave importance. I’ve no idea how many villains we arrested on that trip, but I reckon each child caught several and tonight they would recount their experiences to their dads. As a public relations exercise it was marvellous and as a means of getting those children to school it was a success.

  But the noise they generated within the confines of the van was colossal and I was pleased I was not a playschool teacher having to tolerate it for longer periods. On the last lap, I turned into Aidensfield and was about to drive down the lane to the house which hosted the school, when I saw the tall, severe figure of Sergeant Blaketon standing on the corner of the road. My heart sank. Of all the people to meet this morning of all mornings . . . I thought of his instructions about using the van, about unauthorised passengers, about disciplinary proceedings, about the law on overloading, about insecure loads . . .

  I had probably broken several laws on my goodwill mission.

  I could not avoid him. I eased to a halt before him, flushing furiously as I anticipated his wrath. I switched off the engine and climbed out, my mind full of excuses, reasons, apologies . . .

  ‘It was urgent . . .’ I began.

  But he ignored me and thrust his head inside the van and I heard him say, ‘Now then, what’s going on in there?’

  There was an instant babble of juvenile response; I heard tiny voices shouting at him about catching robbers and poachers and making people drive better and then, after asking more questions and generally joining in the chit-chat, he emerged.

  ‘Is this the village bus service, Rhea?’ he asked me.

  ‘Er, no, Sergeant, you see . . . well . . . they’re going to playschool . . . er . . . the car taking them wouldn’t start, you see, so they were stuck . . . I . . . well . . .’

  ‘Got a Public Service Vehicle operator’s licence, have you?’ was his next question. ‘Know about seating requirements in vehicles, do you? Safety of passengers?’

  ‘Er, well, Sergeant,’ I started. ‘It was an emergency

  ‘So all you lot have been arrested, have you?’ he poked his head inside again.

  ‘Ye . . . e . . . e . . . e . . . s . . .’ came the sing-song response. He emerged, smiling with joy.

  ‘Nice one, Rhea. Creating goodwill with the public and making the kids happy, eh? All right, carry on.’

  And so I did.

  I learned afterwards that the playschool teacher had asked them to draw a police van and, without exception, they had included Sergeant’s Blaketon’s big smiling face.

  Chapter 2

  Our deeds still travel with us from afar.

  And what we have been makes us what we are.

  GEORGE ELIOT, 1819—80

  Patrolling in the warmth and comfort of the mini-van was heavenly after the inconvenience of the motorcycle and I think it is fair to say that one adverse effect was to make us rather lazy. When using the motorcycle, parti
cularly during chilly weather, it was sensible to walk as much as possible, if only to keep warm. But that exercise was unnecessary with the mini-van. We were cosseted in an all-embracing warmth from which, especially in the chill of a long night, we were unwilling to emerge. This tended to make us drive where we should have walked; we took the van around all manner of unlikely places, roaming behind buildings, through factory premises, into farmyards, along narrow alleys and over fields, all of which were the kind of places we should have walked in our efforts to prevent and detect crime.

  Our supervisory officers and our own consciences told us it was not a good thing to spend so much time sitting in a van, that exercise was necessary for continuing good health and that foot patrols were a vital part of the constable’s crime-preventing and public relations repertoire. Each of us appreciated such precepts and although we began our patrols with those aims uppermost in our minds, they soon evaporated once we settled into the cosy routine of heated and motorised patrolling.

  We learned, for example, the best places to park in order to shine either the van’s headlights or our own torch beams upon vulnerable windows and doors; we located places in which the van could be concealed for a short nap, a tasty but forbidden sandwich or sip of coffee from a flask. We knew where to hide from Sergeant Blaketon or which unmapped track offered the best short-cut through the lush and scented meadows of Ryedale.

  It was a bout of idleness of this kind which led me into a spot of bother one night. It happened like this. Tucked in the centre of my beat, well away from urban civilisation, was a derelict airfield. The nearest village was Stovensby, a tiny collection of pretty stone houses on a gently rising street, and everyone knew this patch of cracked concrete and unsightly old huts as Stovensby Airfield even though no aircraft had used it since the end of World War II. Leading from the village into one corner of the airfield was a narrow, unmade lane, across which someone had, years ago, erected a gate.

  As time passed, however, that gate had fallen into disrepair which meant that courting couples, trespassers and all manner of other inquisitive folk ventured on to the airfield from time to time, perhaps to steal bits and pieces from the derelict buildings or perhaps to conceal themselves in the old ruins so that their love-making was kept a secret from prying eyes, as well as from suspicious husbands, wives and neighbours.