‘So they vanish after you lock up at night and before you open next morning? What times are those?’ I asked.
‘We close at 4.30 p.m. and we open next morning at 6 a.m.’
‘Any sign of forced entry?’ asked Connolly.
‘No, that’s one of my worries. I think the thief has a key; we’ve thought about changing the locks, but I don’t think head office would sanction that expenditure, especially for such a reason.’
‘You’ve asked them?’ Connolly put to him.
‘Er, no, not yet. It would be a last resort.’
‘So, am I right in thinking all your staff are now under suspicion?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s not as if it’s a major series of thefts, Sergeant, but, if someone is getting away with those joints at the rate of five or six a week, they are making a useful extra income, at our expense. And my workforce are now beginning to distrust one another . . .’
‘You’ve discussed it with them?’
‘Yes, without my suggesting one of them is a thief. But they now wonder which of them is the pilferer . . . they’re an honest crowd, you see, Sergeant, but there is a definite air of unease in the factory. I must bring things to a conclusion.’
He told us that several members of staff had keys and that the keys were of the old-fashioned mortise type, so easy to copy and even make. Security seemed very lax, we felt.
‘Do any members of staff know of your visit to us?’ asked Connolly.
‘Only my secretary,’ he said. ‘And she can be trusted. I asked her not to disclose my whereabouts.’
‘Right,’ said Connolly. ‘Before we can go any further, we need to inspect your factory. When would be suitable?’
‘Any evening, Sergeant,’ he said.
Gerry Connolly was of the opinion that there was no time like the present, and we agreed to meet Mr King at the factory that night at eight o’clock. At the appointed time, he met us in the car park, let us in and showed us around. The place was well lit at night, and it comprised a series of large rooms, some used for preparation and some for storage.
At the side of the building was the office block. We toured the entire complex, examining doors and windows, noting that there were several skylights which were kept open, as were several high windows, especially in the factory portion. These were high enough off the ground to be beyond the reach of children. Some around the lower parts of the walls were also kept open, but stoutly barred. No fully grown man or woman could wriggle through.
‘A duplicate key job, it seems to me,’ said Connolly, partly to me and partly to himself. ‘A sneak thief with inside knowledge, one who’s prepared to let all his or her colleagues be suspected. We’ll have to nail the bastard, Nick.’
The cold room in which the joints of bacon were laid out in readiness for morning had no windows, although it did have a gap where the door should be. There was no door; access was via a corridor, itself kept almost at freezing-point, with fridges and deep-freezes along its way. Once inside the factory, anyone could run along this corridor, snaffle a joint and leave.
‘Right,’ said Gerry, having seen the premises. ‘We’ll use a pressure mat.’
‘What’s that?’ asked King.
‘It is a pad of rubber which fits beneath a door mat or rug, or even a carpet for that matter. It bleeps when someone stands on it. There is a door mat outside that cold room of yours, so this won’t be noticed.’
‘Won’t it alert the thief if it bleeps?’ asked King.
‘No,’ smiled Gerry. ‘We pop the pressure mat under the existing door mat, and it is plugged into the electrical circuit. Inside, there is a bleeper, but it doesn’t sound in the premises; it sounds in a police car outside, or in a police station. When it bleeps, we surround the place and arrest the villain because we know he’s inside.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ said King.
‘It isn’t,’ said Connolly. ‘Some villains move so fast that they’re off the premises before we can get in, but it has had a lot of success.’
‘I’d like you to try it, please. You have my approval.’
And so we prepared our trap.
On the first night, the bleeper sounded and we rushed to the factory, but he had gone before we arrived. And so had a joint of bacon. On the second night, the same thing happened, except that in this instance we were waiting outside, only a minute away by car. There was no sign of a break-in during any of these raids. We dare not reveal our presence immediately outside the factory in case we alerted our suspect, but when he escaped on the third night, without even a sighting by the waiting police officers, we decided we must take alternative action. Could someone actually hide in the factory? The timing of each raid did vary slightly, although most were between ten o’clock and midnight. A two-hour wait in those chilly rooms was not the finest of ways of spending an evening, and yet it seemed the only answer.
We drew straws. I drew the short one.
‘Right, Nick. You’re first on. Wrap up in your warmest clothes and wait in that cold room. We’ll re-set the pressure mat so that it bleeps the moment someone stands on it; at that sound, switch on your torch to highlight the thief — he’ll be in the doorway at that time, and then switch on all the lights in the factory. We’ll have men outside all the doors to nab him as he runs out.’
That night, therefore, I wrapped in layers of long johns and sweaters and put on furry boots, the sort we used when on winter patrol, and prepared for my stint. I let myself in with a key provided by Mr King and had no trouble finding my way along the corridor to the cold room. I saw the mat and avoided standing on it as I entered the chill room with its complement of prepared bacon joints. They filled several tables and shelves around the roof. There seemed to be hundreds . . . And then I settled down to a long, cold wait.
Later, in the chilling darkness, I heard a slight noise. It was a noise which I could not identify, and the hair on the nape of my neck prickled and stood erect as I waited. My heart began to thump as I knew someone was approaching, so silently, so carefully . . . I wished I had a colleague with me; I wished someone else had drawn that short straw . . . and then silence. Nothing. I dare not move now. Had I been detected? Had the thief spotted the pressure mat? There was no light, so I assumed he had not.
And then the bleep. It made me jump with fright, it was so sudden, but there it was. The thief was in the room now, there with me, and so I switched on my torch. Immediately the room was filled with light, and I saw the distinct figure of a young fox running off with a bacon joint.
‘Hey!’ I shouted, giving chase and hitting the first light switch I found. But he galloped along that corridor and leapt onto a window ledge, squeezed through the bars of the open window with the joint between his teeth and jumped onto the branch of a tree outside. And then he vanished.
The outer door burst open and in charged Sergeant Connolly and a couple of uniformed policemen. ‘Where is he?’
‘Gone,’ I said. ‘Got clean away.’
‘Nick, you don’t mean that . . .’ Gerry sounded more sorry than angry. ‘You mean you sat in there and let him get away . . .’
‘Sergeant,’ I said, ‘if you’re going to catch this thief, you’ll need more than a handful of policemen.’
‘Rubbish!’ He was still rising to my bait. ‘Look, Nick, this is not good enough. I should have put a more experienced detective in here.’
‘No, Sarge,’ I laughed. ‘You should have put a Master of Foxhounds and a pack of good dogs. The thief is a fox. He got away through that window.’
‘You’re joking,’ he smiled.
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘Sharp as lightning, he was; he knows he can just get a joint between those bars . . .’
‘Who’s going to tell Mr King?’ He looked at us all.
‘You are, Sergeant,’ we all chanted.
Chapter 9
For God’s sake, look after our people.
ROBERT FALCON SCOTT (1868-1912)
OF THE VARIETY OF
events in the police officer’s calendar, that of a visit by a Very Important Person is often the most fraught, because the personage must be protected against madmen and terrorists and at the same time proceed along a predestined route without interruption. To permit the populace to see and even speak to the personage and at the same time prevent lunatics shooting them or throwing rotten eggs into their faces is not the easiest of tasks. But the work of the VIP must be allowed to continue, and the VIP in question must not allow the less sane members of society to hinder their freedom and their communion with ordinary folk.
In understanding the risks that prevail each time a member of the royal family or a top politician appears in public, I have the greatest admiration for them. They can never go out alone, not even into the shops or to an inn for a drink; they are always surrounded by an army of officials, and they can never drop their guard for one tiniest moment. They have no privacy, and their every word and action is scrutinised, criticised and headlined in the less savoury of our newspapers.
The movements of VIPs are of concern to the police because a police constable holds office under the sovereign. He or she is an officer of the Crown and also a public servant, and the constable’s duty includes the protection of life and property, whether that life and property belong to a VIP or not. That is a wide brief, but it does include the protection of important people as well as the protection of ordinary mortals, amongst whom the constable himself can be numbered. Constables are ordinary people who are charged with extraordinary powers and responsibilities.
But obviously there are occasions when a Very Important Person requires more attention than usual. A visit by HM The Queen to a local town is such an occasion, but does this also include the opening of a new supermarket by a well-known TV personality? Exactly what is a Very Important Person?
A lot of people think themselves important for reasons which are sometimes quite strange. Because some have grown rich or famous, they feel they are important, and because some have become personalities via television, they also feel themselves important. But are they? The snag is that famous singers or entertainers can draw crowds, and so the police must then act to prevent obstructions and danger to the public when these people manifest themselves in public places. The fact that a bunch of scruffy youths can sing in a way that appeals to teenagers does give them some importance, if only because they are an utter nuisance when they move around the globe. It is important that they do not get in the way of others trying to go about their business.
Being a police officer does allow one to work closely with VIPs, if only in a protective sense, and there are many duties which the service must perform when a VIP visits the area. The obvious ones are control of traffic and crowds, and the less obvious ones involve security and planning. When Her Majesty visits, however, there is more planning and more security because there are greater crowds and more traffic, coupled with the continuing risk to her life. Every movement is planned to the minute, every step she takes is arranged in advance and rehearsed, and every possible security measure is taken. A royal visit is a headache to the security services and the police, and when it concludes without incident, there is immense satisfaction and immense relief.
But things can go wrong. There was one famous occasion when Her Majesty’s motorcade was cruising through a northern town. All routes had been sealed off, including a tiny back alley which led directly onto the royal route. But at the crucial moment the constable whose duty was to halt traffic at that exit was called to an elderly lady who had collapsed in the crowd. As no traffic was waiting in his alley, he attended the old lady. Any right-minded person would have done likewise.
And then, just as the royal procession was approaching, a dustcart chugged down that alley and emerged directly ahead of the motorcade. Before anyone could prevent it, the dustcart, with grimy men hanging on to it and the effluvium of the town’s waste accompanying it, had become part of the procession. It was behind the leading police motorcycle outriders but in front of the royal limousine. And there was no way off that route for over a mile. To enthusiastic cheers from the townspeople, their dustcart preceded the royal procession until a convenient layby materialised; it was then gently guided out of Her Majesty’s way. I’m sure she was amused.
It is that kind of mishap that causes senior police officers to worry about their pensions, for all dread the likelihood of something going wrong, especially during a royal visit.
I remember when Prince Charles came to Strensford as part of the town’s 1,300th anniversary celebrations of its abbey’s foundation. The great unveiling of a plaque was about to occur. The local brass band was waiting to play. As His Royal Highness and other dignitaries stood by, with Prince Charles waiting to perform the unveiling ceremony, the bishop began his eulogy. His speech was timed to continue for twenty minutes, but he made the mistake of pausing after the first paragraph. Bishops seem to enjoy long, meaningful pauses, but this one was too long for the conductor of the brass band; he thought the bishop had finished. He promptly brought his musicians to life, and their rumbustious music shortened that ceremony by a good quarter of an hour.
Prince Charles was amused and, I think, relieved, for he later said to the conductor, ‘You came in there a bit quick, eh?’ and chuckled.
But surely the worst experience to have occurred in our force was when I was an Aide to the CID at Strensford. Somehow, a combination of events managed to lose Her Majesty the Queen.
The intelligent reader will ask: how on earth can anyone lose the Queen?
It happened like this.
Her Majesty had a very important engagement in London one evening, one which could not be cancelled. It was scheduled to finish around 9 p.m. But she also had an equally important engagement in Edinburgh at 10 a.m. the following morning. She therefore decided to travel by royal train, leaving London at 10 p.m. with her entourage. She would sleep on the train, and it was decided that the royal train would break its journey around midnight, when it would be guided into a quiet, peaceful and secure siding until around 7.30 a.m., when it would resume its journey, to arrive in Edinburgh around 9.30 a.m., in good time for Her Majesty’s 10 a.m. engagement. Thus the royal train would be parked somewhere for about seven hours. That place had to be secure, private and yet accessible to the main London-Edinburgh route. And what better place than a tiny branch line on the north-eastern edge of the North York Moors?
It was therefore decreed that the royal train would be diverted off the main line and through some scenic countryside which embraced the branch line that led from Thirsk into the hills. The line passed through the villages of Little Cringle, Harksworth and Crossby before regaining the main line some fifteen miles to the north. The Beeching Axe closed this line in 1964, but the tracks were still there, and it was ideal for this purpose.
The royal train would remain overnight in Little Cringle Station, which stood a mile or so from the village after which it was named, and it was the duty of our police force to provide security and protection to the train and its VIP passengers during its stay. I was one of the CID men detailed for that duty, one of several, in fact. My role was to arrive at Little Cringle Station at 11.30 p.m. and remain there on security duties until departure of the train next morning. The royal train was expected to arrive at 12.35 a.m.
Armed with my flask of coffee and a box of sandwiches, I drove through the dark lanes to Little Cringle and reported to the sergeant in charge at the deserted station. I was posted to a bridge overlooking the line and had to stop anarchists and their ilk from dropping bombs onto the royal train. I had no firearm, only my detective stave and a personal radio. I hoped the anarchists would never know that.
And so, that fine May night, I walked up and down that bridge, waiting for the train to appear. The expected time of arrival passed with no sign of it. Another half an hour passed and still there was no sign, and I could see my colleagues on the station moving around in concern.
Clearly, there was a problem of some kind, f
or trains with the Queen on board should never be late. I knew I must not leave my post without good reason, and so I walked up and down, puzzled and growing increasingly concerned as time passed without any reports. Then the detective sergeant came to me, walking quickly through the night.
‘Nick,’ he said, ‘we’ve a problem. Come into the office.’
I followed him into the disused station master’s office which had been utilised as a control room for this occasion, and found the others sitting around.
‘Right,’ said Detective Sergeant Proctor. ‘We’re all here, and this is the problem. The royal train should have arrived here at 12.35 a.m. and it hasn’t. It has Her Majesty on board and members of her entourage, including her private police officer. I have checked with British Rail and our own control room, and they maintain the train is where it should be. They say it is here. Well, I for one know it bloody well isn’t. You all know that it isn’t here, and you can’t just spirit away an engine and several coaches full of VIPs. We have a radio link with the train, of course, and the chap on duty says the train is in its siding, safe and sound, and Her Majesty is sleeping. He reckons he is at Little Cringle as arranged, and he will not accept any other suggestion. And the main line is clear, gentlemen, so the royal train is not on the main line. British Transport police have checked.’
‘Then where the hell is it?’ asked one of the detectives.
‘We don’t know. The signalman at Thirsk, whose job was to switch the points for it to enter this line, has gone off duty. We’re having a man sent to have words with him, to see if he’s diverted it along the wrong bloody line — either by design or by carelessness.’
That this might have been done deliberately presented a chilling scenario and had horrific implications for the effectiveness of the overall security arrangements surrounding Her Majesty.
‘But if the chap in charge of the train thinks he’s at Little Cringle, or says he’s at Little Cringle, something is wrong.’ I had my little say. ‘Could the royal train have got into the wrong hands?’
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 70