CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “And I’ll bet he didn’t know a Yellow Woodpecker from an Admiral Beatty,” grinned Joseph.

  “Good luck, Joseph,” I said as I reached his garden gate. “And thanks for the scones and tea, Mabel.”

  “We’ll see you at mass on Sunday, but come any time, Mr Rhea,” she said. “Even when he does hand over to somebody else, you’re always welcome.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and left the Marshalls to their contented life. As I walked along the lane, I admired Joseph’s beautifully kept garden with its range of fruit trees, berry bushes, vegetables and flowers, but his neat spread did seem heavily populated with well-pruned, bare-branched gooseberry trees. In sophisticated berry circles, gooseberry bushes are always called trees, and gooseberries are always called berries. Although Joseph had plenty to occupy him in his garden, I did wonder how he would cope without the absorbing interest of his berry society responsibilities to sustain him.

  * * *

  That same afternoon I had to visit Ashfordly Police Station to deliver some crime reports and when I walked into the cramped office, Sergeant Blaketon was chatting to PC Alf Ventress over a mug of tea. Their conversation was deep and earnest, so much so that they did not immediately notice my arrival. Then Sergeant Blaketon realised I had walked in.

  “You’d better pour yourself a mug, then listen to this, Rhea,” Blaketon boomed. “It affects us all. You might have heard that Sergeant Bairstow is retiring but his departure will bring some changes to our section.”

  “Well, fancy that! Old Charlie Bairstow calling it a day! I did hear rumours, Sarge; he’d been telling somebody he was thinking of packing in,” said Ventress. “But I never thought he’d do it! I thought he’d have to be carried out of his office feet first.”

  “Well, he’s made his mind up. It’s official now. He’s put his ticket in and is retiring at the end of the month. There’ll be a farewell party, of course, but as you know, he shared duties with me. Ashfordly and Brantsford sections have worked together for some time now, and his replacement will be Sergeant Craddock, Raymond Craddock; he’s being posted here from Guisborough.”

  “You don’t mean Twinkle-toes Craddock, the Welsh Wheeler, do you?” There was just a hint of alarm in Alf’s voice.

  “If you are referring to his ballroom dancing and cycling, then yes, Ventress, I am referring to the Twinkle-toed Welsh Wheeler. He replaces Sergeant Bairstow which means he’ll have responsibility for Ashfordly Section in my absence.”

  “It won’t be the same, Sarge!” grunted Ventress.

  “There’s more, Ventress,” continued Blaketon. “From what I hear, there is going to be much closer cooperation between sections — beats may close, gentlemen, sections may amalgamate. Changes are ahead. It might well happen that Ashfordly and Brantsford section merge with only one sergeant in charge of both.”

  “Oh, blimey!” groaned Ventress. “If Craddock comes here, it’ll mean I’ll have to get a haircut!”

  “And you’ll have to have your trousers pressed, and keep all that cigarette ash off your tunic! Sergeant Craddock is a fresh-air fiend, Ventress, a man who likes open office windows even in the middle of winter, and he’s also keen on exercise and activity. For others, that is, not just himself!”

  “Well, so long as he doesn’t want us to have a session of physical jerks every morning.”

  “He might just do that, Ventress, although he’ll probably be happy enough just throwing all the windows open and stopping you smoking in the office.”

  “Stopping me smoking? That’s inhuman, Sarge! You can’t prevent a hard-working chap from having his little pleasures . . .”

  “What’s a pleasure for you might not be a pleasure for others, Ventress!”

  “Folks like him don’t have any real pleasure, Sarge.”

  “And,” continued Sergeant Blaketon with some relish, “should I decide to retire, then the chances are that he would take command of both Ashfordly and Brantsford sections; they’d be put together to form one unit.”

  “But, Sarge, I mean, did I hear that right?” stammered Alf Ventress. “You’re not thinking of retiring as well, are you?”

  “It has crossed my mind from time to time, Ventress. I am no spring chicken. I’d rather go voluntarily than be told to retire due to my age, so, yes, if the right opportunity came along, I might just take it. A nice little village post office perhaps? Something to keep my mind occupied and to give me a reason for getting out of bed on a morning.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing all this . . .” muttered Ventress. “I just can’t!”

  “It’s an option that’s open to me, that’s all. An option. But one I shall be actively considering.”

  “I don’t know whether I can stand all these changes,” muttered Ventress. “I’m going to make another cup of tea. Why can’t things stay the same, Sergeant? Things were going along very nicely here . . . very nicely indeed . . .”

  “Time and tide wait for no man, Ventress!”

  “Yes, but can’t we make things happen more slowly? In one fell swoop, you’re talking about merging Ashfordly and Brantsford, creating large units, bringing in ferocious new sergeants who ban smoking and throw open windows on cold days, wholesale retirements of folks we’ve got to know so well . . . it’s all too much for a simple chap like me.”

  “We can’t afford to become complacent, Ventress,” grinned Blaketon. “But nothing’s set in stone. Our leaders might think of something totally different!”

  “If I wasn’t on duty, I’d have something stronger in my tea and I don’t mean more sugar,” said Ventress. “I just can’t see why people want to keep changing things.”

  “It provides work for admin at headquarters for one thing,” smiled Blaketon. “If you are the head of a department with nothing to do, you arrange something called a redevelopment strategy or performance assessment, or a survey on the utilisation of capital assets, or a structured reorganisation of personnel. That sort of thing keeps your staff busy for months and you get promoted at the end of it.”

  “We call it empire building, Sergeant!” grumbled poor old Alf. “That’s what it is. Using us troops as mere pawns in the game.”

  We could have discussed these matters for hours but I had to leave because I had arranged a meeting with a man who’d witnessed a road accident in Newcastle; I had to call on the gentleman, a commercial traveller, to obtain a statement for Newcastle police. He lived in Ploatby which was a tiny village on my patch, and so, after entering the date of the Aidensfield Gooseberry Show in our events diary, I took my leave of Sergeant Blaketon and the unhappy Alf Ventress.

  But it had been a stimulating few minutes. A new sergeant at Brantsford or even Ashfordly! Although I did not know the incoming Sergeant Craddock I felt it wouldn’t be long before I did!

  * * *

  That following weekend, I received a report of a crime which, as it transpired, was to become the first of a long series of very puzzling thefts, or larcenies as the crime was then called.

  As it was a Sunday, I’d been to early mass and had assisted Joseph with taking the collection. After mass, he’d hailed me and said, “Well, Mr Rhea, I did it.”

  “Made your retirement official, you mean?”

  “Aye, handed my resignation in. So now I’ve nowt to do with next year’s gooseberry job. It’s funny, knowing I don’t have to fret about organising it the minute this year’s is finished.”

  “You deserve a rest,” I said. “It’s been well earned. But you’ll still be doing your other jobs, here at the church and with the guild?”

  “Oh, aye. Well, there’s nowt to worry about taking the collection at mass, Mr Rhea, or making sure t’ village hall’s locked up at night. And t’ guild doesn’t take up a lot of my time.”

  “Well, I hope the gooseberry society finds somebody to take over from you — and that you settle down to enjoy your new freedom.”

  “I think things will work out well, Mr Rhea. I’ve nominated somebody I think’ll make
a good president, so voting papers are being prepared. I’ll get it sorted out before I go.”

  Joseph always called me Mr Rhea in spite of me knowing him so well, and I left him to finish off his Sunday church duties. I walked up the hill to my home and had just finished lunch when the telephone rang. It was a call from a kiosk in Crampton.

  “Is that the Aidensfield policeman?” shouted a distraught voice.

  “Speaking. My name is PC Rhea,” I acknowledged.

  “I’ve had my bike stolen,” the man panted. “Just now, well, within the last hour . . .”

  “Where from?” I asked.

  “Here, where I’m ringing from. Crampton. The CTC place where we have lunch, Riverside. Mrs Simpson said I should ring you.”

  “Give me a description and I’ll circulate it immediately on our radio,” I told him. “Then wait there, I’ll come and see you.”

  He told me it was a Frejus make, a gents’ Italian-built racing bike with 27” wheels, a silver-grey 24” frame and Derailleur ten-speed gears. The bike, a lightweight racing machine, had aluminium handlebars with blue tape around them; it was fitted with toe-clips, a pair of lightweight blue mudguards and a slim racing saddle with a small saddlebag containing spanners and a spare tubular tyre. The caller said he used it for road racing as a rule, when it did not have mudguards, but the mudguards had been fitted for today’s outing, a leisurely club ride around the North York Moors. The splendid and very distinctive bike was worth £245, a huge sum by some standards; clearly, it was an expert’s pride and joy.

  As promised, I rang Ashfordly Police Station with the news and asked PC Alf Ventress, the constable on duty, to rapidly broadcast news of the theft to all stations, with special emphasis on notifying police vehicles which were patrolling the vicinity. He said he would do what he could; then I explained I was on my way to speak to the loser and to obtain more information after which I would update my report.

  The snag was that, with an expert rider aboard, the bike could be fifteen or even twenty miles away if it had been missing an hour; if it had been placed in the back of a covered van or lorry, of course, it could be forty miles away or more, and out of sight.

  I felt the latter was probably the case — no intelligent thief would risk riding such a prominent machine along our country lanes although, to be fair, most thieves do lack genuine brain power. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s the origin of the saying — as thick as thieves. However, a search of the locality, highly desirable by the loser, was really a waste of time although an element of luck might enable one of our patrols to quickly locate the bike and its unauthorised taker. It was a forlorn chance, I felt; nonetheless, we would do our best.

  Having circulated details I drove to Crampton and made my way to the CTC café. This was Mrs Molly Simpson’s Riverside Restaurant, a splendid place with beautiful gardens beside the water. During the summer, the lawns were adorned with lots of tables so that people could eat outside and there was even a small wooden jetty and a rowing boat which could be hired for trips on the river. The indoor restaurant was equally pleasant, with views of both the river and the garden. The café facilities had been approved by the Cyclists’ Tourist Club and so the outer wall of the house bore the wheel logo; this meant it was patronised by lots of cyclists, especially during weekends, for they could be sure of a warm welcome and good food. On this occasion, being a cool day in early spring, the cyclists had chosen to eat inside but had left their machines outside the premises.

  This was the normal practice. The bikes were all parked in a long row, three or four deep, on the short grass against the outer wall of the garden. Although they were, in effect, standing almost on the village street, none had been locked — at that time, such security measures were not considered necessary. It was a common Sunday sight to see dozens of cycles parked in this way outside cafés and I’d never been aware of a theft in such circumstances. I parked my Minivan and walked into the grounds, passing the massed ranks of bicycles and eyeing them all, just in case the Frejus was among them, possibly having been overlooked. I guessed there’d be around forty bikes. I did not see the Frejus — but I realised that anyone could easily steal a bike as they passed by and ride it or remove it quickly from the scene without anyone noticing. In this case, the owners had all been inside the café for their meal with their precious machines being beyond their vision — so was that something the thief had known in advance? Or had this been an opportunist crime?

  As I entered the grounds of the garden restaurant, a tall man detached himself from the others and approached me. They had all assembled outside the restaurant now, awaiting my arrival. My man was clad in cycling gear — a woollen, short-sleeved vest in light blue with a pocket at the rear, dark shorts, cycling shoes with toe plates on the soles and a peaked cap. He’d be in his late thirties, I reckoned, a slim but powerful man with black hair and prominent dark eyebrows.

  “PC Rhea?” He came towards me, the anxiety showing on his face.

  “Yes, it was your bike, was it?”

  “Yes, any luck?”

  “Not yet,” I had to admit. “I’ve circulated a description to all our patrols, but if it’s been placed in a lorry or van . . .”

  “I know, all my pals here did a quick recce the moment I discovered it had gone. It’s been spirited away, Constable. Not ridden, it’s such a distinctive bike, I’m sure no one would risk riding it away.”

  I established that his name was Larry Whittaker, aged thirty-two, a draughtsman by profession, who lived at Stockton-on-Tees. He’d ridden from Stockton that morning with club members, the run being pre-planned with lunch booked at Mrs Simpson’s Riverside Restaurant. He’d parked his bike, along with the others, outside the restaurant at 12.30. They’d spent about an hour over the meal, chatting and enjoying the atmosphere as they prepared for the return trip via a different route — along to Scarborough and then back to Stockton through Whitby and Guisborough.

  I learned that his bike had been one of the last to be parked — and thus one of the first available to a thief. Luckily, he had a note of the frame number — FJ 180536 — in his pocket diary and I was able to add that to the details I would incorporate in my written crime report. That number would be invaluable should we find the bike, or even just its remains. Without it, we’d have difficulty establishing ownership — a new owner could claim it was his machine and we’d have problems proving otherwise.

  I did have to undertake my own search of the village, just in case someone had hidden the bike as a joke. That was the sort of prank expected of a teenager, or even a jealous colleague.

  After confirming that no other cycle had been stolen from this location, I conducted my half-hour hunt with Whittaker and some of his pals helping me, checking places like deserted sheds and barns, behind roadside walls, under the bridge, beside the river and even in the river itself, as well as all likely hiding places.

  On that first recce, we encountered some of the residents of Crampton but none had seen anyone taking the bike. From our efforts, we were positive the precious bike had been spirited away from the village and I decided it would have to be recorded as a crime. I asked Larry Whittaker how he was going to return home and he told me Mrs Simpson had a suitable bike, one left at the restaurant months ago by a man who’d become ill during an outing. The fellow had never recovered and had given up cycling, saying she could keep the bike — it was a Rudge, a heavyweight touring cycle, but capable of getting Mr Whittaker back to base. He could return it in due course.

  Satisfied that I had all the necessary particulars for my report, I told Mr Whittaker that I would remain in the village for a while, asking the local residents if they could help, with special emphasis on whether they’d seen anyone with a van or lorry around lunchtime, or noticed anyone riding the bike away. Whittaker did say his bike was insured and I told him to inform his insurance company and make a claim; in due course, they’d contact the North Riding Constabulary for confirmation of the crime. And with that, the cycli
sts mounted their machines and rode away, with Larry Whittaker looking somewhat uncomfortable on the heavy old Rudge. Compared with the lightweight racing cycle he’d lost, it was built like a tank and I reckoned he’d have a sore backside and aching legs by the time he reached Stockton.

  I spent a couple of hours in Crampton, knocking on doors and hailing people walking in the streets, but no one had noticed anything remotely suspicious. The truth was, of course, they’d all been in their homes having Sunday lunch as the crime was being committed, but even if a truck had passed through, or if someone had ridden a cycle past their doorways, those actions in themselves would never be regarded as out of the ordinary. In short, my enquiries drew a blank.

  From Crampton I drove into Ashfordly to register the crime at the police station, knowing it would be another black mark in our statistics, but at the same time, I accepted it hardly constituted a crime wave. Alf Ventress was in the office and told me he had broadcast details of the theft as I’d requested, but there’d been no results and so I settled down to complete the necessary paperwork. The recording of a crime invariably generated a pile of paper and it was while I was typing my official report that Sergeant Blaketon returned. He’d been visiting the rural constable at Falconbridge.

  “Problems, Rhea?” he asked, as he eyed the report in the typewriter before me.

  I explained what had happened and told him what I’d done and he nodded in satisfaction, adding, “It’s not just any old bike, then? Not some old heap of rust nicked for spares, by the sound of it?”

  “Not at all, Sergeant,” I assured him. “This is a specialist’s machine, a top-grade Italian racing cycle, worth a lot of money.”

  “But the thief might not know that,” countered Blaketon. “If this was an opportunist crime, he’d lift the first bike he got his filthy hands on — and it just happened to be a special one.”

  “Or it might have been someone who realised its value,” I added. “Or it might be someone who knows that cyclists assemble at places like CTC eating-houses with special machines, keen cyclists who buy the best, and that such places are rich picking grounds for cycle thieves.”