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

  “That hasn’t worked so far,” mumbled Joseph, unconvinced.

  “Well, I can’t understand all these modern notions,” Mabel added. “So far as I’m concerned, he’s ill and there’s no question about it. It’s not in the mind — fancy saying a thing like that! Just look at the fellow, he’s as thin as a scrawny old hen and that’s no imagination. But I’ll do as you say, Mr Rhea, I’ll wait to hear what Dr McGee makes of all this. Mebbe he can explain things when he’s got all the papers in front of him.”

  “You could always seek a second opinion,” I suggested. “From a private consultant, that is.”

  “We’re not the sort to go rushing off to private doctors, Mr Rhea, not with Joseph being a big man in the NUR when he was working, the unions don’t like private medicine, but if it’s a matter of life and death, then mebbe we should consider a second opinion. But I think it’s a case of wait and see just now.”

  “I think you’re right,” I smiled. “Wait and see what he’s like when he gets home.”

  During our journey back to Aidensfield, Mabel continued to express her disgust by reciting cases she knew of people dying from all kinds of fearsome ailments which had been ignored or not identified by so-called medical experts. I must admit that, in the short time I had known Joseph, I had never regarded him as one of nature’s worriers, but I accepted that such a condition could manifest itself through a combination of factors, with advancing age and concealed stress being two of the most likely constituents. On the other hand, illness caused by a condition of mind was something Mabel utterly failed to comprehend. I delivered her back to her little cottage, telling her not to worry too much because Dr McGee would ensure that her husband received his closest attention whatever the comments from Scarborough Hospital, and I added that I would help her to visit Joseph again if she needed any further trips to the hospital.

  Then I went home and got changed into my uniform for a late tour of duty.

  * * *

  Joseph came home the following afternoon, his final urine test not revealing any additional problems and the next time I saw him he was digging furiously in his garden. I was driving past at the time; therefore I did not stop, but I did wonder if he was trying to prove he was not ill. Certainly his garden had been slightly neglected during his incapacity, in spite of Mabel’s attention to it, and now it seemed he was attacking it with considerable gusto.

  I wondered if he was trying to make up for lost time — another reason for not interrupting him. Although I caught only a glimpse as I passed, I thought he looked thin, pale and rather weary. I hoped he wasn’t overdoing things, and made a resolution to pop in when I had more time.

  It was during those summer weeks that further expensive cycles were stolen from venues around the north-east of England. The crimes were not reported in any of the local newspapers and there was never any press suggestion of a crime wave even though a substantial amount of money was involved. The odd bike stolen from widely separated areas was hardly likely to make news, and my only means of becoming aware of the continuing crimes came through my determined studies of the Stolen Cycle Supplements. Unfortunately, they were issued on an irregular basis, usually when there were sufficient reports to fill a couple of sides of paper. Consequently, it was sometimes a month before I learned of such a theft in a distant part of County Durham or from a CTC café near Middlesbrough. Each entry was very short and comprised only a very few lines with the minimum of information. This made it difficult to isolate racing-cycle thefts from the mass of more mundane matter — most of the stolen bikes listed were ordinary roadsters. A surprising number of black gentlemen’s cycles were stolen, although I noted that a small pink girl’s cycle had been stolen from outside a girl guides’ hut and that a large, green, old-fashioned lady’s cycle had been stolen from outside a shop in Redcar. I wondered what a large, green old-fashioned lady looked like.

  By this stage, I had begun to compile my own register of stolen cycles by abstracting information from the supplements, but listing only those crimes which appeared to be the work of the man in the maroon pick-up truck. Whenever I discovered a note of such a crime, I contacted the local office of the CID to explain my interest and obtain background details. Sadly, I learned little more than I already knew, but my research reinforced my belief that all our villain was stealing were bikes which were expensive racing machines, many hand-built rather than being factory produced. It appeared that the thief was very knowledgeable and discerning, but he had no favourite colour because machines in a variety of colours were stolen.

  One factor was that all the cycles had crossbars like gents’ bikes, even though one loser was a woman. Nonetheless, her machine did have a crossbar — indeed, lady cyclists who were keen tourers or racing enthusiasts did use gents’ cycles or, to be precise, cycles with crossbars. Apparently, that design of frame made the machines more stable and responsive to fast and powerful riding in races and on long tours. Another common factor, one which I had already identified, was that the machines were invariably taken from places where a large number of cycles were assembled. At first, I thought all such places were meeting points of CTC members but this was not always the case. Some were gatherings of local club members such as the Tees Valley Wheelers, The South Durham Road Club, the Hambleton Road Club or events like our local Thackerston Sunday. It was clear, therefore, that the thief knew about such gatherings in advance because he seemed to arrive very soon after the cycles had been temporarily abandoned by their owners.

  It was almost as if he followed them there, or was even a member of the party — or that he had an accomplice within the organisation. But the thief was not a member of one single club because he appeared to have information about the activities of several different clubs or events which attracted large numbers of cyclists, whether or not they were members of particular clubs. He knew where they met, what time they gathered and possibly how long their bikes would be left unattended. Beyond doubt, he was very familiar with the north-east cycling scene — and all the crimes were committed around Middlesbrough, albeit extending into south Durham, the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors.

  It was almost as if the thief lived or worked in Middlesbrough and ventured out of the town in a different direction each Sunday to commit his crimes. I did examine a map of the area, marking upon it the locations of all the crimes and every one of them was within a forty-mile radius of Middlesbrough. That was another common factor I could not ignore.

  In compiling my own register, I realised I had become a self-appointed collator but being totally efficient was not easy due to the number of different police force divisions and local officers involved. The fact that I was not party to the investigation of crimes beyond my own boundaries was also a hindrance. To gain the necessary assistance, I had to rely on other officers, probably with less commitment than myself and that was never wholly satisfactory. Nonetheless, I felt I was doing my best and wondered whether Sergeant Craddock was also conducting his personal enquiries.

  I persisted with my local enquiries and my continuing search of the countryside, but apart from that one snippet of information about the maroon pick-up, I discovered absolutely nothing. And none of the other investigations had revealed the presence of a maroon pick-up in the vicinity at the time. I must admit I began to think the thief was skilful enough never to be caught or identified.

  Then I had a piece of luck.

  Margaret Hebden, the gamekeeper’s wife, who had seen the suspicious maroon pick-up in Lairsdale, rang me rather breathlessly one Wednesday afternoon to say she was sure she had seen the same truck only half an hour earlier. It had been motoring along the lane which bordered the disused airfield at Stovensby but she’d been too far away to obtain the registration number. It had been around 3.30 p.m. when she’d seen it. Fortunately, I was at home when she rang and immediately jumped into my van and hurtled through the lanes — Stovensby was about twenty minutes’ drive from my police house at Aidensfield. If the pick-up had bee
n driving away from the area when Margaret had seen it, it would have something like a fifty-minute start on me — which meant it could be more than twenty miles away by the time I arrived. But I had to visit the scene — it might still be in the locality.

  I drove through all the lanes, peering into likely parking places such as farmyards and lay-bys, but saw no sign of the truck, and then decided to visit my old foe, Tin Lid Talbot, at his scrapyard on the old airfield at Stovensby. I thought the van might have been en route to visit him. As usual, I found him sorting through a pile of junk in one of his untidy sheds.

  “Now then, Tin Lid,” I said. “How’s things with you?”

  “Busy as ever, Mr Rhea,” he said. “It never stops.”

  “You’ve been behaving yourself lately?” I had to ask the question. He expected it of me.

  “I have, Mr Rhea, never touched anything that I haven’t obtained legally.” That was one of his stock answers.

  Normally, I’d tackle him about some petty crimes for which he was a suspect, but not on this occasion.

  “Good,” I smiled at the scruffy fellow. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Something happened then?” He looked at me quizzically and I could see he was worried about my presence. “Something happened to bring you here like this? It’s not often you call without a reason.”

  “That’s very observant of you.” I could see he was in a good mood and, if as he claimed he had not stolen anything recently, then he should not be unduly worried about my presence, unless he was thinking I suspected him of receiving stolen goods. “But I do have a reason for calling.”

  “I thought you might,” he muttered. “But I’ve done nothing wrong. Not that I know of, anyway.”

  “I’m not suggesting you have, Tin Lid,” I smiled. “It’s a van I’m interested in. It passed this way less than an hour ago. I wondered if it might have called here.”

  “A van, Mr Rhea?”

  “A maroon one, with a covered back. Like a pick-up with a roof over the rear part but with no back doors.”

  “Ah, yes. That van. Yes, I must confess the driver did call here, but I never paid a penny for those lids.”

  “Lids?” I asked.

  “Paint tin lids. He brings them to me, lots of them. I’m sure they’re not stolen, Mr Rhea.”

  “I doubt if anyone would deal in stolen lids from paint pots, Tin Lid. A regular supplier, is he?”

  “On and off, Mr Rhea. He knows I deal in lids, and fetches his unwanted ones to me.”

  “Free of charge?”

  “Yes, free of charge, Mr Rhea. He just wants rid of them. They take up a lot of space, do unwanted tin lids.”

  “Is he a regular visitor then? Weekly? Monthly?”

  “Oh, no, Mr Rhea, nothing as regular as that. Once or twice a year mebbe, or mebbe up to three or four times. But not weekly. Oh, no.”

  “Can I see them?” was my next request. “The lids, I mean.”

  “Well, I never thought I’d see the day when you were interested in second-hand tin lids, Mr Rhea, but yes, follow me.”

  He led me into the shed where he kept a massive pile of tin lids in every conceivable shape, size and colour.

  I began to wonder about Tin Lid Talbot’s mania for collecting these things because he never seemed to dispose of any. There was the strong scent of paint too, enamel paint, I thought, although the background pong might have been a mixture of anything sticking to the lids, ranging from baked beans to garden fertiliser.

  “So which lids did he bring?” I asked, gazing down upon the collection of filthy lids, some of which were coated with unknown and unidentifiable filth.

  “Them there.” He pointed to a heap of round tin lids, all of which seemed to have come from paint tins. There was about five dozen or so I guessed, all of the same size and all showing grey as the colour of the contents. Some of the colour adhered to the underside of the lids, and some of them bore a patch of colour on the top, to identify the contents of the tin — but all revealed the same shade of light grey.

  “There’s a lot of paint tin lids!” I noted.

  “Yes, Mr Rhea. A lot. He always brings a lot when he comes.”

  “And they’ve all come from tins containing grey paint?”

  “They have, Mr Rhea, yes, they have. All from tins of grey paint. I think he likes grey paint, Mr Rhea.”

  “I think you’re right, Tin Lid. Now, the paint on them smells like enamel,” and I sniffed the air to make my point. “What sort of things would he paint with this?”

  “Metal things,” he said. “Cars, bikes, farm equipment, kitchen things mebbe. Probably be spraying it on.”

  “Bikes, you said?” I asked.

  “Yes, bikes, Mr Rhea. The chap said that. He paints bikes.”

  “Does he?” Now I was getting very interested in these lids. “What sort of bikes?”

  “Grey ones, Mr Rhea.”

  “I had worked that out, Tin Lid. Why does he paint bikes grey?”

  “He builds bikes, Mr Rhea. He once told me a long time ago. Second-hand ones, and then he sells them.”

  “I might want to buy a nice bike.” I decided not to reveal my genuine interest to this fellow. “So who is this man? Where’s he come from?”

  “No idea, Mr Rhea,” he said. “I’ve never known his name or where he comes from. He just turns up every so often with a sackful of tin lids which he lets me have, and then he goes.”

  “And he comes alone, does he?”

  “I’ve never seen him with anybody else,” Tin Lid confirmed.

  “Always in his maroon pick-up?”

  “Always, Mr Rhea. Never uses anything else. He’s had it years.”

  “So where’s his workshop, Tin Lid? He must have left some clues with you.”

  “Search me, Mr Rhea. I have no idea. He never says much about himself. Just drops the stuff off and goes.”

  “But he did say he painted bikes? Or is that something you dreamed up?”

  “No, he definitely said that. He told me when I asked him where his tin lids came from. He said he buys tins of fresh paint for his work. He uses a lot, he says.”

  “So why does he bring the lids to you?” I asked. “And what happens to the empty tins?”

  “Search me, Mr Rhea. I’ve no idea what he does with his empties but he knows I deal in tin lids, you see, he knows I’m the premier dealer in tin lids in this part of the world, so he lets me have those he doesn’t want. It’s very good of him, especially when he brings them to me. I mean, I don’t have to go and pick them up myself.”

  “I find that very curious,” I said. “Coming all this way especially to deliver a few tin lids to you. Unless he doesn’t want you to know where he lives or works.”

  My gut reaction was that the thief was concealing evidence of his clandestine work by spreading his used paraphernalia around widely separated places so that nothing could be traced back to him. But in that, he was wrong. For one thing, he must have a supplier for all his grey paint! Not many people would buy such quantities, unless they wanted to paint a battleship or two. With a bit of luck, the chain of evidence might be traced back to him.

  “I think he comes here when he’s got business hereabouts,” Tin Lid explained. “I don’t think he makes a special journey to see me.”

  “You mean he sells his bikes somewhere in this area?”

  “Some of them, mebbe. Not all of them. I believe he has a good name for bikes, Mr Rhea, sells them far and wide, he does.”

  “Does he? They’re special bikes, are they?”

  “Oh, very. Expensive and smart, Mr Rhea, racing bikes. The best. Handmade for big cyclists.”

  “So you think keen cyclists buy them?”

  “Well, if what my mate at the bike shop says was true, only the really keen types would try to afford them. Not for the ordinary chap, they aren’t.”

  “So your contact with the maroon van is an expert at his work, Tin Lid?”

  “Oh, very, Mr Rhea. I
think he’s one of the top experts at his job. It was me that put him in touch with a dealer, a local chap you see, and he was capped to bits with the bikes he got. That’s why I’m in their good books, both of them, in a manner of speaking. That’s my reward from the bike man — those lids, a regular supply.”

  “So which bike dealer are we talking about, Tin Lid? The one who likes you.”

  “I used to shift all his scrap metal, Mr Rhea.”

  “Used to? You don’t do it now?”

  “He retired, Mr Rhea. He used to have a shop at Eltering, but he closed it a few years ago. When he was on the go, he sold bikes, new and second-hand, and did repairs. Eltering Cycles in Finkle Street, that was the shop. I always did well with gear wheels and bottom bracket spindles from there.”

  “And now? What’s the situation if that shop has closed?”

  “No idea, Mr Rhea. I don’t think there’s a cycle shop in Eltering now, but that chap still comes this way now and again as I’ve told you, but not as regular as he used to.”

  “What’s he look like? If I want a bike from him, how do I contact him?”

  “A youngish chap, very tall, thin as a rail. Dark hair. I’ve no idea what he calls himself. It’s funny that, I’ve known him all these years yet never known what his name is.”

  “I believe you, but specialists and true artists are like that sometimes,” I said with tongue in cheek. “Very guarded about their work, never advertising, always playing hard to get. Now, Tin Lid, if I wanted to borrow one of those tin lids to see if it’s the sort of grey I want, would you let me take one? If necessary, I’ll pay your price,” I added.

  “Take as many as you want, Mr Rhea,” said Tin Lid. “There’s mebbe a slight variation in different brews or batches, so you can take a few. Fetch ’em back when you’ve decided. I know I can trust you to do that.”

  “So you can! I’ve no real personal use for second-hand tin lids.”

  I wanted to examine the lids away from his scrutiny in case they carried the name of the shop from which they had been obtained. From that, I might be able to trace the man who bought them. A further and perhaps remote likelihood was that they might bear the thief’s fingerprints and so, in the event of this man’s cycle factory being discovered, we could match the lids to the paint, and the paint tins to him via fingerprints. It was a long shot, but worth trying. I found an old hessian sack hanging on a nail and placed a small selection of the lids inside, watched by Tin Lid. At that stage, I had no idea whether Tin Lid was being honest with me or whether he knew I was trying to catch a thief.