“The rumours are already flying around,” he said. “That’s if they are rumours. The whole place is buzzing with the story that Joseph has some unmentionable and fatal disease, that he’s been sent home to die, and that there is no hope. And I’ve already had Guild members reminding me they haven’t attended a funeral for years. I think they’re looking forward to it. Robes are being found and washed, sashes ironed, hats aired . . . plans are being made, Nick.”
“For his funeral?” I was aghast at this and groaned audibly. “This is awful . . . the poor fellow’s not dead yet! Is that why you’ve come to see me? About the funeral arrangements?”
“Not directly, no. But it is to do with his state of health,” and I could see I had dented some of the enthusiasm he had engendered prior to this visit.
“In other words, you believe the rumours?” I felt I had to put this to him.
“What else could I believe? I understood Mabel had got the verdict direct from Joseph’s consultant,” he said firmly. “And that fitted in with what we all dreaded. So, as I said, that is why I am here.”
“All right, Father,” I said. “So what can I do for you?”
“When we — the parishioners of St Aidan’s that is — heard about Joseph’s condition, we felt that if the medical profession could not or would not help, then God might, through us of course, through the parish that is, and by the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
“Go on.” I was intrigued now.
“Well, so that God can help through Mary’s intercession, there would have to be some visible sign of faith from Joseph, over and above his normal religious activities, something more than his attendance at daily mass, saying the rosary and so on.”
“I can understand that.” I nodded.
“So the parish felt we should send Joseph to Lourdes,” he said. “As a gift; we would raise the money as a gift. A surprise, even. Now, I’m sure he cannot afford the fare to the shrine in France, so a small sub-committee has been formed to raise the necessary funds.”
“In the hope he’ll receive a miracle cure?” I smiled. “That means there’s no need to muster the Guild just yet!”
“Yes, Nick. Exactly.”
“But he’s not ill, Father. There is nothing wrong with him. That’s the point I’ve been trying to make. So why send him to Lourdes?”
“I think the state of his health is a matter for God to decide.” Father Simon appeared just as stubborn as me on this matter. “He has lost weight. He is not eating and the medical profession is baffled by his condition. In my books, Nick, that is an indication that he needs urgent treatment and help, and if the National Health Service won’t give him that, then I’m sure Our Lady of Lourdes or Saint Bernadette will intercede on his behalf.”
“If his problem is his state of mind, then a visit to Lourdes might cure that too, just as it might cure a physical ailment,” I had to admit.
“Absolutely. I’m sure Our Lady will look upon him with great favour. After all, problems of the mind are illnesses just like any other. So, if his condition is due to some deep internal anguish, then he qualifies, Nick. I’m not saying he’s mentally ill, though! Whatever his problem, he must be cured, miraculously or otherwise.”
“It seems you are determined to get him there. So what’s my part in all this?”
“We need to raise funds, Nick. The Guild doesn’t pay for pilgrimages to Lourdes, it pays for funerals. Raising the necessary money very quickly means raffles and tombola, or any other method we can utilise.”
“Bingo’s always a good money raiser for Catholics!” I laughed.
“Yes, there’ll be bingo too. Now, I know there are rules and regulations about organising lotteries and sessions of bingo when the tickets are on sale to the public and when the cash value of the prize is considerable. So I am here to seek your advice on that aspect of our fundraising. We’ll also be having special collections in church, a sale of work and even a church fete if we can organise one in time.”
“It sounds as if this is a rushed job?” I put to him.
“It is rather. For one thing, we have no idea how long Joseph is going to be with us in this world, but in addition most of the pilgrimages from England to Lourdes are booked up well in advance, months in advance in fact. Fortunately, there is a one-week diocesan pilgrimage from Middlesbrough which leaves the UK on Sunday July 26. It returns on Sunday August 2. It’s a coach trip with hotel accommodation en route, including meals and on-going expenses.”
“That sounds ideal,” I muttered.
“Yes, but there is only one seat left. Just one. It’s due to a cancellation — I managed to stake a claim before anyone else heard about it and I’ve made a provisional reservation for Joseph. That has the backing of our parish sub-committee, but it means we’ve got to raise the entire fare, along with the on-going expenses for Joseph, and it’s got to be done by July 11.”
“You say there’s only one seat left. That rules out Mabel, or any helper who ought to accompany Joseph?”
“I’m afraid so, but the diocese does provide a party of volunteer helpers who look after everyone on the pilgrimage. Some are medically qualified. Most of them pay their own fares too. Very noble people, Nick. Joseph won’t be left to his own devices.”
“That’s reassuring. So how much money is needed?”
“We haven’t got an accurate figure, but something in the region of £65 to £75 wouldn’t be far off the mark. That should cover all the costs with a little surplus for parish funds perhaps, or to provide the means of helping someone else.”
“It’s a lot of money but I’m sure it can be done,” I said. “So, Father, how is all this going to be arranged without Joseph knowing about it? He’s one of your most faithful parishioners, an ardent mass attender and constant church helper. And he’ll need a passport. He never goes anywhere so he won’t be prepared for a trip overseas.”
“I’ll see to that. But so far as the fundraising is concerned, we’ve had to be a wee bit devious. We’ve decided to call our scheme the St Aidan’s General Purpose Fund, to hide the truth from Joseph.”
“That sounds very official!” I laughed.
“It is. We’ll let it be known to him that it was established rather swiftly while he was in hospital.”
“Which it was!”
“True. We had to move fast and with considerable secrecy,” he admitted.
“Well, you did that — not even I knew about it until now.”
“When we mention it to Joseph, we say the roof needs some expenditure — which it does — and one of the windows is leaking — which it is. And so we shall ostensibly raise the money for that sort of thing, a catalogue of small items of unexpected expenditure in other words. Joseph’s trip to Lourdes will come under that general heading.”
“Well, so long as the people contributing know what their money is going to be used for, I see no problem. After all, we wouldn’t want the church prosecuted for obtaining money by false pretences, Father!”
“Which is why I am here, Nick. So you reckon you can help us from the legal aspects?”
“Give me a day or two with my various reference books, and I’ll come back to you. But yes, go ahead, Father, start your fundraising and I’ll find a form of words or a name for something that will comply with the law. And you’ll need to register the raffle with the local authority — it’s known as a registered lottery. If you do that straight away, I’ll see to the rest and will come back to you in a day or two.”
“And not a word to Joseph!” he smiled.
“Would I dare suggest he’s suffering from an incurable illness?” I said.
“I’ll have words with Dr McGee,” promised Father Simon as he turned to leave. “Just to clarify, if I can, the facts of his real condition.”
* * *
Father Simon’s wish to run lotteries, bingo and tombola for the benefit of one man might prove tricky; it could be argued that such a purpose was not a true charity. It was not permissible for
a person to run a raffle which would benefit himself — the law said that small lotteries, i.e. raffles and tombola, should be devoted to purposes other than private gain, with the proceeds going to charitable, sporting or other suitable purposes arranged by genuine clubs, associations or bona fide organisations. If money was raised for a church fund, however, then the administrators of that fund could decide how to spend the money. If they decided to send Joseph to Lourdes, then that was quite legal. But the money could not go directly to Joseph — that was the crucial point because it might be construed as private gain.
Before checking those facts, however, I decided to put into action my ideas about the cycle thefts and although I felt that the new sergeant, Raymond Craddock, would be the best person to advise me, I was aware that a direct approach might be construed as a snub to Sergeant Blaketon. After all, he was my sergeant and the officer in charge of Ashfordly Section. Internal police politics had to be considered, so I rang Blaketon and explained I would like to discuss a somewhat urgent matter with him.
“Today?” he asked.
“Yes, that would be very helpful, Sergeant,” I agreed.
“Right. Meet me outside the village institute at Briggsby,” he told me. “I’ve an appointment in the village at two-thirty p.m. A potential recruit to interview. It won’t take more than an hour. How about three-thirty?”
“Fine,” I agreed.
When we met, I outlined everything that had occurred during my stolen cycle investigations, showed him my sackful of paint tin lids and told him about the former cycle shop in Eltering. He listened carefully, clearly impressed by the results of my dogged determination to capture the thief, and then said, “Sergeant Craddock’s really the man for this, Rhea. He was based at Guisborough before being posted to Brantsford. He’s very knowledgeable about the cycling scene, especially on Teesside, and he might know how your villain is getting advance information about those meetings. I think a discussion with him is called for. You, me and him, Rhea.”
“A good idea, Sergeant.” I was delighted at his common-sense approach.
“I’ll radio Brantsford. He’s on duty this afternoon because I had a telephone call from him earlier,” and with no further ado he lifted the handset of the radio in his car, made contact with Force Control Room and sought a talk-through with Brantsford Police Station. He was connected within a few moments and, over the air, I recognised the Welsh tones of Sergeant Craddock. After Blaketon had explained our purpose, Craddock said he would be happy to meet us.
He suggested there was no time like the present and proposed Ashfordly Police Station as the most suitable rendezvous point. Blaketon and I, in our separate vehicles, found ourselves heading into the little market town and half an hour later I was sitting in Sergeant Blaketon’s office with a cup of Alf Ventress’s strange-coloured tea at my side, and two sergeants listening to my words.
When I had finished, Craddock smiled. “Well, PC Rhea, I think you have done very well indeed, and I agree that we should try to coordinate the enquiries. I am sure, based on what we know, that our leaders would agree to a trap of some kind. The trouble is that several police forces are involved through crimes in their area. That could cause complications.”
“What about cycle shops, Sergeant?” I asked. “It’s fairly obvious he’s got an outlet through the cycle shops of this region. Should we make individual enquiries at every one in our area?”
“The minute any of us go asking questions from dealers, they’ll close ranks, PC Rhea. They’ll close ranks because they think we’ll prosecute them for receiving stolen goods — I mean, if they’re buying those stolen bikes at prices way below the normal, that’s good evidence of their criminal knowledge, isn’t it? That’s what we were taught at training school. And, of course, if we go poking our noses into their business, then one or other of them might alert our man and he’ll go to ground. Not all of them will be buying those bikes in their innocence, I feel. So let’s leave cycle shops out of the equation just now.”
“A good point,” I conceded.
He continued, “I think, therefore, on balance, we should set a trap. Have him fall for some device of ours to lead him into temptation, so to speak, and catch him red-handed.”
“But we don’t know how he plans his raids, do we? How does he know where the cyclists will meet?”
“I’ve done a spot of research of my own. I think he reads the newspapers, PC Rhea, or he visits the library. Club secretaries send advance notices of their outings to the Evening Gazette in Middlesbrough, and they are published once a week in the sports pages. Copies of the notices are sent to local branch libraries, too. All he has to do is read those notices and decide where to pay a visit.”
“I’m surprised that secretaries are still broadcasting such detailed information, in view of the risks. We’ve alerted most of them to the thefts.”
“I know, but the risks are small, bearing in mind the number of cycling clubs in the north-east of England. If you get, say, forty cyclists going on a Sunday outing from one club only, then multiply that by, say, thirty, you get an idea of the number of bikes on the road on any Sunday. I know there are at least thirty clubs in and around the Teesside area, some racing clubs, others touring clubs, one catering for trikes, another is run by a large store for its staff, another is for cyclists over sixty years of age . . . but the point is, PC Rhea, that on any Sunday in this region alone, you can have over a thousand bikes on the road — and that’s not counting family outings and people who don’t belong to clubs.”
“There’s mass start racing, too, in the summer, and time trials.”
“Exactly. I’d say you could add a further two or three hundred for all those people. We’re heading for a total of around fifteen hundred bikes on our local roads every Sunday — and there are fifty-two Sundays in the year. That’s over seventy-eight thousand opportunities every year to steal a bike — and he gets away with fifty or so on very special occasions. It’s almost a drop in the ocean, thinking along those lines. Fifty thefts out of seventy-eight thousand opportunities might explain why no police force has seen fit to spend time and money in a major offensive against the thief or thieves.”
“I never looked at it in that light,” admitted Sergeant Blaketon.
“Me neither,” I added.
“But I did, you see, especially because I am a victim myself. I’m afraid I became rather defeatist about it.” A sad smile appeared on Craddock’s face; he missed his precious racing cycle.
“But we can reduce that ratio,” I submitted. “All the stolen bikes fit into a particular category — they’re expensive racing machines with crossbars, and they’re all made with twenty-four inch frames to accommodate tall people. Our man would never steal a touring cycle, for example, or one which has been mass produced, or one for a small person.”
“Point taken,” said Craddock. “I must admit I had overlooked the tall cyclist aspect.”
“I’ve done a check in the supplements. If they’re ridden away from the scene of the crime, it means a tall man is responsible. A little chap would never get aboard any of those stolen machines.”
“But I thought we were looking for a covered pick-up truck with no doors on the back?” put in Blaketon.
“We are,” I nodded. “But I wondered if our thief parks his truck a short distance away from the target bikes, out of sight somewhere, and then walks to the bikes, dressed in cycling gear, makes his selection and rides the stolen one away — to his van. A man dressed in cycling gear in the vicinity of other cyclists similarly dressed would not raise any suspicion . . . and once the bike is in the back of his truck, he covers it up with the tarpaulin and drives off. He can also cover his cycling gear with a sweater or long trousers once he’s in his van.”
“Well, it’s a feasible theory,” said Craddock. “So, PC Rhea, what do you suggest we do about this?”
“I favour your idea of setting a trap rather than risk anything that will scare him off, or panic him into temporary
hiding. He’d just suspend his activities until the heat was off him, and start all over again. We’ll never catch him if we let that happen. We need to tempt him to a scene where we have planted some bait and where we are waiting. And it’s vital we catch him red-handed.”
“We?” asked Blaketon. “And who is we?”
“Well, Sergeant, I mean officers from one of the police forces from the area in which he operates. And that includes us. Once we find out who he is, we can examine his factory or shed or wherever he does his conversion work, and I’m sure we’ll find enough evidence to convict him of other similar crimes. Lots of tins of grey paint, for example.”
“Right,” said Craddock. “If we decide to set a trap, I cannot see that we need to involve any of the other police forces, nor do we need to bring in the CID. Members of this uniform branch — us in other words — are more than capable of catching this fellow. So how do we set a trap into which we can be sure he will fall?”
“We can’t be sure he’ll fall for it,” said Blaketon. “If he’s avoided capture or detection, or even suspicion for all these years, he might be alert to any likely trap.”
“He must operate on a slight hit-and-miss method,” I suggested. “He always takes large-framed bikes, but he cannot be absolutely sure there will be one of the right size on the club outings that he targets. So if we want to tempt him, we’ll have to make sure we plant a big bike or two.”
“You mean we should advertise an outing of the Police Cycling Club or the Giant Wheelers?” grinned Blaketon.
“Or a reunion outing of the Coldstream Guards Cycling Club, north-east division,” I grinned. “They’re all over six feet tall, aren’t they?”
Craddock stopped smiling. “That’s it!” he almost shouted. “Yes, we could do that. Advertise a reunion of cycling guardsmen, with a lunch at a country pub somewhere, like they would do. I think it would have to be at a pub, to give it an authentic air . . . on a Sunday, of course.”
“Is there such a club?” Blaketon looked serious as we enthused over this idea.
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 13