“I might stand a chance then!” I chuckled.
“You’re having a go, are you?” he asked with clear interest.
“I might,” I said. “But my berries are very small compared with those I’ve seen around Aidensfield lately.”
“You’ve seen some big ones, have you?” and I noted a hint of concern in his voice. I decided I would play along with that concern.
“Well, I’m sworn to secrecy, Joseph, but I’m amazed at some I’ve seen, and never thought mine stood a chance.”
“I think you’re pulling my leg!” he grinned suddenly, recognising my tactics as a mirror of his own deviousness.
“Just like you and all the other berry growers!” I laughed. “If I believed everything they say, you’d think there are no gooseberries bigger than peas. Anyway, it’s good to see you out and about, and looking a bit better.”
“I’m a lot better than I was,” he confirmed. “Now, is Father Simon in?”
“Yes, I’ve just left him,” I said. “He’s in the vestry.”
“I’ve a bit of Guild business to sort out with him,” said Joseph. “The way I see it, the Guild has the power, if it has sufficient funds, to lend or give money to the church for urgent repairs or other matters that arise from time to time. That’s what it says in the rules, Mr Rhea.”
“You’re thinking of donating something to the church, are you?”
“Aye, it would be a nice gesture. It’s because the Guild’s not had to stand the cost of a funeral for years. It means there’s a fair amount of cash in its bank account just doing nowt. I reckon the Guild should do summat for St Aidan’s, like helping to pay for that problem with the roof and yon leaking window.”
“I had no idea the Guild could do that!” I was surprised and wondered how Guild members would react if their funds sent Joseph to Lourdes . . .
“Oh, aye. It’s not only funerals and saying prayers and singing. So, in my way of thinking, if t’Guild would cough up a few quid for them outstanding maintenance jobs, it would save all them folks rushing about raising money with their whist drives and things.”
“I think that’s something you should discuss with Father Simon,” I said, hurrying away and thus swiftly passing the responsibility to the priest. Trust Joseph to come up with that idea!
* * *
As Mary tended our prize-competition berry trees, I spent a lot of time analysing the Stolen Cycle Supplements which continued to arrive from distant police forces. Although I noticed the theft of a superior racing machine once every week in the north-east, I did not detect any identifiable pattern in the crimes. I had examined maps of the area, I had analysed dates of the crimes in relation to other events and I had even checked the colours of the stolen bikes to see if the thief stole them in any kind of sequence. But apart from all the stolen machines being gents’ high-quality racing bikes with 24” frames, there was no other identifiable theme or pattern to the crimes.
I telephoned Cumbria Police, as well as the East Riding of Yorkshire Constabulary, York City Police and Newcastle-on-Tyne City, but with no luck. York, of course, is a city with more bikes than dogs, but their records did not show thefts of the kind that interested me.
It seemed, therefore, that the thefts were chiefly confined to rural areas in Northumberland, County Durham and North Riding of Yorkshire with an occasional foray into West Riding. In checking the records, I tried to determine whether our thief had entered North Riding during a particular time, but after comparing my three crimes with the others, it did not seem that he invaded our area once a quarter or on the first Sunday of the month or at any other identifiable time. Try as I might, I could not discern any kind of pattern in his crimes.
It was while thinking about those thefts that I was summoned to a meeting at Ashfordly Police Station. Sergeants Blaketon and Craddock would be present, but no one else. It seemed that Craddock had produced a master plan for tempting our cycle thief into a trap and he now wanted to implement it. Once it had been aired in this meeting, it would be put into operation and hopefully, we could all rejoice with the capture of a clever and persistent thief. Fortified with mugs of grey tea produced by Alf Ventress, we sat around Blaketon’s desk as Craddock outlined his scheme. He called it Exercise Rat-Trap, a good name, I felt, realising that racing bikes were fitted with rat-trap pedals and we were attempting to trap a real rat.
“The first objective was to determine a suitable site to put our exercise into operation,” Craddock began. “Knowing the cycling scene as I do, and being familiar with those who venture into the countryside for relaxation with their cycling friends, and knowing we required a venue within this section, I would like to suggest Craydale. It seems perfect for Exercise Rat-Trap.”
He paused for a moment, extracting a map from his briefcase and spreading it across the desk. He stabbed it with a finger to identify Craydale.
“It is on your beat, PC Rhea,” he reminded me.
“Yes, Sergeant, I know it well. It’s a very small village with little more than a shop and a pub, the Moon and Compass.”
“Right,” he said. “It’s the pub that we’re interested in. Now, I have established that the Five Lamps Cycling Club from Thornaby-on-Tees has arranged for a club outing across the moors to Craydale in three weeks’ time. That’s Sunday, the nineteenth of July. There are some fifty members and the club has a good attendance record so most are expected to turn up. They will assemble beneath the Five Lamps — that’s the name of a street intersection in the town where the founder-members first gathered for their outings, and where there is a lamp standard with five lights, you understand . . .”
“I was stationed at Thornaby, years ago,” said Blaketon. “Five Lamps was one of our rendezvous points.”
“But the bulbs still get vandalised, Oscar!” grinned Craddock.
“Not when I was patrolling the town, they didn’t!” snapped Blaketon.
“I’m sure they did not! Well, the club departs at ten o’clock for lunch at the Moon and Compass. It’s a routine Sunday outing, gentlemen, but I happen to know that several members are very tall and I can guarantee there will be some fine machines there, big bikes with twenty-four inch frames. And I’ll advertise a meeting of the north-eastern section of the Coldstream Guards Cycling Club at the same place that day.”
“That’s just what we need. Now, the Moon and Compass,” interrupted Blaketon. “Does it offer suitable observation points for us? Rhea, you should be familiar with that pub so that’s a question for you.”
“It does, Sergeant,” I confirmed. “There is a large car park at the rear, with an entrance beside the pub, on the left. There’s no room to park cycles at the front of the pub because all the available space is taken up with outdoor tables and chairs during the summer. The pub’s always busy on a Sunday and visitors’ bikes are parked in the car park. I’ve seen them there, Sergeant, on many previous occasions, lined up against the rear wall of the car park.”
“But can we keep an eye on them?” Blaketon pressed. “Secretly, I mean, without being observed ourselves.”
“Yes, we can,” I said. “There’s lots of room in the car park, but it depends how many officers we have on the day.”
“And that depends how many we need to ensure full coverage,” returned Blaketon.
I decided to draw a rough sketch outline of the pub, marking its rear and front entrances, windows and car park, along with the other features which surrounded it. At the rear, behind the car park, was a patch of fairly dense deciduous woodland with a country lane running past it; that lane passed the gable end of the inn and joined the road which fronted it. Thus one road ran in front of the pub, with a junction to its right when facing it; the other road ran to the right of the pub, passing the gable end, then some outbuildings and finally the woodland.
To the left, when facing the pub, was the car park entrance, and that was bordered by a private house with a garden; that garden sported a dividing barrier of tall conifers through which nothing
could be seen.
“So,” I pointed to my sketch. “One way of stealing a bike would be to leap over the wall from the wood, jump onto the bike and ride it out of the entrance. The other method would be to enter the pub, mingle with the drinkers and people having bar snacks and wait for an opportunity to commit the crime. That would have to be when the bike owner’s attention was diverted or when he was away from his machine. Then chummy could ride the bike out of the car park, but he’d have to act very quickly.”
“So the only way to steal the bike is either to take it out of the car park entrance, or lift it over the back wall and into the wood, then carry it to a waiting vehicle, a vehicle parked in that lane?” confirmed Blaketon.
“I can’t see any other alternative unless the bikes are left at the front of the pub, which they won’t be,” Craddock told us. “I’ve been to visit the scene and agree with PC Rhea. Bearing in mind the way chummy has stolen other machines, both those methods are within his capability.”
“That narrows things down a bit,” grunted Blaketon.
“Yes indeed. And that helps us make our plans,” said Craddock. “Now, one very important factor is that the public rooms — the bar and the lounge that is — do not overlook the car park, nor, of course, do those tables arranged at the front. Even the toilets are at the side of the building but in any case their windows are frosted.”
“So are we saying his most likely method is to lift it over the back wall and place it in his van?” Blaketon frowned.
“I think that is the only secure way open to him; it’s a bit risky riding a stolen bike out of the car park and onto the road directly in front of the pub and its customers, even if he has a van waiting nearby,” said Craddock. “I think he’ll park his van along the lane, in the shelter of that wood.”
“So we need observers in the car park, in the wood, on the tables outside and in both the bar and the lounge,” I suggested. “And I would think we need a second man hiding in the wood, to observe his approach along that lane and to immobilise his van while he’s busy nicking the bike.”
“Good thinking, PC Rhea!” beamed Craddock. “Yes, we do indeed need to immobilise his van to prevent his escape . . . so how many observers are we talking about?”
I did a quick mental recce of the pub and said, “Two in the car park, two in the wood, one in the bar, one in the lounge and one outside on the tables. Seven at least, Sergeant.”
“Seven? To catch a cycle thief?” burst Blaketon.
“I agree,” said Craddock. “This man has been so persistent, it’s time he was halted. We must do all in our power to arrest him — even if it requires a small army!”
“I hope we’re not going to accrue overtime on this!” grumbled Blaketon.
“The constables will have to be in civilian clothes and fully briefed as to their roles, even if we do have to pay overtime, Oscar,” grinned Craddock. “We must not have any signs of a police presence that day, no police vehicles on show anywhere near the village or the pub.”
“And you’ll be there?” asked Blaketon of Craddock.
“I shall indeed. I will be in cycling gear, and on my own brand-new racing bike. I am prepared to use it as additional bait — how’s that for a show of confidence in our men?” He produced a quick fleeting smile, almost cheeky in fact.
“How can we be sure he will take the bait?” was Blaketon’s next question.
“We can’t be a hundred per cent sure, but I think our advert about the reunion of the Coldstream club will tempt him,” said Craddock. “It will announce departure from their homes in time to meet at the top of Clay Bank in Bilsdale at eleven, for a reunion at the Moon and Compass at noon on the same Sunday as the meeting of the Thornaby club. I shall place a telephone number in the advert too. That’s in case anyone does ring up asking for information about the outing and even suggesting we do not all descend on the same pub. All callers will be told the guards club consists only of five members in widely different parts of the area and that five extra cyclists at the Moon and Compass will not lead to overcrowding. Besides, it is not uncommon for two or three smaller clubs to meet at the same place. It adds to the social atmosphere of the occasion.”
“And you reckon the thought of guardsmen’s big bikes will be enough to tempt him? I might argue the notion would scare him off. He might not want to risk being tackled by one of Her Majesty’s finest as he’s making off with his property.” I could see that Sergeant Blaketon had some reservations about this scheme.
“On the other hand,” smiled Craddock, “he might see it as a challenge he can’t resist . . . like stealing from a policeman! Not that he knew my bike was owned by a police officer when he took it.”
“Perhaps he did?” grinned Blaketon.
“In which case he is more likely to turn up at the Moon and Compass,” countered Craddock. “And Exercise Rat-Trap will be ready for him.”
“OK. I’ll arrange for seven officers to be on duty that Sunday,” agreed Blaketon. “In civvies and looking like cyclists or day-trippers.”
“We’ll need to have radio contact. I can arrange for a CID undercover van with darkened rear windows to be stationed in the car park, fully equipped with radio. The person in there can observe the cycles the whole time, and alert the other members of the team if chummy removes one.”
“All observers can be allocated personal radio sets, can they?” I asked.
“We have a field telephone we can use. I will make the necessary arrangements for all that,” confirmed Craddock. “If there is one difficulty, it will be identifying the thief from all the other cyclists, particularly if he is wearing cycling clothes.”
“He’ll be the one operating alone,” I said. “He’ll be the one who is not in the pub while everyone else is, the one who pops out to the loo and never goes back. We do know he’s around thirty, rather tall and with dark hair. We’ll know him!”
“Let’s hope so. It would be a disaster if he got away with a bike from right under our very noses! So, Oscar, can we have your volunteers parade here, at Ashfordly Police Station, at ten o’clock that Sunday for a briefing by me?”
“It’s as good as done,” said Blaketon, still not sounding very enthusiastic about this scheme.
“And make sure they’ve all got a description of that maroon pick-up. And PC Rhea should be one of the group.”
“Right,” said Blaketon.
And so we began our determined effort to catch the phantom cycle thief.
Chapter 9
The sub-committee of the St Aidan’s Guild of Aidensfield had, in its wisdom, decided to inform Joseph in advance about his forthcoming trip to Lourdes. The necessary funds had been raised, his place had been confirmed in good time and, in the belief they were acting compassionately, members of the sub-committee felt he should be allowed time to become accustomed to the idea. After all, this was his first trip abroad and they realised that such an expedition was not a simple matter for a chap in his mid-seventies.
There was some concern that a long outing to foreign parts might aggravate his condition, so, acting on the advice of Dr McGee, they had to think very carefully about their actions. Even though Joseph had worked on the railways with the availability of concessionary tickets, they all knew he’d never been further south than York; consequently, a visit to a destination where no one had heard of Aidensfield could present serious worries for Joseph and his family. Then there was the practical aspect — as one lady member pointed out, Mabel would want time to prepare things like his newly pressed clothes, clean underwear and shirts, several changes of collars, a few changes of socks and new soles on his shoes in case he spent a lot of time kneeling. He might even want to take a camera with him which meant he’d have to buy one.
Ten days before Joseph was due to board the coach, therefore, he and Mabel were invited to a dinner party at the home of Michael Bannister. Michael, a solicitor, and his wife, Alison, lived in a beautiful double-fronted house at the west end of Aidensfield; Michael
had been chairman of the sub-committee which had raised funds for Joseph’s trip.
Having guests to dinner was a regular facet of the Bannisters’ social life and on this occasion the party comprised of Joseph and Mabel, Father Simon and the four members of the sub-committee, plus the Bannisters. Joseph and Mabel were somewhat flummoxed by the invitation to such a posh establishment and wondered if there’d been some kind of mistake, but once they realised the invitation was truly for them, Mabel began wondering which knife and fork to use, and Joseph asked whether he should tuck his serviette into his collar or his waistband. And there might be food with all kinds of foreign names . . . and wine . . . and funny bits of food called horses’ doovers which you had to eat standing up before the meal. In houses like that, they called sherry aperitif which Joseph had thought was a set of dentures. Apart from anything else, Joseph’s appetite had not returned to its former Yorkshire trencherman level but he hoped he would cope with whatever was placed before him. It was a harrowing time, waiting for that Wednesday evening, and in the minds of Joseph and Mabel, the whole affair would be like treading on broken glass. They were not really looking forward to it.
In preparation, Joseph had a bath on the Tuesday night preceding the dinner, his first for a month or so, and on the Wednesday he dressed in his funeral-going suit, the one he also used for weddings and the annual gooseberry society dinner. He complemented his suit with a smart white shirt, dark tie and cufflinks he’d inherited from his father. Some might have said the suit looked like a sack on a scarecrow due to his loss of weight, but Mabel thought it wise not to comment on his haunted appearance. It was made worse by the darkness of his suit because that made his face look even paler than usual. However, he plastered his hair to his head with hair-cream and made sure he shaved off all his surplus whiskers, then packed his pipe, tobacco and matches into his waistcoat pocket and waited for Mabel. She put on a smart flowered dress, the sort she would have worn for official do’s if she’d accepted that invitation to be president of the WI, and she found a hat she’d last worn at her niece’s wedding eight years ago.
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 16