“I shall place my target cycle there,” Craddock said. “Take a good look at it, PC Rhea, it is outside now. If no one else brings a large-framed special, this will be the one he’ll probably go for. I will leave it unlocked — either he’ll ride it like hell out of the car park to his truck, or he’ll lift it over the wall as previously discussed. Or, of course, he might steal any of the other bikes which takes his fancy.”
He went on to say that the road which ran along the side of the pub premises skirted the same trees in which I would be concealed and there were one or two inlet points, places where a small vehicle could pull into the trees and conceal itself from passing traffic. I had to familiarise myself with those, I was told — but I responded by saying I’d already examined the layout of the area and was familiar with the locale.
One constable, PC Harvey, was detailed to conceal himself deeper in the wood so that he could observe the lane and all its likely parking places and then, if the maroon pick-up arrived, alert the rest of us by field radio and immobilise the vehicle by taking off the plug leads.
“The white van parked outside is our communications centre,” he explained. “PC Grayson, the man at the back wearing the woolly hat with a pompom, will remain in that vehicle, in the rear, out of sight. He will park it so that he has a wide view of the car park from those rear windows — they’re darkened so that no one can peer inside, but he can look out. Clearly, not all of us will be equipped with radio — the sets would be rather conspicuous, but some of us will have them. PC Harvey will have one — he might be the first to observe the arrival of chummy in which case he will alert the rest of us. I’ll explain how that will be achieved when we assemble at the Moon and Compass.”
It took an hour to fully brief everyone and I was impressed by Craddock’s attention to detail, each constable being given a very comprehensive written order which contained all the elements of the exercise. Afterwards, he asked for comments or questions. There were one or two queries, out of which it emerged that most of us would have to be able to exercise our discretion in the action we took, because plans of this kind invariably failed to cater for some unknown distraction or occurrence. I made the point of describing the maroon van in great detail, asking that everyone made sure they recorded the registration number of any such vehicle, or indeed any suspicious vehicle, seen in the vicinity.
And then I said, “I think chummy might be a cycle dealer, Sergeant.” I addressed my remarks to Craddock. “I mean, he might run a cycle shop.”
“And what makes you think that, PC Rhea?” he asked.
“First, he always strikes on Sundays, when the shops are closed . . .”
“Cycle clubs go out on Sunday, PC Rhea,” smiled Craddock.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “But some do go out on Saturdays, and some, like those of large concerns, have midweek outings. Furthermore, the big department store in Middlesbrough, for example, has its own cycling club and they go out on Wednesdays, which is half-day closing.”
“And you are saying there’ve been no weekday crimes in this series?”
“It looks very much like that, with Sundays only for these special bikes. Every crime we know about has been committed on a Sunday — but the maroon van has also been seen on Wednesdays,” I added. “Chummy delivered his waste tin lids to Tin Lid Talbot on a Wednesday, and also delivered his machine to that Eltering cycle shop on a Wednesday. My witness saw the van on a Wednesday, and chummy called at the Eltering shop every fourth Wednesday. For all those reasons, I think Wednesday might be his day off, half-day closing in other words.”
“You could be right. OK, lads. Preliminary briefing’s over. It’s time to visit the Moon and Compass — and I’ve managed to wheedle some cash out of admin, for each of you to have a pint and a sandwich, seeing that you have to be on duty over a meal break. But don’t overdo things — I don’t want you to regard this as a party, it’s official police duty. Now, I’ve arranged for unmarked transport to take us to Craydale, and some will go in the communications van — including me and my bike! Right, when we arrive, we should assemble in the corner of the car park near the communications van, and we should look like tourists or day-trippers or something similar; you’ll be further briefed at that stage, but we must make it appear as if we’re discussing important things, such as where to go next and who buys the drinks. But most important, we must not look like policemen . . .”
And so began Exercise Rat-Trap.
Half an hour later, I was lurking behind the stout trunk of a beech tree in the wood overlooking the car park of the Moon and Compass. From my lofty vantage point, I could also see towards the lane which skirted this wood, and by moving slightly could obtain a good view of the small areas which might be used to park a small vehicle. By moving just a fraction, I could also see PC Harvey — I waved to acknowledge his presence and he waved in return; sadly, we had no direct radio contact with one another and he was well beyond whispering distance. Due to the rising landscape of the wood, however, it was impossible for one constable to keep both the pub car park and the lane under observation. That required two people and so, having established that visual contact, I returned to my own viewpoint.
It was just noon, opening time for a Sunday, and already the car park was busy. A few customers had arrived early; some had hung around the car park in small groups and others sat in their cars awaiting the opening of the doors and so our anonymous white van and our scruffy presence around it during briefing did not look out of place. I felt we mingled well with the awaiting customers. Five minutes later, though, we had all dispersed to our points, the lucky ones inside the premises and the others hidden around the exterior. The Five Lamps Cycling Club had also arrived.
Thirty-five of its members had turned up and they were in the bar, noisily enjoying their pints while awaiting mammoth helpings of Yorkshire puddings, roast beef and vegetables, followed by rice pudding and, if required, a cup of tea while their fine machines stood in a line against the car park wall. I noticed several large-framed racing cycles among them.
They’d be there for at least an hour or possibly two. Sergeant Craddock’s own bike was strategically positioned close to one end of the long line as our undercover officers operated inside the pub, keeping their eyes and ears open for gossip, and their mouths open for pints of cool beer. I must admit I was somewhat nervous about this exercise because so much could go wrong. The fact it was happening at all was largely due to my researches and opinions, although it eased my conscience somewhat to know that Sergeant Craddock had given me his full support — but it was worrying to think that it might all come to nothing.
These efforts to tempt our fly into the web we had created was not bound to be a success — he might not turn up, or he might come and be alerted to our presence, or he might even succeed in spite of our presence. The latter was too dreadful to contemplate, but as I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time, I began to think he had not taken our bait. From what I had learned from studying his previous crimes, he always struck very soon after the arrival of his target cycle; he committed his thefts long before the owners of the cycles were likely to discover their loss and thus allowed himself adequate time to get clear of the scene before the alarm was raised.
I checked the time again — it was now 12.20 p.m. and the pub had been open for twenty minutes. A selection of desirable cycles was presented in a row, as if on show for a customer, and their owners usefully out of sight.
And then PC Harvey spotted a suspicious vehicle.
“Rat-Trap Two to Control,” he whispered. “A light-grey pick-up truck has just arrived. Registered number EUB 44 C. Single male driver, young looking, dark hair. It is parked in one of the earmarked wooded areas. The driver has not yet emerged. Over.”
In his little white van, PC Grayson received the message; Sergeant Craddock was sitting in the front seat of the van ostensibly reading the News of the World and he overheard it and said, “Tell Harvey to keep it under observation; it mi
ght be chummy in a different truck. It’s grey, not maroon, but get him to let us know the minute the driver leaves the vehicle.” And so, as I discovered later, that message was relayed to Harvey in the wood.
It was during those few moments that I decided to climb higher into the wood to make contact with PC Harvey. I wanted to see if he had noticed anything; by changing my position just a fraction, I could also keep the car park under observation. But, as I gained the view I sought, I saw him speaking on the radio and then saw the shape of a stationary grey van. It was a small vehicle, a pick-up with its rear section covered by what appeared to be a wooden structure, and it had no rear doors.
Had it been maroon, I would have ensured that an immediate alert was passed to all our observers but because it was grey . . . then I thought of all those tin lids with grey paint on them — and it was the same grey I’d noticed on those tin lids stored by Tin Lid Talbot!
This was our man!
I realised he’d come in the same vehicle but it was now a pleasing grey, having been resprayed. I had no radio. I could not reveal my presence in the wood to alert our men. I could not abandon my post, because if I did, he was bound to arrive during my absence, however temporary. Not realising that PC Harvey had alerted the others, I knew I had to warn our team without alerting the villain. Taking a quick look at the car park, I flitted between the trees, feeling rather like Robin Hood hiding from the Sheriff of Nottingham, and when I was close enough, hissed at PC Harvey. He heard me; as he glanced in my direction, I placed my finger on my lips to indicate silence and beckoned him towards me. Happily, he responded. Furtively we crept through the leafy wood until we could talk behind a clump of rhododendrons.
“That van,” I whispered. “I think it’s him, I think it’s the maroon one resprayed.”
“Control knows it’s here,” he said. “I’ve alerted them. I’ve got to maintain obs.”
“Great. Has chummy got out?”
“Not yet . . . he’s a young man, dark hair . . .”
“It all fits; everything says it’s our man,” I said. “Look, I’m going back to my post, the minute he gets out of that van . . .”
“There, look. He’s moving now . . . a tall, thin fellow, late twenties, early thirties . . .”
“Call them,” I snapped with my heart pounding. “Tell them Exercise Rat-Trap is about to be sprung!”
Chapter 10
And as I hurried back to my observation point overlooking the car park, PC Harvey relayed my suspicions to our waiting team then prepared to immobilise the little grey pick-up.
In keeping watch for the cycle thief, our instructions were, if possible, to wait until he had placed the stolen machine in the rear of his van and covered it with the tarpaulin. Those joint acts — the taking and the concealing — would prove that he intended to permanently deprive the owner of the machine. These were essential ingredients in the definition of larceny and vital if we were to secure a conviction. If we swooped too early, perhaps while he was wheeling the bike away or even riding it out of the car park, he might claim he’d selected the wrong bike in error or was just borrowing it to rush to a telephone kiosk to make an urgent call, thinking the owner would not object, or he might produce some other plausible story which a court might believe and which might imply he was merely borrowing the cycle rather than stealing it. Having considered those aspects, the fact we had immobilised his vehicle would assist greatly in catching him red-handed — further proof of his guilt.
As I sheltered behind my stout-trunked beech tree, I felt twinges of nervousness, wondering whether I could compel myself to stand still while watching him steal a bike. Having seen the present set-up, I felt sure he would ride it out of the car park and must admit I wondered whether he might still evade us by skilful riding or sheer cunning. But orders were orders. As I waited with heart beating, I began to think he would adopt that route rather than lift the bike over the wall.
I felt sure he’d ride the stolen machine out of the car park because all the cyclists were inside the pub, unable to keep an eye on their machines — and unaware that a thief was about. I doubted if the people sitting at the tables outside the pub would be bothered about the bikes — they were day-trippers who’d come by car and although we had a constable concealed among them, none would pay any attention if the bike was ridden past. The constable’s task, of course, was to observe and if the cyclist passed him, to alert the rest of us — he had not to effect or attempt an arrest.
As I waited during those tense few moments, I wondered if the thief had come to reconnoitre the scene prior to committing his crime. He might have come on the previous Wednesday. Or perhaps he’d arrived early today for the same reason. But the time for speculation was over because I saw him walking into the car park.
He had walked, unseen by me, along the lane beside the wood, down the side of the pub, round to the front door and then he’d gone inside the premises. Once inside he would have established that the cyclists were all inside too, all busy with their meal and engaged in light-hearted banter, too preoccupied to worry about their machines. In other words, everything was in place for him to steal the cycle of his choice.
As I watched, the car park appeared to be deserted, apart from our suspect. There was no one to be seen, although I knew that Sergeant Craddock and PC Grayson were concealed in the little white van. They would have seen him, too, and I knew they would have radioed PC Harvey at his remote point with the grey pick-up while keeping him under observation.
Every policeman was on the alert as chummy emerged from the rear door of the Moon and Compass. He walked very quickly and I noted he was a tall, well-built and rather muscular man. He was wearing traditional cycling gear comprising shorts and a T-shirt but with black sandshoes on his feet rather than cycling shoes. I did not recognise him, but with his mass of dark hair, he would be prominent in a crowd. With remarkable speed, he reached the row of parked cycles and selected one — but it was not the red machine owned by Sergeant Craddock. He chose a handsome blue model and in a trice was in the saddle and racing from the car park with all the skill of a very experienced rider.
Hurrying to my vantage point in the wood, I waved at PC Harvey, but he was already responding to his radio, being told his customer would arrive within a few moments. I reckoned the thief had about 200 yards to cover on the road, a matter of a minute or so for a skilled racing cyclist. I began to move through the trees, heading towards the grey van parked in the lane beyond and I saw PC Harvey had moved too; he was adopting a more suitable position for his ambush. We must not let ourselves be seen, not at this crucial stage and so we both made sure we were concealed from the lane. Then chummy appeared, thrusting hard on the pedals and driving the beautiful bike forward in bursts of fierce speed. Both PC Harvey and I watched as the man raced towards the rear of his van; at the last moment, he dismounted and with a skilful flourish hoisted the bike into the air and thrust it into the rear of his vehicle. I heard it clatter to the metal floor, and then saw the thief haul over the tarpaulin which had been laid aside in preparation.
Then he went to the driver’s door, moving momentarily out of our vision. It was time to make our move. I was happy that we had immobilised the pick-up truck and smiled in satisfaction as chummy tried to start the engine; by the time he realised the pick-up would not start without some kind of assistance beneath the bonnet, both PC Harvey and I arrived at the pick-up.
“He’s yours, Nick,” said Harvey, and so I went to the driver’s door while he approached the passenger side. We’d got him! The driver’s door opened and I was waiting.
“Police,” I said, as I seized the door to prevent it opening further. “You’re under arrest for larceny of the pedal cycle which is in the rear of this vehicle. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say will be taken down in writing and given in evidence.”
“Don’t be bloody stupid!” he growled, trying to emerge from the vehicle. “It’s my bike, it’s got a punct
ure and the front wheel is buckled. I’ve come to collect it.”
“You can tell that to the court,” I said, reaching for the handcuffs I had brought with me. “Come on, out you get, you’re surrounded.”
And as I spoke, Sergeant Blaketon and Sergeant Craddock arrived, along with our other officers.
“Good work,” said Craddock, who then smiled cruelly into the eyes of our captive and said, “You have a cycle of mine somewhere, young man, and I am very keen to know what you’ve done with it — and I’m not talking about the bike in your truck!”
“I’m saying nothing.” And our prisoner did not say another word as he was placed in one of our vehicles and taken to Ashfordly Police Station. I took charge of the grey pick-up and followed the prisoner to Ashfordly.
The postscript to this tale, which I shall record slightly out of sequence, is that the thief was a man from South Bank, an industrial sprawl to the south of Middlesbrough on the River Tees. He owned a small-time cycle shop and supplemented his income by stealing smart racing cycles and disguising them in premises to the rear of his shop. Because he was a tall man, he’d realised there was a modest but steady demand for expensive machines tailored especially for tall people. He stole selected bikes, refitted them with stolen spares taken from other stolen bikes, removed or obliterated any frame numbers, allocated new ones, resprayed the frames and sold the well-disguised machines through a network of shops and other dealers, all for cash. It was a comparatively simple scheme undertaken by a clever and resourceful thief, but as a result of Exercise Rat-Trap, we traced some of the recently stolen bikes. We found a few in the premises behind the shop, in varying states of refurbishment and repainting, and others which were awaiting customers in shops around the region. Most of those he had stolen weren’t recovered and Sergeant Craddock’s missing cycle was one we never traced. The thief, a man called Stan Piper, with no previous criminal record, was later sentenced to six months imprisonment. It was a fairly stiff sentence for a first offender but the court imposed it after considering a range of offences we were able to prove against him.
CONSTABLE UNDER THE GOOSEBERRY BUSH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 21) Page 18