CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Once the scene was clear, I thanked Jim Atkinson for his help, climbed into my van and headed for home, providing via my radio an update of the situation for Alf Ventress at Ashfordly Police Station. At home, my first task was to discover the condition and identity of the driver; relatives would have to be informed and, once he was well enough, he would have to be interviewed for his version of the accident. And I would have to formally notify the owner of the damaged gatepost about details of the driver’s insurance. The compilation of a routine report about a road traffic accident involved a lot of careful and detailed preparatory work followed by a lot of office work. But that was my job.

  From my home, I rang Brantsford Hospital and asked for Casualty.

  “It’s PC Rhea from Aidensfield,” I announced, and then explained about the accident and its victim. “He was brought in earlier this morning. I’m ringing about his condition, and hopefully to get a name and address.”

  “He is still unconscious, Mr Rhea,” the ward sister told me. “Can you call back?”

  “Yes, of course. But did you search his clothes? I wondered if he carried any documents which would identify him? I checked but found nothing.”

  “No, we didn’t find anything either. He has a wallet with fifty pounds or so in it, but nothing to say who he is. No driving licence or anything. There’s a bag too, with some overnight things in it, but no name there either. You’ll be checking through his car registration, will you? Perhaps you’d let us know?”

  “It’s Saturday,” I said. “The taxation department will be closed until Monday, so I can’t check his car registration number.” If it was urgent, however, I could ask a police officer from Northallerton town patrol to let himself into the vehicle taxation department of County Hall from where he could obtain details of the registered owner. In practice, though, this procedure had to be used only in an emergency.

  I explained this to the nurse who said, “Well, to be honest, we don’t think his injuries are life threatening. He has been examined by a doctor; his lungs and chest are severely bruised but there is no serious damage, and his head wound comprises of lacerations, not a fractured skull. He is not severely injured, Mr Rhea, and could recover consciousness before too long.”

  “Well, that’s good news. Look, call me if things change; in the meantime, I will circulate the number among my colleagues in case anyone recognises it, and if things change and you think we need to trace relatives urgently, I’ll get someone to visit taxation.”

  There were no clear rules about what constituted an ‘emergency’ in such cases, but the employees of the taxation department were never very happy about policemen entering the place during their absence, thus we had to exercise some discretion about the frequency of these visits and the resultant searching of their records. I decided to wait to see if the casualty regained consciousness — and, of course, it was perfectly feasible that someone might start worrying about his non-arrival and ring us for information. For that reason, I passed details of the accident and the registration number of the car to our control room at force headquarters — just in case anxious relatives rang to ask if we knew anything of the red Hillman and its driver.

  It would be around 4.30 when I received a call from Brantsford Hospital to say that the car driver had recovered consciousness — but he couldn’t remember anything about the accident, and he had no idea who he was, where he’d come from or where he was heading. His medical condition, however, was very good — although injured in the crash, his injuries were not life threatening and he could be expected to leave hospital by the middle of next week. But he had no idea where he would go. I decided this was an emergency, and that a constable should visit the taxation department to provide me with the name of the owner of the red Hillman.

  Accordingly, I rang Northallerton town office and spoke to the duty sergeant, explaining the situation, and he agreed with me. He would send someone around straight away and would ring me back within the hour. He did — and I received a surprise.

  The owner of the red Hillman was Nigel Fossard, and his address was given as Kirkcross Hall, Kirkcross in Cumberland. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the young man had been on his way to meet Gertrude Fossard at Briggsby Lodge, and yet Miss Glanville had never mentioned his expected arrival — even if he’d almost knocked the gate down in his attempt to reach the house. The small amount of luggage in his car suggested his stay would be a short one, so I rang Miss Glanville at her home, but got no reply. She’d already gone to Briggsby Lodge, I guessed, and I decided to contact her there. I peered outside in the darkness; the snow had eased by now. In fact, none had fallen since lunchtime and so the roads were quite safe and a slight increase in temperature had removed any ice. Rather than ring Miss Fossard, therefore, I decided to make a personal visit.

  When I rang the huge bell at the door to Briggsby Lodge, a light was switched on above the porch and Miss Glanville emerged to greet me.

  “Oh, hello, Mr Rhea. Look, come in, please. It’s cold out there.”

  She led me into the hall with its giant grandfather clock, suits of armour and family portraits along the walls.

  “Miss Glanville,” I said. “You remember this morning’s accident, at the gate?”

  She smiled. “You’re going to say the damage is worse than expected! I did tell Miss Fossard, by the way.”

  “Well, yes, it was rather more serious than I had first realised, but that isn’t the reason for my visit. It’s the young man who was hurt: it’s possible he was on his way here, to see Miss Fossard.”

  “Really? But she wasn’t expecting anyone, she does not have visitors. What makes you think he was coming here?”

  “His name is Nigel Fossard,” I said, and provided the address, adding, “He’s recovered consciousness in hospital, but has lost his memory. Now, I haven’t interviewed him yet but I am assured he is not seriously hurt.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr Rhea. She has never mentioned any other person in her family, all the time I’ve known her. I’ve always thought she was the last of the line . . . but I didn’t pry, you understand.”

  I was rapidly trying to decide whether or not to tell Miss Fossard, when I heard a female voice call, “Who is it, Helen? At this time of night . . . what’s the matter?” A tall, rather gaunt lady materialised from the shadows at the distant end of the hall and pottered towards us with the aid of a walking stick.

  “Perhaps Mr Rhea would like to explain?” Helen Glanville invited.

  “Then don’t leave him standing there, take him into the library, there’s a fire and I would imagine he’d like something warm to drink!”

  I was agreeably surprised by the warmth of her reception and wondered if I had blundered by assuming the accident victim was a member of her family, but I knew I must explain my thoughts to her. Her idea of something warm to drink was a malt whisky and although I was on duty, I decided that one measure would not adversely affect my driving.

  “So, Constable.” She smiled sweetly. “You have news for me?”

  I began by recounting the collision with Waterloo Gate and briefly explained the extent of the damage, following with the hospital’s efforts, and mine, to identify the driver, albeit not giving his name at this stage. I did add, however, that he had apparently lost his memory.

  “It’s a bit embarrassing,” I went on. “Because I assumed he was coming here to see you, but Miss Glanville says you were not expecting anyone.”

  “And why should you have thought that, Constable? I do not get many visitors.”

  “His name is Fossard,” I told her. “Nigel Fossard,” and I added his address.

  She sat in stunned silence for a long time as I sipped from my glass, then she said, “Constable, I had no idea there were any Fossards left. You must take me to visit this young man.”

  “Now?” I suggested.

  “Yes, now. We may use your transport?”

  “It’s a small van,” I began.

  “I wouldn
’t care if it was a motorbike and sidecar,” she said. “Come, let’s get on with it!”

  And so, to my surprise, and to the astonishment of Miss Glanville, Miss Fossard donned a warm fur coat, boots and hat, and plonked herself in the somewhat cramped passenger seat of my tiny Minivan. During our drive to the hospital, a mere quarter of an hour, she explained she hadn’t been out of the house for years because there had been no reason to do so.

  Now, though, there was reason enough to break with that self-imposed routine. When we arrived, I explained to the ward sister what had happened and she said, “Yes, you can see him. He is conscious, but still has no recollection of the accident.”

  We were led to the bedside of a dark-haired young man who was dressed in hospital pyjamas and who lay with a huge bandage around his head and a couple of truly memorable black eyes. It looked as if he’d done fifteen rounds with the world heavyweight champion, Cassius Clay. He frowned at our approach, first staring at my uniform, and then at the fur-clad lady at my side.

  “He’s a Fossard!” she told me. “I’d know that chin anywhere . . . hello, young man. My name is Fossard. Gertrude Fossard from Briggsby. I think you must be a kinsman . . . now, we can’t have you lying here with no visitors and I want you to regain your memory. Now, which Fossard are you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t remember anything . . . I don’t know who I am or where I’m from or why I’m here like this . . .”

  “Then I shall make it my job to make sure you do remember,” she said. “We can’t have a Fossard losing his memory. Now, Constable, can you leave me with him for a while? Get yourself a cup of tea or something, then you can take me home.”

  * * *

  To cut short a long story, Nigel turned out to be a distant relative of Gertrude but one whose relationship had been lost or forgotten with the passage of time, family disasters, ancient feuds, long bouts of non-communication and other factors. In time, he did recall his personal details yet he never regained any memory of that accident — but he did visit Miss Fossard at Briggsby Lodge.

  Quite suddenly, the lady who thought she was the last of a long line of Fossards came to realise she was not alone in the world. From being a recluse with no one to think about, Gertrude now had a family.

  I learned he had not been travelling to visit her — he’d had no idea of her existence either. He had been en route to see his girlfriend who lived near Scarborough, but she had not raised the alarm because she wasn’t expecting him that weekend. He’d intended his visit to be a surprise.

  But a couple of years later, Gertrude was invited to their wedding, and then, a further two years later, she was invited to be godmother to their baby — Joan Gertrude, both family names of generations of Fossards.

  And all because of a patch of ice at Waterloo Gate.

  Chapter 2

  Report me and my cause aright.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564–1616

  During the 1960s, relations between the Press and the police were like two feuding sisters — they didn’t speak unless it was absolutely necessary and even when they did, there was some suspicion on both sides. The police often felt the Press would resort to sensationalism rather than honest reportage in order to sell newspapers, while the Press seemed to nurse a perpetual notion that the police were hiding something which, in their opinion, should be made public. In most cases, both were wrong. The Press, particularly local newspapers, did want to print good wholesome stories about police work and the police did not deliberately conceal matters of public interest. The root of the problem was that there was no formal police procedure for providing the Press with official newsworthy items.

  During that time, few, if any, police forces had an official Press officer to speak on their behalf, and because police regulations stipulated that officers must not pass information to the Press, radio or television, it meant that any news gleaned from the police about internal or official matters was often gathered by subterfuge or cunning rather than through open dialogue. This led to distortions of the truth but it must be said that the reluctance of the police to inform the Press about their work was rather short-sighted and it did create problems.

  A high percentage of police work directly involves the public, thus constructive reporting of aspects of it can improve relations between the people and their police service, and consequently build confidence between them. It is difficult to understand why this was not appreciated in the past. On the other hand, it must not be forgotten that a great deal of police work is of a necessarily confidential nature which means that the Press and the public cannot and should not be acquainted with everything undertaken by police officers. Some secrets must be maintained.

  The unfortunate situation was that quite often it was secretive or sensitive information that was hunted by reporters, found by various ruses and then splashed across the pages of the less savoury newspapers. Somewhere between total secrecy and absolute openness, there was room for a controlled flow of positive, sensible and useful news.

  When I was the constable at Aidensfield in the 1960s, chief constables throughout the country were beginning to realise that the Press could help the police in much of their work — community relations and crime prevention were just two examples. Things were changing if only very slowly and my first intimation of a more open relationship with the Press came with a telephone call from Sergeant Blaketon.

  “Rhea,” he announced one morning after asking if all was quiet on my beat, “you have been especially selected for a very important, high-profile and innovative duty. The chief constable in person has approved your selection for this task, so you’d better make sure you make a good job of it.”

  Wondering what I had been volunteered to do, I asked, “Well, I’ll do my best, Sergeant. So what am I to do?”

  “A reporter called Jane Cooper from the North Yorkshire Moors Group of Newspapers has asked the chief constable if she can accompany a rural beat officer for a full tour of duty. It will entail a whole day’s visit, Rhea, to see what we do and how we do it. Your name was one of those put forward and, after due consideration, the chief constable feels your beat is ideal for such a visit.”

  “I’m flattered, Sergeant!” I smiled.

  “I’d be very worried if I were you,” was his response. “You’ll carry an enormous responsibility that day, Rhea! The reporter will accompany you in your official vehicle throughout your tour of duty, then she will write up the day’s events which will appear in all the newspapers of that group. They include the Ashfordly Gazette, the Strensford Post, the Harrowby Times, the Brantsford Chronicle, the Eltering Herald . . . the lot, Rhea. Publicity throughout the whole of our region. And at some stage, a photographer will join you, so you’ll have to get your hair cut. Make sure your boots are polished and your trousers are pressed. We want the force to emerge with credit from this exercise. A lot depends on you and don’t forget that Ashfordly Section will be under the spotlight! You will be an ambassador for the entire police service, Rhea.”

  “I understand, Sergeant; so when do I do this?”

  “Next Tuesday. I’ve changed your duties for that day — you’ll perform a ten a.m. to six p.m. tour and will use the Ashfordly Section car. It looks smarter than a Minivan and I don’t think it would be wise to carry a pretty girl reporter on the back of a motorbike. So report here, to Ashfordly Police Station at ten a.m. to collect the car and your passenger. Show Miss Cooper how you spend your working day, Rhea, take her to meet the people, deal with things as they arise, put on a good show and throughout the event never forget you are representing not just Ashfordly Section, but the whole of the North Riding Constabulary — or even the entire nation’s police service!”

  “I understand, Sergeant,” I assured him once again and almost immediately wondered if I would be given an itinerary for this visit.

  That was not the idea behind the scheme, I was sure; the papers wanted to take an honest and unprepared look at the work of a village constable. The
truth was that when any operational police officer began a tour of duty he or she had no idea what was going to happen, consequently the preparation of a tightly timed itinerary seemed fraught with danger. The best-laid plans of mice, men and Sergeant Blaketon were likely to go astray and so I gave some thought to my own plans for that day. I favoured showing Miss Cooper a typical day’s duty at Aidensfield — but I could only do as I was told.

  “You’d better come in early that day,” Blaketon rounded off his instructions. “You’ll have to clean the car before you take it out.”

  On the appointed day, therefore, which was a Tuesday in mid-August, I arrived at Ashfordly Police Station at nine o’clock in my old uniform and spent an hour cleaning the car inside and out, then tidied myself and changed into my best outfit to await my guest. Sergeant Blaketon agreed that the station coffee fund could afford a mug of instant coffee for the reporter when she arrived but decided that the station mugs were too chipped and stained to be offered to a visitor. He obtained a smart china cup and saucer from a cupboard in his office — and followed with a matching milk jug and sugar basin. I think in it he kept these items of crockery for visits by the chief constable — normally, he used a mug as battered as ours. The official welcome having been prepared, he asked, “So what are your plans for the day, Rhea?”

  This did surprise me — I had felt sure he would have devised an itinerary but in fact, he was leaving it all to me. I mentally thanked him while wondering if it was really headquarters who had specified the conditions for my role — in other words, the chief constable wanted the reporter to see a rural beat constable doing what he normally did, without any obvious staged incidents or prearranged meetings. Who or whatever was behind this plan, I was pleased I was able to make my own arrangements.