Just the Job, Lad

by Mike Pannett

  ‘That’s all received, Mike.’

  I surveyed the scene once more. Just now it all looked remarkably calm. Were it not for the placards they might have been a group of hikers waiting for the train home. Then Brian came back on.

  ‘Mike, we’ve had a phone call. There’s another group of demonstrators further up the line. On horseback, some of them.’

  ‘On horseback, you say?’ I saw Fordy raise his eyebrows. ‘Great. Where are they? How far out?’

  ‘Farwath. It’s five miles up the line from you, about two miles south of Levisham. There’s a track crossing there and they’re right down by the line.’

  ‘All received. I take it the train’s still on time?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve got about fifteen minutes till it’s due with you.’

  ‘Right, Fordy. Jump in your car and get yourself over there sharpish. Let me know what the score is.’

  ‘Where exactly is it?’

  ‘It’s a little road crossing at Farwath, couple of miles south of Levisham station. I don’t like the sound of this. Lady C!’ I shouted. ‘Where’s Lady C?’

  She was further down the platform now, waiting for the train. ‘Look,’ I said when I caught up with her, ‘there’s another lot turned up at—’ But Brian was back on the radio. ‘They’ve got a pack of hounds with them,’ he said.

  ‘Listen, Lady C, this could get serious. There’s a load of people, including horsemen, turned up at Farwath. They’re down by the track, with hounds. Now, come on, who’s organising this thing? ’Cos I need to speak with him – or her.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I heard about this by email. Maybe you should get hold of George.’

  ‘George who?’ My worry at the moment was that there was no shape to things. If people started acting on impulse, with a train involved, as well as horses and dogs, there could be a very nasty incident. Somebody needed to take charge.

  Lady C gave me the guy’s name. I recognised it immediately. He was a prominent landowner and huntsman, a pretty high-profile figure locally. ‘Well, where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve not seen him yet. He may be up the line somewhere.’

  ‘Has he got a mobile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She read out his number and I dialled it. Nothing. He’d either switched it off or had no signal.

  A member of the station staff was standing near me, looking at his watch. ‘Have you got any contact with the train?’ I asked.

  ‘Not directly, officer. Just via the signalman. It’s due in shortly though.’

  ‘1015 receiving?’ Ed’s voice crackled over the radio.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Five minutes Mike, with the big van.’

  ‘Great stuff,’ I said. At least we’d have somewhere to put any prisoners should we start making arrests. Moments later the Scarborough dog unit called in to say that he was ten minutes away. With him and Ed, that boosted our manpower by about seventy per cent. Still not ideal, but I was feeling a bit more hopeful.

  ‘1015, active message.’ Fordy sounded worried.

  ‘Go ahead, Gary.’

  ‘Right, I’ve got vision of the track and there are a number of huntsmen and a pack of hounds in the fields next to it. There are also people on foot, and a couple more horsemen right by the side of the track. Red-jacket types. I can also see a member of what looks like the press taking photographs.’

  Before I could answer control were straight in. ‘Yeah, 1015. We’ve monitored that and I can also confirm we’ve now had a number of phone calls from people actually on the train stating they have people on horseback galloping alongside.’

  Christ, I thought, this is more Hollywood than North Yorkshire. ‘Gary, any sign of the train?’

  ‘Yeah, just coming into sight. You’re not going to like this, Mike. The train’s approaching and I’ve got what looks like a female now lying across the track. There’s no way I can get down to her in time.’

  ‘That’s received, keep the commentary going.’

  ‘Yeah, the train’s blowing its whistle, but it doesn’t look like it’s slowing down.’

  Why were they trying to stop the train? Were they planning to ambush it? To board it and seek out Mr Quinn? And the woman on the line – she surely wasn’t going to stay there, was she? I was just about to redirect Ed and the dog van to Farwath when Fordy was back on the radio.

  ‘Train approaching female. Stand by . . . yeah, she’s up on her feet and off the track . . . she’s joined by a number of people with placards. Stand by . . . train continuing and passing them now. Should be with you in just a few minutes.’

  ‘That’s all received. Good job, Gary. Can you make your way back to the station?’

  If they were that organised, and rash enough to try and ambush the train down the line, I had serious concerns now about what might be in store for us at the station. I didn’t have much time and I didn’t have a lot of options.

  There was a wooden stool over by the tea room. I grabbed it, stood on it, and clapped my hands together. ‘Your attention please, ladies and gentlemen. The train will be here shortly. Please do not throw anything. If anybody throws anything they will – I repeat, they will – be arrested. So let’s not do anything daft, please.’

  My address was met with a few cheers and a ripple of applause. There’s a first, I said to myself. Applauded for threatening to arrest people. Bizarre.

  We could hear the train now, and then quite suddenly it came into view, round the bend and under the footbridge, a string of chocolate-brown Pullman cars pulled by a shiny black steam locomotive, the Lord of the Isles. The crowd was suddenly swollen as more protesters came in from outside the station and the tea room emptied, packing the platform. A few trainspotters and railway enthusiasts, who’d been standing at the far end with their cameras and recorders poised, looked on in bemusement as the protesters started up with their slogans. Chants of ‘Quinn out! Quinn out! Quinn out!’ rose to a crescendo until they were drowned out by the hiss of steam and the squealing of brake-shoes against the huge iron drive-wheels. In among the crowd was a bewildered gaggle of passengers waiting to board the train for the return trip to Whitby.

  Suddenly Ed was by my side. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ I said. ‘You got the van?’

  ‘Outside, bud.’

  I turned to Brenda. ‘You two just back me up here, will you? I’m going to protect this man Quinn.’ I pulled my woolly hat down. ‘If any eggs or flour are thrown I’ll make sure they hit me, not him.’

  ‘What carriage is he in?’

  ‘God knows. If I stay towards this end, you walk down the train. Just keep your eyes open.’

  ‘Mike, what does this guy look like?’ Ed asked.

  ‘God knows, I’ve never met him.’

  Brenda looked at me questioningly. ‘Like an MP,’ I said, ‘like an MP.’

  I was now speaking into my radio mike, keeping control in the picture. ‘Train arriving, train arriving right now.’

  Instinctively everyone drew back a step or two as the engine cast its shadow over us and steam gushed from the cylinders. Then, much to the surprise of the passengers inside, they surged forward, peering through the murky windows of the carriages. The crowd in front of me was momentarily enveloped by a cloud of steam, so that just their hats and placards were visible. I was drowned out by another round of ‘We want Quinn out! We want Quinn out!’ One or two of the protesters close by me smelled of alcohol – and I smelled trouble. I needed to find the honourable member before they did.

  The train had come to a standstill and the carriage doors were opening. The people trying to get down onto the platform hesitated, clearly shaken by the protesters surging forward and chanting, ‘Fight The Ban! Fight The Ban!’

  ‘Brenda!’ I shouted, as a group of protesters brushed past me, ‘just watch they don’t get too close to that edge.’ The last thing we needed was someone dropping onto the line.

  Fordy was on the radio. ‘Mike, for your information, the entire
hunt plus hounds are now making their way down the road behind me, at speed, towards the station.’

  ‘How long’s it going to take ’em, d’you reckon?’

  ‘Ten minutes, max.’

  ‘I’ll be ready for them. Well, I won’t but . . .’

  At that moment a smart-looking man in a suit got out of one of the Pullman cars, followed by a man holding a microphone and another with a bulky TV camera on his shoulder. They were a good carriage-length ahead of the main body of protesters. I slipped in behind them, making sure I was between them and the crowd, who’d spotted us and were closing in, shouting ‘Boo! Get yourself back to Scarborough, Quinn! You’re not welcome here!’

  The cameraman was walking backwards, training his lens on the man in the suit. I stayed with our man, determined to protect him. The protesters were now right behind us, still jeering and waving their placards. We’d reached the spot now where the engine was being uncoupled from the carriages. Down on the track a guy with red rubber gloves and a greasy peaked hat was unscrewing the heavy steel coupling. I turned to the man in the suit. ‘All right, Mr Quinn?’ I asked. He looked at me and gave a puzzled frown. ‘I’m not Quinn.’ I looked at the gent with the microphone. ‘I’m with the BBC Look North team,’ he explained. ‘Norman here, he was fireman on this run – how long ago was it?’

  ‘1965,’ said Norman, looking nervously over his shoulder as the protesters cat-called and chanted and jostled and waved their placards. ‘It’s my retirement journey; that’s why they’re filming me. What’s going on? Why are they all shouting at me?’

  I suppressed a grin. ‘Right Norman, don’t you worry about it, mate. They think you’re a local MP.’

  ‘No lad, I’m not into politics. Not me.’

  ‘Good lad,’ I said. At that moment another gent in a suit emerged from a carriage doorway and eased his way towards me, through the protesting scrum. He introduced himself as a manager with the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said, as quietly as he could. ‘Mr Quinn’s quite safe.’

  ‘Good. Where is he?’

  He shielded his face with a sheaf of papers he was carrying and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The guard’s locked him in the kitchen, down in the restaurant car. Don’t worry, nobody’ll find him there.’

  ‘Right, how long will it take you to get this train away from here?’

  ‘Normally takes fifteen minutes to turn it round and re-water her. Under the circumstances’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘I think we can do it in ten.’

  ‘Fantastic, you lads crack on.’

  I turned to face the crowd, took a deep breath and cupped my hand to my mouth. ‘Now listen,’ I shouted at them, putting as much authority into it as I could muster. ‘This gentleman is not Mr Quinn. He’s a railway man trying to enjoy a retirement trip, so please leave him be. And please, allow these passengers to board the train.’

  Immediately people began looking round, confused, disappointed. They thought they’d run their quarry to ground. Now they had to start again. There were shouts of ‘Where is he then?’ and ‘Hiding in the toilet, I bet.’ The state of confusion suited me fine. The longer it lasted the better chance we had of a peaceful conclusion. No reason why I shouldn’t muddy the waters still further. ‘I’m not sure where he is,’ I shouted, ‘but it could be that he’s left the station.’

  Someone shouted, ‘I bet he’s in the car park. Let’s try the car park!’ Some of them moved off in that direction. Others were looking in through the carriage windows, startling the passengers who’d managed to get on board. If I could keep it like this for a few more minutes then we might just get away with it.

  ‘What’s happening, Mike? Where is he?’ Ed and Brenda were standing beside me.

  It occurred to me that this was really quite amusing. Here we were, the three of us, protecting a man we’d never seen and wouldn’t recognise if we did.

  ‘They’ve put Plan B into operation.’ I kept my voice low and they leaned forward, listening intently. ‘Apparently the guard’s locked him in the kitchen area. We can’t go and speak to him or it’ll give the game away. If anybody asks you any questions, act confused.’ I looked around at the crowd on the platform, leaderless, ebbing and flowing from one point to the next randomly. ‘Shouldn’t be difficult,’ I added. ‘This has got me well baffled.’

  I’d just finished updating control when the railway manager grabbed me by the arm.

  ‘OK officer, about ready to pull out.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ I said. ‘Good man. By the way, what was all this about another demo on the line side?’

  ‘Yes, at Farwath, about four miles north of here. There must’ve been a dozen of them, on horseback, and they had the hounds with them. Close shave. I really thought at one point we were going to hit one of the horses, they were that close. Riding along the line next to the train. Not to mention the woman laid on the track.’

  Behind him one or two final carriage doors were being slammed shut, the stationmaster’s whistle blew and the Lord of the Isles steamed slowly out of the station. As I stood and watched the last carriage glide its way towards the end of the platform, the sound of the engine faded and was replaced by the clattering of hooves in the street outside and a blast on a horn.

  ‘Bloody hell! I forgot the other lot were on their way!’ I shoved my way through the disappointed crowd, their placards drooping, their banners being rolled back up. Outside was a small army of huntsmen, many of them sporting the traditional red jackets, their jodhpurs covered in mud and the sweat from their steaming mounts. Around their feet was a full pack of hounds, along with a melee of protesters, onlookers and now a couple of press photographers snapping away.

  ‘Right,’ I said, shouting to make myself heard, ‘I have no objection to you protesting, but I am telling you that Mr Quinn and the train have left. There is nobody in the station for you to shout at. You’ve made your point but it’s time for you to go home.’

  Nobody seemed to be taking a bit of notice. They were too worked up. Around me people were shouting slogans. ‘You’re not welcome, Quinn! Get him back to bloody Scarborough – we don’t want you here!’ I suspected they were playing up to the press, and the photographers, of course, were loving every minute of it. I could also tell from their speech that one or two of the huntsmen had been drinking.

  Despite what I’d said, people were not dispersing, and the crowd of onlookers were gathered around admiring the horses, the hounds and the general spectacle. Take away the cries of ‘Where is he?’ and ‘Let’s run him out of town!’ and it might have been a Boxing Day morning in Easingwold. It was part protest, part festivity.

  Fordy joined me. ‘That was one hell of a sight, Mike, watching this lot come down the road.’ He looked around. ‘Don’t think anybody’s been hurt, not as far as I can see.’

  ‘Well, that’s a minor miracle,’ I said. ‘Right, Gary, this lot have blocked the road for long enough. The traffic’s backed up both ways. Grab hold of Ed and Brenda and let’s try and get them dispersed.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the dog unit parked down the road and the handler standing there. Just the job, I thought. A bit more of a presence. It all helps.

  I clapped my hands again. ‘Right, can everybody keep calm, please. Who’s in charge of the hounds?’

  A slightly built man mounted on a bay gelding leaned down and stretched out his hand, introducing himself as the master of a local hunt. I patted his horse and simultaneously shuffled away from another one that was nuzzling my shoulder. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘you’ve made your protest. That’s fine. Now, I can assure you that the man you’re after isn’t here, and the train has already left. So I think we can wind things up now, can’t we, and disperse?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I quite agree. And thank you. I think we’ve made our point.’

  ‘Aye, and you’ve got your publicity.’ A photographer was squatting down beside me, snapping a shot of the master of hounds. ‘How did you lads
get wind of this?’ I asked.

  ‘We were tipped off,’ he said, but before I could ask the question he added, ‘Unnamed sources.’

  ‘Yeah, they usually are.’

  The guy had taken out his notebook. ‘OK if I ask you a few questions?’ he said. ‘Yorkshire Post.’

  ‘Maybe when I’ve got this lot dispersed,’ I answered.

  At the station entrance a crowd was still milling about, and one or two huntsmen were getting dangerously close. I was determined to stop anyone on horseback entering the station. One man in particular was yelling and carrying on. ‘I’m gonna tell that Lawrie Quinn meself,’ he shouted. Another was walking his horse, which was lathered in sweat, up and down. ‘He’s gone,’ I said, walking over to the man on horseback. I spelled it out as clearly and deliberately as I could. ‘The train has departed.’ But he took no notice. He was red in the face and seething with anger. Next thing I knew, he’d dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and was making for the entranceway. I ran up the steps, and got there just ahead of him. The horse looked agitated as it loomed over me, snorting and stamping its feet, with the rider shouting, ‘Where is the bugger. Eh? ’Cos I’m gonna tell him to his face.’ He now had the crowd worried. People were stumbling in their haste as they backed away. A horse will respond to whoever’s riding it, pick up their mood – and this guy was full of anger, trying to drive the animal forward, up the flight of steps and onto the platform. In my experience horses don’t ordinarily manage steps, never mind station platforms. As the horse tossed his massive head, spattering me with foam, I reached out and grabbed the reins, wrapping them once round my wrist. The beast jerked his head again, violently. I felt a shooting pain in my shoulder, but held on tight.

  ‘C’mon,’ I shouted, ‘let’s have you away from here.’

  ‘He’s gone, mate!’ someone shouted. ‘Quinn’s gone.’

  At that moment the rider seemed to see sense. He turned his mount, I let go of the reins and he set off down the road towards the town centre. It was then that I realised I’d pulled something in my shoulder. It was hurting like hell.