Constable among the Heather

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘If you’d reported it earlier, George, I could have arranged long-term observations with my colleagues. We might have stopped these goings-on by now. There’s a limit to the time I can spend sitting in bushes.’

  ‘We don’t want official action taking, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘We want it dealt with without any court appearances or owt like that.’

  ‘But I can’t taken an official report from you on those terms, George. Once I’ve made it formal, I will have to take the culprit to court, if we track him down.’

  ‘Then I withdraw my official complaint, Mr Rhea. Look, you are our local bobby, surely you can stop this carry-on before it gets out of hand, before real damage is done or somebody gets hurt?’

  ‘I can’t stop it, George, if I don’t know who’s involved. I must catch him in the act if I am to stop him. I’ve kept observations out there for weeks now, I’ve asked questions around the village, but no one tells me who’s doing these things. We all know it’s going on and has been going on for weeks, but no one will tell me who’s behind it. I suspect you all know …’

  He regarded me steadily. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We all know but we don’t want the lad taken to court.’

  ‘Then if you know, you’ll have had words with him yourselves?’

  ‘Aye, lots of us have spoken to him, but it only makes him worse.’

  ‘I think you and I had better have a long talk, George,’ I said.

  ‘Then you’d better come in, Mr Rhea.’

  Over a coffee in his private lounge, George told me the story. His first statement confirmed something I had suspected for a while – that all the victims were related.

  ‘They’re all cousins, half-cousins and even quarter-cousins,’ he said. ‘Except me. Those whose cars were tied up or messed up are all related.’

  ‘A local family?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, all living hereabouts. They’re all Pattons, but some have different names through marrying.’

  ‘So is the culprit a Patton or from another family who’s got some grudge against them?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s one of the Pattons,’ he said, clearly expecting me to know which one. But there was a huge family whose members were spread right across the dale and the moors beyond. I knew several of them, albeit not very well, but could not guess which was the phantom prankster.

  ‘I’m sorry, George. I don’t know all the Pattons, and I have no idea which is the troublemaker.’

  ‘It’s young Noel,’ he said. ‘We all know it’s him; mind, nobody’s caught him at it, nor even seen him.’

  ‘So how do they know?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s common knowledge in the family.’ George poured me a second coffee. ‘The lad’s not all there, if you know what I mean. He’s not daft enough to be certified or sent into a mental institution, but he was at the back of the queue when God was dishing brains out. He’s about eleven pence to the shilling. He works on one of the family farms, Dykegate Farm, labouring, doing basic jobs, and he bikes there every day.’

  ‘That’s off my patch.’ I knew the farm, but it was on the beat of a neighbouring constable. ‘So where’s he live?’

  ‘Pattington, in Long Row, number eight. With his mum. She’s a Patton – not married, by the way.’

  ‘So he’s got no dad?’

  ‘It’s worse than that, Mr Rhea. They reckon Noel’s dad was her own brother.’

  ‘So he’s the product of incest!’

  I could now understand why the family did not want this lad prosecuted. If he appeared before a court, his family history would have to be presented to the magistrates, and no one wanted to open up old secrets or have the family’s shame discussed in the pages of the local press. As Pattington was off my patch and in a different police division, I had never visited the village on duty, and this explained why I did not know the lad or his family.

  ‘Aye, it was a sad thing, but the father is now married and working not far away. He’s one of the Pattons, well respected, a chapel-goer an’ all,’ said George. ‘His wife doesn’t know Noel’s his son; outsiders all think he’s a nephew.’

  ‘Well, he is!’ I put to George. ‘He’s the fellow’s nephew as well as his son!’

  ‘You wouldn’t think he was any relation, the way some of the Pattons treat him. They treat him like a dog at times, they tolerate him around, no one really loves him. Even his mother tries to ignore him.’

  This chat enabled me to understand the motive behind Noel’s actions. He seemed to be getting at his family for their attitude towards him, and I could also understand the desire for family unity and secrecy. In spite of all this, I knew, for the sake of all, that Noel’s silly behaviour must be halted. If he was allowed to continue his pranks, they would grow more daring and more serious until one day there would be a serious accident or injury.

  ‘Does he come into your pub?’ I asked George, for I wanted to have a look at this youth, so that I’d know him in the future.

  He shook his head. ‘His mother’s a strict chapel woman,’ he told me. ‘Alcohol and pubs are not regarded as proper, so she’s brought Noel up to believe drink is evil – mebbe she was drunk when he was conceived … or his dad might have been. His real dad won’t go into a pub but drinks whisky at home, gallons of it. He buys it from me, telephones his order in and the shop delivers it with the groceries. He thinks it’s all a secret. Anyroad, Noel never comes in either. I think that might be a motive for his tricks as well. Mebbe he’s getting at those of his clan who do indulge in evil spirits!’

  I thanked George for his wealth of knowledge and told him I appreciated his confiding in me. Now that I was aware of the background, it explained a lot and was helpful – but how could I halt Noel’s silly behaviour?

  In the weeks that followed, he played more tricks: balloons appeared on one car, another’s windows were painted with white emulsion, and a chunk of wallpaper was glued to the door of yet another. I attributed all this to Noel, even though I had never set eyes on the lad, for all the cars belonged to members of the Patton family.

  I kept observation on the pub forecourt without ever catching sight of Noel, and I did have words with the village constable for Pattington and explained the situation to him. He knew Noel but said the lad never caused any trouble on his patch. I learned he was in his early twenties, fairly tall and slim, with long blond hair, and he rode a red bike with dropped handlebars.

  Then, quite by chance, I was off duty in Ashfordly and doing some shopping in Thompson’s hardware shop when I became aware of the presence of a young man of that description. He was selecting various objects from the shelves and popping them into a basket – they were things like shelf-brackets, wall plugs, screws and other DIY items. I peeped outside the large window and saw a red racing bike propped against the wall. So this was young Patton, I guessed. Then he went to the counter and asked for a box of 200 rounds of .22 ammunition.

  ‘Have you your certificate?’ the shopkeeper asked.

  It is illegal to sell such ammunition to anyone who is not the holder of a firearms certificate, and the seller must endorse the certificate with the amount and type he sells. This does not apply to shotgun ammunition, nor pellets for air weapons, but it does strictly apply for ammunition – i.e. bullets – for use with rifles and such handguns as revolvers and pistols. Clearly, this lad had such a weapon.

  I hovered behind a tall display stand and listened. This knowledge would be of use to me.

  ‘I haven’t a certificate,’ said the youth. ‘I allus uses my uncle’s bullets. He lets me.’

  ‘Who’s rifle is it?’ asked the shopkeeper.

  ‘Mine,’ said Noel. ‘Me grandad gave me it.’

  ‘Well, you must have a certificate for the rifle, so fetch that in and I can let you have the bullets.’

  ‘No,’ said the lad. ‘I’ve no certificate for t’gun, never ’ave had. I just have it and borrow bullets. But I thought I’d try to buy some for myself. I am over seventeen, so how can I get this certificate?�
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  ‘You’ll have to apply to the police,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘And if they think you are a fit and proper person to possess such a firearm, you will be granted a certificate.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ said Noel, paying for his odds and ends.

  When he left the shop, I followed. I could not let this opportunity pass without making use of it.

  As he placed his purchases in the pannier behind the saddle, I said, ‘Hello, are you Noel Patton?’

  ‘Aye.’ He stood up and looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face. I was not wearing uniform.

  ‘I’m PC Rhea from Aidensfield,’ I introduced myself. ‘Part of my responsibility is the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ He looked me up and down but gave nothing away.

  ‘I have reason to believe you have been making a nuisance of yourself there, playing tricks on cars and things.’

  He said nothing. Simple though he might be, he was shrewd and cunning, I realized.

  ‘All I want to say, Noel, is that it must stop. No more pranks, no more jokes on your family or their cars when they’re at the pub. No more ropes tied to bumpers, petrol pumps and the like.’

  ‘Who said it were me?’ he suddenly shouted.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who said it was. I know it was. All I’m saying is that it must stop. Right now, as from today. No more pranks, right?’

  ‘Nobody’s seen me, nobody knows …’

  ‘I know it’s you, Noel, and so do lots of other folks. Now, I happen to know you have a rifle without a certificate. I could get you sent to prison for that.’

  ‘Grandad gave it to me. It’s from the big war.’

  ‘No matter, you must have a certificate. Now, as I said, I’m the policeman at Aidensfield, and if there are any more pranks outside the Hopbind, I’ll take you to court for having that gun without a certificate. Do you understand?’

  ‘Prison?’ he gasped.

  ‘If you misbehave,’ I said grimly. I had over-emphasized the penalties but felt it justified if it stopped his antics.

  ‘No more pranks then, Mr Policeman. I’m sorry. It’s just they keep getting at me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you mustn’t take it out on them like that, Noel.’

  ‘OK, I won’t,’ and he sat astride his bike, ready to ride off. ‘So what about the gun then?’

  I did wonder whether I should arrange for it to be confiscated but said, ‘You apply for a certificate, and your local bobby will send it to our headquarters. Then you’ll be able to keep that gun.’ I knew that by this procedure he would be carefully vetted by his local policeman.

  ‘Right,’ and off he rode.

  A couple of months passed without incident and then, when I was standing outside the telephone kiosk at Elsinby, awaiting any call that might come, Noel rode up on his red bike. He halted at my side.

  ‘Mr Rhea,’ he said, surprising me because he remembered my name, ‘that gun o’ mine. Me mum wouldn’t let me apply for a certificate, nor would my Uncle Jack. They said I had no need, I could use the farm guns for killing rabbits and pigeons …’

  ‘So you’ll have handed in your rifle, have you? To your local policeman?’

  ‘No, I’ve buried it.’

  ‘Buried it? Where?’

  ‘There’s a deep bog in Ferrers Wood. I pushed it right down, used a rake handle to make sure it went real deep, then all t’waiter covered it up. Nobody’ll find it there, Mr Rhea, nobody.’

  I knew he was telling the truth.

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Noel. Maybe that was the wisest thing to do.’

  ‘Mum said it was.’ He smiled and rode off towards Pattington.

  And there was no more pranks on the Patton cars when they parked outside the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby.

  5 The Storeman Syndrome

  I question if keeping it does much good.

  Revd Richard Harris Barham (1788–1845)

  In the middle years of this century, there existed within the police service – and probably within many other organizations – a philosophy that, if you wanted something which would improve your conditions or make your work easier or more efficient, you should not be allowed to have it.

  I am sure that notion still persists, although there has been an improvement in many aspects of the police administration. Once it was believed that those who funded the police service would love and cherish officers who could spend the least. Now the idea is that you spend as much as possible in order to convince the authorities that more money is always needed if efficiency is to be maintained or improved.

  I think the logic behind the earlier financially repressive thinking was simply that it saved money. Certainly lots of people asked lots of questions if official money was freely spent; few seemed to realize that a police force has all the financial needs and expenditure of any other large organization. A lot of the blame must rest upon those senior officers who, unlike Oliver Twist, were afraid to ask for more. They were allocated a budget and constantly struggled to function within its limitations. What they should have done is spent more to prove that the funds were inadequate for their needs. But they would never ask for more, because they thought it was an admission of failure, which meant that those of us lower down the scale had to make do and improvise.

  One glaring example presented to us immediately upon joining the force was that we were issued with second-hand uniforms. I think the force tailor thought that all police officers were six foot six inches high, sixteen-stone giants with chests like barrels. Certainly all the second-hand uniforms seemed tailored for men of that ilk, and all recruits were issued with them. It was thought they would never dare complain.

  If, for example, your uniform jacket was large enough to accommodate a pregnant hippopotamus, you had to tolerate its shapelessness and size because the effort of exchanging it for one more comfortable involved much expense and paperwork. To point out its defects labelled you a rebel; it also suggested that the man in charge of issuing uniforms (usually a sergeant) had been inefficient in giving you something that did not fit, and such overt criticism could ruin one’s prospects. Original thinkers were considered subversives who had no part in the police service, and such outrageous requests or ideas were not tolerated. The result was that we never complained about our appearance because we dare not.

  As a consequence, many police officers plodded around the streets in badly fitting, second-hand uniforms that gave the wearer’s rear end the appearance of a sauntering elephant with an overweight problem. Those who wonder why uniformed policemen suddenly bend their knees and flex their legs to give the appearance of a diamond-shaped ballet pose, while quothing ‘Hello, Hello’, may now appreciate that it has something to do with ill-fitting trousers.

  Proud wives, mothers or girlfriends with needlework skills did sometimes try to improve this baggy frippery, but some policemen did not benefit from such caring love. They walked around like pantalooned scarecrows in the belief that the secret of smartness was to cut your hair, clean your boots and press your trousers from time to time; any other aspects of dress were not important. There was, however, an implication that, if your uniform fitted perfectly, you were deformed.

  Having been nurtured to this philosophy, it was with some surprise that I once entered the camphor-scented uniform store at force headquarters to find it stocked to the ceiling with brand-new uniforms in a range of interesting and even useful sizes. But I was to learn that these were never issued – they were stored, and I then discovered that that is precisely the function of stores and storemen. Their mission in life is to store things, not to issue them, and the Storeman Syndrome exists at all levels of the service, and in all departments. This is true in many other large organizations storemen and storewomen make it very difficult to draw items from their cherished stock. They produce a mass of schemes and procedures which are designed to prevent the staff’s having the necessities of their calling.

  I recall one police officer who was in charge of stores whe
n ballpoint pens became fashionable. It was deemed by someone in authority that all officers should be issued with an official ballpoint pen. Progress had at last arrived within the service, because ballpoints would write in the rain without smudging the page – and that was a massive step forward for the busy outdoor constable. Making a neat and legible fountain pen entry in one’s notebook on a rainy day was, until then, almost impossible, and so ballpoints revolutionized police work. But this giant stride towards the twentieth century had not reckoned with the Storeman Syndrome. Our storemen did not believe that ballpoints could run dry without warning when out in the town – it seemed they were always supposed to run dry when you were in the office, because you were not allowed a refill until the old one actually ceased to function. How one was supposed to take statements and make notes when on town duty with a pen devoid of ink was never decided, but the storeman said you could have a replacement refill only when the first one became exhausted – and application for that refill had to be made in writing.

  ‘But, Sergeant,’ I said when I was a mere 16-year-old cadet, ‘how can I apply in writing if the pen’s run dry?’

  ‘We’ll have none of that clever stuff here, young Rhea,’ he said.

  I went out and bought my own supply of ballpoints – which, on reflection, is precisely what the Storeman Syndrome seeks to achieve. If everyone behaved like that, many pens would be stored and never issued. In the older police stations of this kingdom, there must be mountains of unused ballpoint pens of a most ancient style, memorials to past and diligent storemen.

  Upon being transferred to Aidensfield, I thought I would experience an end of the Storeman Syndrome, for our local section station was Ashfordly. Surely the sergeants in such a small and friendly station would look after their men and be willing to issue them with all their routine necessities?