Constable among the Heather

by Nicholas Rhea

  And there, to my astonishment, was Delia Ballentine. She was standing at the counter, holding on to the front edge of the top surface as she shook with fear and anxiety. I could see the perspiration standing out on her brow and could appreciate the sheer willpower that had driven her to enter this feared place.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, with the sack dangling from my hand. She could not speak for a moment. ‘Let’s go outside,’ I suggested.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I must try to beat this silly fear.’

  ‘There’s no need.’ I threw the sack into the rubbish bin and said, ‘Look, Mrs Ballentine, I’ll see you out there. It’s no problem …’

  She did not reply but stood with her hands gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white. Then I could hear the kittens mewing pitifully … she heard them too.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, the fear vanishing from her face in an instant as she concentrated upon the distinctive distress cries.

  ‘There’s three kittens in our cell,’ and I explained how they came to be here.

  ‘Oh, the poor things! Can I take them? I mean, if no one wants them …’

  ‘That would solve a lot of our problems,’ I said. ‘If no one claims them, we’d have to find a good home or have them put to sleep,’ I told her.

  During this conversation, it was fascinating to notice the apparent evaporation of her fear, and she even followed me into the cell as I went to retrieve the kittens. When I gave them to her, she seemed to be totally in control, her entire concentration being upon the tiny animals. As she petted them, I searched under the counter and found a cardboard box big enough to accommodate all three. I sat the box on the counter as I talked to her. But as I tried to elicit the reason for her visit, those tremblings and overt nervous tics returned, all heralded by the perspiration on her face. I found myself admiring her courage in making such a determined effort to enter this dreaded building.

  Once I had the kittens safely inside the box, I took her outside and placed them on the back seat of her car as I tried to interview her. Now free from her trauma, she told me she had just discovered she had lost a precious brooch. It was in the shape of a swan and was made of 22 carat gold; it was antique, a present from her husband’s grandmother, and she felt she had to come to report it. Losing it had been of sufficient worry to compel her to overcome her resistance to police stations.

  So I recorded particulars, saying that if it came to our notice, it would be restored to her. In fact, it was later returned to her, albeit not through our assistance – someone had found it in the back room of the town hall and had recognized it. Apparently, Delia had been to a WI meeting there a couple of days earlier and the brooch had become detached from her dress. She hailed me in the street shortly after its return; I said I was delighted and would delete it from our records.

  ‘You didn’t come to the station to report its recovery?’ I asked, wondering if she had made such an attempt.

  ‘No, I couldn’t, I really couldn’t. I thought because I’d done it once, I could do it again but I just couldn’t, Mr Rhea. I really did try. That first time, I think I was so worried about what Geoff would say about my losing the brooch that I managed to force myself to go into the station.’

  ‘But those cats, Mrs Ballentine, when you saw those kittens, you lost all your fears, if only for a few moments.’

  ‘I know, and I thought I could do it again without the cats, but I couldn’t. I know it’s so silly, but it must be something deep inside that makes me frightened, mustn’t it?’

  ‘I’m no medical expert, but it does seem to be a psychological problem!’ I smiled. ‘Anyway, you’ve got your precious brooch back and I’m delighted. Now, those kittens? Did you get them a good home?’

  ‘We’re still looking after them, until they’re a wee bit older, but I’ve got some people interested in them. Look, Mr Rhea, if ever you get any more kittens or other animals in, I’ll take them off your hands. I’d rather do that than let you have them put down.’

  ‘We’d welcome that sort of arrangement.’ I was delighted to hear this. ‘Found animals can be a problem to us. But you’d not be able to call and collect them?’

  ‘You or your men would have to deliver them to the house or bring them out to the car, I’m afraid.’ She looked slightly embarrassed at her own frailty.

  ‘That is no problem,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a word with Sergeant Bairstow or Sergeant Blaketon and see that your name goes in our records. I’m sure we can arrange a cat and mouse delivery service when it’s necessary.’

  And so it came to pass.

  This explains why, from time to time in Ashfordly, a police van can be seen motoring through the town with passengers which vary from cats and dogs to budgerigars, parrots and canaries, via hamsters, pet mice, white rabbits and even iguanas or ferrets. In all cases, they showed far less fear of our police station and its cells than did Mrs Delia Ballentine.

  While Delia Ballentine had a genuine fear of police stations, Daniel Joseph Price hated police officers. Indeed, he hated everything connected with the service – its uniform, its members, its offices and its duties. There was absolutely nothing he liked about us. He made no secret of this loathing. Whenever he spotted me, he would make a point of approaching me, vociferously to broadcast aspects of his lifelong hatred.

  ‘I hate coppers,’ he would say as he glared at me. ‘I really do hate coppers. I’ll never help the police, you know that? Never.’

  When he first made this attitude known to me, I tried to elicit some reason for his hatred, but he would never explain. I tried asking other people, but they did not know either, and so the deep-seated cause of Daniel’s continuing malice remained a mystery. In time, I grew to accept his verbal outbursts, whether in the street or in the pub, and I didn’t feel too concerned about his attitude. After a while, I never tried to reason with him or to make any response.

  Following months of listening to him, I adopted a new tactic. Whenever he approached me to announce his persistent hatred, I would simply say, ‘Thanks, Dan, I know. You’ve told me many times.’

  But this served only to compel him to emphasize his vitriol. ‘But I really do hate policemen, Mr Rhea. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes, I do, and I accept it,’ I would say, wondering whether he expected some kind of violent reaction or official response from me.

  Once I said, ‘If you hate policemen, it’s your own problem, not mine. I can do nothing about it. If it’s any consolation, I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone, Daniel. And if you were in trouble, I would help you, either when I’m off duty or on.’

  ‘But I’ll never help you, Mr Rhea. Can’t you understand that? I’ll never give you information about crimes, I’ll never warn you of trouble, I’ll never come to your help if you are in bother, I’ll never be a witness for you …’

  In an effort to create some kind of positive reply to his ramblings, I tried to explain that helping the police was not merely of benefit to the officers concerned – helping the police was a way of helping society. Police officers gained nothing from such aid, other than the satisfaction of helping the public to deal with wrongdoers, whether the wrongdoers were criminals or merely those in need of professional help. But Daniel could not see it in that way. He seemed to think that helping the police was against his religion or that there was something grossly anti-social in volunteering to provide information or assistance to us.

  I did wonder to what extent he would continue his one-man campaign. I came to realize that he did not hate me in person; indeed, he would sometimes buy me a drink if I was off duty. The odd thing was that, while buying me the drink, he would announce that he really did hate policemen, although he had nothing against me personally.

  This peculiar relationship endured for a long time, and I must admit I took little heed of his words. In some ways, I quite liked Daniel. He was honest, if nothing else, and he did spend a lot of time helping the old folk in Aidensfiel
d, doing their shopping for them or bits of decorating and cleaning. He had a wonderful manner with children too, being a bundle of fun during the village sports days, church fêtes and the like. He worked as a labourer on building sites, always managing to find local employment, and he lived with his mother in one of the council houses. He was never troublesome from my point of view, he never came rolling home drunk or abusive. He did not run a car but used an old black pedal cycle to get around the lanes. In his mid forties, he was a solidly built man who was a shade overweight, and his round, somewhat flabby face usually bore a contented smile. He did seem to be a very contented person – until he saw me.

  During his leisure moments, he wore a well-tailored black suit. I never saw him in a sports jacket or casual wear of any kind; even when cycling to the pub or romping around at a garden fête, he would wear his black suit, and the result of this continual wear was that it had become extremely shabby. At close quarters, I could see that the suit was made of quality material, and sometimes I wondered whether he was descended from a sophisticated family who had fallen on hard times, the suit having perhaps belonged to some long-dead and wealthy male ancestor.

  Alternatively, he might have bought it at a jumble sale. It was certainly from a bygone era. When new, it would have been beyond his financial limits and perhaps his social horizons, but it never seemed to wear out and was an undoubted bargain. I’m sure he regarded it as a worthwhile acquisition, and I’m equally sure he cherished it, but a visit to the cleaners would have worked miracles.

  In my daily patrols, I had a feeling that, sooner or later in my professional life, I would encounter Daniel’s bigotry. It was almost inevitable in a village the size of Aidensfield, where one’s neighbours and fellow residents live so close to each other. From time to time, I tried to anticipate the kind of problems it would present, and then I endeavoured to work out a series of feasible responses. And, sure enough, that day did arrive – but it brought a curious problem that I had not foreseen.

  At five o’clock one evening, which was in fact my day off, there was a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Daniel standing there in his crumpled, greasy suit. He looked far from happy, and I realized that something pretty awful must have happened to persuade him to call voluntarily at the police house.

  ‘Come in, Daniel.’ I stood back and held open the door.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll say my piece here.’

  ‘As you wish.’ I had no intention of antagonizing him.

  ‘Somebody’s pinched our silver tray!’ He rushed out the words as if he was talking treason. ‘T’insurance man says I’ve got to tell t’police, so I’m telling you.’

  ‘I’ll have to take details,’ I began. ‘You are reporting a crime to me.’

  ‘T’insurance said I had to tell t’police. I’ve told you, so that’s it.’

  ‘No, it isn’t it,’ I said. ‘It’s not as simple as that, Daniel. I’ve got official forms to compile if you are reporting a crime. The insurance will expect a full report from us, and I can’t do that without doing my job properly. So either you come in and help me fill in those forms, or I will not be able to complete the necessary details.’

  He stared at his feet for a few moments, and I knew he was wrestling with his conscience. I made no comment about his previous antagonism and simply waited with the door held open. With a massive sigh, he stepped over the threshold, and I led him into my office. I must admit I experienced a feeling of success. I seated him beside the desk, drew the necessary crime report forms from the drawer and explained the formalities involved. But he was most reluctant to provide me with all the facts; he saw this as helping the police. In carrying out this interview, I had to drag every piece of information from him.

  Through persistent questioning, I did learn that two men had visited his mother that morning, ostensibly to see if she had any old junk or ornaments to sell. They had told a good story and, while one had kept her talking, the other had explored the house. Only after they’d gone had the old lady realized the tray was missing. Daniel was clearly upset, especially at the evil way his elderly mother had been treated by these rogues.

  I could see that he was battling with his conscience – he wanted the tray found and the rogues caught, but he did not want to break his lifelong embargo by helping the police. As a consequence, I did succeed in abstracting sufficient information for completion of my official form but not enough upon which to base a thorough investigation. For example, he would not or could not give me a detailed description of the missing tray, save to say it was roughly oval in shape with a handle at each end and legs underneath. It was a large one, some two feet long by twelve inches wide. It sounded more like a piece of silverware from a stately home than a tray from a Yorkshire council house. He offered no description of the two men, nor did he provide me with any of the modus operandi they had utilized.

  I decided I would have to talk to Mrs Price but made a mental note to do so tomorrow – and then a thought struck me. Daniel would not have come to seek my official help without some kind of pressure, so did this tray belong to him or his mother? I had assumed it was his property, but now I began to suspect it was very important to her and that that could be the reason for his uncharacteristic visit. I became even more determined to talk to her and would do so when Daniel was at work. In the meantime, I could enter the crime into the official channels with an assurance that further enquiries would be made. Having made this uncharacteristic visit, Daniel rushed away.

  At ten o’clock next morning, I paid a visit to Mrs Price and found her at home and quite composed. She was slightly stooped with age, but her hair still bore signs of its original auburn, and her brown eyes were alert and full of life. Upon recognizing me, she bade me enter her smart, clean home and settled me on the settee, insisting that I have a cup of tea.

  ‘I’ve come about the missing tray, Mrs Price,’ I said.

  ‘Daniel did not want to bother you,’ she smiled, ‘but I insisted. The insurance company said it must be reported stolen, you see, but, well, Daniel is a bit silly when it comes to dealing with policemen.’

  ‘I need a detailed description of the tray, Mrs Price, one that we can circulate among antique-dealers and salerooms.’

  ‘Oh, Daniel said it would not be necessary. He said you’d never do anything to trace it, you’d just record it so the insurance company could be sure it was a crime.’

  ‘Then Daniel is wrong, Mrs Price. We will circulate a full description to every police force in the United Kingdom, to Interpol and to all antique-dealers, salerooms, silversmiths and others who might be offered it. And, of course, our CID will make local enquiries about the men who took it.’

  ‘Then a photograph would be useful?’ she smiled. I found her to be an amazingly alert and wise old woman, with a keen brain and a wry sense of humour.

  ‘It would be ideal.’

  ‘Then I have one or two.’

  She ferreted about in a cupboard near the fireplace and produced an old leather-bound album which she opened. Inside were lots of old prints, some secured in the book and others loosely assembled. But in time her bent old fingers found the ones she sought, and she passed them to me. I found myself looking at a silver salver. It was exquisitely ornate and bore a coat of arms in the centre.

  ‘Daniel could not put a value upon it, Mrs Price,’ I told her, ‘but this seems to be a very valuable piece of silver.’

  ‘It is, Mr Rhea, in terms of both money and sentimentality. Now Daniel could not put a value upon it simply because I have never given him any idea of its worth.’

  ‘I put it down as £10,’ I confessed to her.

  ‘I’d put it much closer to twenty times that, Mr Rhea. Now listen. When Daniel was a youth, he was rather impetuous and liable to do silly things, and so I have never revealed the full nature of that salver to him. He knew it was a family heirloom but thought it was just an old tray I had inherited. In fact, it is the only thing I have which can be traced throu
gh my family – the tray was made in 1779; it bears that date. The coat of arms is my family crest.’

  I did not ask about the circumstances of the family, but she did say her grandfather had tried to sell the family silver, hence the photographs were intended for the catalogue, but her own mother had rescued this salver. It had been withdrawn and given to her mother, and now it was hers; when she died, it should have passed to Daniel. She had sent Daniel to report the theft, not realizing how much detail I would require and not appreciating his own lack of knowledge of what should have been a fascinating inheritance. My mind now flashed to the old suit that Daniel habitually wore – had that also come from grandad? It seemed that Daniel was of noble ancestry, but just how far back in history I could not guess. It might be a subject for some genealogical research – even by Daniel, if he so wished.

  Thanks to my visit and the alertness of Mrs Price, I did walk away with a detailed description of the salver, a far better idea of its value and a very useful photograph. I also managed to obtain reasonable descriptions of the two thieves – apparently, one of them had said he’d like to go to the toilet, and she’d allowed him upstairs to the bathroom. The salver had been kept on a dressing-table in the spare bedroom – the thief had seen it and had somehow smuggled it out of the house, probably stuffed up his jacket. Nothing else was missing.

  When I informed Detective Sergeant Gerry Connolly, he was pleased the matter had been recorded – and he was delighted with the photograph. He told me that in recent weeks a team of two supposed antique-dealers had been operating in the area, and Mrs Price had been their most recent victim. Their MO was simple: they entered houses occupied by elderly folks under the pretext of inspecting and valuing goods, and while one kept the householder occupied, the other would find an excuse for exploring the house. They removed anything that took their fancy. And now, thanks to her, a fairly comprehensive description of the men was available – she had been able to fill gaps left by other old folks. But, more important to the Prices, the salver was identifiable. The coat of arms in the centre made it unique, and so copies of the photo were made for the widest possible distribution.