Obviously, the landlord of the Green Lion was aware of the rules. From the road, the establishment appeared all locked up with everyone inside gone to bed. However, as Don slid the highly visible police car into the car park at the rear, keeping it well out of sight of the main road, he could just make out clinks of light emanating from the edges of the curtains in the small back bar. He alighted from his vehicle and rapped on the hard, wooden rear door.
From inside a male voice called, “Hello?”
“Police,” said Don. “Routine check.”
The bolt rasped back, and the door opened a fraction. A youngish looking man in a sharp-looking flared grey suit peered out cautiously into the night. Seeing the officer, he said, “Private party, I’ve notified the Newbury lads.”
“Yeah, I know,” grinned Don. “To be honest, mate, all I want is a packet of cigs, Embassy if you’ve got them.”
The man visibly relaxed and smiled thinly back at the policeman. “You had me going there,” he said. “Fags are in a machine in the Public Bar. If you’ve got the right change, I’ll get them for you.”
Don handed over the coins and, while the man was absent, instinctively took a good look around the car park.
Not much of a party, he thought. Just two cars, a green Austin 1300 and an old, but well looked-after red Triumph Herald. Other than that, the car park was utterly deserted.
The grey-suited man came back with the cigarettes and said, “D’you fancy a quick pint while you’re here? You’ll have to drink it outside, though.”
There was nothing in the world Don fancied more than a pint at that moment but felt he’d pushed his luck enough already.
“I’d love one,” he said, “but not tonight. Maybe another time?”
“Any time you like. Goodnight, mate, stay safe out there.”
“Cheers.”
“HT Control to Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, over.” The Pocketfone in the top pocket of his tunic piped up. Don took the transmitter from his side pocket and pressed the transmit button.
“Foxtrot Golf Five Zero receiving. Go ahead, over.”
“Talk through with Foxtrot Yankee, over.”
Foxtrot Yankee was the call sign of the fixed VHF radio located at the Newbury Police Station control room.
“Five Zero from Foxtrot Yankee, can you make your way please to the TK at Brompton village. A distressed female has just called in on the nines requesting assistance. Possible domestic. Over.”
“Roger that, ETA eight minutes from my present location, over.”
“Thanks, Don. Many thanks, HT. Finished with talk-through. Foxtrot Yankee, standing by.”
Don knew exactly where the telephone kiosk in Brompton village was located; it was less than half a mile from where his own police house (and little one-man office) was located. For a driver with Don’s skill, eight minutes was a generous timescale. Had he been driving a high-performance Traffic car; he could easily have made the trip in under four – but he was in the Marina. So, it was a full five minutes before he actually pulled over outside the phone box and walked over to meet the lady who emerged from it.
“Good evening, Madam, was it you that called us?” Don smiled to take the edge off his rather formal approach. He estimated the woman to be aged in her forties, and he noticed she was very attractive. From her appearance and demeanour, she was obviously from the middle classes. Her dark trouser suit was discrete, elegant, and looked to be expensive. Her hair was neatly coiffed and her, now tear-stained, makeup had been expertly applied.
She made a visible effort to compose herself before speaking. “Officer, I’m so, so, sorry to have bothered you. I’ve never phoned the police in my life before, but it’s my husband. He’s just gone berserk. I’m absolutely terrified and didn’t know who else to call.”
Don said, “Okay, I’ll need a few details. Come and have a sit down.”
He opened the passenger door of the patrol car and let her in. With the lady beside him, Don became uncomfortably conscious of all the fag ends that littered the inside of the vehicle. As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. The lady was a smoker and asked him for a cigarette. Together they christened his brand-new pack.
“So, tell me all about it, “Don asked. “Are you injured at all?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Don could tell she had been drinking.
“What about your husband, has he been hurt?”
“No, of course not. Look, officer, I think I’m wasting your time. I was just upset, that was all. I’m okay now, I’m sure I don’t need any help after all, thank you.” She made to get out of the car.
“Hold on, just a minute,” said Don sharply, raising his finger. “It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid, Mrs …?”
“Hoskins, Suzanne Hoskins. I live about half a mile away. Our house is the one set back from the road on that bit of a hill.”
“I think I know the one, but I don’t recall seeing you before. Have you lived in the village long?”
“We’ve been here a few months, maybe a year,” she said. “We’ve travelled around a bit these past few years. We moved here to take advantage of the house prices. It’s also handy for my husband. He uses the motorway to commute to London three times a week.”
“Three times?”
“Yes, he stays in town Monday and Thursday nights.”
“Okay, so have you anywhere to stay tonight other than your home?”
“No, I don’t have friends here. I’ve no family and all my associates are in London.”
“So, what can I do to be sure you’ll be safe? Do you want me to arrange for you to go to a women’s refuge? The nearest one is in Reading.”
“Oh, God, no!” she looked aghast. “I’m sure Steve’s calmed down by now. I’ll just go back and sort it out myself…”
“Right, well, I’m sure you understand my position. I have to check for myself that everything’s okay, I can’t just leave you here.”
Before driving to the couple’s house, Don copied Suzanne’s personal details into his official notebook. Don was still smarting from forgetting to ask the horse woman her name.
Suzanne told him that she and her husband, Steve, had been married six years. She went on to say that, two years previously, she had foolishly become involved with another man. Her lover had been less than discrete in writing her a series of hot letters and, instead of destroying them, she had kept them hidden. Her husband had found them, and it had almost wrecked her marriage. One of their reasons for moving to the country was to give them a fresh start.
Don nodded, taking notes, “Carry on.” He encouraged her.
Tonight, they had both been drinking. For some reason the whole issue became the focus of a fierce row. Things got out of hand, and Steve had started throwing furniture about. Thankfully, he’d made no attempt to physically harm his wife, but she was badly frightened.
“Are you sure you’re safe now?”
Don knew only too well the difficulties of trying to repair a broken marriage when one party had been unfaithful, but he decided to keep that particular piece of knowledge to himself. He resolved to stay strictly within professional boundaries: protection of life and property and the maintenance of order. Nothing more.
“You’re very young to be working out here in the sticks, aren’t you?” Suzanne said suddenly. “I thought village bobbies were all fat old men.” Her smile lit up the car, and Don could see how easily this woman could attract men if she so desired.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he grinned back at her. “I’ll try and put some weight on.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” she said, with a smile that warned Don she could be a very alluring woman. “Ah, here we are. If you pull up next to the Jag, you’ll find it easier to get out of the drive when you leave.”
The house was a large, three-bed, modern build bungalow set in half an acre of land. There was a dry-stone wall around the perimeter and the five-bar gate, that Suzanne had left open in her flight and through which Don ha
d just driven, led into a loose gravel drive wide enough for three cars.
Obviously, Steve was no motorcyclist, thought Don as he walked across the loose stones. You’d never get a bike parked on this stuff.
The man who answered the front door was bald, below average height and appeared to be a couple of years younger than his wife. He was wearing suit trousers with a blue and white striped shirt tucked loosely into his waistband. Like his wife, he wasn’t drunk, but he had obviously been drinking.
“Mr Hoskins? We’ve had a call from your wife.”
Mr Hoskins momentarily glared at the policeman then visibly withered. He stood back to let the officer into the house.
Don stepped inside and looked around. There were various items that were showing superficial signs of damage, but no serious destruction had taken place. It was obvious that Steve had been tidying up after his outburst.
“I don’t know what my wife has told you, constable, but I can assure you your presence here is really not necessary.”
“Well, sir, it’s not for me to interfere in your private marital affairs, but I do have a duty to maintain the peace. I need to be certain your wife is not likely to come to any harm if she remains here tonight.”
“You’d never hurt me, would you, Steve darling?”
Don sighed as he realised that Suzanne had silently, and contrary to his instructions, left the safety of the car and followed him into the house. He really didn’t want to be in the middle if a fight broke out between the husband and wife. He’d been in that situation more than once in his career and knew how nasty things could become.
However, in this instance, it appeared violence was off the agenda.
“Of course not, darling. How could you think such a thing? I love you far too much to ever think of harming you,” Steve said and burst into tears. His whole body shook with the sobs.
“Oh, darling!” Suzanne rushed forward to console him. Putting her arm around her husband, she glanced over at Don.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Barton, I don’t think we’ll be needing you any further tonight,” she said.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Don asked.
“Just go!” she hissed at him before turning back to Steve.
Don had been summarily dismissed, but there was nothing further he could do. No offences had been committed, and the woman was entitled to reside wherever she wished. Don grinned to himself and shook his head. Women, he thought, he would never understand them!
Don used the handset on the Marina to call into Control before driving out.
“Foxtrot Golf Five Zero for HT, all in order Brompton Village. Domestic dispute, both parties given advice. No offences, no further action required. I’m now returning to Foxtrot Golf, and I’ll pop an entry in the Occurrence Book before booking off.”
“Thank you, Five Zero. HT to stand-by.”
Chapter Four
Royal Ascot
It was 8 am Tuesday morning, and the weather forecast was dry and sunny. Nevertheless, Don decided to take his lightweight Ganex raincoat with him. He had worked at the royal meeting several times in the past and knew full well that sudden and unexpected rain was a frequent occurrence.
His tunic and trousers had been pressed to perfection, and he could see his face in the shine on his boots. This was the first day of Royal Ascot; uniformed officers would have to go on parade and only the very best turn-out would be accepted.
Don drove his police Ford Escort van from his office in Brompton to the section office at Hampstead Norreys, where he picked up his colleague, Ian Jones. PC Jones had also taken great care with his personal presentation and joked as he stowed his helmet, “I’m keeping a sharp eye on that bugger this year. My other one went missing after last Ascot, and I’ve never seen it since.”
“It’s probably sitting in pride of place on some mantlepiece in North Carolina by now,” said Don.
They both laughed. It was well known that items of British police equipment were eagerly sought-after as souvenirs by the American servicemen at the nearby Greenham Common airbase. Any kit carelessly left lying around could very quickly be traded by unscrupulous colleagues for King Edward cigars and Bourbon whiskey at the PABX. Helmets were in particular demand
Don liked Ian. Ian was recently married, and, being in his early twenties, he was the only other youngish officer on the section. The two men carried on with their chatter until they reached F Divisional Headquarters at Newbury, where they were due to complete the journey to Ascot by coach together with the rest of their contingent.
F Division was affectionately known as F Troop from the American TV comedy about the Seventh Cavalry fort. They were always a welcome addition to the staffing of any major event. With a racecourse of their own in the town, these officers were not only well experienced in dealing with the racing fraternity, but they had a reputation for being self-sufficient and confident – without being overbearing. They could invariably be relied upon to remain good-humoured and to use common sense when dealing with minor offences.
Together with twenty colleagues, Don and Ian boarded the coach to travel east along the M4 to the other end of the county. They were all looking forward to the day’s work that lay ahead of them. The event itself was an enjoyable one to police, and the overtime was very welcome.
However, as the coach pulled out of the station car, Don’s attention was drawn to a vaguely familiar vehicle parked in the staff area of the police station car park. He leaned forward in his seat and tapped a colleague on the shoulder,
“Here, Tom, any idea who owns the Triumph Herald?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s that new inspector. Mollington, his name is. You want to watch out for him, a right arsehole by the sound of it. On the way up, that one, a real high flyer.”
Don sat back in his seat and contemplated. It did look a lot like the car that he’d seen parked at the Green Lion, but he couldn’t swear to it. He hadn’t taken the registration number, and Triumph Heralds weren’t exactly remarkable or unusual, other than the fact that there weren’t that many still about.
If a new firebrand inspector was drinking after hours out on the section, it was knowledge worth having. He decided it prudent to keep his suspicions to himself, for now, so he put his thoughts to one side and joined in with the general banter in the coach.
At that time, several officers in the police service in the UK was going through hard times. Young officers especially were finding it hard to make ends meet, and financial pressures meant that resignations were outstripping appointments. For increasingly worried senior management, Special Events like race meetings represented a welcome opportunity to give junior officers some much needed financial relief by means of paid overtime.
Royal Ascot was the most prestigious of these events and supplied the ideal opportunity to loosen the purse strings at bit. The annual bonanza of extra pay meant that a lucky few officers could subsequently afford to fund a short holiday for their families. Others, less well off, used the cash to pay off some of the debts that were giving them sleepless nights.
Don desperately wanted to take his wife away for a break. He needed an opportunity to try and heal the wounds that had recently threatened to destroy his marriage. He resolved to clock up as many hours as he could and earn as much as possible in the week ahead.
The coach got to Ascot around ten-thirty and, although the first race wasn’t due to run until 1.30 pm, the town was already alive with visitors. Many of the men were wearing top hats and tails, and the ladies were splendid in their beautiful gowns and crazy hats. Even in those austere times, if anyone doubted there was still money in the country, they only had to look in the reserved car parks that were dotted around the racecourse to see the truth of the matter – for some, at least.
Grey-suited Chauffeurs in peaked caps were busily setting up folding tables that they retrieved, along with the lavish hampers, from the boots of their employers’ cars. Rolls Royces, some new, some vintage, were e
verywhere to be seen.
Elegant family groups were standing around or sitting at the tables. They could be heard to twitter excitedly as they nibbled at their extravagant snacks before they rushed off to the Members Enclosure to rub shoulders with others of their social class, leaving most of the food and drink untouched.
The chauffeur would then take his turn at the table – and it was common practice for any passing constable to join him in the feast, if he could do so without being spotted.
As usual, there was a general parade for the police personnel before the start of the operation, and Don took the time to stroll across the huge parking area to where a long line of gleaming motorcycles stood proudly next to a red brick wall.
The 650cc Triumph Saints that had served the force well for many years were gradually being replaced by the strange-looking BMW R Series machines with their ungainly Boxer flat-twin engines. Whatever the make, every nut and every bolt of every bike had been polished until it shone. The tyres had been blacked, and the writing on the sidewalls painstakingly picked out in gold paint. Don felt a familiar pang as he admired the presentation.
A group of riders from his old Traffic base came over and shook his hand. Strangely, however, nobody seemed to know what to say to him. They all knew what had happened to him and were dying to know what had become of him, but no-one wanted to mention it. An uncomfortable silence followed.
Eventually, Don said, “Has anyone come off on the Tan yet?”
The Tan crossing was a notorious strip of the racecourse that allowed the royal horse-drawn procession of coaches to cross over the Winkfield Road and enter the final straight of the course proper. It consisted of thick matting laid over the tarmac so that the horses’ hooves wouldn’t be damaged. Motorists were allowed to use the road until it was closed an hour or so before the first race. Crossing the matting was no problem to cars, but for motorcycles, it was like crossing an icy skid pan in a gusty wind.
Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton Page 4