Constable Across the Moors

by Nicholas Rhea

  I looked at the hinges of the gate. Two large hinges were secured with long screws, and they were fastened to the other post, the one which did not bear the chain. With no more ado, I found the screwdriver and began to remove the hinges. It was the work of moments. In no time, I had both hinges off and swung open the gate, its weight being borne by the massive chain at the other end. I wheeled my trusty machine through, and returned the hinges to their former place. So much for moorland fences.

  I mounted my bike and felt contented. I wondered how someone might interpret the footprints and wheel marks in the snow – there was a single wheeled track to the fence, a lot of untidiness around the gate and a wheeled single track leading from it. Once through, the terrain was terrible. I was crossing wild moorland, with my wheels bouncing and the machine bucking. I rode the bike in the style I’d now come to adopt, standing on the footrests and allowing it to buck and weave beneath me, trials style. I had a horror of falling off and breaking a leg, for no one would find me here. I would freeze to death, and for some two and a half miles, I carefully rode through snow which was smooth on the surface, but which concealed an alarming variety of pot-holes, clumps of heather, rocks and other hazards.

  But I won. With my motor cycle and myself completely enveloped in frozen white, I managed to navigate that awesome moor. As I reached the distant edge of the moor, I saw to my right the three gleaming white balls of the Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station. They looked duck-egg blue against the pure white of the snow-covered backcloth, and dominated the surrounding moorland. The huge structures towered majestically above everything and looked surrealistic in this ancient moorland setting. The old and the new mingled in a fascinating manner.

  Somewhere in the hollow which lay before the Balls, but which was invisible to me due to the snow, there stood the sturdy moorland inn to which I was heading. I reached the main road and was pleased to note that traffic had passed this way. A snowplough had pushed its way through, and there was evidence of other vehicles. Sergeant Blaketon’s message was therefore rather odd, because if a snowplough had forced its way along here, and if other traffic was passing, then it was difficult to understand how a bus load of businessmen had come to be marooned in the blizzard.

  It would be about nine o’clock as I carefully descended the steep, twisting gradients of Moorcock Bank, and sure enough, a bus was standing on the car park of the inn. It bore a Bradford address, Bradford being some eighty-five miles away. Having parked my bike, I knocked on the door and a lady opened it; she smiled and her pretty face showed some surprise at my snow-clad appearance. I wondered if she knew I was a policeman – the POLICE legend across my helmet was totally obliterated.

  “P.C. Rhea,” I announced, removing my gauntlets.

  “Good heavens!” she stood back to allow me inside. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, stamping the snow from my boots. It fell on to her door mat.

  “Come in for a warm, for God’s sake,” and she stepped back to permit me enter. The interior was comfortably warm, and I was shown into the bar area with its flagstone floor and smouldering peat fire. The place was full of men, some dozing and other sitting around quietly playing cards.

  “Oh,” I said. “Company?”

  “Marooned,” she smiled. “A bus load.”

  I began to unbutton my stout clothing, my hands warm and pliable after the exercise of controlling the bike, and she asked, “Coffee?”

  “I’d love one.”

  “I’m doing breakfast for that lot. Forty-two of them, bacon and eggs. How about you?”

  At the mention of food my mouth began to water and I assured her that a delicious bacon and egg breakfast would be the best thing that could happen to me. She told me to remove my outer clothing and sit with the others. She’d call us into the dining-room when she was ready.

  Some of the men glanced at me, and it was only when I peeled off the heavy jacket that they realised I was the law. I could see their renewed interest.

  “What’s this, Officer? A raid for drinking after time, or before time?”

  “No,” I struggled with the ungainly trousers and rubber boots and was soon standing with my back to the fire, warming my posterior and rubbing my hands. My face burned fiercely and my ears began to hurt as the sudden warmth made the blood course through them. I hadn’t realised my extremities were so cold.

  “Breakfast then?” a stout man smiled. “You’ve called in for your breakfast?”

  “I am going to have breakfast, as a matter of fact.” I looked at them. “Are you the businessmen from Bradford?”

  There was a long silence and then the stout man nodded. “Aye,” he said. “How come you know about us?”

  “I’m searching for you,” I lied to make the matter seem more dramatic. “There’s a hue and cry out for you – there’s reports of missing men snowed up in the North Yorkshire moors, men dying from starvation and exposure, buses falling down ravines and bodies all over …”

  “Gerroff!” he laughed. “Go on, what’s up?”

  “I’m out here on another job …”

  “Not working? They haven’t made you work out here, in all this snow, on a bloody motor bike?” One of them stood up and addressed me.

  “They have. It’s important,” I tried to explain without revealing national secrets.

  “It must be – I’d have a strike at my factory if I even suggested such a thing,” and he sat down.

  I tried to continue. “I was called on my radio. Our Control Room said your bus was thought to have got stuck, and it was felt you might be here but they couldn’t make contact because the telephone lines were down.”

  “No, not down, officer. We’ve taken the phone off the hook.”

  “Off the hook!” I exploded. “You mean I’ve come all this way …”

  “Look,” the stout man stood up and came towards me. “We’re businessmen, and we’re always on call, always being rung up and wanted for some bloody thing or another. When we got here last night, for a drink, it was so nice and cosy that when the weather took a turn for the worse, we decided to stay. We took the telephone off the hook because we didn’t want to be disturbed and we intended staying, didn’t we, lads?”

  “Aye,” came the chorus from the assembled group.

  “This is our holiday, officer. A sudden, unexpected and excellent holiday. Can you think of anything better than being snowed up in a moorland pub miles from civilisation? The landlord and his lady are marvellous and they’ve a stock of food that’ll not get eaten unless they get crowds in. The beer’s fine and we can play dominoes and cards to our hearts’ content. We can drink all day because we’re residents, and we’ve no worries about driving home or getting in late. Our wives will be happy enough that we’re safe, and we’ll stay here as long as we want, away from business pressures, telephones, secretaries, bank managers, problems and wives. We were going to ring today to tell them we’re safe, but snowed up. Now you’ve gone and ruined it.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “As long as you’re safe, my job is over. I’ll report back by radio.”

  “Don’t say we’re not snowed in, will you? I mean, we could leave now because the plough’s been through, but we don’t want to. Tell ’em we’re safe, but stuck fast.”

  “I’ll simply radio to my Control to say you are here and you are all safe. Am I right in thinking none of you wants to be rescued?”

  “No,” came the murmured chorus. “For God’s sake don’t rescue us. Leave us, officer. In a while, that telephone will mysteriously be reconnected and we’ll convince our loved ones we’re fine, sitting here in eight-foot drifts and suffering like hell, and then the telephone cables will come down again!”

  “I get the message,” I said.

  “Then join us for breakfast. Cereals, bacon, eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms, toast and hot coffee …”

  I joined them. I couldn’t refuse, not after my appetite-raising morning. They chattered
about their meetings, their businesses, their twelve-hour days and hectic travelling, and I could see that this enforced holiday was perfect for them. They could relax totally, and I would not reveal this to anyone.

  After breakfast, I told them I must leave. I got invitations to visit them and pocketed many address cards before buttoning up my motor-cycle suit. Now it felt cold and damp, and the thought of leaving this warm place with its beams, open fires, smell of smoke and peat was awful. But I had a mission of national importance and I must not dally a moment longer.

  As I fastened the zips and buttons, a young man in a fine suit and sleek blonde hair came forward for a chat.

  “You didn’t come all this way just to find us, did you?”

  “No.” I was honest. “I’ve another job here.”

  “I reckon it must be important to your people,” he said, puffing at a pipe, “otherwise they wouldn’t have made you risk life and limb by motor cycling here.”

  “It is,” I confirmed, sliding my head into the cold helmet. I pulled the strap under my chin and it was wet with melted snow. I grimaced as I tightened it.

  “Something to do with that chap that I saw crossing the moors, maybe?” he smiled knowingly.

  “Aye.” I knew he’d seen my Russian!

  “I saw him from that back bedroom,” he said. “A tall chap dressed like a bloody Russian. Snow suit and big fur hat. He was crossing the moor on that track behind the pub.”

  “What time?” I asked.

  “Not long before you came,” he said. “Quarter to nine, maybe.”

  “Which way was he going?” I had fastened my chin strap and was ready to leave.

  “Out towards the moor heights. I reckon he’d been sleeping in one of the outhouses of this place, officer.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your interest.”

  “And we appreciate your discretion,” he said.

  I waved farewell to them, and thanked the lady for a superb breakfast. I’d been there well over an hour and was feeling fit and ready. I radioed a brief report to Control and merely confirmed their presence here. I said they were fit and well, with adequate food and warmth, and there was no risk to them.

  To cut a long story short, I guided my faithful Francis Barnett towards the track in question and there I found a single trail of footprints. They emerged from an outbuilding close to the pub and it was easy to follow them in the snow. By now, the flakes had ceased falling and a wintry sun was trying to force a way through the heavy grey clouds. I thought again of Candlemas Day and wondered if the sun would shine.

  It was said locally that, “If Candlemas be dry and fair, Half of winter’s yet to come – and mair!”

  Perhaps the rest of winter would be better than this?

  After a mile and a half, the footprints wove erratically towards a grouse butt. I could see the boot marks etched clearly ahead of me as they climbed towards the lofty butt. Boris must be hiding there now! A grouse butt is like a three-sided square, it is made of stone with walls about four feet high. Grouse shooters lurk in there to blast at birds which are driven over their heads …

  I decided to park and inform Control of this development. It seemed I had succeeded where others had failed. Upon receiving my message, I was instructed to await further orders. I waited for quarter of an hour, and this caused me to feel the cold for the first time. My feet, hands and face were icy and a bitter wind whipped the dry loose snow into small heaps and drifts. If the wind strengthened, this place could soon be well and truly isolated. Those businessmen might be there for days!

  Then came the response from Control.

  “Proceed to arrest,” I was ordered. I was a long way from the hiding man and decided to take the bike. At least, it would get me closer to him in a swift manner. I kicked it into life, and began to climb the rough track, with the wind biting into my face and driving loose snow into the goggles and among the engine parts. I wobbled in the fierce wind but kept my eyes on that distant grouse butt.

  Suddenly, the man stood up. His head and trunk appeared above the rim of the butt as he stared in disbelief at my approach. Then he began to run. At that instant, a Landrover materialised from somewhere, having been hidden down a dip in the track and it also raced towards the fleeing Russian.

  God, it was like something from a spy film! So those films were realistic after all!

  I accelerated, but the snow-bound track caused the rear wheel to skid; I fought to maintain my motion and my balance as I saw the man running towards the Landrover. I was roaring towards them both. I had to get there first, this being my first major arrest. A spy!!

  I stood on the footrests and allowed the little bike to buck and roar beneath me as I closed in; now I could see the fellow’s eyes beneath his furry white hat and the Landrover was a similar distance at the far side of him. It was neck and neck. I must win! I couldn’t let the nation down at a time of such need. I would have to abandon my bike, I would have to leap off as I neared him, and allow the machine to fall into the snow, but I must make this arrest. For the country’s sake, for the Chief Constable’s sake, for my own sake.

  I climbed the rising ground as the Landrover hurtled towards me with clouds of snow rising behind. The fugitive moved closer towards it. I was only yards away; I could see his thick leather boots, his snow suit, his furry hat …

  He was mine. I had him!

  But he wasn’t, and I hadn’t.

  The Landrover did not stop at him; instead it came directly for me, with its rear wheels skidding violently and the front ones bucking against the rough terrain. God, I was going to be killed!

  I swerved aside; I tore at the handlebars and yanked the front wheel to one side, but I was too late. The motor cycle toppled over as the heavy wing of the Landrover clipped the handlebars. I was thrown right off. I rolled clear and felt myself falling down a hillside. I curled up into a protective ball, with my helmet, suit and gloves providing ideal protection as I gathered speed down a snow-filled, bracken-covered and heather-clad moorland slope. I could hear the victorious Landrover roaring away, and my motor-cycle engine had stopped somewhere out of sight.

  I came to rest at the bottom, shaken but not hurt. The heather, with its springy tough stalks, had bounced me down that hillside like a ball, and when I got to my feet, I saw that the Landrover had stopped further along. Several faces peered at me and I waved my fist at them.

  They waved back, and as I started to climb the slope, tugging at heather roots for support, they vanished over the horizon.

  I had lost my Russian.

  Six weeks later, we were in a classroom for a one-day course. The subject was “Liaison with the C.I.D.” A detective inspector from Headquarters was laying down the rules about communication between departments, and liaison between officers and men.

  “Exercise Moorjock was a perfect example of confusion,” he said.

  Was that an exercise? I thought it was the real thing! I’d given my all on that occasion, I’d risked my life and my limbs!

  “There was no communication, no liaison. We shot a film of the exercise to highlight some of the problems,” he said. “It speaks for itself.”

  And when the lights went out and the film hit the screen, I saw myself riding towards the camera; I saw the pseudo-Russian waiting for me, and I saw myself tumbling down a moorland hillside in a cloud of winter snow.

  I could not forget those Candlemas Day events, but did remember the old Yorkshire saying, “Look for nowt in February – and you’ll get it.”

  2

  “This only is the witchcraft I have us’d”

  William Shakespeare 1564–1616 Othello

  “Rhea? Are you there?” It was Sergeant Blaketon and I was retrieving a heap of files from the floor of my office. I had lifted the telephone to answer and had dislodged a heap of paperwork with the cable.

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” I responded. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Get yourself out to Ellersfield,” he instructed me. “Go and
see a Miss Katherine Hardwick of Oak Crag Cottage. She’s got a complaint to make.”

  “What sort of complaint, sergeant?” I was still struggling to hold the telephone with one hand and pick up the files with the other. It would have been easier to leave them on the floor, but they annoyed me.

  “Mischief makers,” he said. “She’s being plagued by somebody from the village, one of the lads by the sound of it.”

  “Kids!” I snorted. “What’s he doing to her?”

  “Daft things really, knocking on her door when she’s in bed and running away before she opens it, tapping on the window when she’s sitting alone, pinching tomatoes from her greenhouse and cutting the tops off all her cabbages. That sort of thing. Nuisances, Rhea, nothing but bloody nuisances.”

  “Is she a regular complainer?” I asked him.

  “No, she’s not. She’s a decent hard-working woman who lives alone and she earns her keep by growing flowers and vegetables, or doing odd jobs for the folk of the area.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said.

  “Good. It’ll keep you quiet for the rest of the morning. Anything else to report?”

  “Nothing, sergeant, it’s all quiet.” It was extremely quiet. My beat had lacked any real trouble or serious incident for the past six weeks, but this lull may have been due to the weather. The winter snows and gales tended to keep people away from the moors and its range of villages, but now the spring had arrived, my workload would surely increase. Life was beginning anew, and I wondered if this lad’s activities with Miss Hardwick were a sign of rising sap.

  I departed from my hill-top house on my trusty Francis Barnett, clad up to the eyeballs in my winter suit, goggles, helmet and gloves. The crisp air contained a definite chill, but the brightness of the morning and the clarity of the views across the valleys and hills were truly magnificent. I was faced with a journey of some eighteen miles each way, and braced myself for the long, cold ride. There would be none of the gymnastics I’d enjoyed during Exercise Moorjock.