Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2)

by Nicholas Rhea

  Towards midnight we found ourselves in Brantsford marketplace and Rupert decided to park for a few minutes to observe the passing scene. This is always a useful exercise, although Brantsford dies at 10.30. That is the time the pubs close and, as that event had passed quietly, our vigil was distinctly lacking in action and pace. To be truthful, that was the situation until a stray dog appeared.

  It was a cur dog, a type very common among the moorland farmers of this region. They are small, hardy animals, predominantly black with patches of white fur, and this one emerged from a side street to sniff the cool night air. It cocked its leg against a lamppost and wandered into the main street. It was quite alone.

  I noticed Rupert lift the handset of his radio, but I did not link that action in any way with the dog. Next he pressed he PA switch. This meant the public address system was alive.

  That which followed was quite surprising. Rupert lifted the handset to his mouth and began to produce the most realistic sounds of a dogfight I’ve ever heard this side of Percy Edwards. The amplified battle cries reverberated across the town and it was as if all the hounds in hell were fighting in Brantsford High Street. The innocent cause of this commotion stood in the middle of the road, highlighted by a streetlamp with its hair standing on end, its tail as erect as a flagpole and its teeth bared in a realistic grimace as it sought its hidden foe. Rupert continued to growl and snarl until several doors opened and many lights came on; people came to see what was happening and one pub was cast open to discharge a late-night party into the street. Everyone wanted to observe the fight but all they found was a very puzzled cur dog alone in the middle of the street.

  Then Rupert stopped.

  It was amazing how busy the small town had become and we now had something and somebody to watch. From the excited voices of the pub crowd it seemed they were members of a 21st birthday party which was being held for the landlord’s daughter. The entire gathering from the pub was now in the street, all clutching glasses of drink and seeking nearby nooks and crannies for the dogfight. Up and down the street windows had opened both upstairs and downstairs, and curious folk leaned out, asking questions of one another and expressing their concern about uncontrolled dogs. The partygoers provided a backcloth of coarse humour for the roused residents, and among all this speculation and commotion the bewildered dog wandered about, now totally unconcerned about the flap it had caused.

  Rupert sat with a big smile on his face and I laughed quietly at his side. It was almost like watching a live stage performance, with no idea what was to follow.

  “You’ve certainly livened up this place!” I chuckled. “It’s quite busy now.”

  “It works wonders when things are quiet,” he said, taking out his pipe and lighting it. “I find it fascinating to watch people as they hunt the dogfight. When they go in I’ll do it again, briefly. They’ll all rush out again — they’ll talk about it for ages afterwards.”

  And he did. Ten minutes later the cur had vanished and the drinkers had returned to their party. The windows had been closed, the doors had been locked and the town restored to its normal state of tranquillity. Rupert’s second impression resulted in the ghastly amplified sound of dogs fighting to the death, two killers snarling their vengeance upon each other, howling and barking in the darkness.

  From our vantage point we enjoyed a repeat performance as more lights came on, more doors opened and the partygoers rushed out once again, laughing and shrieking as they nervously sought the Hound of the Baskervilles. By now my sides were aching with suppressed laughter but Rupert simply sat there, nursing his pipe as he observed the bewildered people trying to solve the mystery. I wondered what kind of rumours would be rife in the little town tomorrow, and tried to visualise what Sergeant Blaketon would do when the tales reached his ears. He’d probably arrange a purge upon stray dogs.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Rupert said quite suddenly, stuffing his pipe into the car’s ashtray. We left the warmth and security of the car, walked into view of the people and patrolled the High Street much to the relief of the residents. Several asked if we’d heard the dogfight, and Rupert denied it. He explained that we’d just arrived, although he did mention a cur dog which was now trotting peacefully home along Junction Terrace. The final scene in this drama was an invitation to join the birthday festivities. We did this and enjoyed them tremendously. I could see that Rupert’s talent was already paying dividends.

  During the nights which followed I was to learn more of his unique and fascinating talent. In similar moments of inactivity I would ask him if he could mimic particular sounds and would challenge him with requests to copy things like squeaking gates or a roll of thunder. Invariably he could oblige.

  Sometimes his art was undertaken in the privacy of the car without coming to the notice of the general public, but by far the most interesting sessions were those broadcast through the public address system of his patrol car.

  I have seen women blush delightfully at a loud and sincere wolf-whistle coming from somewhere beyond their ken. I have seen those silly people about to jaywalk or drive their cars out of parking areas without looking, pull up sharply in the face of Rupert’s stem warnings. I’ve known him bid ‘good morning’ to his friends in this way and ‘goodnight’ to home-going drunks. I’ve seen him remind his wife, whom he noticed out shopping, to bring home his favourite cheese or some meat for the cat. I’ve also watched him mischievously make totally unidentifiable sounds — one example is a simple clicking noise, the sort one does with one’s mouth to encourage a horse to trot. When done through an amplifier in the street the noise can be very baffling and it’s good fun to watch the genuine bewilderment on the faces of those who cannot identify it. Other small intriguing noises included clicking his fingernails into the mike, drumming his fingers on the side of the microphone, scraping a matchbox’s sandpaper with a thumbnail or simply yawning loudly.

  But it was his ability to imitate specific sounds which I found most interesting. He could produce an excellent cuckoo and I’m sure he was the cause of many rural folk writing to their newspaper to boast of hearing the season’s first cuckoo. I have often wondered how many early cuckoos were Rupert idling his time in a layby. The blackbird’s alarm call and the honk of a pheasant were nicely done too, and I’m sure he created despondency among the wildlife on my beat. I could imagine the local birds and beasts hearing these alarm calls and accepting them as genuine before scurrying to safety.

  It is difficult to highlight the most memorable of his imitations, but two remain etched in my memory. The first occurred in the very early hours of one morning when we had been diverted to the seaside town of Strensford upon a rather urgent enquiry. It was almost an hour’s journey from our beat, but as Rupert was the only patrol car driver on duty that night, it meant we had to undertake the task. We left Aidensfield at eleven to arrive about midnight and deal with the inquiry. It was no more than a traffic inquiry from a southern police force, but it demanded the knowledge of an expert Road Traffic officer because it involved the misuse of a Goods Vehicle Carrier’s Licence. I didn’t understand the urgency but went along and learned something of this branch of traffic law. We concluded at 1.30 and decided to have our meal break at Strensford.

  We could have gone to the police station, but it was a lovely summer morning with a clear, bright sky, so we decided to enjoy our sandwiches and flasks on the cliff top. There we could enjoy the superb views out to sea and watch the coasters sailing by. Rupert knew the town sufficiently well to select a quiet parking place overlooking the harbour.

  He was a fascinating companion. He boasted a fund of interesting stories and seemed to know a little about everything. Fortunately, he was not a boastful type and it was during this conversation that he reminded me of the part played by the little man who sat in the little office at the end of Strensford’s ancient swing bridge.

  From our vantage point, we could see the bridge. It was of Victorian vintage and spanned the middle harbour, the only
link between the east and west sides of the town. Being old-fashioned it was operated by the man who sat in the tiny round hut at one end. When a ship came into the harbour and wished to proceed into the upper reaches to berth it had to make its presence known to the bridge man. He would then open the bridge to allow it through. Passages of this kind were done only at high tide and, as high tide varied from day to day, the town was frequently brought to a standstill as a slow-moving ship sailed upstream between the open halves of the bridge. There was nothing anyone could do about it, and the bridge became a popular tourist sight.

  “I’ll show you something,” he said when we had finished our meal. He started the engine and drove down to the harbour side, where he parked in the shadows of the fish sheds with the lights off. “See the little hut on the bridge?”

  “Yes,” I said, for I knew it well.

  “The bridge man will be in there now. It’s manned for two hours either side of high tide. I can see his light on.”

  He flicked the switch of the PA and proceeded to give a first-rate imitation of a ship’s hooter. He gave three blasts, each very slowly and each reverberating above the sleeping roofs of the town. To my ears it was a perfect reproduction of a ship’s hooter and I felt sure the population of Strensford would never know it was a fake.

  “That was good,” I said sincerely.

  “Watch the little hut,” he smiled, getting out his faithful pipe.

  After a few minutes a little man rushed out, peered into the darkness of the lower harbour and then uncoupled some links at the centre of the bridge. He remained on the half nearest our side of the water and I watched the massive bridge begin to open. He had set the mechanism in motion before emerging and, very slowly the two halves split at the centre, each swinging open and moving the entire structure to the sides of the river. When it was fully open the halves halted and I could see the figure of the little man standing expectantly on the edge of his half. He was peering towards the sea.

  Rupert started the car engine and drove out of the fish sheds. When he was on the road he switched on his headlights and cruised towards the bridge, where a closed gate prevented sleepy drivers leaping off the edge and into the water.

  “Evening, Harry,” he got out and shouted at the fellow, who still gazed out to sea.

  “Morning, Mr Langley. You haven’t seen a ship down there, have you?”

  “Not where we’ve been,” smiled Rupert, strolling to the gate and leaning on it.

  “I could swear a hooter went, honest.”

  “Hooter?”

  “Aye, a ship’s hooter, three blasts. The signal to open the bridge. Didn’t you hear it?”

  Rupert shook his head solemnly. “Not me, Harry.”

  “It must be my age,” said Harry walking towards us. He remained with us for about three minutes, during which time no ship materialised from the darkness.

  “I’m going barmy,” he said and re-entered his little hut to set in motion the machinery to close the bridge. He repeatedly uttered sighs and said he couldn’t understand it; he could have sworn he’d heard the signal to open up. Rupert never made the bridge-man any wiser and we each received a cup of tea from him. We whiled away an hour in his company, listening to tales of his seafaring days. Like all old men he loved to reminisce.

  And so it went on, each night producing another sound from the strangely constructed throat and lips of PC Rupert Langley. He imitated the crowing cockerel of dawn and I’m sure many a worker has rushed off early because of it. He did a useful motorcycle scrambling sound and wasn’t bad with a corn horn. Howling dogs and braying donkeys were easy and on one occasion, he excited an entire coachload of day-trippers.

  This happened in Eltering during a night-patrol. The party had enjoyed a full and merry day at the seaside, having concluded their outing with a visit to a late-night club. They had left the club around two in the morning and their coach stopped at an all-night cafe in Eltering for toilets, tea and coffee. Their choice was a transport cafe, very pleasantly clean and a point of attraction for night-duty policemen.

  The truth is that we fancied a cup of tea about 3.30 that morning and decided to visit that same cafe. We arrived in the carpark just as the trippers’ bus began to disgorge its load. Before we had time to climb from our vehicle the entire contents of the coach had formed a long queue in the narrow doorway. It stretched halfway across the carpark, and the solitary fellow on duty would take ages to cope with this lot. We remained in the car, watching the queue with sorrow. The more we thought about our lost cups of tea the more thirsty we became.

  Then I saw Rupert’s eyes twinkling. Out came his pipe, which he lit among clouds of pungent fumes and, as I guessed, he picked up the handset. What was he up to now?

  With the handset close to his mouth he began to produce a sound like a distant wind. It whistled slightly, then gradually intensified and changed its note. Now it was just like a jet aircraft. As Rupert increased the volume of the noise I realised that the tail-enders of the tea queue were all peering up at the sky, seeking the elusive and noisy aircraft.

  The note grew louder. Then he changed its pitch. Suddenly he produced another sound as if the engine was spluttering and backfiring. It sounded as if an aeroplane was coughing alarmingly, and he followed with a high-pitched whistling, for all the world like a crashing and doomed aircraft. The bewildered queue was buzzing with excitement and anticipation, with all eyes raised to the dark mysterious heavens as the unknown aircraft entered its final seconds.

  Then the crash. How he produced this I do not know, but he crouched over the handset with his hands cupped about his mouth as he produced the most realistic and horrendous sounds of an aircraft in its final agony. He followed this masterpiece with the muffled roar of its inevitable crash, accompanied with more distant rumblings and explosions. Then there was a long period of extreme silence. The queue members were stunned and bewildered.

  “Let’s go,” he announced.

  Lights blazing and two-tone horn blaring he spun the wheels of the police car as he emerged from the carpark, wheels and tyres shrieking as he vanished along the road. A matter of yards away he turned suddenly right. I had no idea what he was up to, but once off the main road he manoeuvred the car through the back lanes of a housing estate and minutes later re-appeared at the cafe. He doused his lights and waited a short distance away.

  All the waiting queue members were scrambling aboard their bus, with the driver urging them to hurry. Then the bus raced off the way we had just travelled, everyone anxiously seeking the scene of the plane crash. When it had gone, we pulled into the carpark for the second time, parked and emerged triumphant from our seats. We were enjoying a lovely cup of tea by the time the bus returned. Everyone was in a state of high excitement, and we said it was a false alarm. We couldn’t explain the noises they’d heard.

  It was a foregone conclusion that one night something would go wrong. A talent of that kind used in these circumstances must inevitably bring trouble of some kind, and I think Rupert knew this. His twinkling sense of humour and love of people and their reactions kept his talent within reasonable limits and it is fair to say that no harm was ever done. He knew when to stop and many victims of his jokes never knew they had been hoaxed. Many of his impressions resulted in little more than talking points or unexplained mysteries.

  It was said that the inspector and the sergeants knew about his activities, but he always took care to practise his deception when no supervisory ranks were around. Very occasionally he would direct something specifically towards them. He could imitate footsteps, for example, and I’ve seen him sit in his car in the shadows and imitate a woman’s high heels clip-clopping along a footpath. And I’ve seen the smile of expectancy on Sergeant Bairstow’s face as he waited for the vision of loveliness to appear. Then Rupert would materialise instead. I’ve known him imitate a galloping horse at night with the same result. It was all good, harmless fun.

  But in the early hours of one spring morning thi
ngs went wrong. I was with him at the time and can smile now, although it provided a few hair-raising moments.

  It was a lovely morning in late April and we had almost completed a full night’s tour of duty, being scheduled to come off patrol at six o’clock. It was about a quarter to five and the sun was striving to make the coming day warm and beautiful. The dew of night covered the choice grass about us and the birds were waking the countryside, all competing for the crown of champion of the morning chorus.

  We had concluded a long, careful patrol of the district and had a few minutes to spare before returning to Ashfordly, where I would book off duty. Rupert brought the car to rest on a small hillock at the side of a rural lane, a vantage point regularly used by sightseers during fine weekends. It provided a fine view of Ryedale and was perfect for a picnic. Behind us were the open moorlands, stretching loftily into North Yorkshire, but before us, on the bottom side of the road, was a pasture full of very contended cows. As we parked they peered balefully at us, as cows tend to do, and one or two took a step nearer out of sheer curiosity. This is a feature of cows — they do like to know what’s going on, but within a few minutes they had accepted as harmless the big black shiny creature with bright eyes. They returned their attention to the succulent grass.

  There must have been fifty all told. They were all chewing their cud and munching very noisily without a care in the world. Their only worry would be milking-time in a couple of hours or so, followed by a gentle meander back to this field. It was a life of sheer pleasantry, and these cows looked very satisfied with their lives.

  “I can do a lovely randy bull noise,” announced Rupert, taking out his pipe.

  I laughed. “Randy bull noise?”

  “A bellow, I think it’s termed. It has quite a dramatic effect on cows, you know, particularly in the spring.”

  “Has it?” I wasn’t convinced.

  “That’s when a young cow’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of randy bulls,” he said.