“So, Your Worships, all thoughts of rape left me when she hauled me into bed. This was no rape of an unwilling woman, no felonious entry into the house, although it nearly was. You cannot prosecute a man for his thoughts or desires, only for his illegal misdeeds. I submit, Your Worships, on behalf of myself, that there is no case to answer. I ask that I be discharged.”
It was a most impressive speech and I wondered where he had learned to speak like this.
Cynthia signed her deposition, following which Claude Jeremiah gave his own evidence. He was closely examined by the prosecution and signed his deposition, which totally refuted any allegation of burglary or rape. The magistrates signed all the depositions, then adjourned to make their decision.
The court devolved into a muffled chatter, interspaced with moments of rude laughter until the door at the rear of the bench opened and the majestic line-up returned, unsmiling.
Claude Jeremiah stood to attention as they took their seats and courteously remained standing as they settled upon their chairs.
“Claude Jeremiah Greengrass,” said Alderman Fazakerly. “There is considerable doubt as to the precise timing of events that night. The crime of burglary, so adequately explained by Sergeant Blaketon, does not seem to have been fulfilled. We find there is insufficient evidence to justify a committal for trial on indictment on a charge of burglary. As no other charges have been levelled against you, we dismiss this case.”
“I’ll get him one day!” I heard Blaketon growl, but I must be honest when I say I doubted this very much indeed.
Chapter 9
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE — ‘Hamlet’
*
The solitary policeman who patrols the streets and lanes at night regularly finds himself with the time and the opportunity to contemplate. He finds himself thinking about the meaning of life and there are many sage sayings which adequately illustrate his mental attitude during those long, silent hours. The poets have endeavoured to capture the character of night and have produced fine phrases like ‘ships that pass in the night’ or ‘the shades of night which fell so fast’. Policemen, on the other hand, are much more practical and tend to consider ‘nights that are lang and mirk’ or ‘long, long wintry nights’ or the ‘longest night in all the year’. If policemen do lean towards poetry they consider themselves ‘sentries of the shadowy night’ or even ‘sons of the sable night’.
It may be possible to fill a book with such quotations but police officers are not keen on ratiocinated quotations, unless they are created by themselves. Although night-duty does give time for the constable to produce words of wisdom, this seldom happens. Instead, the quiet times breed mischief.
One passable form of activity is to play jokes upon one’s colleagues. One advantage of this is that it is possible to use the whole district as a playground, but a distinct disadvantage is that one becomes so involved and excited that one forgets that the public sometimes suffer from a lack of sleep and peer out of their windows. Another important factor is that sergeants, inspectors and even superintendents have a nasty habit of creeping up on the frolicking policemen and this leads to all kinds of disciplinary trouble.
In general, though, the pranks are harmless. One very popular prank was to creep around the police officers’ bicycles, which were parked all night outside the station, and remove their saddles. These were concealed, and the morning witnessed several poor bobbies, tired after their night-patrols, cycling home in curious positions, not daring to sit on the dangerously protruding seat-pillars. By the next night the seats had returned. Another trick was to remove one pedal, so that the constable had to cycle home by using only one leg. Alternative caps would be switched on the hat rack, so that it was a most difficult job to find one’s own headpiece. All good, harmless fun.
In addition to these internal pranks many tricks were played in the streets. It was the misfortune of most new constables to be the victim of such pranks, but at a small station like Aidensfield or Ashfordly it was very unlikely that I would become a victim, because our night-duty stints were often solitary affairs. None the less, the possibility always remained, particularly when patrolling the streets of nearby Eltering or Strensford. When working in a strange area one had always to be alert to such possibilities and I bore this in mind when working at those stations.
I remember one poor constable, newly arrived from the City of London. At the tender age of twenty he had only a few months’ service in that Force and had transferred to the north to be near his fiancée. He was given the task of patrolling a beat in Eltering, and had the misfortune to encounter Ben and Ron, the two traffic terrors. Over one of our mid-shift breakfasts they casually mentioned that it was the duty of the town night-shift man to arouse the local keeper of the dogs’ home. They told that constable that the keeper liked to be up at five o’clock in the morning in order to exercise and feed all the inmates. Because he was notoriously bad at getting out of bed he had left a standing request for the night-duty policemen to rouse him at five. The police had agreed because his father was a magistrate in York.
That is what they told the poor young constable. It was, of course, a load of rubbish. Even worse was their recommended method of rousing him. These merrymaking constables coolly told the youngster that the only way to rouse the sleepy keeper was to kick and hammer loudly on his door for a full five minutes. They carefully told him which door to use.
And so the diligent youngster had gone about this duty. The result was that the entire town was roused by the continued and irate barking of dozens of stray dogs, an action which did arouse the puzzled keeper.
Another prank was perpetrated by a sergeant who dressed as a road sweeper and cleaned the streets in the early hours of the morning. He performed his dramatic role whenever a new constable was patrolling, and it was a comparatively simple operation. He borrowed a barrow and broom from the Highways Depot and, dressed like a tramp, swept the town at 3 a.m. or thereabouts. He did this to test the reaction of the constable concerned. But what does a constable do when he sees a road sweeper at work so early?
Sergeants, I suppose, are just as guilty as their men for playing tricks on one another or upon their subordinates, although it must be said that many of these were done with valid reasons. For example, many night-shifts tolerate one constable who cannot remain awake, especially when on office-duty. Tricks were played on him in an attempt to keep him awake.
One of the funniest of this kind involved my pal Dave at Brantsford, who nodded off in the middle of a long report about an alleged case of careless driving. I had been on night-patrol with Sergeant Bairstow and he decided to call at Brantsford Police Office on a routine visit. Dave was on duty. The lights were on and we made no pretence about being silent. It would be around five o’clock in the morning.
Inside we found Dave fast asleep. He was sitting at the typewriter, with his elbow on the desk and his head resting on his upright hand, fast asleep. More amazing, there was a cup of cold tea dangling from his upright hand, the handle hooked upon one of his fingers. The cup was about half full and somehow, his hands supported both a cup and his head. The unfinished report was in the typewriter.
“Look at that!” grinned Sergeant Bairstow. “It’s bloody amazing — he’s out like a light.”
“Shall I wake him?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he grinned. And Sergeant Bairstow crept into the office and climbed onto a chair. He carefully opened the face of the wall clock and moved the pointers forward from 5 to 7.30. The he beckoned me to stand where I was. He joined me.
For a moment he watched the snoozing Dave and his amazing cup of tea, then shouted, “Morning, PC Watts.”
Dave jerked into instant life. His tousled head shook into wakefulness as he struggled to open his eyes and the cup now jolted so much that he poured its contents all over the blotting-pad.
“Sorry,” he apologised. “You surprised me.”
“
Is that important?” asked Bairstow, indicating the unfinished report.
“I’m going on holiday, Sergeant, when I finish at six, and wanted it done by then.”
“Six?” a puzzled expression appeared on Bairstow’s face and I realised he was no mean actor.
“Nights,” Dave replied in all innocence. “I’m on nights — I finish at six, Sarge, and we’re going straight off in the car. We’ve a ferry to catch at Hull…”
“I thought you were on early turn,” said Sergeant Bairstow, frowning and looking at his watch.
This action caused Dave to turn and look at the clock behind him, and he leapt from the chair. “Half past seven!” he cried. “Bloody hell, I should be driving through York now…”
“York?”
“Yes, on the way to Hull… I was supposed to be on the road by half six… bloody hell…”
And he began ripping out his unfinished report, rushing round the office, tidying up and generally generating something of a whirlwind as we stood and watched. He mopped up his spilt tea and I could see he was terribly agitated.
I wondered what the sergeant would do next. He did nothing.
“Sorry, Sarge,” cried Dave, almost running out of the office with his hat on the back of his head and his jacket open. “Thanks, Sarge, I mean…”
And Charlie Bairstow allowed him to leave. The last I saw of Dave that morning was his flying figure as he tore from the police station to rouse his family. Only then would he realise what had really happened.
The truth was that Sergeant Bairstow had used this method to give him an hour off duty before going on holiday. It was also a reminder that one should not fall asleep on duty, and I knew Dave would always remember this lesson.
“Come along, Nicholas, it will be six o’clock by the time we return.”
A lot of pranks were undertaken to relieve the crushing boredom, but others were perpetrated to teach less friendly policemen a lesson. It must be said that every police station, large or small, has its own rotten egg. He could be too keen on prosecuting the public, too hard on kids, or simply a misfit among his fellow officers. Such policemen are unpopular, even among policemen.
There are many kinds of unpopular cops — it might be a youngster from an upper-class background who thinks himself superior to his colleagues — it might be a brain-box who has passed all his exams and is good at academic subjects, but hopeless at practical policing, or it might be a keen officer who books every possible defaulter for the most trivial offences. Whatever their faults, disliked officers can be treated with considerable contempt by their colleagues.
Such a fellow arrived at Eltering a few months after I was posted to Aidensfield. He was a tall, Nordic-looking character with high cheekbones and wavy blond hair. He considered himself God’s answer to Romeo and, worse still, he came from the south. This accident of birth immediately segregated him from the Yorkshiremen about him. It must be said, however, that his southern nativity alone did not cause any real rift because Yorkshiremen are kind enough to such unfortunates to attempt a programme of conversion. During this intensive course the incomer would be taught the ways of Yorkshire folk and would begin to understand their wiles. If such incomers were wise they would accept the lessons or respect the advice given. If they were stupid they would attempt to outwit the Yorkshiremen.
This particular constable, whose name was Sean O’Malley and who looked nothing like an Irishman, was none the less christened ‘Paddy’ on the day he arrived. His first action was to promptly let everyone know he resented this name because he wasn’t Irish. ‘Sean’ was acceptable, he said, nothing more, nothing less. So Sean it was to his face, and Snooty or Paddy behind his back.
His attitude soon upset the local constables and indeed the populace. The local police were upset because he scathingly compared the tiny market town of Eltering with the busy metropolis of London, and he upset the residents by coldly reporting them for all manner of curious offences like tethering mules on the highway, shaking mats before 8 a.m., having shop-blinds less than eight feet above the footpath, fixing flowerpots on window-ledges without securing them, repairing cars in the street and many similar wrongs. He seemed to revel in unearthing the most unrealistic laws to enforce.
This made him less than popular with the sergeants, who disliked having to submit his reports for consideration by their superiors. It alienated him from his superiors because they had to make decisions whether or not to prosecute these startling illegalities. He once set about proving that a local tramp was an incorrigible rogue by using the full weight of the Vagrancy Act 1824, and even tried to prosecute a fairground fortune-teller for being a fraudulent medium. He had a passion for inspecting old motor vehicles in the hope he would find horrific crimes created by flapping mudguards, ineffective warning instruments, mobile cranes with wheels too large, agricultural tractors used for purposes not connected with agriculture, rakish cars bearing dangerous mascots, trailers without the requisite number of attendants, solo motorcycles towing trailers and a multitude of parking positions which he believed were causing unnecessary obstructions.
The snag was that all the farmers ran old bangers. These unclean vehicles would carry corn, corpses, sheep, pigs and hens, vegetable produce and sometimes even people. It was not prudent to ask whether these were ‘social, domestic and pleasure’ purposes, nor was it deemed wise to ask if the car was taxed only for private use. Sean’s activities meant that every trip into town was a financial hazard because of a possible court appearance, so people did not venture into Eltering if he was likely to be on duty. As a result the economic future of Eltering, especially on market day, was threatened.
The result was that Snooty Paddy believed he had cleaned up the town. Gone was the huge number of horrendous offences which had threatened the security of the town before his arrival. Now there was a marketplace peopled by law-abiding citizens and a handful of cars with no faults. All the faulty ones stayed at home, or else went to Harrowby market.
The sergeants spoke to this man in an effort to encourage him to take a more realistic view of life, and a more reasonable approach to the public. But their efforts failed. Sean knew his law and it was his duty to enforce that law. There would be no discrimination, no favouritism, no slacking, no question of preferential treatment. If an offence was committed, that offence would be reported by him for summons.
His activities around the undersides of cars, lorries and buses caused him to be known as Gravel Knees, a derisory nickname which he failed to discover.
The problem facing his supervisory officers was how to cure him of his disease. Doing one’s job correctly in the police service is never easy, for there is always that element of society who feel they have been badly treated or have suffered some injustice. Men like Gravel Knees believe they are treating everyone alike and that their actions do not lead to injustice. In truth, they are a menace to society. To rigidly enforce every rule, law and order down to its full stops and commas, is stupidity at its very worst and persecution at its best.
I am reminded of the old saying, ‘Rules are made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men’, and most police officers feel this is a good guide to sensible law enforcement. Gravel Knees was a fool and discussions about him were held in high places, even in very high places. We learned he had left the Metropolitan Police due to antagonism from senior officers. Down there, it seems, he had enforced the Metropolitan Police Act with such fervour that he undid years of good crime detection work by other officers. Men, like detectives, rely on the public for freely given crime-busting information and spend years building up relationships. Good informants were getting booked by Gravel Knees for various social evils like getting drunk or quitting their cars without switching off the engine, and thereafter they refused to cooperate in the fight against serious crime.
If Gravel Knees was rigid in his attitude towards the law, he was equally rigid in the application of his duty. If the sergeant told him to patrol the town and pers
onally try every doorknob he would do exactly that without any question. An order was an order. He did not question authority of any kind, being firmly in the belief that those who issued orders had Guidance From Above, and that there were many sound reasons for the orders in question. The man was almost an automaton.
His peculiar attitude to life set us talking one night. I was on duty, patrolling my beat in the little Ford Anglia and halted at Eltering for my morning break at 2 a.m. Gravel Knees was assigned to Eltering town that same night. At our mid-shift meal break was Vesuvius from Malton, the two Road Traffic lads, Ben and Ron, Sergeant Bairstow, Gravel Knees and myself. It made a cosy gathering, all of us sitting in the tiny office with mugs of tea and sandwiches. We chattered like pals of many years’ standing, such is the camaraderie of the police service.
During our discussion the question of blind obedience arose and Ron skilfully manoeuvred the subject to the testing of doorknobs.
“I maintain that not every doorknob should be checked,” he pontificated. “I mean, there are places that no one in his right mind is going to enter unlawfully, so why check them?”
“I disagree,” said Sergeant Bairstow. I now knew him well enough to spot a very cheeky gleam in his eye. “Every door should be checked. If our orders say we must check every door, then that’s what must be done. Orders are not compiled without good reason, Ron. They’re often the product of past experiences.”
“The point I’m making,” returned Ron, “is that common sense must be used in the interpretation of orders. I mean… Let’s see…” and he thought for a few moments. “Suppose you haven’t checked something like the monumental mason’s backyard — it’s full of half completed tombstones and slabs bearing inscriptions. Who’s going to pinch anything from there, I ask you? So why worry about checking it for security?”
“Go on, what’s your point?” I wondered if he and Charlie Bairstow had pre-arranged this little chat. It had the hallmarks of a lead-in to something else.
Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Page 18