“OK. My point is this. I am patrolling my beat and I am very aware that I have not checked that gate. The yard might be open. It is a few minutes to knocking-off time. If I go and check that yard I will be half an hour late into the office, and this can cause concern to the office staff and to my senior officers. They may think I’ve been attacked or something. So I omit to check the yard and return to the office on time. I think I’ve made the right decision, and I base that on the grounds that a check of such an establishment is not justified in those circumstances.”
“I disagree,” came in Gravel Knees. “If you did that under the circumstances you describe you would be disobeying a lawful order. There is no excuse for that, no excuse at all.”
“Balls!” said Ron, scornfully.
The conversation continued in this vein until it was time to leave, and I commenced the second half of my tour of duty, thinking over Ron’s discussion with Sergeant Bairstow. It had been a strange conversation, I decided, and I wondered why they had chosen to talk about tombstones and graveyards. I got the answer the following night.
We were all in the same police station at the same time. Some had come in early for their meal break and the argument was still raging. Gravel Knees was at the centre of it, receiving what we call a ‘lug-hole bashing’ from the others. I must say he held his ground well, and all his arguments appeared to be backed by a close study of the rules. In that sense he was unshakeable.
Having eaten, Vesuvius left early to continue his patrol and within five minutes Sergeant Bairstow also left. Ron and Ben remained with me and Sean O’Malley, alias Gravel Knees. The tempo of the discussion subsided.
Ron and Ben kept it alive, but only just, saying how terrible it would be if every motoring law was strictly enforced. England would become a police state, Ron reckoned, but O’Malley could not see this. He maintained that rules were for a purpose and they must be enforced if that purpose was to be achieved for the good of society.
Precisely at the end of his forty-five minutes’ meal break, Gravel Knees left the office. I was now alone with Ben and Ron.
“I hope you won’t grow into that kind of copper, Nick,” said Ron. “Rules, rules, rules… people like him are incapable of using their initiative.”
“He’ll grow out of it,” I said, not being able to think of anything more apt at the time.
“He won’t,” Ben swore. “Blokes like him are with us forever.”
“He’s in for a shock tonight,” said Ron, smiling at me.
“Shock?” I puzzled.
“They’ve set him up for a little test,” said Ron. “It’ll either make him or break him. Tonight he will decide whether every rule needs to be rigidly enforced, or he will decide that, on occasions, rules can be relaxed or ignored, depending upon prevailing circumstances.”
“How?” I asked, full of interest.
This is what occurred.
The prime movers in this escapade were Sergeant Bairstow and Vesuvius, and it seems that the basic idea had come from Vesuvius. One of the lock-up properties on O’Malley’s beat that night was the mortuary, and Vesuvius knew that it contained a corpse. This was not unusual, because that mortuary often had overnight guests and one of the keys was retained at the police station. The building was sometimes checked by the officer on night-patrol and on several occasions new or inexperienced constables had terrified themselves by shining their torches on to handsome bodies laid out for further attention.
Vesuvius considered that O’Malley should be put to the test and he selected the mortuary and its current occupant for the job. Sergeant Bairstow had agreed to this course of action.
Knowing how rigidly O’Malley worked they reckoned he would leave his meal break at 2.30 a.m., patrol the town centre for some forty-five minutes and then head for the mortuary, which was behind a small chapel. His estimated time of arrival was 3.20 a.m. on a cool, autumn morning.
Such was Vesuvius’ dedication to the task in hand that he entered the mortuary at 2.30 and sat in the clinically cold place for three-quarters of an hour with his right hand immersed in a bucket of icy water. This had the effect of reducing the temperature of that hand almost to freezing point, but he endured this discomfort for the sake of Eltering town.
He positioned himself behind the inner door, and left the outer door unlocked. The theory was that O’Malley would check it at 3.20 a.m. or thereabouts, find it insecure and walk in. If he obeyed the dictates of his conscience he would enter the mortuary to make a thorough check. Vesuvius was relying on that.
Inside, therefore, Vesuvius waited behind one of the inner swing-doors and on the stone slab immediately inside was the corpse of an old gentleman, emaciated and naked. Sergeant Bairstow was crouched at the far side of the corpse, and a close observer would have noticed a broom in his hand. The head of the broom was beneath the shoulders of the dear departed as he lay upon the slab. His frail old head dangled over the end with its eyes uppermost.
Vesuvius waited with his right hand in the bucket of icy water as the long minutes ticked by. In the dim light which filtered into the place from the town outside the stark white corpse could be seen but nothing else. The place was as still as death; there was not a sound.
“Any sign of him?” asked Sergeant Bairstow in a hoarse whisper.
“Nothing,” replied Vesuvius.
3.20 came and went. And then there were sounds outside. A heavy, measured tread could be heard upon the flagged path, and Vesuvius whispered, “He’s here, Sarge!”
Only now did he remove his hand from the water and dry it on a towel he had borrowed, tossing it into the corner behind the door. The outer door rattled as someone tested the knob. The door opened and they heard the faintest of squeaks as it admitted the visitor. Vesuvius smiled to himself. Bairstow whispered, “Ready?”
Then the inner door creaked as the handle turned slowly. The knob rattled very faintly as it opened inwards, to the left. Behind the other inner door, the one on the right, there waited Vesuvius of the Icy Hand.
A torch was clicked on. The sombre place was filled with light as the figure stepped forward and, at that precise moment, Vesuvius reached from the shadows with his horrible hand to seize the hand of the visitor and draw him into the mortuary. As that icy cold and damp hand seized the other, the corpse groaned, or so it seemed, and slowly began to sit upright, its pale thin body indistinct in the gloom away from the shaking torch.
From the terrorised visitor there came the most awful shriek of horror as he turned and ran from the premises. His throat was struggling to make coherent sounds as he galloped outside. Vesuvius smiled a victory smile.
“We’ve done it, Sarge.”
“At least the lad came in, eh? Lots wouldn’t. That body was heavy. I thought he was going to slip off the brush-head.”
“My hand’s bloody cold!” Vesuvius stuffed his chilled hand deep into his pocket for warmth.
Congratulating themselves the two conspirators left the mortuary and locked the door. But as they walked away the figure of PC Sean O’Malley was walking boldly towards them.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said very pleasantly. “I was just coming to check the mortuary.”
“Just coming?” smiled Bairstow. “You’ve not been?”
“No, I got delayed.”
“You did?”
“Yes, Sergeant, a minor delay, but a delay none the less.”
It was too dark for O’Malley to see the swift glance that passed between his colleagues.
“Anything serious, Sean?” Bairstow used his Christian name quite affably.
“A car without lights, Sergeant.”
“Really, where?”
“Just around the corner. The minister of the chapel, in fact. Well, to be honest, his wife. Mrs Sheila Newby. A nice lady.”
“You’ve booked her, at this time of the morning?”
“I’m afraid so, Sergeant. It seems her sister-in-law was very ill, so she and her husband, the Reverend Newby, drove ove
r to Bradford to be with her. They remained until the early hours and drove back, returning home a few minutes ago. I chanced to be in the street and noticed that the rear light on the offside was not working. I decided to interview the driver and make a report. As it happened, the car turned in nearby, to the Manse. I interviewed the driver, who is also the owner of the car, that is Mrs Newby, wife of the minister of this chapel. I have reported her for not showing obligatory lights during the hours of darkness.”
“You haven’t, Sean!”
“Rules are rules, Sergeant.”
“So what are you doing now?”
“I have inspected the documents relating to the car and they are all in order. I am now resuming normal patrol, Sergeant, and was on my way to check the mortuary for security.”
“You’ve not been in?”
“No, but the Reverend Newby has.”
“Has he?” chorused the plotters. “When?”
“Just now. He flew past me, I’m afraid, on his way home, and wouldn’t stop to talk. Perhaps he was very upset at his wife being reported…”
“How did he come to check the mortuary, Sean?” Bairstow’s tone hardened.
“When I was interviewing his wife he suddenly remembered that he had left it open for a body to be taken in, a sudden death of a tramp. He is a key-holder, on behalf of the chapel, you see. He thought he would rush around just to check while he was on his feet. As I said, Sergeant, he’s been but did not stop to talk to me. One cannot always be popular, can one, if one does one’s duty? The poor man. Fancy having a wife who doesn’t care enough about her vehicle to see that the lights are correct and in working order.”
“The mortuary is locked now,” said Sergeant Bairstow softly.
“I’ll just check it to be sure, Sergeant. I believe in doing things myself, just to be on the safe side. Shall I see you again?”
“Not tonight,” said Sergeant Bairstow. “Tomorrow perhaps, eh, Vesuvius?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” smiled Vesuvius, who didn’t really like ministers of religion either.
Chapter 10
Oh woman! Lovely woman! Nature made thee to temper man.
THOMAS OTWAY — ‘Venice Preserved’
*
It was Ogden Nash in his declining years who said he preferred to forget both pairs of glasses and to pass his time saluting strange women and grandfather clocks. The performance of night-duty is somewhat similar because the creatures one sees in the fading light may be precious friends of the opposite sex for whom a whistle might be appropriate, or they might be ogres in the form of sergeants, inspectors or even superintendents from whom constables prefer to conceal themselves.
During that overwhelming tiredness which descends at the dead of night other shapes can be seen, horrid, ghostly outlines which are the figments of sheer exhaustion coupled with an overworked imagination and bad eyesight. It is these misshapen things that, I am sure, gave rise to tales of medieval monsters, dragons, evil spirits and devils. In a normal state of health and vision these can be seen to be trees, rocky outcrops, lampposts, pillar-boxes and even reflections.
Apart from seeing visions, there is little doubt that the night-hours have a randy effect upon the male person, and policemen are no exception. The ratio of ordinary males to police males is such that there are many more ordinary males who feel randy at night and who seek to satisfy their lusts in strange places. This is not to say policemen don’t satisfy their lusts — it is merely to point out that any night will witness fewer lusty policemen than lusty males of other kinds. The satisfaction of lust can become illegal, but more often than not it is merely embarrassing, sometimes to the participants and sometimes to the beholders.
Patrolling constables often stumble across couples who are actively engaged in a demonstration of mutual affection. This is one of the unforeseen concessions of working night-duty, for if one cannot enjoy those pleasures oneself because of one’s devotion to duty, there seems no reason to deny the same pleasures to the people under one’s care.
Love therefore continues unabated at night. It happens in bed, in doorways, in cars, in alleys and shop doorways, in cinemas, in seaside shelters, hotel bedrooms, Italian gardens and even on the top of ornamental rockeries and beside fishponds.
If it happens out of doors it is fairly certain the policeman will find it and be suitably embarrassed. It is possible that if it happens in bed the policeman will be involved. If that sentence can be interpreted in more ways than one, what it really means is that love in bed can cause what we term ‘a breach of the peace’, if the man and woman are not married to each other. These rows or disturbances are known as ‘domestics’; love really has little to do with such traumatic events, although sex has a lot to do with it, and it is not uncommon for a man to leap into bed with a woman who is not his wife, then for the husband to return and make a disturbing discovery. It happens all the time and trouble brews; the police are called and another domestic problem is wrapped up with a summons and lots of local publicity.
Ingenious and skilful lovers find places where they cannot be caught and where prying eyes cannot see them. In truth there is no such place but lovers are blind to this simple fact. Off they go in their passion-wagon to carry out their nefarious activities in conditions of total secrecy, while in truth the whole world knows they are at it. Little men with binoculars and dirty raincoats know about them, children know about them, poachers and gamekeepers know about them, other lovers know about them and you can bet your last penny that the local policeman knows about them. Unlike the rest he keeps this information to himself because it might become useful ammunition at a later date. Exactly how useful will never be known in advance, but the natural caution of a constable tells him that secrecy is by far the best policy if he catches a local celebrity in furtive turmoil with ‘another woman’. Such information is carefully noted for future reference.
Incidents of this kind so often involve people you would never believe would get into such interesting situations. Policemen learn never to be amazed at anything, but there are times when we are truly surprised.
One of my surprises involved Miss Prudence Proctor. For some months I did not know she existed, but gradually the name cropped up on male lips from time to time, and I began to grow curious about the personality who bore that name. By dint of careful, if oblique questioning, I learned that she lived in Elsinby, occupying a small cottage which nestled behind some trees. It was therefore out of sight from the road through the village, and the approach was along a short, muddy lane. The lovely yellow stone cottage with its red pantile roof squatted among the trees and there was a patch of pleasing rose-garden and lawns before it.
I learned, through more diligent inquiries, that the back of the house excited a good deal more interest than the front, particularly among the male population. This was due to its balcony. It seems that the balcony had been constructed by a previous owner and it led from the French windows of the main bedroom, now excitingly occupied by Miss Prudence Proctor. She lived alone, I discovered, and for many weeks I never set eyes on the lady.
Eventually I noticed her walking proudly down the village street en route to the post office. At the time I did not know that this was the Prudence Proctor of whom I had heard so much, because she was a very smart middle-aged woman walking erect and confidently towards me. She would be about forty years old, I estimated, with dark hair bound about her head and lashed into a tight bun. Her face was pink and pleasant, and she had a lovely smile. She nodded ‘good morning’ to me as I patrolled along my way. She wore a sober grey two-piece costume, white blouse with a red bow at the throat and a pair of black court shoes. She carried a black handbag and did not wear a hat.
From her appearance I judged she was either a top businessman’s secretary or a schoolteacher, or maybe someone in the professions like a doctor, dentist or barrister. I was to learn subsequently that she had no known occupation and appeared to live on private means, although she did occasional work with the B
BC on audience surveys and similar statistical experiments. She was not married and, I understand, never had been. She lived alone in that delightful cottage and kept two ginger cats. She was quiet, law-abiding, attractive and articulate, the sort of woman any man would be pleased to know, on both a professional and personal level.
At our first meeting she stopped me to ask advice. She had a nephew, she said, who was shortly leaving school and he had expressed an interest in the police service as a career. He wanted to join as a cadet and hoped to become a full-time member of the regular force.
After outlining the necessary qualifications I offered to obtain some leaflets and brochures for the lady and asked her name. Then it was that I learned she was the famous Miss Prudence Proctor of Acorn Cottage, Elsinby.
Her physical appearance made me unsure whether I was talking to the person whose antics set the village men aflame with passion from time to time. But if local information and gossip was accurate, then this indeed was the lady. After noting her name and address and promising faithfully I would secure the necessary information, I bade her ‘Good morning’ and off she went, walking proudly about her business.
I found it very, very difficult to accept that this was the woman whose name was always on the male lips of Elsinby.
There must be some mistake; they must be wrong. This was a straight, serious even dowdy woman and I began to wonder if the men were involving me in some weird and obtuse type of Yorkshire joke.
A week later I received the necessary literature from our Recruiting Department and decided to call at Acorn Cottage to deliver it. I undertook this duty during an evening patrol and it would be around seven o’clock when I called. Prudence answered my knock dressed in a long, close-fitting woollen dress. Over a cup of tea she told me that she had knitted it herself. She provided me with biscuits and I answered all her questions about a policeman’s life. In all, I spent about an hour in her company and found her very intelligent and interesting.
I saw no more of her for several weeks. Because of what I had heard I must confess I did not seek her out, nor did I venture to call upon her to find out how her nephew had progressed with his application. The next time she crossed my line of duty was one night in early August. The air was balmy and mild with the scent of honeysuckle and roses, and all about Elsinby the cornfields were a glow of yellow. The summer fruit was ripening — blackberries, apples, pears, plums and wild berries abounded, and the late summer was ideal. It was a lovely time to live in a rural community.
Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Page 19