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

by Nicholas Rhea

  The couple whose hot passion had literally set the countryside alight stood naked on the hillside, clutching one another and bleeding from numerous scratches and cuts. Sheila was crying softly into John’s arms as he simply stood there, spotlighted in the dancing flames and not daring to believe this had really happened.

  The noise and brilliance of the display attracted the attention of many eyes, and in no time the police station and fire brigade offices were notified. Emergency fire tenders roared to the scene, and I was contacted at a telephone kiosk only minutes later. The constable at the desk at Malton gabbled something about an aircraft crash and immediately, I was roaring to the location. There was no difficulty tracing the scene, for once I gained the elevation of the hills I was guided easily by the flames and smoke. I was first to arrive and I parked among those bending pines, wondering what had caused this turmoil. The entire hillside was ablaze, crackling and roaring in the eternal wind.

  And there, shining in the light of the fire, I saw two naked figures struggling up the hillside towards me. The man was clutching a weeping woman as they struggled, bleeding and battered, towards my car. And they wore not a stitch of clothing between them. There were all kinds of jokes I could have made at that point, but while it was undoubtedly the place for a joke it was certainly not the time. I called to them and suggested they get into the police car. Inside there was my cape and an overcoat, and I advised them to use those while I decided what to do about the blazing moor.

  I ventured part of the way down the hillside and got as far as a small area of burning bracken, which happily had been contained by a patch of sphagnum moss. From there, I could see the van deep in the gully, still burning fiercely and emitting sparks and fumes in its death throes. It was beyond any help. As I climbed back up the steep incline, the fire brigade arrived and I was able to inform the leading fireman of the situation.

  My chief concern was that the whole moor would catch fire, a regular event on these hills, but it seemed the fortunate location of the sphagnum moss had largely eliminated that likelihood. Members of the brigade ventured down the slope and finally began to spray the burning wreck with foam, smothering the blaze and quenching the flames. Others tackled small pockets of fire among the vegetation, and the moor was given a liberal soaking of water. This soaking continued, using water from the gully, just in case the fire did penetrate the upper layer of moorland topsoil. But within a couple of hours the fire was out and the brigade left the scene. It hadn’t been as bad as we had feared.

  Back at my car, I found Sheila shivering in my cape and John wrapped in my overcoat. She had dried her eyes but was in a state of shock as he sat dumbfounded with his arm about her.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  He told me his story.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do,” I added when he had finished.

  “What can I tell the wife?” he pleaded. “What shall I do?”

  “I’m not going to put ideas into your head, John,” I said. “But first you need clothing.”

  “My husband has some old clothes,” Sheila offered. “I can tell him I threw them out.”

  “How can I explain to my wife?” John pleaded. “What will she think if I turn up in different clothes?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I returned to the driving seat and started the engine. “Well, who’s first?”

  “My house,” Sheila said.

  “What about hospital for a check-up?” I suggested.

  “Not likely, there’s enough explaining to do,” John said. “We’re all right, apart from cuts and bruises.”

  “Take us to my house,” Sheila repeated. “Your overalls are still there, aren’t they, John?”

  “So they are,” he smiled. “Yes, do that. I’ll manage somehow.”

  I took them to Sheila’s home and went inside with them, each as naked as a babe. They were not shy in my presence and when both were dressed, Sheila in a sweater and slacks and John in his overalls, I had a coffee with them.

  I left feeling it had been an interesting night. Days later I could not confirm a rumour that John’s van had been stolen while he was on the job, although the rumour circulated the village for weeks. I have no idea how John explained to his wife about his missing clothes, but I can confirm they were not reported lost or stolen.

  If love and its side effects cause problems to people beyond the police service they also create problems within. Policemen are like other lusty male humans who, from time to time, succumb to the charms of lovely ladies who are not their wives or sweethearts. Many have risked their careers for a few moments of tender illicit love.

  It is refreshing, therefore, to discover a policeman who loves his wife so much that he risks his career to spend blissful moments in her company.

  Such a man was constable Simon Simpkins, a tall, slender, twenty-two-year-old with a penchant for quizzing scooter-riders and an intense dislike of children who sucked ice-lollies. His arrival at Eltering coincided with the arrival of Inspector Bert Minskip at the nearby Sub-Divisional Headquarters. Both these arrivals coincided with my posting to Aidensfield and we met from time to time.

  Inspector Minskip, it had been rumoured, was with us only temporarily, having been sent from one of the busy urban areas of the county where the pace and quality of life had been too much for his sensitive nature. Headquarters had considered it wise to post him briefly to a rural patch where life was pleasant and straightforward, where the people were human and where he could exercise a different sort of policeman-ship. His posting was a kind of official holiday, a period of adjustment and unwinding for him, a spell without pressures and lacking the problems of an inspector in a busy urban station.

  The snag was that Inspector Minskip found the solitude and lack of sordid criminal happenings rather boring and he occupied his time in the close supervision of his men. This was disconcerting for rural bobbies, who traditionally enjoyed a great sense of freedom. The outcome was that instead of relaxing and enjoying his three months with us Inspector Minskip became very neurotic about the affairs of the station, the timings, personal lives and duties of those officers under his command. He was perhaps unfortunate that PC Simpkins, newly married and fascinated with his new life, was one of the officers beneath his care.

  I met PC Simpkins once or twice and found him a very pleasant young fellow, if a little immature at times. Sometimes we shared night-shifts; from time to time when I was patrolling from Aidensfield he would be on duty in the southern area of our Division and we would meet at Eltering Police Station for a chat over our supper. He was keen to learn the job and was particularly anxious to understand the intricacies of traffic legislation as he had ambitions to become a Road Traffic patrol car driver.

  It was this ambition which appeared to upset Inspector Minskip. He believed that all good policemen patrolled on foot or on cycles, and that traffic men were not really police officers, but merely glorified forms of taxi drivers. He therefore allocated to young Simpkins many tours of cycle duty, hoping to impress the lad that a constable aboard a pedal cycle can hear and see many things of value to a patrolling policeman.

  One night in late summer I was patrolling around Eltering town when I saw young Simpkins on a pedal cycle. It would be around one o’clock in the morning and I stopped to speak to him.

  “Morning Simon,” I said, stepping out of the little Ford. “Are you lost? You’re a bit off your patch, aren’t you?”

  He smiled dreamingly. “Yes, I am, but I know you’ll keep it to yourself. I’m going to have a quick visit to my wife. She gets lonely when I’m on nights.”

  “Ah!” I understood the situation very well.

  “I thought I’d manage an hour with her. I reckon this bike’ll get me there and back without being missed.”

  “Isn’t Inspector Minskip around?” I asked.

  “No, he saw me at 11 and said he was going home to bed. There’s no sergeants on duty either.”

  “Best of Bri
tish!” I wished him and off he went, looking gladsome and elated.

  He pedalled into the darkness with the official red light wavering slightly as he tried to coax extra speed from the cumbersome machine. I watched him turn a corner to pedal his way to his love-nest. He would have to report at Eltering at six o’clock to book off duty, so that gave him plenty of time to achieve his purpose, and he would have to risk the consequences of missing one or two points.

  It was with considerable surprise that I found Inspector Minskip waiting for me at my four o’clock point at Whemmelby Kiosk. Like young Simon I thought he’d gone to bed. Clearly that had been a tale to lull the men into a false sense of security, and he had taken the decision to drive into the wilds to check that I wasn’t sleeping on the job. I wondered about Simon…

  Inspector Minskip asked if everything was correct and I issued suitable noises to assure him that I had the entire Sub-Division under my firm control and that no villains were abroad.

  “Have you seen young Simpkins?” he asked after the formal business was over.

  “No, sir,” I said firmly.

  “I’ve searched all likely places for him,” said the inspector. “I’ll bet the young bugger’s sneaked off home to see his missus. He can’t keep off her… he’ll wear himself out. You know what these newlyweds are.”

  And off he went.

  It was clear to me that he’d suspected the love-sick constable of sneaking home during duty-time and had hatched this little plot to catch him. That meant trouble for young Simon and I wondered what Minskip would do next.

  Unfortunately, I had to return to my own area and was not able to witness the end of this story, although the finale did reach me in a roundabout way, as stories are prone to do in police circles.

  It seems that a highly satisfied Constable Simpkins left his love-nest on the official cycle to wind his contented way back to Eltering Police Station. There he would report off duty and go home again, lucky chap. The cycle was going well, the morning was fine and dry; he was completely happy and very much in love with his beautiful wife. In spite of his euphoric state he was very alert and I am given to understand that it was with considerable surprise that he noticed the bulky figure of Inspector Minskip standing beneath a streetlamp. He was positioned near a roundabout on the approaches to the town.

  Constable Simpkins knew the game was up, but he had almost quarter of a mile to consider his next action and dream up his excuses. There was no other road which could be used as an escape route. Minskip had obviously observed his approach, for he had stepped from beneath the streetlight and now stood in the middle of the road, awaiting the cornered youngster. As he cycled those final, nerve-racking yards, Simpkins could see his career evaporating. There’d be no motor patrol, he would be disciplined and kicked out of the service with a black mark for ever against his name. All this crossed his mind as he cycled closer to the waiting inspector.

  How much of the story which follows is the untarnished truth and how much is the result of subsequent retelling by fascinated raconteurs will never be known, but an account of the finale to this drama circulated our Sub-Division like this: It seems that the waiting inspector called upon PC Simpkins and his bicycle to stop and explain their presence at this place.

  Simpkins, however, had totally ignored that order and had cycled a few yards past the inspector, where he had dismounted and leaned the cycle against a streetlight. Without a word to the puzzled inspector, PC Simpkins had swiftly climbed up the lamppost to sit astride the crossbar at the top. There he had clung to the lamp standard rather as a monkey would do. And there he sat, never speaking a word to the bewildered inspector below.

  We were assured that Inspector Minskip had stamped, ranted and raved at the base of the lamppost, shouting orders for the constable to descend and threatening all kinds of dire circumstances when he did. The outcome was that PC Simpkins simply remained where he was. He had said not one word and had merely gazed heavenwards into a sky brightening with the light of a new day. As Minskip had circled the base, sometimes threatening, sometimes pleading, PC Simpkins had never moved one inch, nor had he spoken one word. It had been as if he were never there.

  We are given to understand that this performance lasted some twenty minutes after which Inspector Minskip announced he was going back to the office to report the matter to the Superintendent by telephone. He would arrange for a sharp disciplinary lesson for young Simpkins.

  Inspector Minskip had then walked away, huffing and puffing his indignation and anger, and had undertaken the long walk back to the police office on foot. Having been such a keen advocate of foot patrols he could scarcely have used a car.

  Once the inspector was out of sight, PC Simpkins had descended and rapidly boarded his trusty cycle. He raced back to the office, beating the panting inspector by a good fifteen minutes. He had had sufficient time to ring the duty inspector at Malton to express his concern about the mental attitude of Inspector Minskip.

  “What’s up, Simpkins?” the duty inspector had asked, noting the hint of positive alarm in Simpkins’ voice.

  “Well, sir, it’s difficult, but Mr Minskip has just accused me of sitting up a lamppost two miles off my beat. He didn’t seem able to understand what I was trying to tell him, you see, and I was very worried, so I came straight here and rang you. I thought the Superintendent ought to know about it…”

  And so, after a lengthy conversation with PC Simpkins, the inspector at Malton had telephoned the Superintendent at Divisional Headquarters. The matter had been sufficiently important to drag the great man from his bed, and he listened carefully to the constable’s unlikely story.

  There had been recent concern about the mental condition of Inspector Minskip; the constable’s story sounded so unusual, so outlandish… The following day, lengthy interviews were arranged with him and he vowed he had never been off his beat and had certainly never shinned up a lamppost.

  The outcome of all this was that poor old Inspector Minskip was advised, in a manner he could not refuse, to attend the Police Convalescent Home for three months’ complete rest.

  We understand he found it beneficial.

  If you enjoyed Constable on the Prowl check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.

  For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.

  Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.