‘I don’t like jokes, Rhea!’ he snapped.
‘It’s no joke, Sergeant. But as he is now resident on my patch, I thought I’d better report his presence amongst us.’
‘You can’t be serious, Rhea! I don’t believe this . . . I can do without this right now. What makes you so sure it’s him?’
‘I recognized him, Sergeant. He’s got a car, I’ve checked the registration number. He’s bought a cottage at No 2 Hilltop Terrace, Aidensfield, and he paid cash for it. His car’s an Austin,’ and I gave him the registration number.
‘And that’ll mean a crime wave hereabouts, Rhea, a crime wave that never gets halted and crimes that never get solved. I can do without this . . .’
‘You sound as if you’re sick . . .’
‘I am now!’ He coughed.
‘Take a few days off, Sergeant,’ I suggested. ‘We could always hand over this responsibility to the new inspector.’
‘I can cope, Rhea, no sprog inspector’s going to show me how to deal with a criminal of this kind. An inspector who gets himself lost in the woods will be no good at logging the movements of the most notorious criminal since Dick Turpin.’
‘So, what do I do about it, Sergeant?’ I asked him.
‘Nothing for the time being, Rhea, just keep an eye on him. Make a note of his every move, dates, times and places he resorts to. Get the names and personal descriptions of anybody who calls on him, and log their car numbers.’ He sniffed.
‘Very good, Sergeant.’
‘Note the times he leaves at night to go about his nefarious trade, list the dealers he might be visiting, anything that will nail him. We’ll show those other forces how to deal with real villains, Rhea, mark my words,’ and he sneezed violently.
‘But what about telling CID and the Crime Squad?’
‘Leave that to me, Rhea, and by the way . . .’
‘Sergeant?’
‘It was good work, Rhea, very observant of you. It’s vital that a good country constable knows his patch and everyone who lives and works upon it. Especially the villains. Good work. I’m sure our new inspector will be impressed.’
And so the arrival of Samuel James Carson was duly recorded in the crime intelligence system of Ashfordly section. The problem was what to do about him. I realized that I would have to meet him face-to-face sooner or later and decided that the best approach would be for me to make the first move. I would pay him a visit at his house and introduce myself.
When I made my first call that same morning, he was out. I knew that his car number would already have been circulated to neighbouring police forces and all officers on patrol in our own area. That meant his vehicle would be stopped and searched if it was seen. I peeped through the window of the cottage. Inside it was neatly but sparsely furnished. There was a TV set in one corner, some nice vases and china ornaments, paintings on the wall and a clean rug before the fireplace. A typical home in fact. I knew none of these items would have been stolen — he was too crafty for that because some of them, like the TV set, might be identifiable by serial numbers or other marks. But all this would have been paid for with stolen money — and there was no way anyone could prove that.
Eventually, one afternoon, I did find him at home. I knocked on his door and he opened it with a smile.
‘Come in, PC Rhea,’ he held the door wide open. ‘Nice to make your acquaintance.’
He spoke with barely a trace of a local accent and pointed to a chair. ‘Drink?’ he asked. ‘Tea, coffee? Something stronger?’
‘No thanks,’ I refused, knowing that a man of this calibre could construe my acceptance of even a cup of tea as being a bribe or at least a tacit acceptance of his criminal way to life.
‘So what brings the law to my humble home?’ he asked.
‘You are Samuel James Carson?’ I tried to make my visit sound very formal.
‘The very same,’ he smiled charmingly. ‘Recently arrived from York. Very happy to settle in Aidensfield. A lovely part of the country, charming place.’
‘You are aware that we know how you earn your living?’ I felt it unwise to accuse him outright of being a criminal.
‘Of course.’ The same warm smile crossed his face. ‘You know your job, you are doing it very well, you are a professional which is why you are here now. I am a professional too, Mr Rhea; I know your name for a start. I know that your people are watching me, hoping to catch me as I go about my work. But they never will. I am a professional burglar, Mr Rhea, the best there is. I steal only cash and I will never break into any premises in this village. That is one of my rules — never commit crimes on my own doorstep. In York, I lived in Bootham and never burgled that part of the city. I will not harm a living thing, Mr Rhea, I will take only cash and you will never catch me. I shall live a peaceful, quiet and fulfilled life in this village; I shall never harm a hair of anyone’s head and I shall not be a threat to you or to anyone here. I am a self-employed man who will leave the village to go to work, just like any other commuter.’
‘If you weren’t a self-confessed burglar, I should welcome you,’ I told him. ‘But I can’t make you welcome, not when you admit to being a burglar.’
‘Well, that’s put the record straight,’ that smile was still there. ‘It’s a pity we couldn’t be friends, two professionals who each respect the other’s skills.’
‘I can never respect a criminal,’ I said. ‘My job is to apprehend those who commit crime.’
‘And for that you need proof, eh? You will never get proof that I am a housebreaker or burglar, Mr Rhea. Never.’
‘I can always try,’ I said.
‘Others have tried in the past,’ he said. ‘Senior detectives, crime squad officers, uniformed patrols, traffic police . . . I shall never be caught, Mr Rhea. You are wasting your time.’
‘I came here just to let you know I am aware of your identity and your mode of life.’ I stood up to leave. ‘I came also to let you know that I shall not cease in my attempts to convict you of any crime you might commit.’
‘Fair enough. I respect your honesty. And I shall tell you that I will continue to commit housebreakings and burglaries throughout the north of England, but not in Aidensfield. Catch me if you can, Mr Rhea.’
And on that note, I left his house.
I knew that I was to be faced with regular night patrols during which I would have to stop and search Carson or his vehicle; I would also have to ring the CID to warn of his departure from the village, knowing that if he intended going to Middlesbrough for the evening he would make us believe he was heading for Harrogate or Scarborough or even Leeds. He was clever, he was cunning. I guessed that when he stole cash, he did so in small quantities — £10 here, £5 there, small sums taken on spec from handbags left on kitchen tables, insurance money tucked into tea caddies, milk money left on doorsteps. And then he would hide it overnight, or pay it into a bank account or into a post office savings account so that we never caught him with large sums upon him. I guessed we never knew the extent of his crimes. If he had a day in Middlesbrough, stealing from houses with unlocked doors as neighbours gossiped, I guessed he might pick up £100 in small sums without anyone realizing he’d even paid a visit. £5 missing here, or £1 there or even a ten-shilling note might not be missed if the house bore no signs of forcible entry. The police might not even be informed of the majority of these crimes.
Over supper after my first visit, I told Mary about him and she asked, ‘But you could have accepted a cup of tea from him, surely?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not from him.’
‘But why?’
‘Because if the tea leaves were bought with stolen money, then they also become stolen property,’ I tried to explain the law. ‘And if I knew the property was stolen and then received it myself, I would be guilty of receiving stolen property. I know it would never be proved, but that is the principle of the law. With a man like Carson, I must not give him one tiny hint that I sanction his lifestyle. Not the tiniest of hints.�
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‘But that means that when he buys anything at all, the people who take his money are guilty of receiving stolen property.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘They don’t know the money is stolen. I do.’
‘But if you told them he was living by crime,’ she smiled, ‘then they would know. Then they would be guilty of receiving stolen property.’
And I knew she had provided me with the ideal means of making Carson’s life intolerable, at least in Aidensfield. I started at the garage.
‘Malcolm,’ I said to the owner. ‘That new chap, Carson. He gets petrol here?’
‘Yes, he said he’d be using quite a lot, he travels all over, he said.’
‘He’s a professional burglar and housebreaker.’ I told him all about Carson. ‘He boasts about it. Which means his cash is stolen money — which means you are receiving stolen money, doesn’t it? And if you know it’s stolen, you are liable to be arrested and charged with receiving stolen money.’
‘Stolen money? I had no idea it was stolen’
‘But you know now, Malcolm,’ I smiled. ‘And I want you to tell everyone else, just as I’m going to do. The shop, the butcher, the post office, George at the pub, shops, garages, pubs and post offices in Ashfordly. Elsinby, Maddleskirk, Thackerston, Briggsby, Crampton and in fact throughout the entire district. I’ll stop him spending his money, Malcolm.’
‘Aye, well, I’ve no wish to find myself in court,’ said Malcolm.
I decided to emphasize my point. ‘We’re building a file on his activities,’ I continued. ‘Where he spends his cash, who his contacts are, where he goes by day and by night . . .’
By the time I had finished, I knew that Malcolm would spread the word around his own colleagues, friends and contacts. They would all be frightened of accepting money from Carson. From there, I went across to the pub for a similar chat with George and then the post office, shop, butcher . . .
Knowing how rapidly and effectively a village bush-telegraph system works, I realized that all the retailers would agree not to accept Carson’s money, so I spent two or three days going around the other villages on my beat, repeating this exercise. I told Alf Ventress too, and he said he’d pass the word around Ashfordly, aided by the local constables. So we began our campaign against the charming Samuel James Carson.
It took a few days for him to realize what had happened and I was delighted one day, when he arrived at the garage while I was there, that Malcolm said he could not accept his cash. Carson looked at me.
‘Every business in this area will refuse your money,’ I smiled at him. ‘They don’t want to be charged with receiving stolen cash. You can’t buy anything hereabouts, Mr Carson — no food, clothing, petrol . . .’
‘Is this your way of telling me to leave Aidensfield?’ he smiled, but I could see that the smile was weak now. His eyes betrayed something of his concern.
‘You can stay as long as you like,’ I returned his smile. ‘We’re not like the Wild West, we don’t drum people out of town. But none of the local tradespeople will take your money.’
‘So you’re saying I should sell up and move on?’ The smile had gone.
‘And who would buy a house that was bought with stolen money?’ I asked him. ‘Which estate agent would handle the sale of a house bought with stolen money, Mr Carson? It will be my duty to warn them, won’t it? To prevent them committing a crime. And which furniture removal firm would help to remove furnishings bought with stolen cash?’
‘You bastard,’ he said, driving off. Now the charm had gone and so had the smile.
He moved out a week later (Malcolm actually gave him two gallons of petrol to help his departure) and he went to live in Newcastle upon Tyne, but the house remained unsold. No one would buy it and no one would rent it from him. Our efforts made sure of that. We rang the CID at Newcastle to warn them of his arrival and explained what we had done. Newcastle City Police said they would continue in a similar vein, although such action would be more difficult in a large town. But Samuel James Carson never returned to Aidensfield, not even to burgle one of our houses.
* * *
Aidensfield’s best-known criminal was, of course, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and although he was not in the same league as Samuel James Carson, he was a petty nuisance. Claude wasn’t evil — but he was very devious. Typical of his activities was the time he purchased a fine chest of mahogany drawers for just £1 from old Mrs Murphy. Although I was no expert in antiques, I had seen a similar chest for sale in Strensford for £250 and reckoned that hers was worth far more than a mere one pound.
I discovered this when I paid a routine visit to Mrs Rita Murphy; she lived by herself on a smallholding which she and her husband, Ted, had run. Ted had also worked for the county highways department until his death, and now Mrs Murphy was alone with her cottage and patch of land to care for. Whenever I was passing, I would pop in for a chat, just to see that she was all right. Hers was not an easy life and she was always short of cash, and so she would occasionally sell a piece of unwanted furniture or pottery. And Claude had scored with this purchase. Later, I discovered he had sold it to an antique shop in Strensford for £25.
‘You were a bit sharp with Mrs Murphy,’ I had to express my concern when I saw him in the village. ‘A pound for those drawers, Claude! You could have given her £10 or even £15.’
‘It’s not breaking the law, Mr Rhea,’ he blinked at me. ‘Just a good bit of business, buy cheap and sell at a profit. That’s how money is made, that’s how I operate.’
‘But she’s a widow, Claude, she can’t afford to let things go that cheap!’
‘She’s got a bit put by,’ he was contemptuous of my concern. ‘She’s worth a fortune, with all that land and that house.’
‘But she has no income, Claude. She’d only be well off if she sold up.’
‘Aye, well, she’s like me then. Existing from day to day like all us poor landowners, doing what we can to make ends meet . . .’
I realized he had no conscience and gave up my efforts to make him repent. Claude was proud of his moment of success, regarding it as nothing more than a good business deal. I could take no action because he had not broken any law.
It would be several months later, as I called one morning during a routine visit, that I found her in some distress.
‘What’s wrong, Mrs Murphy?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t trouble you with my worries, Mr Rhea,’ she sighed. ‘It’s that paddock of mine, I was going to have it ploughed up and had decided to plant it with potatoes. I could make a few pounds selling them. I’ve bought the seed potatoes and Ron Lewis said he would plough it over for me — I’d pay him. Well, he’s gone bankrupt, the receivers have impounded his gear and so he can’t come. The others I’ve asked either charge too much or can’t come for weeks.’
‘It’s urgent, is it?’
‘Yes, it needs to be done soon, you see, if I’m to plant my crop, I’ll have to do it within the next couple of weeks. If I don’t, my seed potatoes will be wasted and I’ve laid good money out for them, money I can ill afford.’
‘It’s not very large, is it? The paddock?’ I asked.
‘A shade over an acre.’
‘If I can persuade someone to come and do it for nothing, would you agree?’ In the deep recesses of my mind I was thinking about Claude Jeremiah Greengrass for I felt he had to be made to pay for his earlier deception of this lady.
‘For nothing? Nobody works for nothing these days, Mr Rhea, not even for people like me!’
‘Leave it with me,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch — but if anyone comes to offer to plough your land for nothing, don’t be surprised!’
I knew where to find Claude Jeremiah. He would be in the pub at lunchtime and so I made it my purpose to pop in, ostensibly for a casual chat with George and the regulars. These pub visits were part of our duty, not only to check on the good conduct of the premises, but also to gather crime intelligence from local goss
ip. We never drank on duty, however. Sure enough, as I entered the bar I saw Claude Jeremiah and his cronies playing dominoes, each with a pint at his side.
There were the usual pleasantries, combined with the usual banter from Claude, then George asked,
‘Anything doing in the big world outside these walls?’ He was pulling a foaming pint for Claude who now stood at my side.
‘I’m swotting up the law on treasure trove,’ I smiled. ‘I reckon I might need to know the procedures soon.’
‘Treasure?’ cried George and this was enough to alert Claude.
‘I’ve just been to see old Rita Murphy up at Hollings Intake,’ I said. ‘She’s on about ploughing that paddock of hers and setting it down with taties.’
‘Everybody’s planting taties these days!’ smiled George. ‘They keep the crisp factories going! It must be my turnover of cheese and onion flavoureds!’
‘What’s this about a treasure then?’ Claude could not resist.
‘You’ll probably know better than me,’ I said to him. ‘There was a tale, years ago, about a previous occupant of Hollings Intake. An old woman — she was called Hollings. She hid a hoard of gold sovereigns in a treacle tin somewhere in that paddock; then a man came along offering to buy sovereigns at £3 apiece — this was in the 1940s, I think, and she said she had some but they’d take a while to find. She told him to come back. He asked how many she had — he was thinking of buying two or three, but she said she had three or four hundred. He said he’d come back after he’d been to the bank!’
‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Claude. ‘Four hundred sovereigns!’
‘Anyway,’ I continued. ‘While he was away she got her spade out and began to dig, but she’d forgotten exactly where she’d buried the tin.’
‘Get away!’ George was listening intently.
‘Before the chap returned she found three tins, all full of coins! She’d buried them so long ago she’d forgotten about them. She took four hundred out of the tins and kept them ready for the buyer — well, he came back with the cash and paid her £3 for each one. A handsome profit. £1,200 for an outlay of £400. And she still had several hundred left!’
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 4