‘Not that we need have worried about this lot!’ he beamed.
And so the evening passed in peace and happiness; some youngsters did arrive fairly late, having spent the early part of the evening in the pub, but they were not drunk and Jim permitted them to enter. Then, as he’d told me, he closed the doors at 10.30 and I knew he would not tolerate any further admissions. I decided to potter around the village checking the pub in George’s absence, deterring would-be car thieves and generally keeping order.
While I was patrolling in the hot August air, I saw Inspector Pollock’s car arrive. He parked immediately before the main door and I went to meet him, slinging up a fine salute.
‘All correct, sir,’ I chanted as he emerged from his car.
‘Good, very good, PC Rhea,’ he looked around and saw none of the usual signs of dance-hall bother — no crowds of youths hanging about or lurking in the dark, no giggling girls hiding in corners.
‘Would you like to go in, sir?’ I asked. ‘There is a bar, it’s being run quietly and with no trouble.’
‘Yes, show me your dance hall, PC Rhea, and all these flower power people.’
As we entered, a pair of youngsters rushed out, brushed past us and shouted ‘good night’ to Jim Blake. One was a pretty young woman with long blonde hair and dangling ear-rings and the other was a tall young man with dark hair; he wore jeans and a multi-coloured shirt with long sleeves. As the youngsters galloped away, Jim smiled. ‘They didn’t stay long, they were last in and first out! She must have given him a promise. I wish I was young like that,’ he said.
Inside all was peace and calm too; we paraded around the edge of the floor, got kissed by some happy young women, were offered cups of coffee but refused because Pollock would not accept gifts, and checked the bar. It was all quiet and lovely.
‘A nice evening, PC Rhea, I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘I wish I could record the same success at other dance halls. Ashfordly and Strensford could learn from this!’
So the evening continued without incident. At half past ten, George had to close his bar and at midnight the dance ended, the music stopped and people began to drift homewards. I remained until the band had left, the organizers had counted their takings and Jim had closed the doors.
He had checked the premises — the hall was empty with no one lurking in the toilets, back rooms or bar area. He locked the door and said, ‘Well, that’s the most peaceful dance I’ve ever been to, Mr Rhea. What a tonic. Good night.’
And I went home too. It was a quarter past one as I crept upstairs hoping I would not arouse Mary and the children and by half past one I was fast asleep.
At three o’clock, I was roused by the telephone. It was shrilling in my ear. Thick with sleep I lifted the bedside extension and said, ‘Aidensfield Police.’
‘Mr Rhea? Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s our Glenys, she hasn’t come home.’
‘Glenys?’ I must have sounded dopey but it was difficult to switch my brain into gear having been in such a deep and short sleep.
‘It’s Ruth Basnett . . .’
‘Ah, from Elsinby Road.’ I knew her husband, Leslie. He was manager of the local Co-op and famed for his collection of rare orchids. He was an authority on the flower and grew them in huge hothouses behind his home.
‘Yes, it’s our Glenys, she went to the dance and it’s unlike her to stay out like this, we’re so worried.’
‘What time is it?’ I muttered.
‘Three o’clock,’ she said. ‘Look, I am sorry, I don’t like troubling you, but we’re frantic . . .’
‘I’ll come right away,’ I promised her.
I muttered something to Mary about being called out but she just grunted in her sleep, and twenty minutes later I was sitting at the Basnetts’ kitchen table with a cup of coffee. I was fully awake by now and clad in my uniform.
‘So,’ I said, ‘Glenys said she was going to the dance; she had a ticket and she arrived late.’
‘Yes,’ said Leslie. ‘We said she could come with us, I’m on the committee and had to be there early, but Glenys said she would be meeting some friends who’d be coming to the dance. She said they’d arranged to meet in the pub and come on to the dance later, when everyone had turned up.’
‘And did she come later?’
Ruth Basnett, with tears in her eyes, said, ‘Yes, I saw her but only briefly. We were at the back of the hall, we were so busy, Leslie and me, with suppers and things; we should have finished serving at half past nine but were kept going until nearly half past ten. We intended leaving the hall by about ten o’clock, once our work was over, we’re not dancers, Leslie and I, but we had to keep working for another hour or so, due to the demand. That’s when we saw Glenys, just before half past ten. But we never spoke to her. I saw her across the room, I was at the doorway of the tearoom and I could see across the hall towards the main door, she was near the entrance to the ladies’ toilets, standing there. I wondered if she was looking for us, seeing we hadn’t gone home by then.’
‘Was she alone at that point?’ I asked.
‘Yes, there was no one with her.’
‘And these friends, who were they? Did they come to the dance?’
‘She said they were girls she works with, she’s at the clothing factory in Strensford. She goes in every day by train. She told us a gang of them said they’d come to the dance with her as a bit of fun; they borrowed one of their dads’ cars, she said. Four girls there were. We had tickets waiting at the door, not paid for I might add!’
‘And she told you they were all coming to the dance?’
‘Yes, that’s what she said.’
This puzzled me because I’d not seen a small crowd of young girls at the dance or in the village that evening. During my rounds I had called at George’s pub and could not remember seeing the four young women. If they had been there I was sure I would have noticed. The giggles and chatter of a group of excited young women would not have escaped anyone’s notice. I must admit I doubted this part of the tale and wondered if Glenys had been meeting a secret admirer.
‘Was there a boyfriend among the pals she was meeting?’
‘No, she never mentioned one. She hasn’t a steady boyfriend, I don’t think, not to go out with alone. They go out in groups these days.’
‘And what was she wearing? Can you give me a detailed description?’
In my notebook, I began to write down that Glenys was eighteen years old, about five feet five inches tall and of fairly slim build with long fair hair worn loose. She had a fresh complexion and narrow features and was wearing a pair of large, dangling ear-rings in the form of sea shells. She was dressed in a white blouse, a dark blue short skirt and black stockings with black low-heeled shoes. She had a navy-blue handbag but, due to the warm evening, had not taken a coat. As the Basnetts gave me these details, I realized they were describing the girl who’d rushed past me and Jim Blake.
She was the girl who had arrived last at the dance and the one who had left first. Both Jim Blake and I had seen her. But she had been accompanied by a young man, not by a group of girls from work. So she was keeping secrets from mum and dad!
And if she was with him, I doubted if she would be in any mortal danger. Lustful risks might feature in tonight’s adventure, but I did not think she was at risk of death or injury. I wondered if I should mention my own sighting of her and the boy. But for some reason which I shall never know I did not. I did not wish to betray this young woman’s personal secrets if she felt it unwise to reveal them.
‘I’ll circulate this to our patrols,’ I assured the distraught parents. ‘We won’t make too much of a fuss, though, because she is over eighteen and not classed as a juvenile for our purposes. There is nothing to suggest her life is at risk.’
‘If she’d gone off with friends, I’m sure she would have told us . . . we were at the dance almost till the end, she knew where we were.’
‘She might have gone for a ride in her friends’ car,�
� I suggested. ‘It might have broken down . . . I’m afraid this sort of thing is all part and parcel of having teenagers in the house!’
‘It’s so unlike her though, Mr Rhea, we don’t object to her having boyfriends, or going out, we’re broadminded in such things, but she has never been as late as this . . .’
In cases of this kind, where adults disappear without reason, we rarely take action simply because they are entitled to go where they want and with whom they want. At that time, the mid-nineteen-sixties, a person was not classed as an adult until reaching twenty-one years of age. Glenys was over seventeen and not therefore classified as a child or young person, so she fell between two areas of concern — she wasn’t really a missing adult, nor was she a missing child or young person. In spite of the general rules about adults who leave home, so far as young women are concerned there is always an element of risk if they disappear without reason, so I decided I would circulate details of Glenys Basnett.
It was just possible that some of our patrols might have come across an accident or a broken-down vehicle in which she was involved. Before I left the Basnetts’ house, though, I asked if her parents knew the names of any of her friends from the clothing factory.
They did not, nor could they describe the car the girls were supposed to have used to drive to Aidensfield. I next rang the hospital and the control room at Strensford police station, but there had been no reports of accidents. Glenys had vanished in mysterious circumstances, so it seemed, and I knew she had been accompanied by a young man, so I assured them I would do all in my power to trace their missing daughter.
I left them huddled over the kitchen table and first did a search of the village, checking parked cars, quiet corners and all the places I knew were used by courting couples, but there was no sign of Glenys. As I made my search I tried to recall more about the youth who’d rushed out of the dance hall with her. It had been in the dark, albeit with the lights of the hall to help a little, and although I felt I’d seen him in the village from time to time, I could not name him.
Back in my office I rang Strensford police station and asked the duty constable to issue a description of the missing girl; I knew this would be circulated among the night patrols of the locality but there was little else I could do. I spent half an hour or so completing my notebook and crept upstairs for a few hours’ sleep. It was then 4.30 a.m.
The children woke me at 7.30 next morning and as I struggled out of bed my first thought was to ring the Basnetts; but first I rang Strensford police station to see if Glenys had turned up. She hadn’t. Next, I rang the Basnetts.
Sounding physically exhausted, Leslie said that Glenys had not come home nor had there been any message. He had searched the village himself and had toured the area in his own car, but had found no trace of her. He said he was at his wits’ end and I responded by saying we, the police, would continue our search today.
Then, just before nine o’clock, I received a telephone call from a man called Burton. I knew from the pips and the sound of money dropping into the box that he was ringing from a kiosk.
‘Is that t’police?’ the strong Yorkshire voice said.
‘Yes, Aidensfield Police, PC Rhea speaking,’ I responded.
‘There somebody fast in one of them garages down near t’old folks bungalows,’ he said.
‘Trapped you mean,’ I asked.
‘Aye, locked in. I can hear ’em shouting but can’t open t’door, it’s locked.’
‘Whose is the garage?’ I put to him.
‘Nobody’s, it’s a council garage, goes with t’old folks bungalows, but nobody’s got it let. It’s been empty for months. Number 5 it is.’
‘So where will the key be?’
‘Council offices at Strensford I should think,’ he said. ‘Now, I’ve got to be off, thought I’d better let you know, they’re shouting and bellowing from inside, a man and a woman by t’sound of things.’
And the phone went dead, the money having run out. Without wasting any time, I drove down to the little council estate of old folks’ bungalows and stopped outside garage No 5. Sure enough, the sound of my approach set off a barrage of shouting from inside, so I tapped on the door and said, ‘It’s PC Rhea. Who’s that?’
A man’s voice said, ‘Neil Hanby, Mr Rhea, and Glenys Basnett. Can you get us out?’
‘Have you a key in there?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘I’ll have to contact the council offices,’ I called back. ‘It might take a while . . .’
‘So long as somebody knows we’re here,’ he said. ‘Can you let our parents know? Mine are at Elsinby, Fleetham House.’
‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ I asked. ‘Do you need a doctor, ambulance?’
‘No, just a toilet!’ simpered a girl’s voice. ‘I’m frozen . . .’
‘OK, leave it with me,’ I assured them. ‘We’ll soon have you out.’
From my office I rang the council offices at Strensford and after spending twenty minutes finding the right person to answer my question, did learn that a key to No 5 garage was kept there. Next I rang the Basnetts with the good news and then the Hanbys at Elsinby; the Hanbys weren’t too worried about their son as he often stayed away from home at night.
I then had to drive into town to collect the key, a return journey of about forty minutes. When I returned to the garage I found the Basnetts waiting outside, holding a conversation with their daughter through the metal door. It was an up-and-over door with a handle in the centre. The centre of the handle accepted the key, rather like the door handle of a motor car, and it was the work of a moment to free the lock and raise the door. Inside, the young couple were momentarily dazzled by the light, because this garage, midway along a block of ten and built of breeze blocks, had no windows.
Then Leslie Basnett realized who the youth was.
‘You!’ he snarled in a most uncharacteristic way. ‘It’s you . . . you bastard . . .’
And he launched himself at the young fellow. Ruth Basnett screamed, Glenys cried that she wanted the toilet and I found myself trying to separate the warring duo. In the ensuing melee they fell to the ground with the two women and me doing our best to separate them, but Leslie Basnett’s arms and fists were flailing like windmill sails while Neil tried to defend himself against the onslaught.
Between us we managed to separate the pair, with me holding the two contestants at arm’s length, shouting at both to cease their warring. At last they did calm down and I relaxed my grip on their collars.
‘Les,’ I said quietly. ‘Glenys is not harmed, she’s just a bit tired and needs a wash and a good sleep . . .’
‘It’s not that!’ snarled Basnett. ‘That bastard ruined my orchids . . . last year . . . he knows, he daren’t show his face near me and yet he dares to court my daughter . . .’
‘Dad, it was an accident, Neil didn’t mean to . . .’
‘Shut up, all of you!’ Ruth entered the fray. ‘You’re all behaving stupidly. Now just stop it, all of you. Leslie, Glenys needs to get home . . . I’m going home with her. PC Rhea, you are welcome to come and have a coffee with us while this escapade is explained, and you, Neil . . .’
The young man, his hair awry, his face looking pale and anxious, looked at the formidable lady.
‘Yes, Mrs Basnett?’
‘I think you’d better join us. Leslie, let old bygones be bygones, you’ve got some far better orchids now, prizewinners of a quality that’s far better than last year . . . so come along, let’s all go home and forget about this.’
And so we all went back to the Basnetts’ house.
After Glenys had been to the loo we all settled around the kitchen table with Leslie still glaring at Neil; there was deep animosity in that glance.
‘So,’ I said. ‘I need some explanations. Glenys, you first.’
‘I wanted to go to the dance with Neil, but I knew dad would never let me go with him, not after that business with the orchids . . .’
‘Yo
u’re dead right!’ snapped Leslie.
‘Be quiet!’ his wife demanded. ‘Let Glenys say her piece!’
‘Well, we went to the pub for a drink, intending to go to the dance when mum and dad had gone home. We thought they were going to leave early, but when we got inside they were still there so we decided to go back outside, to be alone.’
‘I didn’t want to face Mr Basnett, not after the carry-on with the orchids,’ said Neil, blushing. ‘So we went outside and just walked around, then we saw the empty garage. It was spotting with rain, so we went inside. The door was open, there was nothing inside and we thought it would be a nice shelter for a few minutes, and then I pulled the door down . . . I didn’t intend closing it but it suddenly crashed shut. And you can’t open those doors from the inside, so we were locked in . . . we shouted and shouted, but no one heard us, so we had to stay there all night till that man heard us this morning. He couldn’t open it, it had locked itself, like a Yale. It was awful, believe me, dark, nowhere to sit, cold . . .’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Accidents will happen. I can record you as found safe and sound. But Mr Basnett, assaulting a young man like you did means you could be prosecuted for assault or breach of the peace. That’s if Neil wishes to press charges.’
‘No,’ said the youngster. ‘I can understand how Mr Basnett felt about those orchids. It was my fault, I deserved it. I just wish I could make amends somehow.’
‘Look, I have no idea what happened about the orchids,’ I grumbled. ‘So can somebody enlighten me?’
I noticed the beginnings of a smile on Basnett’s face. ‘I suppose I did over-react,’ he admitted. ‘But you know I’m a fanatic, a really keen orchid grower?’
‘I know you are highly regarded hereabouts as an expert on orchids,’ I said.
‘Well, the glass got broken in one of the frames of my large hothouse, that one behind the house. I called in a local glazier to refit some glass . . .’
‘Me,’ said Neil. ‘My dad’s a plumber, we do glazing as well.’
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 12