In a close-fitting, dark-green suit with a rather short skirt, she wore black court shoes and carried a black handbag, hardly a rustic outfit and certainly not one for tramping across fields or splodging through farmyards. I would endeavour to keep her on the cleaner portions of my patch. As she entered the mighty portals of Ashfordly Police Station, Sergeant Blaketon and I were ready and waiting behind the counter.
“I’m from the Yorkshire Moors Group of Newspapers,” she smiled as she came into the general office. “Jane Cooper.”
“Good morning, Miss Cooper,” beamed Blaketon. “I am the officer in charge of Ashfordly Section, Sergeant Blaketon is the name,” and he extended his hand for her to shake.
“I’m so pleased you were able to accommodate me. I am the deputy group editor, by the way, so I shall ensure your work is featured in all our titles.”
“We’re delighted; it’s a real privilege,” beamed Blaketon, clearly quite impressed not only by the woman’s good looks and deportment, but by the fact she was no ordinary reporter. A deputy group editor no less!
“And this is your police station, Sergeant? Very compact and well kept, I see,” and she ran her hand across the highly polished brass door knob.
“Yes, we have a good cleaning lady. Now, this is PC Rhea, Nick to his friends. He’ll be showing you around his patch today, but let’s have coffee first. PC Rhea? If you would, please? We’ll take it in my office after I’ve shown Miss Cooper around the station.”
I noticed Sergeant Blaketon referred to me as PC Rhea when in her presence, not just Rhea. But while he showed Miss Cooper the three cells and tiny outdoor exercise yard, these being the only additional official rooms in the police station apart from his office and the general office, I brewed two mugs of best Ashfordly police station coffee and one smart cupful. We adjourned to his office where he explained the system of supervision from Force Headquarters to Divisional Headquarters, Divisional Headquarters to Sub-Divisional Headquarters, Sub-Divisional Headquarters to Section level, i.e. Ashfordly, and section level to rural beats, i.e. Aidensfield.
Having chatted for about half an hour, he showed her the boundaries of Ashfordly Section and Aidensfield beat, using the wall map in the office, thus stealing part of my proposed routine. Finally, having felt he had made a good impression, he turned to me and said, “Now, don’t forget there will be a photographer around, PC Rhea. Best behaviour and all that…”
“Ah, yes,” said Jane Cooper. “I was going to mention that. We’re using a freelance; he’ll join us later. He’s got a job to complete this morning at Malton, so perhaps he can join us sometime during the afternoon?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ve arranged a lunch break at my police house in Aidensfield, for one o’clock. We’ll be leaving about quarter to two after we’ve eaten. He could meet us there, perhaps? Would that be suitable, Miss Cooper?”
“A good idea. Yes, I think that will be fine. Can I use your phone to ring him and suggest that?”
“By all means, Miss Cooper,” beamed Blaketon. I got the impression she could have had anything she wished. Blaketon was clearly impressed by her. And so the arrangements were made. The photographer, Steve Barton, would come to Aidensfield Police House and join us for the earlier part of the second leg of our tour.
“Well, PC Rhea, it’s time for your patrol.” Blaketon had no wish to appear lackadaisical in his running of the station and ushered us from the building. “Do ask PC Rhea about anything at all, Miss Cooper, and if we can help later, when you settle down to write your piece, please call us. I might join you at some stage, and do hope you have an enjoyable and interesting day.”
“I am sure I will. Thank you, Sergeant,” and she dazzled him with one of her lovely smiles. With Sergeant Blaketon having explained the structure of Ashfordly and Aidensfield in relation to the whole force, there was no need for me to repeat the exercise, and so we went straight outside to the waiting car.
“Call me Jane,” she invited as she settled into the passenger seat.
“Thanks, and I’m Nick,” and thus the formalities of Sergeant Blaketon’s office were forgotten. Soon we were leaving Ashfordly and heading for the hills in which Aidensfield was situated, with me explaining how the police radio system operated in the car and the sort of incidents which we might expect to be dealt with by that medium. She scribbled in shorthand in a reporter’s notebook as we motored along, and I found her to be a charming and interested companion.
We called at a farm and inspected a stock register; we dealt with the renewal of the firearms certificate with me explaining how I had to check the weapons, particularly their serial numbers, and then, as we headed for Crampton church to check the offertory box, a young mother with a little boy at her side flagged us down in the village. The child, called Simon Shaw, aged six, had found a £1 note in the street. I made a record of his find in my official pocket book, told him to keep it for three months, and advised his mother that if it wasn’t claimed in that time, it belonged to Simon. His mum was delighted and said it would go into his money box.
As I dealt with these routine matters, I explained the reasons for my actions, particularly the need for me to make a pocket book entry of everything I did. I emphasised the risks involved in handling found money or other objects and explained how some thieves stole wallets or purses, emptied them and threw them away. An innocent person could find them and hand them in to the police, only to be accused of stealing the missing cash. Even the police could be accused of such thefts. So when such items were handed in, the contents were carefully checked in the presence of the finder. It was all good stuff for a reporter — and, of course, I said that some items of found property might be the result of crime, referring to two scouts who discovered a cache of silverware in a ditch. It had been stolen from a country house some months earlier. Such matters, which were routine to a police officer, were of great interest to the general public, I was assured.
Lunchtime came all too quickly and Jane was delighted to accept Mary’s invitation to join us for a meal. In spite of coping with our four children during the school holidays, she had managed to produce a fine piece of roast beef along with Yorkshire pudding and all the accoutrements. It was ready for us prompt at one o’clock as we arrived at the house.
Normally, a police officer was allowed three-quarters of an hour for a meal break during a tour of duty (during which time he or she was still on duty) but on this occasion, I stretched it to an hour. Shortly before two o’clock, the photographer arrived. Steve Barton was a long-haired and rather untidily dressed young man who turned up in a battered Mini car, and he joined us over our cup of tea as we concluded lunch. We’d only just finished our meal when there was a frantic knocking on the front door of the house. The visitor had not chosen to hammer on the office door.
“I’ll get it,” said Mary, knowing that some callers did not wish to speak to the constable, but were often salesmen trying to sell an encyclopaedia, gypsies trying to sell pegs, village people selling charity flags or wanting donations, lost salesmen trying to locate farms or business premises, or children coming to play with one or other of our brood.
This arrival, whoever it was, prompted a new line of questioning from Jane; she was anxious to know how the public knew when the village constable was out on duty or off duty, or at home. I told her I was on call twenty-four hours a day and that we did not hoist a flag or flash a blue light from the roof to show when we were in residence!
People called at all hours of the day and night, even during holidays and days off and always expected a swift, polite service. If I was out on patrol, Mary or a 999 call would trace me. But on this occasion I was at home and on duty. Having answered the door, Mary rushed back.
“It’s Claude Jeremiah Greengrass!” she said with a look of concern in her eyes. “And he looks in a bit of a state. He wants you. I’ve put him in the office.”
“Duty calls!” I said to my visitors, although I must admit I almost groaned aloud upon learni
ng the identity of my visitor. Claude was not the most welcome of callers at this particular time but I knew I must not be so crass in front of a journalist — I had to treat everyone alike without fear or favour. Wondering what the fellow wanted, I hurried into my office which adjoined the house and was closely followed by Jane and the photographer. They were anxious not to miss anything for here was real police work, an unexpected call, an emergency, a drama perhaps — even if it was Claude!
“You’ll have to do summat, Constable!” he spoke in evident distress as I entered the office. “Immediately, if not sooner!”
“Calm down, Claude.” Before my audience, I tried to appear the coolest of constables as I assessed the situation. “What’s the trouble?”
“It’s Alfred,” he said. “He’s fallen down a pit shaft on Gelderslack Moor; you’ll have to get him out.”
“And you’ve left him there?” I cried.
“Aye, well, it’s full of water, you see, and he’s swimming around in circles. He can’t climb out, the sides are straight up and down, slippery with it, covered with green moss and slime, but he’s keeping afloat. I’ve nowt in my truck that’ll get him out… you’ll need a rope or summat, lifting gear, mebbe, or a crane…”
“What about the Fire Brigade?” I put to him.
“It’ll take ages for them to get there; they’re not full-timers round here, you know. Besides, it needs just one extra chap with a rope, so I knew you’d help out.”
“Are you sure that’s all that’s needed?”
“Aye, ’course I am. Just a helping hand.”
“Right, well, if you think I can do the job,” I began.
“Who is this Alfred?” I heard Jane’s voice close to me.
“It’s his dog,” I said. “Alfred. A lurcher…”
“He’s more than just a dog to me!” There was anguish on the old fellow’s face now. “He’s my best friend, my companion, my eyes and ears…”
“He’s a poacher’s dog,” I informed Jane. “Not that I’m saying Claude is a poacher, of course, but his dog is very fit and healthy, and he’ll not drown. All right Claude. First let me see if I’ve got the right equipment in the car. A rope you suggest? How deep is this old shaft?”
“Bottomless,” he said. “Aud Sam from Toft End chucked one of his dead cows down there years ago, and it’s not hit the bottom yet! Still going, it is! But it’s full of water now, well, very nearly full.”
“So how far down is Alfred?”
“Twenty feet. Ten mebbe. Summat like that.” He could not give me a precise measurement. “That’s why I reckon two chaps with a rope can get him out. We can make a noose for him to swim into as he goes round and round, then hoick him out. That’s if he hasn’t got dizzy by this time. Can dogs get dizzy, Constable? Swimming in circles for hours on end can’t be good for him, can it?”
“If your noose got around his neck, you’d strangle him,” I warned. “You’ll need a loop big enough for him to swim through, so it goes round his shoulders behind his front legs. But yes, you might have a good suggestion. All we need is a good long rope.”
There was a tow rope in the boot of Sergeant Blaketon’s car but I felt it was not long enough for the suggested task. “Joe Scully has a long rope or two at Home Farm,” I recalled. “For holding weights to keep tarpaulins down on his stacks. I’ll see if we can borrow one.”
I rang Joe Scully who had several very long and strong ropes, and when I explained what it was for, he agreed I could borrow one.
“Right,” I said to Claude. “You’d better come with me in the car. Jane, can you go with Steve? Follow us — you’ve got a story!”
“Story?” A look of puzzlement appeared on Claude’s grizzly features.
I explained about the presence of Jane and Steve, whereupon Claude’s face lit up as he said, “You mean I’m going to be in the papers? Me and Alfred? We’ll be famous, will we?”
“It has all the makings of a very good story about the varied and exciting work of a village policeman,” smiled Jane, and Claude began to warm to the rescue operation. With him in the passenger seat of Sergeant Blaketon’s gleaming car, we dropped into Home Farm, collected the rope from Joe and raced out to Gelderslack Moor, a drive of some twenty-five minutes. Steve’s gallant little Mini kept pace and soon we were coming to a halt on a track on the slopes below the summit of the moor. The purple heights of the heather-clad slopes rose behind but we were in grassland where the rough road meandered around the side of the dale. I found myself directed by Claude towards a circle of trees in the middle of a moorside field.
“That’s it,” Claude pointed out. “The pit shaft.”
I knew the area. It had once been a busy iron-ore mining district but the boom had ended about a century earlier. Remnants of those industrial days littered Gelderslack Moor, and this old pit shaft was one of them. Situated in the middle of a field, it looked like a small copse of mature hawthorns surrounded by a wooden fence, but in fact it was a very deep pit shaft. Claude opened the gate of the field and we drove in, parking as close as possible to the shaft.
It was at that point that the radio of the car burbled into life and I heard Sergeant Blaketon’s voice calling me from Ashfordly police station.
“Location, please, Delta Alpha Four Seven,” he asked.
“Old pit shaft, Low Hag Farm fields near Gelderslack Moor,” I told him.
“Is there an incident, Rhea?” was his next question.
“A minor one, Sergeant,” I assured him. “A dog trapped in a pit shaft. Rescue operation in hand.”
“A nice one for the Press! I will rendezvous with you, Rhea,” he said. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
“Message received and understood,” I responded. “Four Seven out.” Then turning to my guests, I said, “Sergeant Blaketon’s coming to pay me an official visit so I think we should get this job done before he gets here.”
“I couldn’t agree more!” And the thought of his old adversary arriving to witness the distress of Alfred prompted Claude to press me into speedier action. With Claude rushing as fast as he could, his old army greatcoat flapping at his heels, I followed him to the fence and looked inside the ring of trees. It was a circular pit about twelve feet in diameter and it looked rather like a small pond surrounded by densely growing hawthorns. This was deceptive, but the presence of the stone lining told us it was a man-made shaft of great but immeasurable depth. The first thing I had noticed was the appalling stench which rose from the surface of the stirred-up water. This water had not been disturbed for generations and I did not even attempt to guess what had flowed into it from the farm and fields nearby. There was a distinct aroma of cow houses about the place. And there, in the oily and litter-encrusted water, was the dirty grey figure of Alfred the lurcher. He was still swimming around in a large circle and carried a rusty tin in his mouth. He was snorting through his nose as he insisted on carrying the tin, his legs paddling for all they were worth beneath the surface.
But I could see the problem — the stone lining of the old pit was perpendicular and covered with green moss and slime. The dog could not climb out that way and no one could climb down those walls without an aid of some kind, although I did note that some stout branches of the hawthorns did overhang the water. I thought they might bear the weight of an adult person; someone in that water might be able to haul themselves out by utilising those branches, providing the parent tree was sufficiently well rooted. But dogs didn’t behave like that. Alfred just swam round and round as we watched, his eyes on his master who was calling his name. I reckoned the distance from the top of the shaft down to Alfred was about ten feet as Claude had intimated. But it did present a problem.
“How on earth did he get in there?” was the obvious question.
I asked this as I tried to work out the most suitable means of effecting a rescue and must admit that I had now forgotten about the ever-present reporter and photographer.
“It was this hare.” Claude started to blink as
he began his explanation. “It was running across this field, and, well, you know how hares twist and turn when they’re being chased. Well, this ’un galloped towards this pit shaft with Alfred going flat out after him and at the last minute the hare turned away. They do that, you know. Trouble was, Alfred didn’t turn. He kept going straight on, he couldn’t pull up, you see, he was galloping that fast, and he shot straight through that gap in the fence.” Claude pointed to a broken spar in the railings. “Well, he’d have no idea what was behind there, would he? A pit full of stinking water. Next thing I knew there was this almighty splash and he was in that mucky water… it stank summat awful, Mr Rhea, after he disturbed the muck on the surface, stirred it up right rotten. Stank like a midden, it did, with a few rotten eggs and cow pats mixed in. Worse than a gorilla’s armpit, I can tell you. Anyroad, he started to swim around like he is now… and I couldn’t get him out. He’ll swim for hours yet, he’s a fit lad, Mr Rhea, but he can’t go on forever. Well, I mean, what could I do? I went for help and was passing your house when I thought of you, you see, I thought you might help me.”
I could see that he was genuinely distressed and as I was pondering the most suitable method of attempting a rescue, Steve Barton was already taking photographs of the scenario, including the swimming Alfred and his tin. After a short debate, it seemed the most simple solution would be to create a loop at the end of the rope, along with a knot which would permit the loop to be tightened. The loop could then be lowered into the water and if Alfred could be persuaded to swim through it so that it was around his shoulders and behind his front legs, we could haul rapidly upon it and drag him up the side of the pit. Relying on the knowledge of knots I had gained in the Boy Scouts, I fashioned a large loop, secured by a round turn and two half hitches, at the end of our rope. The round turn and two half hitches would enable the noose to be tightened when required. Reaching out as far as I dare over the reeking water, I lowered the loop as Claude tried to coax Alfred to swim into it but the rope floated on the top.
Constable at the Gate (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 4