It was known that the applicant’s expansive plans included future development of the site until it became a noted club, restaurant and even gaming centre. But all that was in the future — his immediate concern was to be granted that first liquor licence so that his restaurant could become a reality and so that he could establish himself on his chosen site.
He had submitted his plans and his application through the proper channels, and the role of the police, in forwarding these to the magistrates, was to establish whether or not he was a ‘fit and proper’ person to hold such a licence. He had no criminal record, and so it seemed his fitness to be granted such a licence was not in doubt. But, because he had given an address in Strensford, which was in a police area different from the one through which he was applying, we had to make discreet enquiries in the town. These were merely to strengthen his fitness claim; it was a routine enquiry for us, one of many we had to make.
At the start of my late shift one morning, Sergeant Andy Moorhouse called me into his office.
‘Nick,’ he said, holding a sheaf of papers, ‘I’ve a grand job here for you. It involves some discreet enquiries and you can take a day or two over it; there’s no rush, so long as you do a thorough job.’
He explained about the application for the restaurant licence and said, ‘The applicant is a Mr Ralph Charles Swinden; he’s forty-one years old and a native of Wakefield. But it seems he lived in Strensford for a year or two and has given an address in town — No. 7 Belford Place. He doesn’t live there now, by the way, but it seems he came to live there just over two years ago. We’ve been asked to make discreet enquiries in the area to see if there’s any reason why he should not be granted his licence.’
I said I understood, but he continued:
‘Now, have you done one of these enquiries?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘There’s no problem with them at all. They’re an interesting way of occupying your time. Swinden has no criminal record, so it’s just a case of asking local tradesmen whether he’s honest and trustworthy. Get around the shops and businesses near where he lived and see if they know anything against him. Be discreet, Nick, and then submit your report through me. OK?’
‘We’ve nothing in our files, have we?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never come across the chap, and I’ve been here six years. I’ve had a word with CID and he’s never crossed their paths. He’s obviously led a decent and quiet life, but we need to convince Middlesbrough Police and their magistrates of that.’
I looked forward to my task and was allocated a beat which included Belford Place. I started immediately I had read the papers and decided my enquiries would begin with people in the area whom I knew and trusted. The papers did not say whether Swinden had worked in Strensford or whether he had merely lived there and worked elsewhere, but if he had been a part of the town’s social or business scene, I would soon find out.
I tried to determine where a man in his late thirties, as he would then have been, would spend his money or his time and decided to start with those pubs he might have used.
I entered the Golden Lion when it was quiet and after some, small talk with the landlord asked him, ‘Jim, do you know Ralph Swinden? He used to live in Belford Place; he came to live in the town just over a couple of years ago.’
‘What’s he look like, Mr Rhea? What did he do?’
‘No idea,’ I confessed. ‘I’ve just got a name.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Ralph; I can’t recall having a Ralph in here as a regular.’
There were seven pubs, two hotels and one registered club very close to Belford Place but no one associated with them knew Swinden.
He was not a member of the registered club either, but the steward did know most of the locals on the town’s social round, those who frequented the golf club, the British Legion and the Strensford Working Men’s Club, as well as those who had joined the Rotary Club, the Round Table, the Lions and other similar organisations. The name of Ralph Charles Swinden did not feature in his memory, but I visited the secretaries of those clubs and organisations he had suggested, just to be certain. They did not know him either.
My first tour of duty was concluded without anyone’s knowing my subject, and I found that odd.
‘How’s it going, Nick?’ asked Sergeant Moorhouse as I booked off duty.
‘No one knows him, Sarge,’ I said.
‘Good, then no one knows anything against him,’ he beamed.
‘I’ve more people to see.’ I wanted him to know I had not finished.
‘No problem. Keep at it, but don’t overdo it!’
The next day I continued my enquiries, for I was becoming intrigued by this nonentity. Surely a man cannot live in a small town like Strensford for two years or so and be totally unknown? I reckoned that he, or perhaps his wife, would certainly shop in town. Close to Belford Place there was a grocer’s shop, the Co-Op, clothes shops, a sub-post office, vegetable and fruit shops, jewellers, an electrical supplier, stationer, newsagent and bookshop, butcher and many more. I decided to ask at them all, including those who might have called at the house, such as the postman and milkman, as well as insurance agents and travelling salesmen.
And in every case I received a negative reply. No one knew the man.
Sergeant Moorhouse said it all confirmed the notion that there was nothing known against him, nothing that would make him an unsuitable candidate for a restaurant licence. But I was not happy. Someone in town must know him.
All the following day I continued asking at shops and business premises. I knew a solicitor and asked him; I knew a bank manager and asked him; the postman shook his head, and the milkman said he had never come across Swinden. I asked the local Catholic priest, the vicar, the Methodist minister and the Salvation Army captain, none of whom knew him, and I even asked my colleagues. I found that in my off-duty time I was asking people if they had come across Ralph Charles Swinden, but no one had. After three days of doing nothing else, I had not found a single person who knew him. Sergeant Moorhouse felt this was a perfect situation, for in his opinion it indicated that Swinden was not a man who got himself into debt or into trouble or into conflict with others. He seemed such a quiet chap, law-abiding, honest and with integrity.
When the sergeant said I should submit my report accordingly, I asked for at least another day on the enquiry, for I had to find someone who knew the man.
‘Tomorrow then, Nick. I can’t let this go on any longer, son; you’re not letting it become an obsession, are you?’
‘No, Sarge!’ I cried. ‘I just want to find somebody who knows him. Don’t you think it’s odd that no one has come across him?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Some folks live very quietly and go about their lives in total anonymity.’
I hardly felt that such a style of life suited a man whose ambition was to run a thriving restaurant and club; in my view, such a life-style was more suited to a hermit than a businessman. Businessmen were rarely so elusive and unknown. I knew I must ask at the houses which adjoined his address.
Belford Place was a curious little assemblage of cottages at the end of an alley; in Strensford, those alleys are called either ghauts, ginnels or yards. They form a narrow tunnel through the houses or shops. Often with a roof at first-floor level, they reach from the streets and occasionally open into a small square around which the occupants dwell. The alleys leading from the streets are little wider than a pram, and indeed some have doors on the street so that the casual passer-by has no idea that a small community exists behind. In those instances where the alley does not open into a square, the cottage doors and windows line each side, so that people living opposite one another are almost within arm’s length. But Belford Place did open into a small, irregular square; it was a pretty area with a handful of tiny stone cottages. They boasted bow windows and were built of local stone as they nestled in this quiet area just behind a busy thoroughfare. Apart from the alleyway betw
een the houses, this place was virtually shut off from the world.
I counted eight cottages, all neatly painted, with polished numerals on the doors and colourful boxes of flowers adorning their window ledges. The area between the cottages comprised paving-stones, and here and there were dotted half-barrels of more flowers. It was a very pretty little area, a picture-book kind of haven.
Being a methodical sort of chap, I started my enquiries at No. 1. Upon my knock, the door was opened by an elderly, stooping man whose eyes showed the initial horror that most people feel upon being unexpectedly confronted at their front door by a uniformed policeman.
I adopted an oblique approach to my search for information, for I did not want undue alarm or gossip to be created by my visit.
‘I’m looking for a Mr Swinden,’ I said. ‘Ralph Swinden. I’m told he lives here.’
‘Swinden?’ shouted the old man. ‘Never ’eard of ’im. Where’s ’e live then?’
‘In one of these houses,’ I responded.
‘You’ve got it wrong, lad,’ he grunted and went back inside.
And so I tried No. 2, where a middle-aged lady, holding a ginger cat in her arms, told me she had noticed a man at No. 7 who disappeared for long periods but she didn’t know his name. At No. 3 I got a similar response from a young woman with a baby who’d recently moved in, while at No. 4 a huge woman eating a bread bun produced a negative result. The man at No. 5, who looked like a holidaymaker with his colourful shirt and open-toed sandals, said he was just visiting the yard and had never heard of Swinden. The lady at No. 6 refused to open the door but shouted her answers through the letter-box. I think I’d got her out of the bath. I omitted No. 7, which was Swinden’s supposed address, but got the now expected answer from No. 8; the couple living there, tiny folk with a tiny dog that yapped at my knock, shook their heads and said they had never known a Mr Swinden, but could it be that man at No. 7?
I was now left with No. 7. Should I ask there? I knew that these enquiries were supposed to be discreet, but I was now in a position where I had to know something, anything, about the mysterious subject of my investigation.
I decided to enquire at No. 7.
I rapped on the door and waited. My knock was answered by a woman about thirty-five years old. She wore a cheap frock with a flowery design and carpet slippers, and her fair, untidy hair was wet, probably having just been washed.
‘Oh, the law!’ she gasped when she saw me. ‘What have I done?’
I smiled. Her approach was friendly enough, and so I went into my new routine. ‘I’m looking for a man called Swinden, Ralph Charles Swinden . . .’
Before I could go any further, she exploded. ‘That bastard!’ she cried. ‘Where is he? What’s he done now?’
‘You know him?’
‘You bet I know him! What’s all this about, Constable?’
‘Can I come in?’ I asked, for I did not want this development to be overheard by the entire yard. She led me into a tiny kitchen, where she had obviously been washing her hair over the sink, for shampoos and towels lay on the draining-board. ‘Sorry about the mess, I’ve just been tarting myself up. Coffee?’
‘I’d love one.’ I was ready for a sit-down after my perambulations, and this promised to be a revealing discussion. She made us each a mug of instant coffee, sighed heavily and then settled opposite me at the Formica-covered kitchen table.
‘So,’ she said, shovelling three spoonfuls of sugar into her mug, ‘what’s he been up to?’
‘Before I tell you, how do you know him?’ I wanted to establish the truth of this little affair right at the start.
‘He was my lodger,’ she said, and I guessed the term was merely a euphemism.
‘So you are not Mrs Swinden?’ I asked.
‘Not likely!’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have him for keeps.’
‘So who are you?’ I had to ask.
‘Smithson, Jenny Smithson,’ she smiled. ‘And this is my house, not his. My dad left it to me; it’s all mine.’
‘Do you work?’ I asked.
‘Part-time. I’m a barmaid at the Mermaid Hotel most evenings, and then some days in the week I serve behind the counter at Turner’s — that’s the fruit and veg shop near the harbour.’
As I paused to write down these details in my pocket-book, she asked, ‘So what’s all this about?’
I was a little uncertain how much I should explain, but if this woman’s description of ‘lodger’ was true, I could ask my ‘discreet enquiries’ of her. If lodger meant live-in lover or common law husband, it might be different. I decided to be honest with her; after all, she was the only person in the town who admitted knowledge of Swinden.
‘He’s applied for a liquor licence in Middlesbrough,’ I began. ‘He wants to open a restaurant, and he has given this as his former address. My job is to enquire around here to see if he is a fit and proper person to hold such a licence.’
‘He most definitely is not!’ she burst out. ‘Oh, my word, no! Look, Constable, let me show you something.’
She went into her living-room and I heard her open a cabinet of some kind, then she returned with a small book.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘This is my building society passbook. See that last entry?’
She handed it to me and I saw there had been a withdrawal of the entire funds, totalling £203.17s.6d.
‘So?’ I asked.
‘He did that, Constable. He forged my signature on the withdrawal form and got away with all my savings. And he pinched money from upstairs — I keep my spare cash in a vase in my bedroom, and that’s all gone. Fifty quid or so.’
‘How did this happen?’ I put to her, sipping the coffee.
She explained how Swinden had met her during her work in the Mermaid, and they had struck up a liaison. He had been seeking accommodation in Strensford and so, eventually, she had taken him into her home, at first as a lodger, but it wasn’t long before he was in her bed too. This had happened about two years ago, and they had been moderately happy. He said he was a salesman, and so he was away quite a lot. Then she had to go to Reading to look after the two children of her sister who was ill; she had spent some six weeks there earlier this year, leaving Swinden in the cottage to care for himself. And when she had returned, only last week, he had gone; there was no note to explain his absence, but all his things had been removed and he had left no forwarding address.
‘I came back unexpectedly,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d be away for six months or even more, and so did he. Maybe that’s why he gave this address, thinking no one would be here? Anyway, here I am, back at home.’
‘So what did you discover?’ I asked.
‘Only yesterday,’ she continued, ‘I went to find that passbook; I was going to buy myself a new dress and I found my money had all gone. When I asked at the building society, they said they had a withdrawal form, signed by me, and they refused to think someone else had done it. Well, somebody else has, Constable, because I was in Reading at the time of the withdrawal. Is that something you can investigate? I was wondering if I should call in the police about it.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We can investigate, and it is something you should make an official complaint about.’
Sergeant Moorhouse was surprised, to say the least, the CID were delighted to have a forgery to investigate and the superintendent was somewhat aghast that my discreet enquiries had uncovered this crime.
Ralph Charles Swinden was not granted his restaurant licence, the reason being that his conviction for forgery and larceny, with its heavy fine and the order for restitution of the missing cash, meant he was not a fit and proper person.
Chapter 4
You thought you were here to be the most senseless
and fit man for the constable of the watch.
Don Pedro, Much Ado About Nothing
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564—1616
‘ON OBBO’ OR ‘KEEPING obs’, is the police jargon for ‘keeping observations’; this means watching
a suspect person or premises, and it usually entails long, cold and boring hours alone and in silence while accommodated in the most cramped of conditions. We could be hunched in the back of a bare and cold van or car, we could be in a filthy, draughty loft watching the street below or we might be hidden in a wood or field with only the owls, foxes, weasels and voles for companionship.
Many of these long stints ended with no positive result, but sometimes the rewards can be great, such as those occasions when one catches a suspect bank-raider or burglar. For that reason, there is always the excitement of the unknown, and this helps to sustain the observer during those worst soul-destroying times. During a long obs session, there is something of the gambler’s tension, for one literally never knows whether the anticipated result will occur. Some you win, some you lose. If you win, you are exhilarated; if you lose, you know there’ll be another obs job along in a moment or two, one that could produce better results and the exhilaration of catching a villain in the act of committing his crime.
‘We’ve an obs job for you,’ said Gerry Connolly to me one morning. ‘Tomorrow night, mebbe all night. Come on duty at ten o’clock, dress in something dark and warm, and fetch a flask of coffee and some sandwiches. Oh, and a torch. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. There’ll be a briefing at ten o’clock.’
Apart from demolishing my assurance to Mary that I would not be expected to undertake night duty when working as a CID Aide, this also caused some angst in her because she had no idea what I was about to do. Neither had I, so I could not explain, but policemen’s wives do learn to be trusting and understanding. They have to be when neither knows what is about to happen or what involvement there will be. In some cases there can be danger, and well they know it.
‘I’ve no idea what I’ll be doing or how late I’ll be,’ I said as I dressed in some old black uniform trousers, several dark sweaters and a pair of black leather gloves. ‘They didn’t say what the job was; nobody knows. We’re to be briefed when we report for duty.’
CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9) Page 5