‘Just be careful then.’ She kissed me goodbye. ‘It does sound dangerous, all those dark clothes . . .’
‘They’re the warmest I’ve got,’ I said, trying to be nonchalant. ‘Bye.’
I arrived at Eltering Police Station to find five other detectives, all dressed in thick, warm clothes. I knew two of them, for they had been drafted in from Strensford, but the others were strangers to me.
As we assembled in the main office, wondering what our mission was to be, Detective Sergeant Connolly came in.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Into the court house, all of you; we’ll have our briefing there.’
The court room adjoined the police station, and there was a linking passage; no one would be using it at this time of night, and so it offered some security from flapping ears. Ears can flap in police stations, ears that can unwittingly — or sometimes deliberately — reveal the secrets of an undercover operation. This was clearly an operation of paramount secrecy, so secret that even other police officers were not to be informed. We were therefore the elite of the moment, those in the know, those selected for a mission of sensitivity and drama, an occasion to display our professional skill and competence. We all wondered what on earth was going on. When we were seated, Gerry Connolly gave each of us a thin file containing a diagram of a street, a plan of some houses in that street, and a list of other details such as the names, car numbers and distinctive marks or habits of those whom we were soon to learn were suspects.
‘Has everyone got a file?’ he asked, and when there were no dissenters, he continued: ‘Right. This is our task for tonight. It will be known as Operation Phrynia.’
‘Frinia?’ puzzled one of the men.
‘Phrynia,’ affirmed Gerry Connolly without explanation. He paused as he took the street plan from his own file. ‘Examine the street plan first . . .’
As he spoke, we learned that the street was Pottery Terrace, Eltering. It lay in the older part of the town where, as the name suggested, there had once been a thriving pottery. The house in which we were interested was No. 15. It was a terrace house built of local stone with a front door leading directly onto the street, and a back door opening onto a closed yard. The exit from the yard led into a back lane.
‘No. 15 Pottery Terrace is the home of Margot Stainton, Mrs Margot Stainton, who is thirty-two years old. Her husband is a squaddie serving in Germany, a tank regiment, I’m told, and when he’s away, she gets lonely and so she goes on the game. We don’t think he knows what she gets up to. She is helped in her enterprise by some of her lady friends, who, we are assured, are very enthusiastic volunteers who earn a bob or two for their efforts. That house, gentlemen, is a knocking shop, and it is attracting customers from a wide area, some of whom will make headlines if we catch them at it. It is a brothel, gentlemen, not a high-class one by any means, but a busy one if our information is correct.’
He paused to let us digest these words and went on:
‘The house is jointly owned by Mr and Mrs Stainton, which means she can be prosecuted for keeping or managing the brothel; there is no question of a landlord or agent being involved. So it is our job tonight to prove that she is running a brothel.’
Most of us were now striving to remember the law on brothels, but Gerry was continuing.
‘Our purpose tonight is to gain the evidence which will, in the long term, justify a prosecution and secure a conviction. We also need to acquire sufficient evidence to enable us to obtain a warrant to search the premises and to arrest any suspects. That will be the second phase of this operation; tonight we are to be engaged on the first phase, the observations which will give us the evidence we need to justify the second phase. We are prepared to keep obs for two, three or more nights if necessary. We have had complaints from neighbours, by the way, and so we want to clean up this terrace.’
He then reminded us about the law on brothels: we had to prove that at least two women were using the house, or just a room in the house, for the purposes of illicit sexual intercourse or acts of lewdness. If just one woman was using the house for those purposes, however much she charged or whatever number of men she coped with, that was not a brothel. Two women were required in law if we were to prove the house was a brothel, but it did not matter whether or not they were paid for their work.
We had to make a note of the number of men arriving at the premises, with times and modes of transport (and car registration numbers where possible), the number of women in the house at any one time and, if possible, evidence of what they got up to when they went into the house.
A raid of the house was not planned tonight, he told us; that might come later, once the evidence had been obtained to justify it. He paused again for all this to sink into our skulls, for it was now time to allocate individual tasks. We were all given particular places to hide in, so that all entrances and exits were covered, and there was to be no radio contact with Eltering Police Station or the force control room. Our duty was simply to note everything and everyone we saw entering and leaving that house, with names if possible, conversations and other factors that would establish its role as a brothel. We were to remain at our allocated points from 11 p.m. until 2 a.m. At 2 a.m. we were to stand down, without orders being given, and we had all to rendezvous in the playground of the infants’ school just around the corner. If for any reason the operation was aborted earlier, we were to rendezvous in that playground. There would be a brief résumé of our success or otherwise, and we would then return to Eltering Police Station to write up our notes.
As the positions were allocated, I awaited mine with interest. Finally, he said, ‘D/PC Rhea. We’ve a special one for you. Now look at the plan of the house. Got it?’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ I said.
‘You see the building that extends from No. 15 to abut the lane at the back? It makes the house L-shaped.’
‘Got it,’ I said.
‘That is a one-storey-high set of outhouses. There’s a washhouse, an outside loo and a coalhouse. All the houses in that terrace have them.’ I knew the kind of building to which he referred; they were a feature of the terrace houses in this region. ‘That building forms the boundary to the east; each of its doors opens into the yard of No. 15. The other side of that same building has another loo, coalhouse and washhouse, and they open into the yard of No. 13.’
‘I get the picture,’ I said.
‘It would be nice if we could hide in one of those sheds to watch visitors, but we daren’t; for one thing it would amount to a trespass by us, and for another they might use any of them tonight and discover us. So, Nick, I want you on the roof of that building. That way you will not be seen. There are no street lights in that back lane, and from that roof, if you lie on it, you will be able to look down into the yard of No. 15. All those houses have flat cement roofs, by the way, so there is no danger of falling through it or falling off it. From there, you’ll be able to see all movements through that back entrance, and you should be able to overhear any conversations at the back door as visitors arrive and depart. Note everything in your pocket-book: times, names etc.
‘Now, above you, if you stand with your back to the wall of No. 15, is the window of a back bedroom. We know that room is used by the incoming fellers and at least one of the women.’ He paused and continued: ‘It would be of enormous help to this operation if you could overhear any snatches of action or conversation in that room.’
‘Won’t I be seen up there?’
‘Not if you’re careful. I note you’ve dark clothing on, and you can climb onto the roof by shinning up the rear wall of No. 15’s yard, from the back lane. It’s a high roof, and if you keep still, you’ll not be spotted. If you are seen, just run for it — jump into that back lane and gallop like hell. They’ll think you’re a pimper or a burglar. That applies to you all — this is an undercover operation, lads, so you’re on your own. Think on your feet and keep out of trouble. Right? Now, any questions?’
There were one or two points of cl
arification and then we were despatched to our posts, one at a time to avoid what might appear to be a bunch of hooligans marching into town. I was the last to leave.
‘Sarge,’ I said to Connolly, ‘one point of curiosity. Why call this job Operation Phrynia?’
‘A joke of sorts, Nick; we shan’t be using radios, so the lads needn’t remember it. But Phrynia, or Phryne as she is sometimes called, was a famous Greek prostitute some 400 years before Christ. She was gifted with extraordinary beauty and, in fact, was the model for the statue of Venus rising from the sea. She was eventually tried for being a prostitute.
‘She was defended by Hyperides; the evidence was all against her, and just before a guilty verdict was about to be given, he tore her robe to expose her magnificent chest. And at that, the judges’ minds went berserk and they acquitted her. So beware the wiles of women and their lawyers, and beware of Mrs Stainton. Don’t forget, she might claim you and the other lads are her customers . . .’
I made a resolution to remain very carefully concealed during my forthcoming duty and left the station. It was a cool, dark night with no moon and, in those areas away from the street lights, the town was pitch dark. I arrived at the rear of No. 15 on foot, knowing that I was being observed by hidden CID men. I looked for them but could not see them, so I reckoned no casual visitor would know of our observations.
At the rear door of No. 15, the one which led into the yard, I had the task of climbing onto the wall, which was about eight feet high, and then making my way onto the roof of the outbuildings. I dare not use my torch, which was stuffed into my pocket, but I found I could mount the wall by using the handle of the yard door in conjunction with some footholds in the stonework. It was a scramble, but in a short time I was lying stomach down on the wall — facing the wrong way. I then had to stand up on the narrow top of the wall in order to turn around and walk towards the roof upon which I was to spend the next three hours. It was like walking a tightrope but I reached the edge of the roof without falling off.
The wall upon which I had walked formed the end outer wall of the outbuildings. The edge of the roof was level with the top of the wall, and it would be a simple matter to transfer from one to another. But then I was horrified to find it was not a flat roof. These outbuildings had a sloping, tiled roof — all the other houses had flat-roofed outbuildings. Someone had not done their research very thoroughly! So I now had an additional problem.
I could see the slates ahead of me, shining in the meagre light from the houses, and that at this end, the back-street end, the roof ended with stone copings which rose steeply from the wall. I was sure Connolly had said it would be a flat roof . . . but orders were orders. In the gloom, I could see the ridge of the roof and saw that it extended to the back wall of the house. If I could creep along that ridge, I could sit there, straddling it with my legs as I kept observations. I had to prove I could do this job. Ahead of me, and joining the wall upon which I stood, was a steep slope of coping-stones which led up to the ridge. I must not step directly onto the tiles, and I knew I must climb up that slope.
Cat-like, I now began to climb towards the summit of the roof without standing on any of the blue slates. My gloved hands gripped the coping-stones at their edges as I inched my way upwards. And then I was at the top. If I crept onto the ridge now, I would be facing the wrong way, and so I decided to turn around.
I wanted to sit on the ridge of the roof with a leg dangling down each side, and my back could then rest against the wall of the house, beneath that bedroom window that was of such interest. With infinite care, and happy that no one was walking along that back lane to witness my efforts, I twisted and inched myself onto the roof. In my heavy clothes, I was perspiring by the end of my manoeuvring, but eventually I was sitting astride the ridge tiles which ran along the rounded peak of this well-built outhouse roof.
It was now time to inch my way backwards towards the house. I glanced at the bedroom window which was one of my objectives but it was not illuminated and it seemed the curtains were closed. I was not too late for that task — not yet, anyway.
By executing a kind of low-level rearward leapfrogging movement, I did journey backwards two or three inches at a time towards the security of the wall of the house. I was half way through my trip when someone approached; a man suddenly materialised in the rear alley. He opened the yard door, flitted into the yard and then walked purposefully towards the back door of the house. He knocked and waited as I sat on the roof watching him. I wondered how I could reach my pocket-book in the darkness to record this moment, but the door opened and a woman’s voice said, ‘Come in, Ken.’ He vanished inside without seeing my right foot dangling upon the sloping tiles only a few feet above his head. I would make my notes when I was settled, but what I had observed was hardly criminal material.
Then another man came the same way; he was admitted by a woman who said, ‘Come in, Alec. Nice to see you,’ but I could not see her. I had no idea whether it was the same woman. I wondered if the front door was now busy receiving guests. (I was later to learn that some eight or nine men and a similar number of young women were in the house by this time, having used the front door.) When a third man arrived by this route, I began to wonder if I would ever reach the security of the wall behind me, for I was still marooned midway along. I remembered he was called Gordon.
I noted their times of arrival on my watch . . . 11.15 p.m., 11.19 p.m. and 11.22 p.m. Not knowing how many women were inside, nor how many men had entered through the front door, it seemed that an orgy was planned. But not for me. I was still inching backwards, trying to be silent, trying not to send tiles spinning into the yards at each side of me, and trying to be invisible.
Then my back touched the wall. I had arrived at my place of safety. I felt very relieved at this achievement and was pleased that I could now sit here and observe. I leaned back against the welcoming wall, panting with my efforts and now feeling much more secure. For a few minutes nothing happened. I sat on my odd perch and gazed around the street scene below, my eyes now accustomed to the darkness and my ears attuned to the noises of the town.
I could hear faint music from somewhere too, a regular beat. And sometimes the sound of happy voices reached me, to provoke in me a sense of loneliness and isolation. What on earth was I doing, sitting on a roof as midnight approached, I asked myself. The ridge tiles, although rounded and made of clay, were most uncomfortable; after a few moments of sitting, I had to stretch my legs and relieve the discomfort, and I wondered if I could stand up, just for a few moments, to get my circulation moving and to ease my cramped muscles.
I decided to test the strength of the tiles. Gingerly, I placed each foot squarely upon a couple of tiles and allowed them to take my weight; they seemed to be firm enough. But to stand up, with my back against the wall, I needed some kind of assistance and recalled the window above me and to my right. There was a similar window to my left as well; it belonged to the house next door. If I could reach the window ledges, I could use them to lever myself to my feet, and they would offer some support. I extended my right arm high to my right, and in the gloom my finger reached the ledge. But this was not enough to give me the purchase I required; I therefore extended my left hand and found the other window ledge. Now, with both hands, I tried again, but my right hand slipped an inch or two — there was moss on that window ledge. It was enough to throw me off balance for a fraction of a second, and in so doing my left hand slid along the neighbouring window ledge.
And then drama.
That sliding hand hit a plant pot which stood on the ledge. I turned to look; in horror, I saw it topple off. But there was worse to come. That pot had been tied to another, and another . . . there were six plant pots, all full of plants, and as the first one toppled off the ledge, its weight moved the others. And I was too far away to save them. One by one, they leapt off that ledge and crashed into the back yard of No. 13, strung together like rock-climbers, each falling away.
The first cr
ashed into a coal bunker but the second, having escaped from its securing string, hit the window sill at ground-floor level; the third, I think, hit the metal dustbin with a resounding clang, and the others all crashed into various objects in the yard. The noise was terrible. I heard angry shouts from No. 13, and the back door opened. A large number of men poured out . . .
One of them saw me.
How I achieved my next act, I do not know, but I galloped along the ridge of that roof as if I were a fleeing cat and leapt off it into the back lane seconds before the men burst from their own back yard. But to my surprise, they did not chase me — instead, they hurtled into the yard of No. 15. I heard shouts and curses, women screaming and the sound of men fighting . . .
Within seconds, I saw the familiar sign of a blue light racing through the darkness and decided I should remain invisible.
I decided to head for the rendezvous point in the school playground, even though it was only just midnight. Within minutes of my arrival, the others turned up. The exercise had been aborted.
‘What happened?’ asked Connolly in the darkness. He did not address his question to me in particular but to anyone who might answer.
‘Dunno,’ said one of our men. ‘There was a hell of a crash, and the next thing I knew, those five brothers from No. 13, and their dad, all burst into No. 15 and began knocking hell out of the men in there.’
‘And what was happening at No. 15?’ asked Connolly.
‘A party, I think,’ said one of the detectives. ‘A birthday party, nothing more than that. No orgy, nowt. Just a party with lots of blokes and girls there, some good music and a fair bit of drink and noise. No brothel tonight, Sarge.’
Later, back at the station when the beat car returned after attending the rumpus, we were to learn that there had been bad feeling between No. 13 and No. 15 for years, and each had performed nasty tricks upon the other over a long period. The crashing plant pots had been thought just another in this war of aggravation because the people at No. 13, a family called Parry, had complained about the noise of the music only minutes before. They’d rung Margot Stainton and had issued a string of abuse down her telephone, so the police took no action.
CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9) Page 6