In our terms, all the participants were warned as to their future conduct. The beat man had no idea that we had been keeping watch on the premises, but no further observations were kept upon that house and there were no more complaints about it.
But I never told anyone about my part in provoking that incident.
It is a feature of observations of this kind that one branch of the service operates without the knowledge of the others, and there are many practical reasons for this, secrecy being, at times, of paramount importance. This practice was to cause problems at another obs job.
Detective Sergeant Connolly had received a tip from one of his many informants that a switch of high-value stolen goods was to occur at a place called Springbeck Farm. This was on the moors above Eltering, on the edge of a moorland village called Liskenby. According to his informant, there was to be a raid on a country house in south Durham on Friday evening when the occupants were out at a hunt ball. The raiders were intent on getting their hands on the family silver; they had an outlet for it, through some less-than-honest members of the antique trade in the Midlands and south, and so a system of transporting it to their crooked dealers had been arranged. The switch would be late on that same Friday night or in the early hours of Saturday morning.
Our information was that the unoccupied Springbeck Farm had been selected due to its remoteness. I often wondered how the CID managed to acquire such detailed information from informants, and I also pondered upon the motives of such informants. Without them, the work of the CID would be difficult, and yet the detectives who relied upon them despised them as much as the criminal fraternity hated them.
However, this information was regarded as ‘good’, which meant it had to be acted upon. And that meant a period of observation on the farm and its ranging buildings, with the utmost secrecy being observed. There could be some danger in this exercise, for men in possession of high-value goods are loath to relinquish them without a fight, but there was no question of being issued with firearms. We would have to make do with own strength and skill, aided by our detective staves, short truncheons which would fit into a jacket pocket.
Connolly decided that a visit to the farm for a recce was out of the question; the villains themselves might be keeping a watch on the premises, although a drive past the entrance in a plain car was agreed. Four of us undertook that mission. We discovered that a rough, unmade track led down to the farm from the moor road between Eltering and Strensford. Although the gate, bearing the name Springbeck Farm, was on the main road, the farmhouse and its buildings were out of sight in a shallow valley.
There was no road direct to the farm from the village of Liskenby, in whose parish the farm stood, but there was a second route into the buildings. That led from Liskenby Manor, the big house which was the focal point of Liskenby Estate. A private road led from the village through the estate and up to the big house, and a lane ran from that road to Springbeck Farm, which belonged to the estate.
‘Whoever selected this spot knows that estate,’ said Connolly. ‘Not many farms have two entrances; in this case, they drive in off the main road, do the switch and drive out through that estate. And because the estate is private property, no member of the public is going to see vehicles moving around at night, and the big house is too far away from anyone there to notice them. So, let’s make our plans. We’ll all have to be involved in this one.’
There were several imponderables. We had no idea how many men would be involved; we did not know how many vehicles would be used, nor indeed what kind they would be. They might be stolen or hired for the job. They could be cars, vans, cattle trucks or pantechnicons, and we did not know precisely what time they would arrive. Our information did not tell us they would be armed, and so we had to assume they would not; in those days, not many villains did carry firearms. This meant a long period in hiding around the farm, but in this instance there would be radio contact, albeit using codes because some villains listened in to police broadcasts.
There needed to be a lot of careful planning. The dog section would be placed on alert too, without telling them why, and so would the traffic department. And they would be told to keep away from Liskenby and district unless ordered directly to take action there.
Our task was to catch the thieves or handlers in possession of the stolen goods; that was always first-rate proof of their villainy, for seasoned criminals were cunning enough to get rid of ‘hot’ goods as soon as possible or to deny they had ever been in possession of them. In this case, we felt that the transfer of goods would take place in a barn; the barns on these moorland farms were large enough to accommodate two furniture vans or certainly a couple of smaller vehicles. Even Dutch barns, especially when replete with hay or straw, offered some security. But no one knew the layout of these premises. We daren’t ask either the estate or the local council’s planning office for plans, due to the secrecy involved, and so we had to rely on our ability to think fast at the time.
After a lot of deliberation, which involved studying all the possible methods of tackling this problem, it was decided that the four of us, Connolly, Wharton, Shackleton and myself, would enter the farm buildings via the village; there was a footpath across the fields. Under cover of darkness, we could achieve that without being seen, and we would take portable radios. We would leave the car on the pub car park; it was unmarked and would not attract attention there.
At the farm, we found a large and beautiful dwelling-house in a splendid setting, remote and, in the day time, with staggering views across the valley. All the doors were locked and the windows were secure; it was in very good condition in spite of its lack of use. In the adjoining yard, which had a concrete base, was a row of looseboxes and sundry small buildings. This had clearly been a stable block, and all the stable doors were closed and in good condition. There was a large barn but the doors were closed and secured with a huge padlock, while the Dutch barn did contain some bales of straw. In the darkness, we silently inspected the layout and ascertained, beyond all doubt, that the farm was totally deserted.
‘Right,’ said Gerry Connolly, ‘I reckon they’ll do the switch in that stable yard; the ground before the Dutch barn is too soft for a large vehicle to linger on it for long, and I doubt if they’ll break into the barn. There are no other open buildings. And that stable yard has two ways in, or one way in and another way out. The surface is good, the buildings around it will offer some security and there’s always the looseboxes to dive into if necessary.’
We listened to him and agreed with his comments.
‘I think we ought to be in the Dutch barn,’ he said. ‘It’ll provide us with cover, and we can see into the yard area of the stable block; we can also see the lights of any vehicles approaching. And we can move about fairly quietly.’
Once more, we all agreed. We adjourned to the Dutch barn and settled on the bales of straw, whereupon Connolly produced a flask of coffee and some chocolate biscuits. It was only ten o’clock in the evening, a chill autumn night, and there was a long time to wait.
Hardly had we sipped our taste of coffee when things started to happen. Lights appeared across the fields; a vehicle of some kind was coming down the lane from the main road.
‘To your posts,’ hissed Connolly. ‘Radios on, but very low volume. And if there’s only one vehicle, we take no action — we need two, and we need to catch them exchanging the stuff. Wait for the word from me . . .’ and we all slipped into the darkness to adopt our pre-arranged observation positions.
Due to the roughness of the track, it took the oncoming vehicle a few minutes to reach the farm buildings, but its lights swept the scene as it swung into the stable yard. There it dowsed its headlights as three men climbed out. One of them opened the door of a garage next to the stable block, and the car quickly reversed inside. All the lights went out and the door was closed by the driver, then all four disappeared into one of the looseboxes. That door was closed behind them, although the top half of the door remained op
en. They were now waiting as we watched them. They were awaiting vehicle No. 2.
My position was in an old implement shed among a lot of disused junk, spare parts of ploughs and harvesters, old bins and tools and so forth, but I had a fine long view of the yard. Now I could see nothing. Was that hidden car full of loot, or was it waiting to collect the loot from the other?
My heart was thumping as I waited; I found this session of observation far more exciting than Operation Phrynia, for there was going to be a dramatic and positive finale. And then came trouble.
As a second set of lights burst across the far horizon to hurtle down that road to the farm, a third set appeared from the direction of the estate entrance. Two sets of lights were therefore heading towards the farm. But there was a problem — each was flourishing a flashing blue light.
They were police cars — we were later to learn that the estate gamekeeper had seen the arrival of the first car with the men who were then in the loosebox. Suspecting them to be poachers, he had alerted the local police. And no one had told them about this operation — a selection of other operational teams had been informed, but not the local police. And so these two cars, operating very strategically, were rushing into the farm to block both exits and contain the supposed poachers and their vehicle. I knew Connolly would be tearing out his blond hair, for there was no way of halting them now. Our radio sets were not on their frequency, and our car was a long way off, in the village . . .
I groaned. Unless that car in the garage contained the stolen silver, the whole exercise would be wasted.
Both police cars drove into the yard, each parking so that their headlights flooded the area, and I realised that other cars would be blocking the exits at their distant points. It was a superb operation — but it was so pointless and ruinous.
Then my old colleague from Ashfordly, Sergeant Blaketon, splendid in his uniform, emerged from one of the cars. Its blue light was still flashing as other uniformed constables climbed from the second car. And then a gamekeeper appeared.
‘In there,’ I heard him say, as he pointed to the garage and looseboxes.
At this stage, Detective Sergeant Connolly revealed himself to Blaketon, and so I thought I would do likewise; my two CID colleagues also appeared.
‘Rhea!’ cried Blaketon. ‘What are you doing here . . . oh, and Gerry . . .’
‘Oscar, you great oaf!’ snapped Connolly. ‘You’ve probably ruined my operation. This is a set-up. We’re waiting for a cache of stolen silver to be transferred . . .’
Oscar Blaketon drew himself up to his full height and majesty and said, ‘And I am here to catch poachers. Now Vincent,’ he addressed the gamekeeper, ‘where are they?’
‘In that loosebox, Mr Blaketon, and their car’s in yon garage . . .’
At this, the door of the loosebox burst open and out came three men, whose leader strode across to Blaketon.
‘You rustic buffoons, you crass idiots, you utter bloody fools . . . you have just ruined our operation!’ he snarled. ‘There’ll be hell to play over this. We nearly had ’em, the best tip in years, the top operators nearly trapped and you country bloody bumpkins go and blow the lot . . .’
‘And who are you, pray?’ growled Blaketon, eyeing the three scruffy individuals in their jeans and heavy sweaters.
‘Regional Crime Squad, Detective Inspector Jarvis based at Durham,’ and he showed his warrant card to Blaketon. ‘And look what you have just done. You’ve just blown a major operation; you’ve just alerted some of the region’s top villains to our plan . . .’
Jarvis did his nut, as the expression goes, while Blaketon, true to form, insisted he was seeking poachers and promptly took his men on a tour of the estate to find them. Gerry Connolly remained.
‘If you bastards would tell us what’s going on, this wouldn’t have happened . . .’
‘And if you woolly-backs let real detectives do their jobs, we’d have nailed this lot . . .’
They argued and fought for half an hour as Blaketon and his team crunched and crashed through the woodland around the farm.
‘Come on, lads,’ said a depressed Connolly. ‘Back to Eltering. Back to local housebreakings and petty theft. Back to minnows instead of salmon . . .’
Leaving the Crime Squad to lick their wounds, we travelled back to Eltering in silence, each with his own thoughts. I felt sorry for Gerry Connolly, for, whoever his informant was, he had given superb information. As we pulled into the car park, we had to avoid a white 30-cwt van parked there. I saw it had a broken rear-light cluster.
‘That’s all we’re good for, lads,’ said Gerry, stepping out of his car, ‘nicking speeders and people with duff lights on their motors!’
But inside, PC John Rogers was waiting for us with a huge smile.
‘Sarge!’ he said as Connolly entered. ‘Thank God you’ve come! Traffic have stopped that van that’s outside, a duff light . . . it’s full of silver, nicked from a job in Durham . . . they’ve got two blokes. I was just going to give Headquarters a ring, to get them to alert the Crime Squad.’
‘No need,’ Gerry beamed. ‘This is one for us, I think, eh lads?’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ we chorused as we followed him into the CID office.
Chapter 5
For when the One Great Scorer comes
To write against your name,
He marks, not that you won or lost
But how you played the game.
GRANTLAND RICE, 1880—1949
UNTIL 1968, MANY OF the crimes which involved breaking into houses and other buildings were classified by the type of premises entered in this felonious way. For example, there were schoolhouse-breaking, warehouse-breaking, Government, municipal or public building-breaking, office-breaking, counting-housebreaking, garage-breaking, factory-breaking, storebreaking and others. To break into a church or other place of divine worship to steal or to commit any other serious crime was called sacrilege, and because those places were considered the House of God, the crime was regarded as extremely serious and, until 1968, carried a maximum penalty of life imprisonment.
To break into someone’s private dwelling-house was called housebreaking if it was done during the daylight hours and burglary if it was done during the night hours, i.e., between 9 p.m. and 6 a.m. Burglary was a very serious offence, and it was classified as a felony (and so was sacrilege); other felonies included crimes like murder and rape. Housebreaking, on the other hand, was considered a lesser crime because it was common law misdemeanour, although it was made into a statutory felony by the 1916 Larceny Act. Nonetheless, criminal folklore continued to ascribe it with a lesser status, and it was infinitely more desirable to have a series of housebreakings than a series of burglaries.
The difference between the two was often a matter of timing by the burglar/housebreaker. For example, if a man woke up at 7 a.m. to find his house had been broken into during the night, how could anyone prove it had been burgled? No one knew if the villains had entered before 6 a.m. — they could have got in at 6.05 a.m., and so that crime would be logged as housebreaking, not burglary. After all, no one wanted a burglary logged in their records! As a consequence of this thinking, the volume of burglaries was kept at a minimum, while housebreakings chugged along at a fairly high rate.
With the passing of the Criminal Law Act of 1967, the distinction between felonies and misdemeanours was abolished, and so these terms became obsolete — instead we had a category of crimes known as ‘arrestable offences’ or, more simply, just ‘crimes’. And then, in 1968, the Theft Act scrapped all those old ‘breaking offences’, as we called them, and placed every type of breaking offence under one heading — burglary. From being a crime which had carried the death penalty for over 700 years (from around 1124 until 1838), it was now no more serious than breaking into a henhouse to steal an egg.
Older policemen were horrified, because it meant their burglary figures would soar. They could not see that the change had reduced the status of burglary instead of
elevating the status of housebreaking. They couldn’t see that the artificial differences between felonies and misdemeanours no longer mattered.
Another change was to call stealing ‘theft’ instead of larceny, and I do know these changes did alarm the elder police officers, albeit without reason.
But my period as an Aide to CID was in those halcyon days when burglaries were burglaries and felonies were felonies, and the statisticians were delighted to be able to juggle with the crime figures thus produced.
In common with most small towns, Eltering did have its outbreaks of crime. These were hardly crime waves, but they did come in identifiable types — there would be a spate of thefts from motor cars, for example, or a spate of shop-breakings, a run of thefts from public houses or a sequence of con men leaving hotels or boarding-houses without paying the bill. It was odd how these continuing crimes occurred because, quite often, a sequence of crimes was not perpetrated by the same person or gang. It almost seemed as if there were fashions for crime, fads that came and went just like any other passing craze.
But there would be outbreaks of crime that could be attributed to the same person or gang, a fact easily ascertained by the MOs of the criminals.
Such a spate involved a series of housebreakings on small estates at Eltering, but also at other small towns in the district. They had been occurring for some months and followed a similar pattern. Bungalows on small estates would be entered through ground-floor windows that had been left partially open. Country folk liked to have fresh air circulating their homes, and so they left the windows open; sensible though this might be from a health viewpoint, it is an invitation to a passing and opportunist thief or burglar. As the term ‘breaking’ included opening windows as well as smashing them, this series was termed ‘housebreaking’ because the crimes occurred during the daylight hours. The ordinary citizens, of course, did not know of these subtle categorisations, and they would report they had been burgled.
CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9) Page 7