A rather quiet couple in their mid-forties, the parents did not involve themselves with village matters, preferring to spend their leisure time either at home or eating out in one of the lovely old inns which they found as they explored our moors. There is no doubt the demands of their business occupied most of their time, both at work and at home and I am sure this prevented their wholesale entry into Aidensfield life.
The Bartons owned a hardware business in Ashfordly. Known simply as Bartons, it had grown from a tiny, one-room shop in a side street to a large, fully stocked emporium just off the market place.
Bartons sold everything from kitchenware to lawnmowers and even stocked parts for bicycles and spares for washing machines and vacuum cleaners. There was an astonishing range of screws and a bewildering choice of springs. The success of the business was due to years of hard work from Michael and equally to years of support from Eileen. In the early years, when they were struggling to find the money to buy stock and to expand their range of goods to cater for the modern public’s demands, she had worked in all kinds of other shops, earning cash to feed and clothe the children, and allowing Michael to plough his earnings back into the business. And their self-sacrifice was successful. Bartons was known throughout the district and the shop’s motto had become a local catchword — it was: ‘If we haven’t got it, we’ll get it’.
In spite of their success, Michael and Eileen Barton never boasted and, even as their business blossomed and expanded, there was no discernible difference to their lifestyle, except perhaps that Eileen’s clothes looked a little more expensive and Michael took to drinking wine instead of beer. Another distinction was that the cheaper furnishings within their house were replaced with antiques of undoubted quality. In addition to the antiques they bought, Michael had an antique grandfather clock, a chest of drawers, a refectory table and a carver chair, some of which were heirlooms and some of which he bought when he’d had sufficient funds. Then came a show of wealth. One Christmas, Michael bought himself a brand new Jaguar 3.4 saloon in brilliant red, and Eileen acquired a lovely MG sports car with a solid top. That was in bright red, too, with a black roof; a pair of red devils as someone joked. They were the couple’s Christmas presents to one another.
It was the February following the arrival of those two splendid, head-turning cars that the weather turned extremely nasty with heavy snowfalls, blizzards and drifting during the day, with hard frosts at night. Having listened to the forecast one Tuesday morning as heavy flakes drifted from the heavens, Michael decided to take the bus into Ashfordly. He said he’d not risk his precious new Jaguar on the moorland roads that morning. But, during the day, the weather worsened. Roads were blocked with drifts, power lines were brought down and many moorland communities, including Aidensfield, were cut off. People were marooned at their places of work and vehicles of all kinds were being abandoned on many of the more exposed highways. By tea-time that day, all the roads into our village were blocked in spite of the snowploughs working non-stop to keep them clear. Our telephone lines were down and the electricity supply had been interrupted countless times. In order to maintain my own contact with the outside world, I relied on the radio in my Mini-van — I kept it switched on in the garage as I worked at home, switching it off from time to time to conserve the battery, when I walked into the village.
Then, around 5.30, I received a call from Alf Ventress. He was radioing from Ashfordly Police Station with a request message from Michael Barton.
‘I’ve got Michael Barton with me in the office, Nick,’ he said. ‘He’s marooned in Ashfordly due to the weather. Can you tell his wife? He can’t ring her because the lines are down. Just say he’ll get digs in the Black Swan for the night and will ring as soon as the lines are reconnected. In any case, he’ll be in his shop tomorrow.’
‘Right, no problem,’ I said.
Dressing in my waterproofs, I trudged the short distance to Ash Tree House and Eileen answered my knock. I gave her Michael’s message, but was rather puzzled by her reaction. I got the impression there was a hint of suspicion rather than relief at what I was saying, even though I had opened my conversation with up-to-date comments about the atrocious conditions on the moor.
‘The Black Swan, you say?’ she asked, with an unaccustomed hardness on her face.
‘That’s what he told our man in Ashfordly,’ I repeated.
‘OK, thanks, Mr Rhea. It’s good of you to turn out like this.’
‘All part of the service,’ I smiled, and turned for home. I gave this incident no further thought — it was just one of many that day. The weather did not improve for almost a week. Severe snowstorms attacked our moorland communities and some isolated farmsteads had to have fodder carried in by helicopter to feed sheep trapped on the high moors. A pregnant woman, about to give birth, was airlifted to Strensford Maternity Home. But the local people were quite capable of surviving — in the run-up to any winter, all practical country folk lay in sufficient stocks of food and fuel for just such an eventuality and, apart from the inconvenience and cold of the period, no real harm was done.
It would be on the fourth or fifth day of that bout of extreme weather that Mary, my wife, returned from a shopping expedition in the village. With an air of one who knows, she said, ‘Have you heard about Eileen Barton?’
‘No, what’s happened?’ I wondered if she’d got trapped in a snowdrift or whether her smart new car had been involved in some kind of drama.
‘She’s changed all the locks on her house,’ Mary said. ‘Only this morning. She’s locked Michael out.’
‘Really?’ I had no inkling there was any kind of marital trouble between the Bartons. They’d always seemed totally content with each other. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Well,’ said Mary, adopting the style of a woman about to impart an item or two of juicy gossip. ‘Apparently, he’s been seeing another woman for some time. Months, in fact, and Eileen became suspicious. She’s been keeping an eye on him; I don’t think he realized she knew what he was up to. He said he was working late a lot; he was taking long lunches, having time off and leaving the shop to the care of his assistants — the usual stuff. Anyway, when he said he was staying at the Black Swan in Ashfordly, during the blizzards, she rang them when the lines were restored — and they knew nothing about it. He’d been staying with his fancy piece — she’s called Ann, she’s divorced: she has a house in Ashfordly and works in the Rural District Council offices. Eileen has been preparing for this day — she bought a new set of door locks a few weeks ago, in readiness. Now she’s done it — she’s locked him out. I got all this from Hilary Hughes.’
‘I always thought they were such a happy couple,’ was all I could think of saying. ‘There’s been no hint of trouble, not to my knowledge.’
‘You policemen aren’t always completely aware of what’s going on!’ she smiled knowingly.
‘So what happens next?’ I asked.
‘He’s moving in with his new woman and Eileen’s deciding what to do with her future,’ Mary said. ‘But he can’t get into the house, she’s locked him out. She threw his clothes into the garden, in all the snow, then told him.’
Sometimes in these cases, there is a blazing row, but with the Bartons it was all done very quietly. Michael went to work and Eileen didn’t let him come back. It was as simple as that — although I am sure that, behind the scenes, there were pleadings, tears, apologies, regrets . . .
It was about a month after the lock-out, when the snow had thawed and the roads no longer caused problems, that there was a knock on my office door. I opened it to find Eileen Barton standing there with a gentleman at her side. I invited them into my office, not knowing the reason for their visit.
‘I’m sorry to involve you like this, PC Rhea,’ apologized Eileen, ‘but this gentlemen felt that an impartial witness was required for a transaction between us.’
‘Something to sign?’ I asked, for I was sometimes asked to witness applications for passports and such
.
The man spoke. ‘My name is James Ingram: I’m a businessman from Redcar. I saw this advert in the Northern Echo which is why I am here,’ and he passed a small cutting to me. I took it. It was an advert in the For Sale columns for motor vehicles and read: For Sale. Three-month-old Jaguar 3.4 saloon, red, 900 miles only from new. Genuine reason for sale. 7s. 6d. Also grandfather clock, circa 1809, keeps perfect time. 2s 6d. This was followed by Eileen’s address and telephone number.
I looked at Eileen, frowning at the price she was asking for these two expensive objects. The car was worth at least £1,500 and she was offering it for 7s. 6d. (37.5p in decimalized money); with the grandfather clock, also worth a considerable sum, the entire package could be obtained for ten shillings (50p).
‘Do you mean this?’ I asked her. ‘You’ll accept ten shillings for the car and the clock together?’
‘It’s not for me, it’s for Michael,’ she smiled, passing me a letter. Bearing an address in Ashfordly, it was addressed to Eileen and expressed deep regret for what he had done. Then it ended: I can’t get my Jaguar out of the garage and I need some cash urgently. Please sell the Jaguar and the grandfather clock and send me the money.
Eileen explained, ‘I am selling the items just as he has instructed, but he does not tell me how much he wants for them.’
‘What I want to know,’ said Ingram, ‘Is whether all this is legal! I thought it was a joke when I read the advert, but I rang to find out and was told it was a nearly new car . . . so I got here as fast as I could.’
‘Very understandable!’ I laughed.
‘I can’t believe my luck. I just want someone to witness all this, someone independent.’
‘Well, I can witness what’s transpired here and can’t see anything illegal in it, Eileen. Michael has not given any indication of the price he requires; his instructions are quite specific and they are given in writing so, yes, I can’t see either of you are committing any kind of crime. You have stated a price for the items and that price has been accepted — I am sure that is a legal contract although I wouldn’t like to be categoric about all aspects of civil law. To be absolutely sure, it might be an idea for you to have words with a solicitor. But, from the criminal law side of things, there’s no offence. I’m sure Michael will be delighted with his ten shillings!’
And so the deed was done, although prior to completing the deal, Eileen did have words with a solicitor who lived in Aidensfield. He expressed an opinion that the contract was quite lawful, and thus a wronged lady got part of her revenge without any physical bother. Michael lost his beloved Jaguar, his equally beloved grandfather clock and his beloved wife, a high penalty for his philandering. I have no idea how Michael and his new partner received this news, but things between them did not last. Oddly enough, Michael and Eileen were unhappy without each other and they were reunited a year or so later. Their shop, Bartons, was sold to a northern chain of hardware stores, whereupon Michael and Eileen bought a house in the Lake District where, I understand, they began a new life and lived happily ever after.
* * *
Some might argue that the penalties imposed by law for criminal offences are in themselves a form of group revenge while others would say they are merely a form of suitable punishment meted out by society. Punishment, properly administered, is not quite the same as personal revenge, however, but some victims of crime do feel that the punishment rarely compensates for the anguish and distress they have had to suffer. At times, personal revenge does seem to be an option. The topic of what constitutes suitable punishment has been argued down the centuries and there is no clear answer. It is no surprise, therefore, that some victims feel that the only way to deal with an offender, particularly one who avoids being caught, is to give him (or her) a taste of his own medicine. The law does not allow this kind of personal punishment, of course, but some victims, their friends and families do feel that justice has been done if an offender is well and truly taught a lesson without the courts or legal system knowing anything about it.
We had an example of that in Ashfordly.
Toby Hicks, aged 33, was a single man who lived with his widowed mother in a council house at 17 Scoresby Way, Ashfordly. A shop assistant in a department store at Ashfordly, Toby had long been suspected of stealing women’s underwear from clothes lines in Ashfordly and possibly elsewhere. He specialized in knickers ignoring brassieres, stockings, tights and underslips. He removed his trophies during the hours of darkness and it seems he had no preference as regards age, colour or condition although he seemed to like fairly large pairs. The snag was that no one saw him steal the items and he was never caught with any in his possession.
He had been questioned many times about these thefts and, occasionally, subjected to a swift and unproductive search, but he always denied any responsibility. The only time he was arrested (because he was found near the scene of the crime within minutes of the victim raising the alarm), both he and his home were searched but no stolen goods were found. Although there was no positive evidence against him, I think it is fair to say that every police officer in the town suspected that Toby was the phantom knicker-nicker in spite of his denials. But no one had been able to prove it. Likewise, residents in the town, particularly those who had been victims of his peculiar collecting mania, also felt that he was the culprit and some of them could not understand why the police had never prosecuted him. It is difficult to explain the processes and limitations of criminal law to someone who will not listen or who does not try to understand — and who seems determined to take their own action to stem the crimes.
There was no pattern to Toby’s crimes which meant we could not lay a trap for him or lie in wait at one of his projected visits. We had no idea where or when he was likely to strike next. He did not repeatedly venture forth at the same time or on the same night of the week; he did not stick to a particular area so far as target addresses were concerned and he did not restrict his activities to the clothes lines of ladies who were known to him. Because some of the victims left their washing on the line overnight, some of the losses were not noticed until breakfast time next day and that made it difficult for us to know what time he was committing his crimes.
Others had recorded their losses before eleven in the evening, but we did know that all the crimes occurred in darkness. We were also sure that lots of knickers were stolen and never reported to us, probably due to the victims’ embarrassment.
Married women, single women, old women and young women were all victims. If there was a common factor, it was perhaps that in every case the clothes were stolen from lines in back gardens well away from street lights and lounge windows, and they were gardens into which access could be gained from a rear lane, quiet footpath or dark alleyway. It was perhaps this mode of access to the gardens which told us that the thief was a local person with an intimate knowledge of the town’s layout, but we did not think he targeted a particular victim. It was highly unlikely that he knew the name of any lady to whom his trophies belonged.
Although I was responsible for Aidensfield beat, I did patrol Ashfordly from time to time and it was through these visits that I became aware of Toby’s activities. I was also shown Toby as he walked home one evening — my Ashfordly colleague, PC Alwyn Foxton, revealed the identity of the pasty-faced man who simpered across the market square. If I caught him red-handed, I would recognize him.
Those with civil liberties in mind might wonder how we could say that Toby was the knicker thief when we had never caught him in the act or found evidence upon him, but such knowledge comes from a combination of expert police intelligence, local knowledge, character assessment and snippets of corroborative evidence which are insufficient to persuade a court of a person’s guilt, but enough to convince the police that further enquiries would be justified.
The practice is to build upon that foundation of initial knowledge to such an extent that a court of law can be convinced. The fact is we knew Toby was the thief. There was never any doubt a
bout that. Our only problem was catching him and proving our suspicions to the satisfaction of a court of law. And for that we needed witnesses to say they had seen him stealing the underwear, we needed to catch him with some stolen goods in his possession and, if at all possible, we wanted a voluntary admission from him. The continuing absence of these ingredients suggested he was a very clever knicker-nicker.
Over the years, we had collated a considerable file about Toby and these crimes. In five years there were seventy such thefts, sixty of them within the town and ten in the neighbouring villages of Briggsby and Stovensby, both within walking distance of Ashfordly. None of the property was recovered. In twenty of the Ashfordly cases, Toby had been seen in the town on the evening in question, invariably within quarter of a mile of the attacked washing line. His practice appeared to be to leave home after supper, usually between 9 p.m. and 10 p.m., and go for what he called a breath of fresh air. He would walk around the town window shopping, but never popping into any of the pubs for a pint of beer, and he’d return around 11 p.m. He appeared to like walking alone in the darkness and his mother invariably waited up for him with a cup of cocoa.
We did maintain low-key observations on the house so we could check his movements, but apart from determining these times, we learned little else, apart from the fact he led a very solitary and limited social life outside the house.
Of course, if he stole just one pair of pants at a time, which appeared to be his MO, then he could hide these about himself and a casual observer would never know he’d stolen or concealed them. The snag with keeping watch on the house was that we never knew if he’d stolen anything on the occasions we saw him because the victim herself would probably not know her washing line had been raided. Her discovery would be too late for us to effect a personal search of Toby — and in any case, our powers to stop and search a person without reasonable suspicion of a crime were somewhat limited. If no crime was reported at that particular time, we could do very little by way of searching Toby, and certainly we were not justified in searching him on the off-chance we would find something. We needed some kind of evidence or what is called ‘reasonable suspicion’ and we were aware that he went out of the house on many occasions without stealing knickers.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 6