CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Traffic lights?’ he puzzled. ‘What traffic lights, Mr Rhea?’

  ‘In Ashfordly High Street, Mr Burnley. They’ve just been installed at the crossroads.’

  ‘Well, I never saw them.’ He shook his head. ‘I know that one has to stop when the light shows red. I am not stupid, you know, or ignorant of traffic rules and regulations. There’s usually a policeman on duty there, I always stop for him if he raises his hand. I was brought up to obey policemen, Mr Rhea, but I never saw one. So how long have the lights been there?’

  I explained they were a very recent addition to the street furnishings of Ashfordly, but he shook his head and said, ‘I saw only Christmas lights, Mr Rhea, lights of all colours flashing and shining in the darkness, shop lights, street lights, Christmas-tree lights in shops, shop-window lights, green, red, orange . . .’

  I recorded this piece of mitigation in the statement I took down at his dictation and felt it had some merit. After all, on a wet night there would be lots of reflected lights in a town street and to some extent, I sympathized with Amos, but I could not ignore what had occurred. It was for a court to decide his future after considering all the circumstances.

  ‘Will you be going through Ashfordly again?’ I asked, when I had completed my interview, having also inspected his driving licence, excise duty disc and insurance.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he smiled. ‘Every Thursday evening. An old friend has come to live at Slemmington and we have agreed to have a rendezvous at his house every Thursday at five-thirty, for cocktails and a chat, followed by supper. So I shall be motoring through Ashfordly quite regularly, Mr Rhea, and I expect I shall see a lot of him over Christmas and the New Year.’

  ‘Well, just remember those traffic lights and stop if they show red!’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Rhea.’

  I submitted my report to Sergeant Blaketon who would forward it to the superintendent for a decision as to whether or not Amos should be prosecuted, but on this occasion, due to his assertion about being confused by the multi-coloured lights of the town and the fact the traffic lights were a very new installation, the superintendent decided to issue a written caution.

  Perhaps the proximity of Christmas made him a little more charitable than usual. But the following Thursday at 5 p.m. the same thing happened.

  A smart, unidentified motor car shot through the lights at red and caused two lorries to meet head-on, a cyclist to hurtle on to the footpath and into the arms of a passing pedestrian and a bus to swerve into the bollards of a traffic island. The bus driver was the same one who’d experienced Amos’s daring drive earlier and, although he felt it was the same car, he could not prove it was as he’d not had the time to note its number. Everyone thought Amos had passed that way, but no one could prove it.

  Blaketon rang me.

  ‘Rhea, it appears that man of yours has been causing traffic mayhem again. Can you persuade him to take another route to see his old pal?’

  ‘There is no other route, Sergeant, he has to pass through Ashfordly.’

  ‘Then get him to take a taxi or a bus, or walk or something. I don’t want this kind of problem every Thursday night at rush hour!’

  ‘Are you sure it was Amos, Sergeant?’ I smiled as I asked this question, something I was able to do if I was on the telephone to him.

  ‘Sure? That bus driver is sure even if he didn’t get the number . . .’

  ‘I think we should make sure it is him before I revisit him to accuse him of dangerous driving or some such offence,’ I suggested.

  ‘Right, Rhea, a brilliant idea! So, next Thursday, you will perform traffic duty at those crossroads. You will watch out for your Mr Burnley and you will note any offences he might commit . . .’

  ‘Traffic duty, Sergeant? But we’ve got traffic lights there now . . .’

  ‘Then you will have to operate in conjunction with the lights, Rhea. Just make sure that man does not cause mayhem in my town!’

  That particular Thursday was the one before Christmas and so, at 4.45 p.m. that evening, with the drizzle falling and the air as cold as the inside of a refrigerator, I stood at those crossroads. I did not compete with the lights, of course, but I stood on the footpath awaiting the arrival of Amos in his Riley. Then I would leap into the road and exercise my arms as I guided him through the traffic.

  Sure enough, he was as prompt as always and I saw the distinctive vehicle heading my way. I went into the middle of the road and raised my white-gloved hand; Amos stopped, as did the other traffic. I checked that the lights were working and when I saw the green light glow as the signal for Amos to proceed, I waved my hand in the Highway Code’s finest ‘come on’ sign. He smiled, waved in acknowledgement and executed the necessary right turn without a hitch. Then, with a toot of his horn, he accelerated off to visit his pal. I retreated from the crossroads and allowed the lights to assume control, deciding not to wait until Amos made his return journey. By then, of course, traffic would be lighter and the risks fewer.

  Before returning home, I called at Ashfordly Police Station to inform Sergeant Blaketon of the successful outcome of that mission and he was delighted.

  ‘So, Rhea, we got old Amos through those lights without a hitch. Nice work. Nice accident prevention work, in fact. So do it again next Thursday and the Thursday after . . .’

  ‘Sarge?’ I began to protest. ‘But there’s traffic lights; we can’t afford the time to stand there just for Amos, not when we’ve had brand new lights installed . . .’

  ‘It’s either that, Rhea, or risk the possibility of having to deal with multiple traffic accidents every Thursday evening, to say nothing of complaints from other drivers! Risk limitation, Rhea, that’s what it is. Risk limitation. Our duties do include prevention of offences and the protection of the public, as you fully realize. That is what we are doing.’

  And so, every Thursday over that Christmas and into January, either me or one of my colleagues had to perform a short bout of traffic duty at those crossroads, just as we had done for all those years in the past, but I am sure we did prevent a lot of accidents which would have been caused by Amos and his car. On those occasions, he obeyed all our manual signals without question and without mishap, and we had no further trouble from him — not on that corner, anyway.

  Then, one Thursday in late January, he did not arrive at the crossroads as expected. As I was the constable on duty at the time, I missed Amos and was somewhat relieved he had not embarked on the trip, but then, knowing of his finicky mode of life, I became worried.

  I told Sergeant Blaketon that Amos had not turned up, to which he replied, ‘Then he’s probably learned a bit of sense but you’d better be there next week, just in case . . .’ and with that advice, I motored home. On the way, I called at Amos’s house but there was no one in, and so I stopped at the village shop for a word with Joe Steel.

  ‘He’s in hospital, Nick,’ Joe told me. ‘A traffic accident. It happened this morning in Strensford.’

  ‘A traffic accident? Is he badly hurt?’ was my next question.

  ‘Not according to Nurse Margot,’ he smiled. ‘He’s got mild whiplash injuries to his neck and some severe bruising. But he’s not in any danger, in spite of his age.’

  ‘So what happened?’ I continued.

  ‘He stopped at some traffic lights in Strensford,’ smiled Joe. ‘And someone ran into him from behind!’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ I laughed. ‘I didn’t think he ever stopped at traffic lights!’

  ‘Well, he has now and look what happened! I wouldn’t think he’ll want to stop again! Anyway they reckon he’ll be home by the weekend; he has a niece who’ll be coming to look after him for a day or two.’

  Amos came home by ambulance with a support around his neck and, apart from some bruises about his body, he was not badly injured, even if his pride was shaken. I decided I would visit him as a show of friendship and he invited me into his lounge while asking his niece, Margaret, to bring us all a dry sherry. As I wa
ited, he outlined the accident, saying he’d learned to read the signals at traffic lights and fully understood the sequence of the colours. On this occasion, he had pulled up at the lights at the end of the bridge in Strensford and almost immediately, a motorist had rammed him from behind, crushing the boot of his splendid old car and giving him a nasty whiplash injury — which could have been worse. He considered himself lucky.

  ‘That is my very first road accident, Mr Rhea. It has ruined my record of good driving. So, rather than risk my life in the future, I’ve decided to give up my licence,’ he said eventually. ‘After all, I am heading for my eighty-sixth birthday and I don’t want to die just yet. Certainly, I have no wish to die in a road accident, not after such a long, accident-free record! I’m not badly off, I can always afford to get a taxi or find someone to drive me if I want to go out. So there you are, one motorist less for you to worry about.’

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve decided to give up your licence,’ I said. ‘You’ve had one or two near misses lately and traffic is getting heavier and cars are moving a lot faster. Your generation must find it difficult to cope . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s not my own driving ability that concerns me,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘I’ve never had an accident in my life, Mr Rhea, not until this one, and that was not my fault. No, it’s those other lunatics on the road that worry me. I feel I’m not safe these days . . . I mean, Mr Rhea, if people can run into you when you’re parked at traffic lights, heaven knows what might happen on the open road. So, to avoid all those bad drivers and to prolong my life for a few more years, I’m going to get off the roads and leave them free to all those fools who cause accidents!’

  ‘A very wise decision,’ I said with all honesty.

  7

  The bigots of the iron time

  Had call’d his harmless art a crime.

  SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1771–1832

  From time to time, police officers encounter people who commit criminal acts without realizing that their behaviour constitutes an offence. Extreme examples are those who steal from open displays in shops; some regard shoplifting as a challenge or a game rather than a crime, but, at the very least, shoplifting is theft with a maximum sentence of ten years’ imprisonment. In some circumstances, it could even be classified as burglary which carries fourteen years’ imprisonment. On one occasion in my police service, I came across a doting mother whose son repeatedly and illegally ‘borrowed’ motor cars from parking areas for what has now become known as joyriding, but she did not believe this was wrong because, as she said, ‘The insurance will pay.’

  At the other end of the scale are those whose mental capacity is such that they do not understand the real difference between right and wrong. This is something for which our legal system makes allowances while, on the other hand, the legislature creates what are known as ‘absolute offences’. This name is given to offences for which there is no excuse! Many motoring offences fit into this category. Exceeding the speed limit in a motor vehicle is one example — there is no point in a driver saying he or she did not realize it was a restricted area or that the speedometer was unknowingly giving a false reading. Either you are speeding or you are not; there are no buts, ifs and wherefores. Similarly, there is no point claiming your motor car insurance policy expired without your knowledge — driving a motor vehicle on a road without a valid certificate of insurance is an absolute offence. There are no excuses. It would be possible to list many similar illegalities, but it is this firm aspect of the law which, from time to time, creates a dilemma within a police officer. In coping with these absolute offences, allowances must sometimes be made by the police and there are times that discretion has to be exercised — an example might be catching a total stranger driving the wrong way down a badly signed one-way street, catching a man breaking the speed limit while rushing his pregnant wife to hospital for an impending birth, or discovering a motorist who has failed to sign his or her driving licence, an act which validates the document. Does a sympathetic constable allow these offenders to be let off with a verbal caution, or should the full weight of the law be thrown at them? It is a matter of the moment for the constable who deals with these matters; how to deal with these minor infringements of the law is left to his discretion. And so it should be. Happily, that privilege remains with a constable — we are not yet a police state, although I recall one socialist politician in the 1960s who wanted the police to exercise no discretion at all in any instance. He wanted the full weight of the law to be implemented in every case . . . and that’s dangerous thinking. It would produce a police state.

  It was this kind of problem that faced me in dealing with the curious case of John Frederick Chorley, a 17-year-old farmworker. He lived and worked with his parents, Jack and Janet, at Stone Beck Farm, Whemmelby, and was an only child. John was born rather late into their lives. Both were over forty when he appeared on the scene and thus he found himself reared in a somewhat lonely world with parents who were almost old enough to be his grandparents. If their education and worldly experience were perhaps rather limited, they were loving and caring, and they were immensely proud that they had a son who would eventually inherit the farm. For that reason, they spent a lot of time and energy in helping John to understand the wealth of knowledge needed to run such a business — everything from simple accountancy and commerce to basic veterinary practices, via grassland care and current Ministry of Agriculture regulations and requirements were part of his work. He had to know a little about a lot — and for an uneducated lad, that was not easy. But he did try. One of his parents’ schemes was to make him responsible for several pigs, sheep and cows, learning how to care for them, breed from them and sell their offspring at market, and to ensure he covered his costs and made a profit. I have no doubt young John gained a lot of benefit from those practical lessons.

  Stone Beck Farm was a large unit with a spacious house and lots of outbuildings. The spread covered an extensive area of open moorland as well as some lush fields in the dale. In addition to his hard-working son, Jack employed a couple of other hands, in addition to taking on extra men at sheep-shearing time, harvest or other busy periods, and there is no doubt he was a popular, hard-working and much-respected farmer.

  Likewise, his wife was always busy, rearing poultry, piglets, lambs and calves on the farm and taking an active part in many village organizations such as the Women’s’ Institute, chapel and parish council. It was a busy, happy household but totally unsophisticated, and I enjoyed my quarterly visits when I had to check their stock registers or when I made unscheduled calls simply because I happened to be patrolling the vicinity. Whenever I arrived and whatever the reason, Janet would always produce a massive chunk of apple pie or gingerbread and cheese or home-made scones with home-made butter, and we would sit for a few minutes at the scrubbed kitchen table over a cup of tea or coffee — sometimes with John, Jack and one of their sheepdogs present, sometimes without them if they were working on the moors or in the fields.

  Generally, however, young John always contrived to keep out of my way. I gained the impression that he was uncomfortable in the presence of a uniformed policeman, something quite normal for a lively, uncultured youth of seventeen. I knew him, of course. A tall, strong youth with a shy smile, broad shoulders and the powerful limbs of a working farm-lad, he had long brown hair which generally looked unkempt, but his face was fresh and his grey eyes were bright. Usually, he wore rough clothes which could never be described as fashionable, and he had an old motorbike which he used to ride in from Whemmelby to meet his pals or to attend Saturday-night dances in Ashfordly. He attended a lot of motorcycle scramble events on the moors, and sometimes went into Scarborough or Middlesbrough to dances or night clubs with other friends, one of whom had a car.

  In addition to these outings, he spent time in Aidensfield, playing billiards and snooker in the village hall, watching cricket or football matches and even visiting the pub if he thought I wouldn’t throw him out. But so long as
he did not purchase intoxicants, there was no reason why he should not visit the pub with his pals. My own belief was that if such youngsters were in the pub, I knew where they were and what they were doing; that was far better than roaming the streets and becoming vandals.

  For all his shyness in my company, I never considered John Frederick to be a troublemaker or even a lad who might occasionally overstep the mark so far as the law was concerned. He had strict parents who ensured he behaved himself and it is fair to say he had never given me a moment’s concern.

  Then, one afternoon, I paid my usual visit for signing their stock register. Both Jack and John were in the fields, so Janet organized a mug of tea for me, along with a plate of fresh buttered scones and strawberry jam. This was indeed a feast, but for her menfolk, it was a mere snack. As I settled down to enjoy it while checking the entries in the stock register, she settled before me at the opposite side of the table and waited in silence until I appended my signature in the appropriate place in the book.

  ‘So, how’s things?’ I made small talk while finishing my tea and scones.

  ‘There’s summat I want to ask while you’re here,’ Janet said in her slow moorland voice, her dark eyes looking just a little worried. ‘I’ve asked other folks who’ve not been much help and I’ve had words with t’lectric board, but they’re no good either.’

  ‘Well, if I can help, I will.’ I wondered what I was about to hear.

  ‘It’s my ’lectric bill,’ she said. ‘It’s gone sky high this last two or three quarters and I can’t fathom it out.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to the Electricity Board, have you?’ was my first response.