“Good evening,” I said, not being able to conjure up anything more sparkling.
“Ah!” the relief was evident in his voice. “You are a policeman?”
“Yes,” I was in shirt sleeves, and he managed a thin smile when I confirmed my role.
“I’ve got to report an accident.” He shook visibly as he spoke those words.
“Oh, come in,” I stepped back and invited him into the house. “Can you manage a cup of tea?”
“Love one,” he breathed, sitting heavily on a chair in the office. “Yes, I’d love one if it’s no bother.”
“There’s one in the pot,” I told him. I left him for a moment as I asked Mary to produce a cup for him, and I’d have another myself as I talked with him. I returned and found him smoking a cigarette, somewhat relieved.
“Now,” I said, handing him the tea. “Accident? Was it a bad one?”
“The front of the car’s all bashed in,” he said. “One headlight’s gone, mudguard dented, bonnet twisted slightly. This is the first police house I’ve found . . .”
“What did you hit?” I asked.
“A kangaroo,” he said, looking at me and staring into my eyes, daring me to disbelieve him.
“A kangaroo?” My thoughts turned immediately to D. G. CHAMPS. Kangaroo was not one of the listed animals, so this was not a road accident. This meant I did not have to compile an accident report.
“It’s not listed in the road traffic acts,” I aired my knowledge. “You don’t have to report it — accidents involving kangaroos are not reportable.”
“But I hit one, officer, just down the road!”
“Are you sure it was a kangaroo?” I asked. “You are deep in the countryside, you know, and we have all kinds of animals here. Deer, badgers, foxes, hares . . .”
I’d once seen a camel striding purposefully across the moors in a heavy mist, but daren’t mention that to him. It had astounded some drivers at the time but had been hired from a local zoo by a party of schoolboys who rode it during a stunt. As I talked to him, I realised that a camel wasn’t D. G. CHAMPS either, unless it qualified as ‘cattle’.
“It was a bloody kangaroo,” he almost shouted. “I saw it. It hopped right out of the hedge and I ran slap-bang into it. I don’t know where it went — it just seemed to get knocked away and I couldn’t find it.”
“It’s not dead, then?” I asked.
“I stopped and had a look,” he said. “There was a spot of blood on the road, and on my car. But it’s not around, I’m sure.”
I wondered if our local vet would come to declare a kangaroo dead? Or would it have to be dragged away by the knackers? I went out to examine his vehicle and found it severely damaged, with splashes of blood here and there. I took his personal particulars and a precise location of the happening. He left me half an hour later, a little more composed. I could not put this one through the books as an accident having regard to D. G. CHAMPS. It was simply not a reportable road traffic accident. I would record it merely as an ‘incident’.
But I puzzled over his kangaroo. When I resumed patrol, I decided to visit the location of his confrontation and in the headlight of my motorcycle, found the spots of blood on the road. He’d told me of the direction from which it had leapt at him and I decided to have a look around. I guessed it had gone into the field opposite, so armed with my sturdy police torch, I parked the bike and climbed the gate, to wander across the grassy area beyond. And I found his kangaroo. It was dead, with its head badly injured. It had managed to leap this far before collapsing. But it wasn’t a kangaroo. It was a wallaby, and wallabies are not part of D. G. CHAMPS either! I left it in the field, just as I would have done had it been a hare, a rabbit or other wild animal. Besides, it would be found by the farmer next morning, and it would provide a talking point in the pub for many an hour. They’d all wonder how it had arrived, and I would not tell them. It would be interesting to hear the speculation.
Next morning, I rang the motorist at his home near Middlesbrough to explain he’d been wrong. I told him it wasn’t a kangaroo, but a wallaby. He laughed.
“Go on,” he said. “Put me out of my misery. How can I run down a wallaby in the North Riding countryside?”
“They have some at a local zoo,” I told him, “and several have escaped over the years. They’ve adapted to the countryside and some of them are breeding in the district. You hit a wild wallaby.”
“And do you think my insurance company will swallow that?” he asked.
“Ask them to write to us,” I advised him. “We’ll confirm it.”
That was my first brush with animals from the local zoo. Housed on a large country estate in the North Riding, the zoo was the home of a fascinating variety of animals, ranging from domestic poultry to lions and hippos, including crocodiles, flamingos and dolphins. From time to time, some of the species did escape, although the officials were marvellous at arranging their re-capture. Because of this, exotic birds lived in the woodlands about me, and many a British ornithologist has been dumbfounded by the multi-coloured parrots, budgies and humming birds which somehow managed to survive in the bleak hills of the region, if only for the summer months. After all, it’s not often you find vulturine guinea fowl, scaled quail or variegated wrens in English orchards.
My next link with the zoo came as the circus arrived in town. It was a small touring circus which was scheduled to stage a series of performances within the grounds of the zoo. Many of its larger animals were to be transported by rail and this was part of a publicity stunt. The elephants would be walked from Eltering Railway Station, when they would lead a procession of other animals and acts. Some would be walked, like the monkeys and chimps, while the dangerous ones would be in cages and carried on the rear of their own transporters. They would be waiting at the railway station.
It was Sergeant Bairstow, with the usual twinkle in his eye, who called me into his office one morning.
“Ah, Nicholas,” he beamed. “A nice day?”
“Very nice, Sergeant,” I agreed, little knowing what he had in store for me.
“I’ve a nice little job for you this afternoon,” he smiled. “You’re to be on motorcycle escort duty.”
“Something important?” I asked.
“Yes, very,” and he explained about the arrival of the circus. “You’re to be at Eltering Railway Station at 2 pm. The train will arrive shortly afterwards, and when all the animals have been transferred from the train, you will lead the procession through the town. Take it along the main road and into the grounds of the zoo. It’s about four miles, so it could take an hour. O.K.?”
I did not know whether to be amused or not. I’d never escorted a circus. I knew there’d be clowns, jugglers, monkeys, balloons and a host of ancillary publicity gimmicks. And I’d be escorting that lot! But orders were orders. Mounted on my trusty Francis Barnett with its aerial waving behind, I reported at the railway station. The place was alive with people, especially children, and already the waiting animals were being arranged in some sort of order. Whips were cracking, trainers were shouting, animals were calling, the music was playing . . .
“The elephant’s going to lead the procession,” said Sergeant Bairstow who had arrived by car. “It’ll dictate the pace for the others. You ride your bike ahead of the procession — clear the route of sightseers, make a way through, prevent accidents, warn motorists of the oncoming procession. I’ll be at the rear — if you meet trouble, radio for assistance.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
And so I waited for the moment to begin my leadership of this curious procession. After a lot of shouting, fuss, general noise and re-arranging of vehicles and cages, the circus was ready to move. I was parked in the street, waiting for the signal to start. When I saw the column of marchers heading for me, led by a huge, grey elephant, I kicked the bike into life, waited until they were closer, and set off.
I knew elephants could walk with considerable speed and this one would dictate the pace of the
entire march. Driving ahead, I soon found I had difficulty maintaining a balance upon my machine. This would be due to the very slow speed, but by travelling at a steady four or five miles an hour, I managed to keep it upright. Regular checks in the mirror on the handlebars told me the entourage was keeping pace, and I could see the bulk of the elephant immediately behind me, moving with surprising speed. I daren’t look around in case I wobbled and lost my balance, and therefore relied on the mirror.
We passed several knots of people en route; entire villages turned out to see us pass, and motorists halted to let us through. As we approached each gathering of people, cheers rose high in the air and I felt quite proud. Then the bike wobbled again; in recent minutes, I had become aware of its liability to wobble more than it should. Perhaps my back tyre was flat? I tried to look down, but this caused me to wobble alarmingly, so I frowned and kept going, hoping that I was not going to have trouble. Finally, when I reached a long, fairly flat and straight piece of road, I ventured a careful glance behind.
The leading elephant was clutching my wireless aerial!
It had seized the slender, tough aerial with its trunk and was trotting behind, hard on my tail. Three more elephants were behind that one, all gripping the tail of the one in front, and I was leading the motley procession towards the zoo. I never lived it down. One newspaper printed a photograph of me and my elephant and captioned it, “Elephant Old Bill”, while another headlined the item, “Lead Kindly Bike”.
It was all good, harmless fun and besides, I got free admission to the circus for my wife and family, for my part in the publicity. All the same, I began to wonder what Sergeant Bairstow would involve me with next!
I ought to add that the zoo in question was not on my beat. It lay within the boundaries of a neighbouring beat, but I frequently found myself patrolling the locality, due to my colleague’s absence on other duties, or when he was ill or attending a course. I enjoyed those duties because they were so different. On two occasions, however, I received a fright, and both occurred during the same night.
Sergeant Bairstow (who else?) asked me to visit the grounds of the zoo late one night because there was a barbecue on the site. Intoxicating liquor was being sold and the organisers had obtained an occasional licence for the function. I had to pop along to ensure they closed their bars on time and that the revellers dispersed quietly. The fun was to end at 2 am, I was told. As I was on night duty, driving a Ford Anglia car instead of my motorcycle, I was allocated that duty. It was suggested that I make my visit fairly late, in order that my presence would jolt the memories of the organisers.
I decided to visit the barbecue at 1.45 am. I drove into the car park and was surprised to see it was deserted. I left the police car there, placed my peaked cap upon my head, grabbed a torch and walked towards the buildings of the zoo. There was not a sound from the place, save the twittering of birds and the grunts of sleeping animals. I reasoned that if there was a barbecue, there would be sounds of people and music; there’d be cars around the place and lights. But there was nothing.
In the stillness of the night, I stood with ears straining, listening for sounds of merry-making. But there was none. The place was deserted. Even the animals were asleep.
Because I knew the zoo’s geography fairly well, I had a look around. I knew there were certain areas which were ideal for such an occasion, like open fields, a picnic area or the lawns before the mansion. I made a systematic search but found nothing. I did not even find any trace of a recent event, let alone a current one. I veered towards the big house, hoping that lights inside might indicate a celebration of some kind, but all was in darkness. From there, I searched the outbuildings, but again drew a blank. It was at this stage that I began to wonder if this was one of Sergeant Bairstow’s quiet pieces of fun. To be completely sure in my own mind, I made a second tour of the entire zoo, but drew another blank. There was no barbecue here. I was sure of that.
I returned to the car because it was almost two-thirty in the morning and I was hungry. My refreshment period was overdue, and I was to take it at Eltering Police Station, where there was a kettle.
I began to re-trace my steps in the general direction of the car park and was cutting between some buildings when I became aware that someone was following me. My own feet made little or no noise because I wore brothel-creepers, boots with thick crêpe soles. But I could hear a woman’s footsteps immediately behind me. The delicate clipping sound of high heels moved along with me. My hair stood on end. I stopped. So did the woman. I looked behind, and there was nothing, only total silence.
I wondered if I had imagined it all and set off again. The striking footsteps renewed themselves. Clip clop, clip clop, right behind me. I stopped and whirled around. There was nothing. By this time, a cold sweat was making my back most uncomfortable and my hair was standing sharply upright about the nape of my neck. No one had said the zoo was haunted, not even Sergeant Bairstow. And I didn’t think he would lay on a ghost, especially at two o’clock in the morning. Or would he?
I walked again, rapidly this time, but the terrifying footsteps came with me, moving in time with my strides. I knew the sound of a woman’s high-heeled shoes, and this was definitely that sound. There was no doubt about it. I had my torch and after stopping a few times, I decided I must catch the woman, or the prankster. I had decided it was one of my colleagues playing a joke. There was no other explanation.
To complete my plans, I walked rapidly along the narrow path which ran between a building and a wall. The wall was shoulder height and I strode purposefully along, then suddenly whirled around and shone my torch directly behind me. There was nothing. Not even Sergeant Bairstow.
I was almost at my wits’ end to know what it was, when I heard a snuffling sound at the other side of the wall. I shone my torch over and found a zebra in its compound. I talked to it, switched off my torch and moved on. The clip-clop came with me. I stopped, shone my torch and there she was beside me. It was the zebra, moving along with me in her compound. Every time I stopped, so did she. I walked backwards and forwards along that wall, and all the time she repeated her trick. I wished I had some food for her, but I hadn’t. I left her rather sadly, for she was infinitely more beautiful and far more interesting than the non-existent barbecue!
When I rang Sergeant Bairstow from Eltering Police Station and mentioned the missing revelry, he laughed and said, “I must have got the wrong night, Nicholas.”
I didn’t mention the zebra and wondered if he would bring up the matter at a later date, but he didn’t. He went to bed and after my welcome breakfast, I resumed patrol at three-thirty. There were two-and-a-half hours before knocking off time. To fill in the lonely hours, I drove along the main road from Eltering and turned off beyond the Black Bull Inn. This would take me back into the general area of the zoo, albeit from another direction. I might just come across the site of the barbecue, in a field near the zoo, maybe?
As I drove along, I kept my eyes open for the bus shelter which stands at the junction. I used that shelter as a kind of landmark, knowing that I had to make a sharp right turn at that point. As my headlights picked out the re-assuring shape of the shelter, I was surprised to see it was full of dogs. They were lying or standing in the bus shelter, and there would be six or eight in all. I couldn’t be sure of the exact number. As my lights lit the interior, I realised they were Alsatians, so I pulled up directly opposite as they watched me with baleful eyes. Two of them came to the front of the car and sniffed at the engine, then peered into the headlamps, which I had switched off to leave only side lights.
As the engine ticked over, I racked my brains. Who bred Alsatians around here? I thought of sheep worrying and the chaos they could cause if they became savage. Clearly, someone’s breeding kennels had been left open, allowing the animals to wander off as a pack.
A pack?
My hair stood on end. For the second time that night, I was terrified. One of those ‘dogs’ came to my window and peered up
at me. I saw that its eyes were yellow and that it wasn’t an Alsatian. There was some white about it, its tail was longer, the slope of its legs was different, the coat was thicker — and those yellow eyes . . .!
Wolves. This was a pack of wolves! I recognised them now. It was a pack of Canadian timber wolves and I knew where they’d come from. The zoo. I was horrified when I realised what might have happened if they’d taken a walk near that zebra, with me as an object of pursuit. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Feeling as if I was in a safari park, I sat in the safety of the car as they sniffed around it before returning to their shelter. They seemed content to remain there but I was in a quandary. If I left them to seek aid, they could wander anywhere and might harm cattle or sheep. If I remained here, how could I inform the zoo? My thinking must have been rather slow, probably due to the hour, for I remembered the car had a radio. I called up Force Control Room and asked them to contact the zoo, even though it was about four o’clock in the morning. The message was that their Canadian timber wolves were in a bus shelter just south of Eltering.
Within forty-five minutes, there arrived a van containing three men armed with two big nets. With remarkable dexterity, they coaxed the docile animals into the van, where they seemed like pets, and not in the least savage. It transpired they were not dangerous to humans, but I wouldn’t have given them the chance. It seemed that someone had slipped open the door of their compound, but we never traced that person.
I clambered into my warm bed just after six that morning, and Mary muttered, “Had a busy night?”
“I’ve been trapping Canadian timber wolves,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster.
“Wolves?” she murmured sleepily.
“Yes,” I said, snuggling down against her warmth.
“Not polar bears?” she asked, moving away from my chilly feet and sinking into a deep sleep.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 16