Soon Sergeant Bairstow halted and pointed.
“There!” he whispered, and I followed the line of his outstretched arm.
Silhouetted against the silvery sheen of the moving water were several heads, all working at the river’s edge. I could hear the roar of the rapids higher upstream and realised this noise would conceal our movements. I counted five men. I guessed there would be more, the others perhaps posted as look-outs.
We were below the skyline and, as we neared the water’s edge, the woodland thinned considerably. Finally we reached the riverside path. Bairstow waited for several long, agonising minutes and then flashed his torch twice, very quickly. The response came immediately — two flashes. The others were in a similar position, ready for action.
We moved forward, knowing our colleagues at the other side were doing likewise, closing in and making a sandwich of the poachers. Then up went a warning shout. It surprised us all. We’d been seen.
“Bailiffs!”
A man had been concealed behind a bush on the river bank and we almost tripped over him. Too late we realised he was there. He ran from us, shouting his warning as he rushed towards his pals.
Sergeant Bairstow did not flap. He simply stood his ground, pulled out his police whistle and blew it. It was the first time I’d heard a police whistle used on duty, and it galvanised us into action. The dogs were told to “speak” and began to bark as Sergeant Bairstow called upon the poachers to stand still or be bitten in some very painful places. Four of them stood rock still, but one tried to escape by climbing over a fence into the fields beyond.
The look-out had vanished too, but a dog handler now called to them all, albeit addressing the man heading for the railings.
“Halt or the dog comes after you!” he bellowed. The running man did not halt. He ran for all he was worth, and I heard the handler tell his dog to deal with the escapee. He slipped the lead and with a glorious bound the agile dog leapt in pursuit of the frantic man. The other dog barked encouragement from the distance and it seemed as if this character was the only one foolish enough to attempt to outrun the dogs. Its handler followed with fitful strides as the bounding dog pursued the foolish poacher.
He could never hope to outdistance the dog, but someone must have given wings to the fellow’s heels for he did manage to clamber over the fence and was precariously balanced on top when the dog arrived. In the dim light we could see the drama. The man was balanced on top of the railings and was preparing to leap down into the field. At the precise moment he took off, the dog leapt up and seized his arm. With a cry of horror the man fell, and we heard the tell-tale growling and snarling of a police dog which had cornered its prey.
“Leave!” cried the handler, and the dog sat back on its haunches, tongue lolling as it watched the sobbing, terrified youth. The others in the meantime, including the look-out man, had been gathered into a huddle and were guarded by the other dog. Its presence was enough to guarantee their cooperation.
The attempted escaper, who had fallen head first into a bunch of nettles, was gathered up and brought back.
We seized their gear for evidence, took them all to Ashfordly Police Station and bailed them out to appear before Eltering Magistrates’ Court in due course. It was a skilful gang from Leeds, but the pair we’d caught earlier were not among them. None of this gang admitted knowing the other two, but I didn’t believe them.
From our point of view it had been a good night’s work, and I collapsed into bed at 6.30, tired but happy after the night’s events. I told myself that when I woke around lunchtime I would ring his Lordship to acquaint him with our overnight success. He’d be pleased, I knew; maybe we’d each receive a complimentary salmon!
But his Lordship woke me at 8.30 by banging on the door of the house and demanding to see me. Mary had to arouse me, due to his insistence, and I staggered bleary-eyed downstairs to find him in the lounge, flustered and angry. Very angry indeed.
“Poachers!” he shouted. “I had poachers last night, Rhea! Down at Ferris Bridge. They’ve given me a right bashing and here’s you, lying in bed all day . . .”
I groaned.
Chapter Six
His motorcar was poetry and tragedy,
love and heroism. The office was his pirate ship,
but the car his perilous excursion ashore.
SINCLAIR LEWIS — Babbitt
In my early days in the police force it was considered by those in authority that motorcars were not for ordinary policemen, either at work or at play. That a constable could or would even own a car was something abhorrent and this thinking was reflected in the fact that police houses had no garages, police stations had no parking places and police training centres issued “Guidance to Students on Arrival” without once mentioning a motorcar. Perhaps Scotland Yard did not subscribe to this image because old films about the police invariably showed a long-snouted Wolseley roaring out of the pearly gates of that famous Police Headquarters. Indeed, many police forces later advertised Henry Ford’s cars in sombre black garb as they rushed up and down main roads with “Police” written all over them. In those days “Police” was synonymous with efficiency and quality, and I’m sure the police forces who used Ford cars provided useful, albeit unconscious, recommendation for Mr Ford’s engineering skills. Another peculiarity was that detective story writers rarely used motorcars in their yarns to convey detectives around, even though some of their detective inspectors did dress for dinner and take sherry in country houses.
The reality of police thinking suggested that a constable driving a car was akin to a gardener using his master’s Rolls-Royce, so the perambulations around our beats meant we had to rely heavily upon our feet or else use very ancient pedal cycles. Cycles were unreliable because the lamps never worked, and the tyres were always flat. Official cycles were large, upright monsters, painted black all over and sporting a chain guard. For years they provided the traditional mode of transport for the travelling constable, and still do in some areas. The constable went to work upon it, did his work upon it and travelled home upon it. Some forces actually paid an allowance to those who used their own pedal cycles for duty, and as this was based on the mileage covered on duty, little books were issued to the riders in which the official mileage was recorded and checked carefully by the sergeant.
Eltering’s official cycle was rusty and unfit for duty. The inspector requested a replacement; in fact, he was extremely daring because he applied for two country bicycles, basing his claim on the fact that the establishment of his officers had doubled since 1910 and new roads, coupled with expanding villages, had brought more people within range of our patrols. Much to his surprise his wish came true — the Police Committee at County Hall considered his application and allocated two new pedal cycles to Eltering Police Station. Sergeant Blaketon was appointed officer in charge of county cycles and promptly numbered them 1 and 2. He issued a mileage book to each machine. No 1 cycle was to be used as the main machine, with No 2 being used only in emergencies or when No 1 was otherwise engaged. After each journey the mileage book must be completed showing the date, times and places visited with the name of the rider in charge at the time. He further instructed that after use the cycles had to be checked for cuts in the tyres, damage or loss of wind; the lights must be checked, and the saddle cleaned for use. In this manner, therefore, the constables of Eltering became mechanised.
It was some time before I understood why Eltering managed to acquire two cycles. A few years later I learned that the Police Committee had been considering the issue of motorcars to selected town stations like Eltering. It transpired that the inspector had applied for two pedal cycles and had put up such a good argument for them that the Committee felt Eltering did not require a car. Ashfordly got a little car and so did Malton, while Eltering continued for years with pedal cycles.
A little Ford Anglia did arrive in due course, and indeed most rural stations eventually possessed one of these delightful vehicles. At the larger stati
ons the Superintendent had a large Ford, usually a Consul, while the inspector made do with a Morris Oxford. No one else was allowed to use these sacred treasures and they were treated like pots of gold. The Superintendent’s car was cleaned, oiled and maintained by a mechanically qualified constable, who also lit the fires, looked after stray dogs, cooked the meals for prisoners and did every other job around the station. He also spared a moment for the inspector’s car, but studiously refrained from interfering with the pedal cycles. Another less talented officer cared for these machines.
It goes without saying that it was never easy travelling from place to place during routine duties. If our cycles lacked the speed necessary to reach emergencies while they were still emergencies we had to improvise and we did this by standing in the middle of the road in full uniform with hand raised. This was guaranteed to stop most vehicles and in this grand manner we begged or bullied lifts, or we took a bus.
Under no circumstances must we use either the inspector’s or the Superintendent’s car. Even though they were official vehicles, it was understood they were official only to those exalted ranks and were most definitely not for the likes of working constables rushing off to deal with burglaries, rapes, sudden deaths or mayhem of other kinds. They were used to convey the higher ranks to their dinners and other important social functions.
There were occasions, however, when ambitious constables let their crime-detecting ardour get the better of them to such an extent that they made use of the Superintendent’s car. The horror of such an action was too fearful to contemplate, but this happened to me on one occasion.
I was working “office nights” at Divisional Headquarters during a shortage of men, and the time would be around two o’clock in the morning. The telephone rang, a rare event in that station at any time, but particularly so at this early hour. I answered it. A very anxious gentleman was calling from a kiosk in the marketplace and his message was to the effect that his car had just been stolen and was, at this very moment, being driven out of town at the hands of an unscrupulous villain. The gentleman provided the registration number and a brief description of his vehicle, so I asked him to make his way to the office where a colleague would look after him. Meanwhile I would give chase. There was not a moment to lose.
I rang Control Room and provided them with a description, saying the stolen vehicle was heading towards York. Control Room promised assistance in the shape of a modern, highly sophisticated police patrol car. I could hardly set off in pursuit on my motorcycle — by the time I’d got myself dressed in my plethora of gear, the car would be miles away. I decided to use the Superintendent’s car for it was parked in the station garage. I made this decision in the full realisation that my career might come to a sudden end, but villains are there to be caught. I might just catch this one. If I did nothing about it my career would come to a similarly swift end.
The gleaming car awaited. Its keys dangled from a hook in the Charge Office. Feeling almost as if I was taking this car without lawful consent, I took the keys and raced around to the garage. Within seconds I was on the road and enjoying the chase. There is little doubt that these official cars were beautifully maintained and tuned. The policemen who looked after them nursed a deep pride in their work, and all vehicles were in a superb condition. There was not a scratch on this car and its paintwork gleamed. Its engine purred like a contented cat and I found myself humming with sheer enjoyment as I sped through the sleeping town in pursuit of the stolen car. This was the life!
I switched on the radio, gave my call-sign to Control Room as I booked on the air, and smiled at the consternation of those listeners-in who would think that the Superintendent was not only out on patrol, but hotly pursuing a stolen car. Such is the effect of a personalised call-sign like Mike One Zero Papa. I listened to the commentary on the radio — a York constable was heading towards me, hoping to head off the vehicle, and it was a fair bet that one of us would halt the flight of HAT 101. That number was etched into my memory.
I sped along the fine surface of the main road with the wind whistling about the car as I drove to its limit. I touched 100 mph and the car remained as steady as a rock. I had been mobile for some ten minutes when I heard Control Room announce to all involved in the hunt for HAT 101 that a village petrol-pump owner had heard a noise and had seen the driver helping himself to a tankful of fuel. I knew the village. It was off the main road, so I turned off its long, straight carriageway and bore along the peaceful dark lanes. I urged the willing vehicle into the bends and along the straights at speeds which would have terrified me under normal circumstances. There was a maze of lanes here, but I knew I wasn’t far from the village in question. The car could be in any of these lanes.
Quite suddenly I came up behind the stolen car. It seemed the thief had not realised he was being chased because he was pottering along at a fairly sedate 45 mph. I was now faced with the problem of stopping him. This was not easy, especially on such narrow lanes, and it was before the days of blue revolving lights and flashing police signs. I had to rely on my headlight dip switch, horn and my voice. There was no loud hailer fitted to this car — some of the more splendid patrol cars possessed loud hailers from which booming voices, amplified many times, could halt a thief in seconds and arouse half the town in the process. But I had none of this sophisticated equipment, so I shouted out of the window, blared my horn and flashed my lights. It had some effect.
The driver thought I wanted to overtake him, so he pulled into the side of the lane to allow me through. At that stage, it seems, he realised it was a black car with no markings but containing a chap in uniform bent on stopping him. Quite understandably, he accelerated. I did likewise. Suddenly we were roaring alarmingly along the narrow lanes with lights flashing and horns blaring. Tall, thick hedges rushed at us on the corners and hills yawned before our noses. Houses tore past, and cattle shook their heads in bewilderment. How long we careered like this I do not know, but it seemed like hours. Then very unexpectedly he turned sharp left, which meant I had to brake urgently. Tyres screamed as I attempted his sudden change of direction and I found he had careered through an open farm gate and was currently sinking into a foul-smelling pond. I stopped at the edge as he clambered across the roof of the car, now up to his axles in slime, and I said, “Come on, you’re under arrest.”
“Oh, bloody hell!” he said in evident resignation and he came quietly as arrested persons tended to do in those halcyon days. I conveyed him to the police station where a sergeant now waited. The formalities of searching him, questioning him and eventually charging him were completed and the perplexed owner was taken out to retrieve his car from the pond. We drove the Superintendent’s car on that trip too and used a tow-rope to haul the abandoned vehicle from its soggy parking place.
By six that morning the excitement was over. The man had been charged and would appear at court that morning. Meanwhile he would remain in the cells as a guest. The loser had got his car back, the farmer into whose pond the stolen car had dropped would have a tale to tell at market and I would be roused from my sleep by nine o’clock, only three hours later, in order to attend court and give my evidence. In those days policemen weren’t supposed to need sleep.
I attended court and the case was rapidly dealt with, the thief pleading guilty to the offence of taking and driving away a car without the consent of the owner. He also pleaded guilty to careless driving and using the car without insurance. I gave evidence in the formal manner drummed into us at Training School and he got away with a total fine of £65 and had his licence endorsed.
I was then ordered into the inner sanctum, wherein dwelt the Superintendent. I expected praise for my part in effecting the swift arrest of the car thief but instead found myself facing a very red-faced and irate Superintendent who waved an official logbook at me. It belonged to his car.
“This!” he simmered. “This book — last night you drove over 100 miles in my official car — my car. Two trips, each of fifty . . .”
<
br /> “Yes, sir,” I said.
“But this is the Superintendent’s car!” he bellowed. “It is not to be used for routine patrolling, not under any circumstances and certainly not by a constable.”
“I was chasing a stolen car, sir,” I began to explain. “I had no other means of catching the thief,” and went into a long-winded and fairly exaggerated account of my escapade.
He fumed and panted as I continued, but my reasons were totally invalid. I almost felt he was going to charge me with taking and driving his car without consent! He told me again that Superintendent’s official cars were not to be used for routine police work, they were for supervisory duties. In short, I got the bulling of my life and retracted from the office with my pride wounded. There was no doubt in my mind that if I had not used the Superintendent’s car that thief would have escaped. I was convinced my actions were justified.
Higher authority didn’t think so. My actions that night led to a Divisional Order which stated quite categorically that the Superintendent’s official car must never be used for routine police patrol duties. It was a supervisory officer’s vehicle for use by supervisory officers on supervisory duties.
Like all such orders, however, there was an escape clause. This allowed the car to be used for emergencies, but this permission was qualified by saying it could be done only by the personal consent of the Superintendent.
The inevitable happened. I was on night-duty some weeks later in the same police station when an almost identical event occurred. A householder heard noises in the street and looked out of the bedroom window in time to see his Morris Minor vanishing from sight. He immediately rang the police station and I answered the telephone; the result was a repeat performance of the previous escapade, except that I rang the Superintendent at home to get his personal permission to use his car.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 31