CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  “York?”

  “Yes, on the way to Hull . . . I was supposed to be on the road by half six . . . bloody hell . . .”

  And he began ripping out his unfinished report, rushing round the office, tidying up and generally generating something of a whirlwind as we stood and watched. He mopped up his spilt tea and I could see he was terribly agitated.

  I wondered what the sergeant would do next. He did nothing.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” cried Dave, almost running out of the office with his hat on the back of his head and his jacket open. “Thanks, Sarge, I mean . . .”

  And Charlie Bairstow allowed him to leave. The last I saw of Dave that morning was his flying figure as he tore from the police station to rouse his family. Only then would he realise what had really happened.

  The truth was that Sergeant Bairstow had used this method to give him an hour off duty before going on holiday. It was also a reminder that one should not fall asleep on duty, and I knew Dave would always remember this lesson.

  “Come along, Nicholas, it will be six o’clock by the time we return.”

  A lot of pranks were undertaken to relieve the crushing boredom, but others were perpetrated to teach less friendly policemen a lesson. It must be said that every police station, large or small, has its own rotten egg. He could be too keen on prosecuting the public, too hard on kids, or simply a misfit among his fellow officers. Such policemen are unpopular, even among policemen.

  There are many kinds of unpopular cops — it might be a youngster from an upper-class background who thinks himself superior to his colleagues — it might be a brain-box who has passed all his exams and is good at academic subjects but hopeless at practical policing, or it might be a keen officer who books every possible defaulter for the most trivial offences. Whatever their faults, disliked officers can be treated with considerable contempt by their colleagues.

  Such a fellow arrived at Eltering a few months after I was posted to Aidensfield. He was a tall, Nordic-looking character with high cheekbones and wavy blond hair. He considered himself God’s answer to Romeo and, worse still, he came from the south. This accident of birth immediately segregated him from the Yorkshiremen about him. It must be said, however, that his southern nativity alone did not cause any real rift because Yorkshiremen are kind enough to such unfortunates to attempt a programme of conversion. During this intensive course the incomer would be taught the ways of Yorkshire folk and would begin to understand their wiles. If such incomers were wise, they would accept the lessons or respect the advice given. If they were stupid, they would attempt to outwit the Yorkshiremen.

  This particular constable, whose name was Sean O’Malley and who looked nothing like an Irishman, was none the less christened “Paddy” on the day he arrived. His first action was to promptly let everyone know he resented this name because he wasn’t Irish. “Sean” was acceptable, he said, nothing more, nothing less. So Sean it was to his face, and Snooty or Paddy behind his back.

  His attitude soon upset the local constables and indeed the populace. The local police were upset because he scathingly compared the tiny market town of Eltering with the busy metropolis of London, and he upset the residents by coldly reporting them for all manner of curious offences like tethering mules on the highway, shaking mats before 8 am, having shop-blinds less than eight feet above the footpath, fixing flowerpots on window-ledges without securing them, repairing cars in the street and many similar wrongs. He seemed to revel in unearthing the most unrealistic laws to enforce.

  This made him less than popular with the sergeants who disliked having to submit his reports for consideration by their superiors. It alienated him from his superiors because they had to make decisions whether or not to prosecute these startling illegalities. He once set about proving that a local tramp was an incorrigible rogue by using the full weight of the Vagrancy Act 1824, and even tried to prosecute a fairground fortune-teller for being a fraudulent medium. He had a passion for inspecting old motor vehicles in the hope he would find horrific crimes created by flapping mudguards, ineffective warning instruments, mobile cranes with wheels too large, agricultural tractors used for purposes not connected with agriculture, rakish cars bearing dangerous mascots, trailers without the requisite number of attendants, solo motorcycles towing trailers and a multitude of parking positions which he believed were causing unnecessary obstructions.

  The snag was that all the farmers ran old bangers. These unclean vehicles would carry corn, corpses, sheep, pigs and hens, vegetable produce and sometimes even people. It was not prudent to ask whether these were “social, domestic and pleasure” purposes, nor was it deemed wise to ask if the car was taxed only for private use. Sean’s activities meant that every trip into town was a financial hazard because of a possible court appearance, so people did not venture into Eltering if he was likely to be on duty. As a result the economic future of Eltering, especially on market day, was threatened.

  The result was that Snooty Paddy believed he had cleaned up the town. Gone was the huge number of horrendous offences which had threatened the security of the town before his arrival. Now there was a marketplace peopled by law-abiding citizens and a handful of cars with no faults. All the faulty ones stayed at home, or else went to Harrowby market.

  The sergeants spoke to this man in an effort to encourage him to take a more realistic view of life and a more reasonable approach to the public. But their efforts failed. Sean knew his law and it was his duty to enforce that law. There would be no discrimination, no favouritism, no slacking, no question of preferential treatment. If an offence was committed, that offence would be reported by him for summons.

  His activities around the undersides of cars, lorries and buses caused him to be known as Gravel Knees, a derisory nickname which he failed to discover.

  The problem facing his supervisory officers was how to cure him of his disease. Doing one’s job correctly in the police service is never easy for there is always that element of society who feel they have been badly treated or have suffered some injustice. Men like Gravel Knees believe they are treating everyone alike and that their actions do not lead to injustice. In truth, they are a menace to society. To rigidly enforce every rule, law and order down to its full stops and commas, is stupidity at its very worst and persecution at its best.

  I am reminded of the old saying, “Rules are made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men”, and most police officers feel this is a good guide to sensible law enforcement. Gravel Knees was a fool and discussions about him were held in high places, even in very high places. We learned he had left the Metropolitan Police due to antagonism from senior officers. Down there, it seems, he had enforced the Metropolitan Police Act with such fervour that he undid years of good crime detection work by other officers. Men, like detectives, rely on the public for freely given crime-busting information and spend years building up relationships. Good informants were getting booked by Gravel Knees for various social evils like getting drunk or quitting their cars without switching off the engine, and thereafter they refused to cooperate in the fight against serious crime.

  If Gravel Knees was rigid in his attitude towards the law, he was equally rigid in the application of his duty. If the sergeant told him to patrol the town and personally try every doorknob, he would do exactly that without any question. An order was an order. He did not question authority of any kind, being firmly in the belief that those who issued orders had Guidance From Above, and that there were many sound reasons for the orders in question. The man was almost an automaton.

  His peculiar attitude to life set us talking one night. I was on duty, patrolling my beat in the little Ford Anglia and halted at Eltering for my morning break at 2 am. Gravel Knees was assigned to Eltering town that same night. At our mid-shift meal break was Vesuvius from Malton, the two Road Traffic lads, Ben and Ron, Sergeant Bairstow, Gravel Knees and myself. It made a cosy gathering, all of us sitting in the tiny office with mugs of tea and sandwiches. We c
hattered like pals of many years’ standing, such is the camaraderie of the police service.

  During our discussion the question of blind obedience arose, and Ron skilfully manoeuvred the subject to the testing of doorknobs.

  “I maintain that not every doorknob should be checked,” he pontificated. “I mean, there are places that no one in his right mind is going to enter unlawfully, so why check them?”

  “I disagree,” said Sergeant Bairstow. I now knew him well enough to spot a very cheeky gleam in his eye. “Every door should be checked. If our orders say we must check every door, then that’s what must be done. Orders are not compiled without good reason, Ron. They’re often the product of past experiences.”

  “The point I’m making,” returned Ron, “is that common sense must be used in the interpretation of orders. I mean . . . Let’s see . . .” and he thought for a few moments. “Suppose you haven’t checked something like the monumental mason’s backyard — it’s full of half completed tombstones and slabs bearing inscriptions. Who’s going to pinch anything from there, I ask you? So why worry about checking it for security?”

  “Go on, what’s your point?” I wondered if he and Charlie Bairstow had pre-arranged this little chat. It had the hallmarks of a lead-in to something else.

  “Okay. My point is this. I am patrolling my beat and I am very aware that I have not checked that gate. The yard might be open. It is a few minutes to knocking-off time. If I go and check that yard, I will be half-an-hour late into the office, and this can cause concern to the office staff and to my senior officers. They may think I’ve been attacked or something. So I omit to check the yard and return to the office on time. I think I’ve made the right decision, and I base that on the grounds that a check of such an establishment is not justified in those circumstances.”

  “I disagree,” came in Gravel Knees. “If you did that under the circumstances you describe you would be disobeying a lawful order. There is no excuse for that, no excuse at all.”

  “Balls!” said Ron, scornfully.

  The conversation continued in this vein until it was time to leave, and I commenced the second half of my tour of duty, thinking over Ron’s discussion with Sergeant Bairstow. It had been a strange conversation, I decided, and I wondered why they had chosen to talk about tombstones and graveyards. I got the answer the following night.

  We were all in the same police station at the same time. Some had come in early for their meal break and the argument was still raging. Gravel Knees was at the centre of it, receiving what we call a “lug-hole bashing” from the others. I must say he held his ground well, and all his arguments appeared to be backed by a close study of the rules. In that sense he was unshakeable.

  Having eaten, Vesuvius left early to continue his patrol and within five minutes Sergeant Bairstow also left. Ron and Ben remained with me and Sean O’Malley, alias Gravel Knees. The tempo of the discussion subsided.

  Ron and Ben kept it alive, but only just, saying how terrible it would be if every motoring law was strictly enforced. England would become a police state, Ron reckoned, but O’Malley could not see this. He maintained that rules were for a purpose and they must be enforced if that purpose was to be achieved for the good of society.

  Precisely at the end of his forty-five minutes’ meal break, Gravel Knees left the office. I was now alone with Ben and Ron.

  “I hope you won’t grow into that kind of copper, Nick,” said Ron. “Rules, rules, rules . . . people like him are incapable of using their initiative.”

  “He’ll grow out of it,” I said, not being able to think of anything more apt at the time.

  “He won’t,” Ben swore. “Blokes like him are with us forever.”

  “He’s in for a shock tonight,” said Ron, smiling at me.

  “Shock?” I puzzled.

  “They’ve set him up for a little test,” said Ron. “It’ll either make him or break him. Tonight he will decide whether every rule needs to be rigidly enforced, or he will decide that, on occasions, rules can be relaxed or ignored, depending upon prevailing circumstances.”

  “How?” I asked, full of interest.

  This is what occurred.

  The prime movers in this escapade were Sergeant Bairstow and Vesuvius, and it seems that the basic idea had come from Vesuvius. One of the lock-up properties on O’Malley’s beat that night was the mortuary, and Vesuvius knew that it contained a corpse. This was not unusual because that mortuary often had overnight guests and one of the keys was retained at the police station. The building was sometimes checked by the officer on night patrol and on several occasions new or inexperienced constables had terrified themselves by shining their torches on to handsome bodies laid out for further attention.

  Vesuvius considered that O’Malley should be put to the test and he selected the mortuary and its current occupant for the job. Sergeant Bairstow had agreed to this course of action.

  Knowing how rigidly O’Malley worked they reckoned he would leave his meal break at 2.30 am, patrol the town centre for some forty-five minutes and then head for the mortuary, which was behind a small chapel. His estimated time of arrival was 3.20 am on a cool, autumn morning.

  Such was Vesuvius’ dedication to the task in hand that he entered the mortuary at 2.30 and sat in the clinically cold place for three-quarters of an hour with his right hand immersed in a bucket of icy water. This had the effect of reducing the temperature of that hand almost to freezing point, but he endured this discomfort for the sake of Eltering town.

  He positioned himself behind the inner door and left the outer door unlocked. The theory was that O’Malley would check it at 3.20 am or thereabouts, find it insecure and walk in. If he obeyed the dictates of his conscience he would enter the mortuary to make a thorough check. Vesuvius was relying on that.

  Inside, therefore, Vesuvius waited behind one of the inner swing-doors and on the stone slab immediately inside was the corpse of an old gentleman, emaciated and naked. Sergeant Bairstow was crouched at the far side of the corpse, and a close observer would have noticed a broom in his hand. The head of the broom was beneath the shoulders of the dear departed as he lay upon the slab. His frail old head dangled over the end with its eyes uppermost.

  Vesuvius waited with his right hand in the bucket of icy water as the long minutes ticked by. In the dim light which filtered into the place from the town outside the stark white corpse could be seen but nothing else. The place was as still as death; there was not a sound.

  “Any sign of him?” asked Sergeant Bairstow in a hoarse whisper.

  “Nothing,” replied Vesuvius.

  3.20 came and went. And then there were sounds outside. A heavy, measured tread could be heard upon the flagged path, and Vesuvius whispered, “He’s here, Sarge!”

  Only now did he remove his hand from the water and dry it on a towel he had borrowed, tossing it into the corner behind the door. The outer door rattled as someone tested the knob. The door opened, and they heard the faintest of squeaks as it admitted the visitor. Vesuvius smiled to himself. Bairstow whispered, “Ready?”

  Then the inner door creaked as the handle turned slowly. The knob rattled very faintly as it opened inwards, to the left. Behind the other inner door, the one on the right, there waited Vesuvius of the Icy Hand.

  A torch was clicked on. The sombre place was filled with light as the figure stepped forward and, at that precise moment, Vesuvius reached from the shadows with his horrible hand to seize the hand of the visitor and draw him into the mortuary. As that icy cold and damp hand seized the other, the corpse groaned, or so it seemed, and slowly began to sit upright, its pale thin body indistinct in the gloom away from the shaking torch.

  From the terrorised visitor there came the most awful shriek of horror as he turned and ran from the premises. His throat was struggling to make coherent sounds as he galloped outside. Vesuvius smiled a victory smile.

  “We’ve done it, Sarge.”

  “At least the lad came in, eh? Lots
wouldn’t. That body was heavy. I thought he was going to slip off the brush-head.”

  “My hand’s bloody cold!” Vesuvius stuffed his chilled hand deep into his pocket for warmth.

  Congratulating themselves the two conspirators left the mortuary and locked the door. But as they walked away the figure of PC Sean O’Malley was walking boldly towards them.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” he said very pleasantly. “I was just coming to check the mortuary.”

  “Just coming?” smiled Bairstow. “You’ve not been?”

  “No, I got delayed.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, a minor delay, but a delay none the less.”

  It was too dark for O’Malley to see the swift glance that passed between his colleagues.

  “Anything serious, Sean?” Bairstow used his Christian name quite affably.

  “A car without lights, Sergeant.”

  “Really, where?”

  “Just around the corner. The minister of the chapel, in fact. Well, to be honest, his wife. Mrs Sheila Newby. A nice lady.”

  “You’ve booked her, at this time of the morning?”

  “I’m afraid so, Sergeant. It seems her sister-in-law was very ill, so she and her husband, the Reverend Newby, drove over to Bradford to be with her. They remained until the early hours and drove back, returning home a few minutes ago. I chanced to be in the street and noticed that the rear light on the offside was not working. I decided to interview the driver and make a report. As it happened, the car turned in nearby, to the Manse. I interviewed the driver, who is also the owner of the car that is Mrs Newby, wife of the minister of this chapel. I have reported her for not showing obligatory lights during the hours of darkness.”

  “You haven’t, Sean!”

  “Rules are rules, Sergeant.”

  “So what are you doing now?”

  “I have inspected the documents relating to the car and they are all in order. I am now resuming normal patrol, Sergeant, and was on my way to check the mortuary for security.”