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

by Nicholas Rhea

  Next, I turned to the local lads without motorcycles. They had been carried away by the excitement of the situation and continued to laugh and swagger about in group bravado as I lectured on their behaviour. Finally I turned to Alan Maskell.

  “Alan,” I said loudly, “I’ve a special message for you.”

  Before his adoring audience, he swaggered over to me, chewing something and winking at his friends.

  “Yeh?”

  “I’m putting you in charge of these lads,” I said.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “In charge of them?” The swagger had gone already.

  “Yes, in charge of them.” I had to get the message firmly home, and they all listened.

  He looked about them all and grinned. “Hey, you lot. I’m the boss.”

  “Yes, Alan, and that means you are responsible for their behaviour. If anything happens in this village — broken windows, litter, complaints about trouble, vandalism — then you will go to court. You, Alan. I’m making you responsible for the conduct of this lot. If they behave, you don’t go to court. If they misbehave, you will have to answer in court for them. Do you understand?”

  There was silence as Alan and the others began to comprehend the magnitude of the situation.

  “You mean if he puts a window through, you’ll have me, Mr Rhea?”

  “Yes, Alan, that’s what I mean. I’ve had enough of you and this lot. People are always complaining, and I’ve got to leave more important things to come down here, like tonight, and give you a bulling. So, as from today, you’re the boss. It’s your job to keep them straight. I’m going to pass the word around my colleagues and, if there’s any more trouble in Aidensfield, they’ll come looking for you.”

  “Bloody hell, Mr Rhea, you can’t do that . . .”

  “I’ve just done it, Alan. It starts now. I mean it — every word.”

  “I could be fined or sent away?”

  “You could, so you’ll have to sort them out, eh?”

  I could see the lad was shaken by his responsibility. Whether it would work, I didn’t know. Alan was certainly the ring-leader, but whether the others would obey him when he called for good behaviour was a different matter. I knew some of the younger element worshipped him and I felt they would behave out of respect or admiration for him, not wishing him to suffer on their behalf.

  As I stood my ground, the crowd of youths began to disintegrate. The motorcyclists drove away, not revving and roaring out of the village as was their normal practice, but driving sedately through the houses. Next time they came, I would check their documents and vehicles again . . . and so would my colleagues. We’d soon sicken unwelcome troublemakers.

  Alan and his crowd of locals drifted away too, wandering towards their homes as I remained near the seat.

  The next night, no one turned up at the seat. I walked around Aidensfield seeking them and wondered where they’d gone. Eventually I found them on the cricket field. They were playing a practice game and Alan was organising them into two teams. He saw me and came across.

  “I asked the cricket captain for permission, Mr Rhea, and he said . . .”

  “Fine, Alan, you’re doing a good job. Why not challenge the village team to a game one day? When your lads are practised up, eh?”

  His eyes lit up. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, I’ll do that.”

  Alan and his pals caused me no further trouble. They did congregate near the telephone kiosk from time to time, and they did ride their motorbikes around the place, but always in a reasonable manner. Later that year, Alan joined the Army and was subsequently posted to Germany. His gang caused me no further trouble because they had grown up.

  Next year, another set of noisy lads would take their place and that meant I’d have to find someone else to take charge.

  I would start my search immediately.

  * * *

  Another problem child was young Stephen Matthews. He was six years old with a round, cheeky face and mischievous blue eyes. His hair was sandy in colour and his fit little body spent its time galloping everywhere noisily in the sheer exuberance of youth. He was not a criminal; even if his activities had been of the kind that could be classed as criminal, he would not have been prosecuted due to his tender age. His problem was simple — he kept getting lost.

  Stephen had a propensity for running away. If his beleaguered mother took him shopping in York or Ashfordly, it could be guaranteed that Stephen would lose her. The poor woman must have spent hours seeking him and the police officers in the area knew Stephen by name and description. His longest period of absence was one full day; on that occasion, he went with a school outing to Scarborough and promptly got lost among the trippers. His mother was there to supervise him, but he managed to give her the slip; she knew him well enough to remain where she was, and that he’d return eventually. But on that occasion he did not, for he spent the afternoon sitting in the police station until mother arrived distraught and anxious.

  At home in Aidensfield, his disappearances were monotonously regular. He would vanish on the way home from school, or from the pack of cubs he had joined; he wandered off into the woods and fields, looking for rabbits or birds, seeking excitement in nature. Time and time again, Mrs Matthews called me to help in searching for the little lad, and time and time again we found him wandering the lanes blissfully unaware of the panic about him. No amount of tellings-off and advice seemed to penetrate his mind, for Stephen would always get lost. I felt sorry for his parents and wondered what his maturity would be like. I could see his wife would have problems.

  It was natural that I rapidly grew acquainted with both the little lad and his parents. I developed the practice, whenever I saw Stephen alone, of asking him where he was going, whom he was going to see and whether his mother knew where he was. This oft-repeated dialogue gradually resulted in Stephen’s telling me the answers before I asked the questions, and if he saw me in the village he would say, “Mr Rhea, I’m going to see my Aunt Phyllis and Mummy knows about it.” or “Mummy sent me to the shop, Mr Rhea, for some tea and bread. I’m going home now and won’t be late . . .”

  He was a marvellously confident little chap, and most likeable, but in the summer he performed yet another of his vanishing tricks. Mrs Matthews telephoned to ask if I’d seen Stephen because he had not come in from school. I had to say I had not seen him. As things were, I was about to walk down the village to talk to a farmer about a movement licence for his pigs, so I promised Mrs Matthews I’d keep an eye open for her errant child.

  As I entered Norman Berriman’s farmyard, the very first person I saw leaving was young Stephen. He had a pup with him.

  “Now, young man.” I adopted a stern attitude. “I’ve had your mum ringing me about you. You didn’t go home from school and she’s worried . . .”

  “I’m going now, Mr Rhea. I just called in to see Mr Berriman about this puppy, you see . . .”

  And off he went. I watched the pair of them walk along the village street, the lad towing the disinterested pup with a long piece of string until they turned down the road towards Stephen’s home. I thought no more of the incident until I had concluded my business with Farmer Berriman and happened to mention Stephen’s name.

  “Aye,” said Berriman. “Yon little chap came in and asked if he could have a pup.”

  “I wonder if his mother knows?” I said, almost to myself.

  “Now, that’s summat I don’t know,” the farmer said. “He told me his mam did know and said it was all right. I gave him yon dog — it’s a mongrel dog pup, and grand little animal. I can’t do with more dogs than I’ve got and was pleased to give it a home . . .”

  “Has Stephen been here before?” I asked.

  “Aye, more than once. He oft comes in after school, checking the dogs and seeing to the cows. Canny little lad, isn’t he?”

  “He drives his mother up the wall,” I laughed. “She never knows where he gets to . . .”

  “He s
eldom stays long,” smiled Norman Berriman. “Comes in here, feeds the hens mebbe or watches me milking sometimes, then off he goes, running down the street. Always at a gallop, isn’t he?”

  As I talked, I got the distinct feeling that Mrs Matthews would know nothing of the acquisition of that pup. Knowing of Stephen’s cunning, he would have chatted to Mr Berriman until the farmer had given him the dog. But it was no problem of mine. It was something the Matthews family would have to sort out with the farmer. However, when I returned home, I rang Mrs Matthews to inform her that I had seen Stephen and that he was heading for home.

  “Yes,” she said gently on the telephone. “He arrived home safe and sound, Mr Rhea — and he had a pup with him. He said the farmer gave it to him.”

  “He did, I talked with Mr Berriman about it.”

  “I knew nothing of that, Mr Rhea. The young monkey’s gone and got himself a dog without our permission, and now he won’t part with it . . .”

  “It might keep him at home,” I said wryly. “If he has to feed his dog and exercise it, he might come straight home from school.”

  “But we don’t want a dog, Mr Rhea. I don’t know what my husband will say when he comes home.”

  “I’m sure Mr Berriman will take it back when he knows the truth. He thought you knew all about it.”

  “I’ll have words with him. Thank you, Mr Rhea.”

  I have no idea what transpired between father and son, father and mother, or mother and son, but the outcome was that Stephen kept the dog. Thereafter, I often saw them together, with Stephen eternally running and the growing dog galloping at his side. Sometimes the dog was on a lead and sometimes it ran free beside its young master. They were a happy sight.

  Although the dog was a mongrel, it had the appearance of a black and white cur, typical of the sheep-dogs in this area. It was a pleasant and lovable animal and Stephen named it Skip. Over the weeks, the pair became inseparable. Where one went, the other followed. I never spoke to Stephen’s father about the animal as I seldom saw him, although Mrs Matthews did chat with me from time to time as she went about the village. I learned that the unexpected acquisition had caused a lot of friction in the home, especially from Stephen’s dad, who disliked animals at the best of times. But the lad’s pleas and his mother’s backing had beaten Dad, and the dog became part of the family.

  The other bonus was just as I had anticipated — Stephen did not get lost quite so often, especially on his journeys home from school. He always galloped home to take Skip for a walk, although he was sometimes late from these expeditions. Mrs Matthews rang me less and less, for now she had a growing boy and a growing dog to get lost, but between them the wandering couple always returned home.

  I wondered if the dog was responsible for taking Stephen home. A hungry dog will find its way to a known food supply and as the dark nights of autumn approached I received fewer calls about Stephen’s disappearances.

  But when I was next asked to help it was a very serious matter indeed. I don’t think anyone realised at the time just how worried I had become.

  I was on duty late on Friday evening because the Slemmington Hunt was holding its annual Ball in Aidensfield Village Hall. This was one of the highlights of the year. The Ball was always held on the first Friday in December in Aidensfield’s beautiful village hall. This spacious building has a sprung floor which makes it ideal for ballroom dancing, and there is also a balcony, lots of anterooms and space for a bar, and although it is a somewhat remote village it has been host to many important functions. I had to be on duty in case of public order problems and at nine o’clock began to patrol the village on foot. It was bitterly cold, with a hard frost and a forecast of snow before dawn. I was well wrapped up and it would be around 9.30 that evening when Stephen’s father, Desmond Matthews, hailed me outside the dance hall.

  “Mr Rhea,” he said and in the light of the doorway I could see the worried expression on his face. “It’s Stephen again.”

  “Another absence?” I asked.

  He nodded. “He went out about seven o’clock and hasn’t come back. It’s dark, you see, and he never stays out in the dark . . . I’ve searched everywhere, and my wife too. He’s taken a torch and just vanished — and the dog with him.”

  “Did he give any idea where he was going?” I asked, and a fleeting thought crossed my mind that it was unusual for Mr Matthews to come to me. On every previous occasion, his wife had set the ball rolling.

  “No, nothing,” was all the man said.

  I could sense the concern in his voice and instinctively knew I had a major problem on my hands. A search for a child at any time is harrowing, but on a bitterly cold December night it has much more relevance and urgency. Cold can be a vicious killer.

  The problem was where to begin and who should conduct the search. Could one father and one policeman adequately search the wild and expansive acres of this area in the dark? Even if we had some clue as to his whereabouts, it would not be easy, but with no idea of his probable location it seemed impossible. The sheer size of the area and the time element combined to produce immense problems.

  “Wait here, Mr Matthews, I’ll ring Sergeant Blaketon at Ashfordly to see if we can get reinforcements.”

  I went to the Brewers Arms next door to the village hall and asked if I could use the telephone. Consent was immediate and I rang my section office. There was no reply. I next decided to ring the Sub-Division and managed to raise a constable on the enquiry desk.

  “It’s Nick,” I announced. “Have you any idea where Sergeant Blaketon is, Harry?”

  “He booked off the air at Eltering about half an hour ago,” Harry told me. “Shall I ring him?”

  “Please. I’ve got a missing child at Aidensfield — I’ll begin the hunt now, and will return to the village hall on the hour. I reckon we might need help.”

  “What about police dogs? Delta Four-Seven is on the air with two dogs. I can send them over if you like.”

  “Yes, fine. When can they be here?”

  “Twenty minutes I reckon. Can you wait?”

  “I’ll make a point of waiting. Can they meet me outside the village hall at Aidensfield?”

  “I’ll fix that, Nick. And I’ll get Sergeant Blaketon to rendezvous with you as well. I take it you’ll need volunteers?”

  “I’m sure I will, but I think we’d better make a preliminary search of the village. I don’t want to drag everybody out if he’s lying asleep in a local barn. I’ll ring you back if I need more help.”

  Now that the official wheels had started to turn, I told Mr Matthews what I’d done. I asked him to return home to make a further thorough search of the house and its surrounds, and also Stephen’s known haunts. I said I’d do a quick recce of the village territory, including Norman Berriman’s farm buildings and other likely places. There were the school grounds, the cricket pavilion, the churchyard, the river-banks and so forth.

  I couldn’t ignore my other responsibility and already, the dance was beginning to warm up. Dinner-jacketed men and ladies in flowing gowns were arriving thick and fast, so I entered the hall and found the organiser, Colonel B. J. Smithson. I told him of the development and asked him to excuse my absence, saying I’d return as soon as possible.

  “Not a bit, old boy, good hunting.” He dismissed me with a wave of his elegant hand.

  I spent a hectic half hour searching the village and calling Stephen’s name, all to no avail. I returned to the village hall and found the police dogs had arrived with two handlers. I decided we should visit Stephen’s home first, to see if the parents had any further news.

  Mrs Matthews was at home, waiting in case the absent pair returned, and Mr Matthews was out with a neighbour, searching some nearby woodland.

  “I’ve got two police dogs, Mrs Matthews,” I said. “We’re just deciding where to deploy them.”

  “Will they hear Skip bark, Mr Rhea?” she asked.

  “They might make him bark. Now, what time did Stephen set of
f?”

  The dog-handlers and I listened to her story and we learned he’d eaten his tea about half past five and had then watched television for a while. At seven he had left the house and hadn’t been seen since. We obtained a description of the clothes he wore, together with the dog’s particulars, and I decided it was time to circulate them to all our mobiles and fixed stations. Some patrolling police officer might see them on the road somewhere. A lorry could have picked them up — anything could have happened.

  I was not satisfied about the reason for Stephen’s departure. Mrs Matthews did not give a reason and I found it odd that a child of six would suddenly take his dog away from the house in the dark. I wanted to know why he had left the house.

  I began to probe and she broke down in tears; it seemed her husband had lost his temper with the dog because it kept scratching the paintwork of his newly painted front door and he’d threatened to shoot the bloody animal if it persisted . . .

  Stephen had cried for a long time about this and at seven o’clock he’d slipped out of the house with Skip. At the time, mother was washing the pots and Dad was attending to something in the garden shed.

  This news made the search even more important. On a cold December night, a child could perish from hypothermia if left out in the open, and I recognised the urgency of our actions. There was no time to lose, but where should I begin?

  As I knew the village terrain very well, I suggested areas of immediate search by each of the two dogs, while I continued to examine the open buildings about Aidensfield. At eleven o’clock, Sergeant Blaketon materialised with five more officers, having been told of our lack of progress by the dog-handlers over their radios. By now, the matter was growing desperate. Stephen and his dog had been missing four hours with no indication of their whereabouts.