Constable Across the Moors (3 page)

Next I examined it. With a torch taken from the panniers, I found the machine had fallen on to the side which contained the tools and spare clothing, and so my soup and coffee flasks were intact. There was a scrub mark down one of the leg shields, and the windscreen was broken about halfway up. I never found the missing bit.

But otherwise, the machine was in surprisingly good
condition
, and perfectly capable of being ridden. Dare I ride it down the hill? Or should I wait until the roadmen came with grit and salt?

But when hunting Russian spies, one does not wait for British workmen. So I decided, in the interests of the security of the nation, to guide my motor cycle to the bottom of this tricky slope.

It would be best to ride it, I decided, but I would sit astride in a low gear with my feet on the road surface, and allow the gears to hold the machine at a low speed as I allowed it to find its own way to the bottom. Gravity would achieve a lot, I reckoned.

And so, having checked it thoroughly once more, I gingerly sat astride, by using the security of the milk stand, kicked it into
life and moved off. I eased it most carefully on to the
snow-covered
ice which now served as a road, and smiled to myself. Everything was going fine, just fine.

Then it slipped. Without any warning, the front wheel Slithered away and I clung to the handlebars as the bike fell over yet again. It dislodged me, but I wasn’t going to be deterred so easily. I hung on.

I am not sure how I managed it but I found myself squatting on my haunches, with both feet firmly on the ground, hanging on to the handlebars of the bike which lay beside me. Its footrest, pannier and leg shield were bearing its weight and it was sliding smoothly down the hill, taking me with it. And so we moved like that.

The bike continued its descent through the trees with me steering from my squatting position almost beneath it. I partly supported its weight as I hung on for grim death, and we sailed down that slope in fine style, the bike’s light picking out the trees, a milk churn lid half way up a fir tree, the trail of one churn leading deep into the forest and the lofty trunks which supported a canopy of thick snow. But we made it.

My bike and I safely negotiated that steep hill in our
outlandish
style and we glided to a smooth standstill at the base, very little worse for our experience. I must have lost some material from the seat of my pants and from the soles of my boots, and the bike had shed half a windscreen and some slivers of paint. Some petrol had spilled out too, but the engine worked and the lights lit my route ahead. I was mobile.

I had no idea how I would climb back up that hill or up any other hill, but that was some time in the future. Right now, I could continue my journey deep into the forest, hunting the Russian and serving my nation with unstinted loyalty.

The Forest of Swairdale occupies a large tract of land in the bottom of that valley. Planted by the Forestry Commission, it comprises row upon row of immaculate pines, spruce and larch, all in symmetrical rows. Nothing else grows beneath them, and they cover the land with a deep blanket of dead pine needles, through which very little grows, other than a few fungi and blades of brave grass. As a moorland valley, it would be no good for agricultural produce, so its reclamation years ago from
heather and bracken had been beneficial due to the timber it currently provided.

Indeed, a little village community flourished here. Due to the work brought to the valley by the Forestry Commission, a group of people live and work deep in the forest. They occupy cosy wooden homes which look like log cabins, and the
community
has a post office-cum-shop with an off-licence for liquor. Having arrived safely in Swairdale, I parked my machine near a gate and performed a walk-about patrol. It was half-past seven and the place was coming to life.

I spent an hour or more in the village, drinking coffee in a forestry worker’s cosy home, finding the farmer to whom to apologise about his milk churns, and asking everyone to let me know if they noticed a Russian skulking in the woods. By eight o’clock, I had warned everyone, and returned to the motor cycle.

The radio was calling me.

I responded; it was Sergeant Blaketon.

“Location please, Rhea,” he asked, speaking through the courtesy of Control Room via a system known as Talk-Through.

“Swairdale,” I said.

“Down in the valley, you mean?”

“Down in the valley, sergeant,” I confirmed with some pride.

“I never thought you’d make it this weather,” was his remark.

“Neither did I, sergeant.”

“Look, Rhea, you know the Moorcock Inn?”

“I do, Sergeant.”

It was not far from here as the crow flies, but in fierce moorland weather, it would be isolated and beyond the reach of anyone. It would be like riding to the North Pole.

“I want you to call there,” he said softly.

“I’ll never get there, sergeant, not in these conditions,” I protested.

“It’s vital, Rhea, very important. You must make the effort, and that’s an order.”

“Is the Russian there?” I put to him.

“No, but there’s a bus load of businessmen lost up there. They went to Strensford last night for a conference at the Royal Hotel, and haven’t returned home. We checked, and they’ve left the Royal Hotel, but they haven’t got home to Bradford. We can’t make contact with the Moorcock Inn because the
telephone
cables are down, due to the weight of snow. Seeing you’re in the area, we thought you might pop in to see if they’re there. Lives could be at risk if they’re not located.”

“But it will take hours, sergeant!” I tried to protest.

“Then get going immediately, Rhea. Look, you’d better do something – one of those missing men is the Chief Constable’s brother.”

“I’m on my way,” I said.

At first, I thought there was no way to the Moorcock other than by the hill down which I had travelled so dramatically with the milk churns and burning trousers, but I pulled the map from my pannier and examined it. My boundaries were clearly defined, and as I pored over the details, I discovered a forest track which led from Swairdale high on to the hills. It cut through the dense trees and then crossed the open moor at a point close to the summit, emerging at the top of a steep hill. The Moorcock Inn lay mid-way down that hill on the main road to Strensford.

I knew the forest route would be rough and for that reason it would provide traction for my wheels. Beneath the trees, there would be a minimum of snow. Having satisfied myself that the Russian was not lurking in Swairdale, I set forth upon my diversion to the isolated inn.

Surprisingly, the trek was possible. The heavy snow had failed to penetrate the ceiling provided by the conifers, and although a light covering did grace the route, it was negotiable without undue difficulty. I trekked high into the forest,
standing
on the footrests and using the machine in the manner of a trials rider. The action kept me warm and cosy, and after two miles of forest riding, I saw the summit ahead of me. A tall wire fence ran across the skyline and this marked the end of the woodland; beyond were untold square miles of open moor.

My forest track ran towards a gate in the fence and I halted
there to open it. I checked again for the Russian – there was not a mark in the snow; no spies had passed this way. In fact, no one had passed this way. I went to open the gate.

It was locked.

A stout iron chain was wrapped around the tree trunk which formed the gatepost, and the chain was secured with a gigantic padlock. There was no way through. And the fence stretched out of sight in both directions.

I was completely stuck. I could ride all the way back to Swairdale but would never negotiate that steep hill to regain the main road; besides, that route emerged miles from here. I hoisted the bike on to its stand and walked along this perimeter fence, but there were no breaks. It had been erected recently and was totally motor cycle proof. Then I had an idea.

I looked at the hinges of the gate. Two large hinges were secured with long screws, and they were fastened to the other post, the one which did not bear the chain. With no more ado, I found the screwdriver and began to remove the hinges. It was the work of moments. In no time, I had both hinges off and swung open the gate, its weight being borne by the massive chain at the other end. I wheeled my trusty machine through, and returned the hinges to their former place. So much for moorland fences.

I mounted my bike and felt contented. I wondered how someone might interpret the footprints and wheel marks in the snow – there was a single wheeled track to the fence, a lot of untidiness around the gate and a wheeled single track leading from it. Once through, the terrain was terrible. I was crossing wild moorland, with my wheels bouncing and the machine bucking. I rode the bike in the style I’d now come to adopt, standing on the footrests and allowing it to buck and weave beneath me, trials style. I had a horror of falling off and breaking a leg, for no one would find me here. I would freeze to death, and for some two and a half miles, I carefully rode through snow which was smooth on the surface, but which concealed an alarming variety of pot-holes, clumps of heather, rocks and other hazards.

But I won. With my motor cycle and myself completely enveloped in frozen white, I managed to navigate that awesome
moor. As I reached the distant edge of the moor, I saw to my right the three gleaming white balls of the Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station. They looked duck-egg blue against the pure white of the snow-covered backcloth, and dominated the
surrounding
moorland. The huge structures towered majestically above everything and looked surrealistic in this ancient
moorland
setting. The old and the new mingled in a fascinating manner.

Somewhere in the hollow which lay before the Balls, but which was invisible to me due to the snow, there stood the sturdy moorland inn to which I was heading. I reached the main road and was pleased to note that traffic had passed this way. A snowplough had pushed its way through, and there was
evidence
of other vehicles. Sergeant Blaketon’s message was
therefore
rather odd, because if a snowplough had forced its way along here, and if other traffic was passing, then it was difficult to understand how a bus load of businessmen had come to be marooned in the blizzard.

It would be about nine o’clock as I carefully descended the steep, twisting gradients of Moorcock Bank, and sure enough, a bus was standing on the car park of the inn. It bore a Bradford address, Bradford being some eighty-five miles away. Having parked my bike, I knocked on the door and a lady opened it; she smiled and her pretty face showed some surprise at my snow-clad appearance. I wondered if she knew I was a policeman – the POLICE legend across my helmet was totally obliterated.

“P.C. Rhea,” I announced, removing my gauntlets.

“Good heavens!” she stood back to allow me inside. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, stamping the snow from my boots. It fell on to her door mat.

“Come in for a warm, for God’s sake,” and she stepped back to permit me enter. The interior was comfortably warm, and I was shown into the bar area with its flagstone floor and smouldering peat fire. The place was full of men, some dozing and other sitting around quietly playing cards.

“Oh,” I said. “Company?”

“Marooned,” she smiled. “A bus load.”

I began to unbutton my stout clothing, my hands warm and
pliable after the exercise of controlling the bike, and she asked, “Coffee?”

“I’d love one.”

“I’m doing breakfast for that lot. Forty-two of them, bacon and eggs. How about you?”

At the mention of food my mouth began to water and I assured her that a delicious bacon and egg breakfast would be the best thing that could happen to me. She told me to remove my outer clothing and sit with the others. She’d call us into the dining-room when she was ready.

Some of the men glanced at me, and it was only when I peeled off the heavy jacket that they realised I was the law. I could see their renewed interest.

“What’s this, Officer? A raid for drinking after time, or before time?”

“No,” I struggled with the ungainly trousers and rubber boots and was soon standing with my back to the fire, warming my posterior and rubbing my hands. My face burned fiercely and my ears began to hurt as the sudden warmth made the blood course through them. I hadn’t realised my extremities were so cold.

“Breakfast then?” a stout man smiled. “You’ve called in for your breakfast?”

“I am going to have breakfast, as a matter of fact.” I looked at them. “Are you the businessmen from Bradford?”

There was a long silence and then the stout man nodded. “Aye,” he said. “How come you know about us?”

“I’m searching for you,” I lied to make the matter seem more dramatic. “There’s a hue and cry out for you – there’s reports of missing men snowed up in the North Yorkshire moors, men dying from starvation and exposure, buses falling down ravines and bodies all over …”

“Gerroff!” he laughed. “Go on, what’s up?”

“I’m out here on another job …”

“Not working? They haven’t made you work out here, in all this snow, on a bloody motor bike?” One of them stood up and addressed me.

“They have. It’s important,” I tried to explain without revealing national secrets.

“It must be – I’d have a strike at my factory if I even suggested such a thing,” and he sat down.

I tried to continue. “I was called on my radio. Our Control Room said your bus was thought to have got stuck, and it was felt you might be here but they couldn’t make contact because the telephone lines were down.”

“No, not down, officer. We’ve taken the phone off the hook.”

“Off the hook!” I exploded. “You mean I’ve come all this way …”

“Look,” the stout man stood up and came towards me. “We’re businessmen, and we’re always on call, always being rung up and wanted for some bloody thing or another. When we got here last night, for a drink, it was so nice and cosy that when the weather took a turn for the worse, we decided to stay. We took the telephone off the hook because we didn’t want to be disturbed and we intended staying, didn’t we, lads?”