Constable Among the Heather (19 page)

Unfortunately the rear of the van contained a very bad-tempered billy goat, and as the vehicle had overturned, so the rear doors had burst open. The goat had therefore taken the opportunity of leaving its transport, and as the driver walked shakily to the rear of the van to check things, so the goat had strolled towards the front, out of sight of the driver, the bulk of the stricken van separating them. And so, as the driver, whose
name was Tony Harris, found himself standing on the footpath outside the gate of the house and staring into his empty van, his goat found itself standing in the garden.

As the goat reached the front of the overturned van, the householder, a Mr Douglas Lynton-Cross, opened his front door to see what had arrived in his garden. The goat, we were to learn in due course, was like Awd Billy Barr’s ram – it had a propensity for charging through open doors. As there was no one else around against whom to direct its anger, the upset billy noticed Mr Lynton-Cross in the doorway and was thus presented with two objects of interest – and promptly lowered it head, aimed its horns and charged.

Mr Lynton-Cross, an aged man who found sudden agility, bolted into the house but, in his anxiety to reach safety, left the door partly open. The heavy and hairy goat hurtled indoors in hot pursuit and found itself in the front hall of this splendid house. At this early stage, Tony Harris had no idea where his animal had gone. As he hurried off down the High street to (a) summon help and (b) find his goat, the animal in question was exploring the ground floor of Mr Lynton-Cross’s home, while its worried occupant watched from the comparative safety of the landing above. The goat wandered into the front lounge, which was where Mr Lynton-Cross kept his collection of lead soldiers. They were arrayed in their colourful uniforms in regimental order and occupied several glass display cases around the walls and indeed in the centre of the spacious room.

It seems that the goat saw another goat there; this was because some of Mr Lynton-Cross’s cabinets had mirrors at the back. The purpose of the mirrors was to provide more light for the displays and to create an aura of spaciousness. But billy goats are not
au
fait
with such sophisticated display techniques. The visiting beast saw its adversary and charged it. The first charge smashed that display cabinet into small pieces, bringing down the shelves and scattering soldiers across the floor as the goat sought its foe. Here and there in that room, it spotted its likeness, sometimes here, sometimes there, but always peering at it from behind show cases. It charged again and again in its attempts to defeat the threatening enemy. The devastation,
accompanied by the sound of much breaking glass, must have been heart-breaking for Mr Lynton-Cross.

When the angry animal had chased the intruder from that room, it decided to seek elsewhere. It knew there was a goat in the house and hadn’t yet dealt with it.

It was at that moment that Mrs Lynton-Cross, upon hearing the awful din at the front of the house, emerged from the kitchen to see what was happening. The goat was thus presented with another open door. It charged at Mrs Lynton-Cross, who bolted out into the garden, slamming the kitchen door behind her to avoid the goat’s horns. The goat enjoyed a spell of charging at the washing machine, the cupboard doors and the waste bin before re-emerging to seek its fellow trespasser, then it went into the dining-room. It had an enjoyable time charging the sideboard and the drinks cabinet, which revealed yet another goat, and in its eagerness to deal with it shattered precious glasses and bottles of malt whisky before seeing another open door.

This open door was actually the one by which it had entered the house, and so it bolted out and found itself standing in the garden. It rushed onto the lawn just as Tony Harris was returning through the gate. It saw Tony and promptly charged at him. I was later to receive reports of him galloping along the street with the goat in hot pursuit. I think he led the animal back into his own smallholding, but I was then called in. I examined the van, which was still on its side in the driveway of Mr Lynton-Cross’s home, and said,

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lynton-Cross, but this is not a matter for the police.’

‘Why not, for heaven’s sake?’ he boomed. ‘That animal has caused untold damage!’

‘The van has overturned on private premises,’ I said. ‘No other vehicle is involved; it’s not on the public road, and so it’s not my responsibility.’

‘But this damage? To my house, to my collection …’

‘You’ll have to sort that out with Mr Harris’ insurance company,’ I said. ‘If he’s comprehensively insured, they will settle matters with you.’

I did establish that Tony had contacted a garage to recover his van, but the case of the bolting goat was not for me, curious and interesting though it was.

I saw Mr Douglas Lynton-Cross several weeks later and asked if he’d obtained compensation for the damage.

‘Yes, I did. My collection was not harmed, fortunately, and the insurance company did replace all my damaged furnishings and show cases. It’s odd, when Harris came to see me and apologize, he noticed my collection and brought me some of his grandfather’s lead soldiers, a sort of apology gift. They were rare ones. I’m pleased to have them, so some good has come of this incident. You know, Mr Rhea, just before that goat incident I was thinking of getting a goat. Someone I spoke to said they brought good luck.’

‘It wasn’t Tony Harris, was it?’ I laughed.

Surely every family wishes to see its children succeed in life. That success might be in the arts, the sciences, a trade or profession of some kind, a business career or some other vocation or calling. Added to these hopes is romance, for most caring parents also desire their offspring to be happy for ever in love and marriage.

This earnest aim can cause over-keen parents to impose their own ideals upon their children, and the police officer is often in a position to see the ill-effects of this. Fights between a daughter and parents over the former's choice of a boy-friend are common-place, but so are disputes over the son's attempts to woo the girl of his dreams when that girl does not win the approval of his parents.

Wise police officers avoid such conflicts. They regard these traumas as purely domestic and personal and, unless there is some suggestion of law-breaking, they do their utmost to keep a great distance between themselves and the affairs of other people's hearts.

But this is not always possible. Lovesick teenage girls do run away to places like Blackpool or London in search of romance or to get away from unsympathetic parents. In the mid 1960s, moral standards were higher than today, and if these girls were under seventeen, the police would attempt to trace them. The care and protection of juveniles were within our range of duty, and there were two classes of juvenile – anyone under seventeen was called a ‘young person', while anyone under fourteen was a ‘child' in legal terms. A whole range of offences and crimes
could be committed against unprotected juveniles, and the younger they were, the greater the official concern if they ran away from home.

High on the list of our worries were offences against girls. If only because it is an offence for a man to have sexual intercourse with a girl under sixteen, we always sought girls below that age who ran off with ‘males', as we termed them (men, youths or boys in ordinary language). If the girl was under thirteen, the penalty for unlawful sex with her was life imprisonment, an indication of society's great concern.

There were several other possible crimes, such as rape, incest, indecent assault, procuring girls for prostitution, abducting them for sex or for their ‘estates', as well as cruelty, abandonment, vagrancy and even kidnapping. There were hundreds of evils which might befall a young girl who was tempted away from her home, and so we treated these cases with urgency and compassion.

With this in mind, my head became full of thoughts of horror when I received a telephone call from a Mrs Lavinia Underwood of Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

It was late August, when the moors were quilted with their annual covering of deep purple heather. It was a glorious sight, the rich, aristocratic colouring being enhanced by the greens of the mosses, the blues of the sky and, from time to time, some memorable sunsets.

‘Is that the policeman at Aidensfield?' Her voice sounded faint and distant on the line, and I detected a strong Tyneside accent.

‘Yes,' I shouted back. ‘I'm PC Rhea. How can I help?'

‘It's my son,' she said. ‘He's been lured away by a young woman.'

‘We don't normally get involved in domestic matters.' I interrupted her, wanting to stop her before the story became too involved.

‘I know, but I'm so worried. She is not the right sort for him, you see. She's a wrong 'un, Constable. I just wondered if you might trace him and warn him, from me. Find him and tell him to come home, immediately, without her. I don't want him tainted with that hussy.'

‘How old is he?' I shouted, for the line was awful. It kept fading and crackling.

‘Seventeen,' she said, and upon hearing that troublesome age, I knew I had a problem.

‘And the girl?' I called.

‘That hussy! She's a good two years younger.'

Now it was a serious matter.

If a girl of fifteen, hussy or not, was missing from home, she had to be found before her experiences gave her adult sensations ahead of her time. I had to know more, and this  would mean liaison between our force and
Newcastle-
upon-Tyne City Police. They might know of the girl's background. I obtained the caller's name and address, but she could not tell me who the girl was. Frank had never said who she was; he'd been very secretive about his romance.

Mrs Underwood described her son as fairly tall, of slim build, with light fair hair and glasses. He had a part-time job in a warehouse, checking the stock. He was wearing a green sports jacket, cavalry twill trousers and brown shoes when he left home, and he'd taken a suitcase of other clothes. He'd left home two days earlier, on the Saturday morning, about 10.30.

‘Why do you think he's in this area with her?' I asked.

‘He said he was going on a farmhouse holiday near
Ashfordly
,' she shouted at me. ‘He's taken my car, you see. We once stayed there, when he was younger, me and my husband and Frank. He liked the area, he loves the moors, he often goes back, especially when the heather's blooming. And now it's blooming, eh?'

‘It is indeed, Mrs Underwood, and it looks wonderful. Now, the car? Can I have a description? Its registration number would be a help.'

She could describe it accurately; it was a Morris Minor, green colour, and she gave me its number. She could not suggest an address for Frank because he'd stayed in different bed-and-breakfast places, ranging from farms to cottages, but all had been in or around Ashfordly to afford him easy access to the moors. He liked walking among the heather in the early autumn, he liked to hear the cry of the grouse and the call of
the curlew. He'd be somewhere on those moors, she assured me, with that hussy at his side. I took her phone number so that I could keep in touch, and promised every effort to trace her son. It would not be difficult to check every boarding house or similar establishment.

The truth was, of course, that my determination to find Frank was not for the reasons desired by Mrs Underwood. Her motives might be to save him from an awful marriage – mine were to rescue a very young damsel who might be in official distress. I knew that we had to find the couple to prevent crimes being committed against the girl, even though she might be happy to permit such law-breaking.

After replacing the phone and rubbing my ears to counteract the awful noises the defective line had produced, I rang Newcastle police and asked for the Juvenile Liaison Bureau. A W/PC Collier answered. She listened intently as I explained the situation.

I asked if she had (a) any knowledge of Frank Underwood and (b) any report of a 15-year-old girl's being reported missing from home. She asked me to hang on while she checked her card index. After a few minutes, she said that there was no record of a Frank Underwood in their files – and their files contained the names of all juveniles from that area who might be causing concern, or who might be on the fringes of requiring care or protection, or who had been through the courts. But she would enter his name just in case it cropped up elsewhere.

She did say, however, that six girls were missing from their homes within the city police area, only one of whom was fifteen. She was Margaret Ellison, and W/PC Collier gave me an address in Jesmond, followed by a description of the child. I noted all this down and thanked her, but she did emphasize that Margaret Ellison had been missing for three months. Her parents had received postcards from London and Brighton, saying the girl was all right, but no address had been given. The most recent card had been received only three days earlier, but that still allowed time for Margaret to have met Frank in Ashfordly since Saturday last. It was now Monday.

‘It doesn't sound as if he's with Margaret,' she added. ‘We have every cause to think she's in the south with a youth called
Gibbons. Taking a country holiday is not her kind of fun. She's not for tramping through the heather with the wind in her hair – she's a city girl, she likes the bright lights, night-clubbing, amusement arcades, fairgrounds and so on.'

‘Even so, I'll have to check it out,' I said.

‘Keep in touch,' she replied in her strong Tyneside accent, and I rang off.

Next I called Ashfordly police office and spoke to Sergeant Bairstow, explaining the circumstances and saying I now intended to carry out an immediate search of the area. He said he would enter details in our occurrence book so that other officers could also watch out for the little green Morris Minor. It did not escape my attention that, if this couple were staying locally in boarding houses, they would probably give false names and addresses to their hosts, and entries in the guests' registers might also be false. They could be one of the countless Mr and Mrs Smiths who visit such places. But I could try.

It was around 10.30 that Monday morning when I left home in my official van for this tour of the local bed-and-breakfast accommodation. It was not a difficult task to conduct organized visits. We maintained our own lists of these premises simply because so many people asked us for addresses to stay, and so I began my enquiries. I visited each in turn, giving a description of the couple and the car, together with their correct names, emphasizing Frank's name rather than the girl's. But none had a teenaged couple staying with them, and none had entries of a Mr and Mrs Underwood in their registers. I spent the whole of that Monday on that task and failed to locate them.

I knew that my colleagues would do likewise when they came on duty, and so on the Tuesday I checked their visitations to avoid duplication and set off again. By lunchtime I had driven miles and checked eighteen bed-and-breakfast houses, five farms and one private hotel, all without result.

And then, after my packed lunch of cheese sandwiches, fruitcake and coffee from a flask, I crossed the moorland ridge from Lairsdale into Whemmelby. It was there that I saw the little green car. It was parked beside a small plantation of Scots pines and occupied a tiny lay-by where fire-fighting
equipment stood in case of emergencies. The registration number confirmed it was the car I sought. I tried the doors; they were locked. Of the couple, there was no sign.

I knew this area well: a footpath ran across the moors at this point, and they could be anywhere along that path, in either direction. If I walked one way, they might have gone the other, and so I decided to wait, at least for an hour or two. I radioed Eltering police office to report my location and decision; they would inform Ashfordly office and Sergeant Bairstow.

And so I sat and waited.

There were some reports I could complete, so my vigil was not wasted. I had several returns, one accident report, a schedule of stock registers and a list of some visits to licensed premises to finalize, so I sat and worked, with the window down and the official radio burbling.

I enjoyed the scent of the heather as it mingled with the strong resin of the pines. I heard skylarks singing high in the heavens somewhere beyond my vision, and the burbling song of the curlew. All around, nature was busy with its own life, and the moorland creatures were preparing for autumn; soon those curlews would head for the coast, the silver birches would lose their leaves but the skylarks would remain to fill the moors with their distinctive song.

As I enjoyed those few hours alone, I saw an elderly couple, a man and woman, heading towards me. They were weaving their way through the high heather, following the sheep track which formed the footpath, and I saw that they were clad in hiking gear. Brightly coloured waterproof leggings and boots, warm kagouls and close-fitting woollen hats completed their outfits, and each carried a small rucksack. Both were using thumbsticks too, and they were moving at a swift pace. They were a couple accustomed to the moors and completely confident on a walk of this kind. I decided to ask if they had seen the teenagers during their rambling.

I waited until they had climbed through the V-shaped stile in the dry-stone wall and then hailed them.

‘Excuse me,' I greeted them with a smile, ‘I'm looking for a young couple, teenagers, a boy and a girl. I wonder if you've seen anyone during your walk?'

They looked at each other, and in a Tyneside accent the man said, ‘Sorry, no. We've not seen a soul, have we, Joyce?'

The woman, in her late sixties, shook her head.

‘No, we've been out there all morning, Officer,' she said in that distinctive, lilting accent. ‘It's been lovely, mind, not a soul; we've had the whole moor to ourselves. But are they lost or something?'

‘Not exactly,' I said, ‘but they're from your part of the world.' I referred to their accents. ‘The lad's run away and taken the girl with her – she's only fifteen.'

‘Oh dear, it happens all the time,' said the woman. ‘I used to be a teacher, and you'd be surprised how many fourth-form lasses ran off with sixth-form lads!'

‘Are you staying in the area?' I asked.

‘Aye,' smiled the man. ‘We're at Spout House Farm near Gelderslack, bed-and-breakfast.'

‘There's no teenagers there, is there?' I asked hopefully, for I had not yet visited that farm.

‘No,' he said. ‘Just us. But if we do see them, we'll call you. Ashfordly police, isn't it?'

‘That's the nearest police station. We'd be most grateful,' I said. ‘Well, thanks anyway.'

As they turned to leave, the man went towards the little green car. He produced a key and opened the door.

‘Er, excuse me,' I said, wondering if I was about to make a fool of myself, ‘but is that your car?'

‘Well, not exactly, Officer. It's my mother's.'

My brain did a very, very rapid mental exercise.

‘Is she Mrs Underwood?' I asked very slowly, and I gave her address.

‘She is,' said the man.

‘And, at the risk of seeming a total fool, are you Frank Underwood?' I was looking at his physical appearance. In spite of his age, he did have strands of fair hair protruding from his hat, and he matched the description of the ‘youth' I was seeking.