Constable Around the Village (3 page)

Members of the public view policemen in a particular light. They view them firstly as people and secondly as law-enforcement officers. I was sure that my status in the village as a person had been deemed satisfactory—my first few months had helped establish me in that sense, with my wife and young children helping enormously to make vital contacts. I had sealed that side of the business with my First Footing. But how could I prove myself a truly capable rural bobby in the eyes of the great British public? I required an important event, a big issue or emergency of some kind.

I waited for a suitable opportunity. It might be a crime to solve or a major incident to cope with. There might be a
tough villain to conquer or a rescue operation of some kind. As the weeks went by, nothing happened. No crimes were committed, no villains fought me and no damsels required my rescue expertise.

As I patrolled my beautiful beat, alternating between the motor-cycle and my own size nines, I remained vigilant as I anticipated the right opportunity. It almost became an obsession. I knew I had to show that I could be a policeman, as well as a person. But how? Nothing dramatic seemed to happen. No one got murdered or raped, no one had his house broken into or his car stolen, no one got lost on the moors or attacked in the street. Life was so unpleasantly peaceful. The sergeant grumbled because I didn’t submit offence reports and the inspector nattered because I had recorded no arrests.

It was during one of my low spells, when I wanted drama to enter my mundane life, that I sensed a dramatic
occurrence
. I noticed a farmer, clad in carpet-slippers and
corduroys
, galloping along Aidensfield village street at six o’clock one morning. I was forlornly standing outside the telephone kiosk making a point, having been on an abortive motor-cycle patrol since 4.30 am, and wishing something would happen. This could be it! Trouble of some kind!

I watched his approach. He wove from side to side with his head down, his flat cap perched on the front of his head and his feet twinkling across the road surface as he panted towards me. Knowing I could help, whatever it was, I stepped forward and said, “Hello, Mr Stanhope, nice morning.”

He slowed momentarily in his tracks, looked at me and said, “Aye,” then darted into the kiosk.

Feeling snubbed, I stood at a discreet distance as he began his urgent telephoning. Several of the glass windows of the kiosk were broken and I could not help overhearing his words. It didn’t take long for me to appreciate he was having trouble with the telephone. I could hear him shouting uselessly into the mouthpiece and it was evident there was a total lack of response. After two minutes of futile efforts, he emerged and addressed me.

“Mr Rhea, can thoo work this contraption?”

“I can, Mr Stanhope. What’s the matter?”

“Ah’ve a cow aboot ti cawf and ah need a vetinary. Ah’ve nivver used yan o’ these new-fangled telephoning
contraptions
. Ah’ll etti git him there sharp, she’s very nigh due.”

“Well,” I said. “It’s quite simple. You call the operator, ask for the number you require and then she’ll tell you how much money to put in. You can see the coin-box just there. When the money’s in, she’ll ring the number and when you are connected you’ll be told to press button ‘A’. That’s on the side of the box. Then you can talk.”

“Oh,” he said, obviously failing to comprehend my advice. I knew I’d have to show him. I exhorted him to enter the cramped box and I followed, squeezing him inside as I stood at the entrance holding the door open with my foot. This was in the days long before decimalisation and long before STD became commonplace in telephone-boxes. Those kiosks were solid edifices with a large money-box inside and a little tray to help get your money back, if the call was not connected.

“Ah see’s where Ah’ve been gahin wrang,” he laughed. “Ah thowt there was a choice of prices. Ah thowt Ah’d ’ave t’cheapest on offer. Ah mean, a penny’s nowt is it?”

I knew the coin-box had “penny”, “sixpence” and “
shilling
” written on the top, with appropriate slots for each coin. I didn’t know what he’d done so far, but he seemed to be coping. I dialled “O” to link him with the operator and left him to it. He had a pile of coppers on top of the coin-box and seemed content.

“Number please,” I could hear the strident voice of the lady operator.

“Hello,” he shouted. “Hello, Ah want oor vetinary.”

“Which veterinary?” I heard her ask.

“That’un that cums tiv oor farm ivvery Thursday,” he said blandly.

“Look, sir,” the girl replied in a softer voice. “I need to know his number before I can put you through.”

“Number?” gasped the farmer. “He hasn’t gitten a number, has he? He’s nut a convict or a policeman or owt like that. Our policeman’s gitten a number on his shoulder, but oor vetinary hasn’t …”

“No, sir, his telephone number …”

“Nay, lass, Ah knows nowt about that, that’s your job. Look, just git hod on him and send him along. Ooor Primrose is gahin ti cawf and he’s needed there right sharp. She’s very restless, thoo knaws.”

“Who is that calling, sir? I will try to find a veterinary surgeon for you …”

“Stanhope from Aidensfield.”

“And where is the trouble, Mr Stanhope?”

“In my cow-shed. If he doesn’t get there quick, I fear for t’awd lass.”

“I appreciate that, but where is your cow-shed?”

“Next ti t’pig-sties. We’ve gitten fifteen pig-sties and yon cow-shed’s right next door …”

“No, I mean your address! Where shall I send the vet if I find him?”

“Oh, just to our farm. Stanhope, tell him. Me and my family’s been farming there for generations. Tell him
Stanhope
, he’ll know where to come.”

“But I don’t know which is your vet, Mr Stanhope …”

“Oh, it’s young Singleton from Ashfordly.”

“Look, Mr Stanhope, you get along home and I’ll ring Mr Singleton for you. It’s a cow that’s calving, and she’s in your cow-shed. Now, what’s your address?”

“High Brow Farm. He can’t miss it, thoo knows and any rooad, he’s been before.”

“All right, Mr Stanhope. You get along and I’ll ring him.”

“Thanks, miss,” he said.

He replaced the handset and emerged happily, collected his pile of unused pennies from the top of the coin box and grinned at me.

“Well?” I asked.

“Grand,” he grinned wickedly. “Grand. Yon telephone lass is telling Singleton to get himself there as sharp as he can.”

“So things will be right, eh?”

“Aye,” he said, “things’ll be right. Nice awd cow is our Primrose. Thoo’ll be coming along to have a look at her, eh? There’ll be a cup of tea about seven, I reckon, after t’vet’s done his stuff.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look forward to that.”

“Think nowt on it,” he said. “Yon phone call cost me nowt, did it?” He smiled craftily. “I reckon you and me’s earned our cup of tea this morning.”

As he stomped away, I wondered what this early morning encounter had proved. I hadn’t dealt with a major police crisis but, somewhere, crafty old Stanhope had taught me a lesson in Yorkshire thrift.

Like any other organised body of people and equipment, the police service cannot afford to stand still. Progress must be allowed to intrude and interfere and, because many police officers are essentially conservative in their outlook and stubborn to boot, change comes by being forced upon them. Initially, many attempt to reject this but the mighty feet of officialdom stamp forward until, by dint of enforced usage and repeated orders from above, the necessary change is effected. By then, it is time for another.

Policemen everywhere do not agree that change or
progress
constitutes improvement. Progress implies a move forward, but that in itself is not necessarily an
improvement
. Within the service, changes are made frequently. Progress is moderately common and improvement a rarity.

It can be argued with some justification, therefore, that the concept of Unit Beat Policing and the accompanying Collator system was “progress”, its arrival undoubtedly a useful change. For that reason it can be regarded as
progress
. Whether it was an improvement is for history and crime statistics to decide.

The system was designed for town and city policemen, but it was based upon the ideals of rural policing. The focal point of the system was a constable who lived on his patch. He was provided with a car in which to patrol and a back-up force to aid him in his duties. Basing this idea on the notion that rural bobbies know everyone and everything that happens on their patch, the pundits reckoned the same logic
could apply to a city area if the area had its own constable. And so the Unit Beat system was born. To assist the
constable
living in pseudo-rural bliss among slag heaps and council houses, he was allocated a team of panda car drivers to patrol the area. They were to deal with matters of urgency and transport the resident bobby around and there was a plain-clothes man from the C.I.D. He sorted out the villains on the patch. Between them, these men policed their Unit and spent time getting to know everything and everyone. In theory, it was masterly.

The snag was that it didn’t quite work like that. It is quite impossible to transplant rural systems into city
environments
. City people are a different breed and do not react or behave like countryfolk. And, furthermore, one car cannot do the work of five men. The result was that every police force developed its own interpretation of the Unit Beat system and few of them benefited from it.

One redeeming feature, however, was the Collator and his concomitant indexing system.

There was nothing original in having a comprehensive index and in fact most rural beat constables used their own excellent systems. The problem was that they filed most of the information in their heads. They knew who got up early, who came home late, which car belonged to whom and whose wife was seeing someone else’s husband. They knew the villains and the goodies, the perverts and the businessmen. In short, they knew a lot. If a constable left the vicinity, he took all his information with him. That was the problem because the new man had to start all over again. If only all that information was recorded…. With this idea of bliss in mind, Home Office experts created the Collator. This was merely a man with a filing system. He used reference cards, strip indexes and other office requisites to keep tabs on the villains and ne’er-do-wells. The basic idea was sound. It said that every policeman who patrolled a Unit Beat area would make a written note of what he saw. If, for example, he observed Burgling Bert from Bridlington
walking
along Albany Street at 6 o’clock one morning and
carrying
a walking-stick, he would note that fact in his police notebook. He would then enter the fact in the Collator’s
files, probably under the name of Burgling Bert. Gradually a file would grow and the Collator would have a complete record of Burgling Bert’s movements should anyone wish to run a check on his activities at any time. The system was useful because it could identify a villain, but, if correctly compiled, it could also clear a suspect. It might prove the alibi of an innocent person.

Most rural beat constables ran a similar system long before the Home Office came up with its mind-boggling advance and I kept my own record of events on Aidensfield beat.

It was through my system that I became very suspicious of John Henry Tyler. It must be said at the outset that, in spite of this new and revolutionary aid to common sense, I would have become suspicious of the fellow. Recorded facts cannot lie; John Henry Tyler was up to something and my files proved it.

He was a retired hill farmer in his middle sixties who had come down from a remote part of the North Yorkshire moors to retire to Aidensfield. His wife was called Ruth and they kept a collie dog called Wade, named after the giant who lived near their farm years ago. John Henry was a stout man with a walk like a sailor and his shortness, when in motion, served only to give him the appearance of a
trundling
barrel. His face was round and jolly and it always wore two or three days’ growth of whiskers. I wondered when he shaved, or how he shaved, in order to preserve this unkempt appearance. His clothing was rough and rural, practical perhaps but never smart. To complement his rustic
countenance
, he reeked of farmyards, middens and cow-sheds. He was a walking example of the scents of the English countryside.

Not once during my first few months at Aidensfield did I have any reason to suspect him of illegality. He taxed his car, licensed his dog, paid his rates and ensured that all his firearms documents were in order. He was the epitome of a worthy villager, true as they come and as straight as a newly fletched arrow.

Having been a hard-working and poorly paid hill-farmer, he had been accustomed to rising very early and it was the
continuance of this habit that drew my attention to him. Very early one morning, I was sitting astride my stationary motor-cycle at the junction of Aidensfield village street and Elsinby Road. I could hear approaching footsteps and was tucked nicely beneath an overhanging conifer. I knew I was practically invisible so I remained very very still in the shadows. I looked at my watch. It was 5.30 a.m.

Very soon, the oncoming footsteps materialised into the rounded shape of John Henry Tyler. His head was down against the fresh breeze of an early spring morning and he wore a muffler about his neck. On his feet were the traditional leather-topped clogs of the district and he wore the only coat I’d ever seen him use, a tatty, dull brown, sack-like affair with bulging pockets and a massive collar. His hands were deep in those commodious pockets, his chin was tucked into the ample collar and his feet were eating up the yards as he hurried about his early business.

He walked right past without seeing me. I observed that grizzled grey hair, the unshaven weather-beaten face and his rough country clothes as he hurried along the lane. John Henry hadn’t changed in retirement. He still went about unshaven and smelling of cows and pigs. This morning was no exception. But he wasn’t going to work, surely? Naturally, I was curious about his purpose, but didn’t
interrupt
. Instead, I simply kept him under observation.

He turned right at the junction and hurried down the gentle gradient which led to Elsinby, two miles distant. I waited ten minutes before I left my vantage-point and took the motor-cycle to the hill top. From there, I could see John Henry’s diminishing figure striding along the road. He was still heading towards Elsinby with his hands in his large pockets and his old head bowed against the chilly breeze. Where was he going? At this point, I never suspected his involvement in anything criminal. I took him to be an active countryman going for an early morning walk.

Over the following months, however, this event repeated itself many times. I noticed him on several occasions, always walking that stretch of road and always at this time of the morning. He was always dressed in his scruffy old clothes and clogs and never carried anything. Furthermore,
I never saw him make a return journey. Mentally I had noted these sightings but now decided to record them in writing. Maybe they could be linked with some distant crimes? Had he a woman? Once or twice, I waited in Elsinby village but always missed him there. He seemed to vanish somewhere on the road between the two villages. One or two of my colleagues reported seeing him during their early morning patrols around my beat, but none saw him actually in Elsinby. This created even more interest.

The frequency of his trips bothered me too. My awkward shifts did not allow me to see him regularly, but by dint of asking my colleagues and checking from time to time myself the fact emerged that it was a monthly outing, usually on a Thursday.

I could not believe that John Henry was a criminal. He was not a criminal type, he was a stolid rural character, a bit sharp perhaps, but definitely not a villain. I had no reports of criminal activities on my beat with which he could be associated but I did check my Crime Bulletins just to be sure that there was nothing suspicious along my beat
boundaries
. I was very aware that a series of burglaries had been committed in widespread rural areas over a period of about two years and all had been perpetrated during the early hours of the morning. Collators over a large area had pooled their information, and as a result, an early-morning worker from York was arrested. His practice was to hitch-hike out of town to his place of work, but this system sometimes provided him with spare time. He made profitable use of that time by breaking into houses. The mass of apparently unconnected intelligence gathered by the collators,
eventually
linked his movements with the burglaries and brought about his arrest. It was not impossible that old John Henry was perpetrating something highly illegal. Stranger things had happened, but I had to know. I had not to ask him directly, not yet. I must discover more about him and began discreet enquiries into his background. He lived in a rented house in Aidensfield with his wife and dog, and had never had children. His circumstances could be described as “poor”. The farm he’d worked high on the North Yorkshire moors had also been rented, and throughout his life he had
worked from morning until night, scraping the barest of livings from that tough moorland area. He’d kept a few sheep and half a dozen milking cows and he had grown root-crops in a small enclosure surrounded by a dry-stone wall. My sources told me his income had never exceeded £11 per week. John Henry was indeed a poor man, but proud. If he’d existed all his life in this manner, it was barely credible that he’d turn to crime in his retirement.

Nonetheless, the fact that he had retired meant he would have little to live on. So was the old devil going stealing at dawn? It seemed a feasible theory and one which would impress Sergeant Blaketon, so I decided to intensify my observations and enquiries.

I checked all the reported burglaries, housebreakings, shop-breakings, larcenies, poachings and other crimes in the district and compared their times with the known
movements
of John Henry. It is fair to say that none could be positively attributed to him, but in some cases they could have been. Rather sorrowfully, I began to grow worried about him. I knew that if I made a good arrest, especially one which cleared up a spate of serious crimes, I would be in Sergeant Blaketon’s good books for a time. I found myself regarding John Henry’s movements as a key to my future. Through him, I could make a name for myself.

I knew I had to be cunning. I had to catch him either in the act or with the stolen property. It was little use going about the place on the noisy Francis Barnett as that would alert him so I crept out of the house on several mornings and went about furtive foot patrols. I kept to the shadows, to the fields and woods as I attempted to keep an eye on this early morning clog walker.

Finally, there came a moment of triumph. I was
concealed
behind an old building alongside the
Aidensfield
-Elsinby road when I heard the familiar clip-clop of his clogs. It was a lovely summer morning with the birds
singing
and the scent of blossom in the air; it was most certainly not a time to be engaged in furtive criminal activities, but, sure enough, John Henry was heading my way.

I watched him from the security of the building. His head was down in that familiar style and his hands were tucked
deep into those huge pockets as he stomped along the road. I waited until he was fifty yards ahead of me and began to shadow him. I used the heavily-leaved hedges and copses as my shelter as I moved stealthily along the fields. I readily kept pace with the active old man and he never once turned to look my way. I got the impression that he was deep in thought, his mind a long way from this peaceful stretch of England.

I shadowed him all the way to Elsinby where he arrived just before six o’clock. But instead of entering the village street he turned sharp left and for a moment I lost him. Blast! He’d tricked me! In order to catch him I had to scramble out of the fields and regain the road, and I did so with considerable effort and anxiety. Eventually, I landed muddy-footed on the highway, panting slightly and with my cap at an angle. I hurried after him into the village, but he’d vanished. He’d got away! The cunning old devil!

He could only have gone one way and that was along the lane to Ploatby, so that was the road I took. But even before I’d gone fifty yards a car emerged from one of the cottages along that road. It was a nice tan Rover 2000 driven by a smart gentleman and in the front passenger seat was none other than John Henry Tyler.

It was past before I could stop it and I was rewarded by a wave from both men as the car vanished through the village towards York. I knew the owner of that car—he was a Mr Eugene Peterson, a retired wealthy businessman from Croydon. It was a most unlikely partnership, so what was going on?

The mysterious pair vanished from my sight with no attempt to conceal their departure, so I now wondered if Peterson was a high-class villain, perhaps a con-man, using old Tyler as a stooge? It was not beyond the bounds of credibility.