Constable by the Sea (11 page)

It seemed to take a long time for the import of this statement to filter through to his anxious brain, but in time it did and Whitburn said, ‘Well, I’m only after the truth, you know, for the sake of justice. We must have the truth in court.’

‘Precisely,’ agreed Joe.

‘I’ll try to listen more carefully,’ promised the unhappy Whitburn as he thanked us again and then went to examine his dripping Jaguar. We left him to his worries and together strolled contentedly back to the police station.

‘I think we should have got him out earlier,’ I said with a twinge of conscience. ‘We could have saved his car from damage.’

‘Nick, young man,’ said Joe. ‘That old bastard could have ruined a good marriage, that teacher I mean, Mrs Beckett. She’s a good woman, but silly to get tangled up with him. I reckon I’ve saved that marriage tonight, I might even have saved Whitburn’s own marriage too, I’ve certainly done something to uphold the good name of the magistracy by keeping a scandal out of the papers – imagine what would have been said if they had drowned, and both of them in the nude too! And I’ve done our lads a little service as well. And the cost? Well, there’s some embarrassment to Whitburn and Mrs Beckett, and a spot of sea-water damage to an expensive car. It’ll always have a
salt-water
tide-mark round it from now on, as a small reminder of his experience. In all, I’d say he’s learned a lesson, and for everyone it was a bargain, well worth the price.’

We arrived back at the station at 2 a.m. Sergeant Blaketon was the duty sergeant and asked, ‘Well, Rhea? Tapley? Is everything correct on your beats?’

‘All correct, sergeant,’ we assured him.

Oddly enough, Joe Tapley and I were involved in another, more dramatic rescue from the sea, and it occurred within yards of the place where Whitburn’s car had floundered. On this second occasion, some three weeks after the car incident, I was patrolling a night shift and had taken a long stroll along the pier. It was a peaceful, quiet night with a warm August breeze blowing off the land; it was an ideal night for long walks in peaceful contemplation. Indeed, it was pleasant on such a night to be a patrolling policeman; anyone out on a night like this owned the world. There was nothing to interrupt that peace and tranquillity; it was a blessed state which was there to be enjoyed.

Making use of a spare twenty minutes or so just after
midnight
, I had circumnavigated the lighthouse and had regained the streets of the town. I was waiting near the circular bandstand about half-past midnight because I knew Joe would pass this way
en
route
to his next point. We made use of such meetings for brief chats, always a welcome respite during a lonely night patrol, and so I stood beside the bandstand, waiting in the warm night air.

I could see Joe’s distinctive, rather ambling figure moving steadily towards me down the winding slopes of Captain’s Pass, and as I watched him, I became aware of a young couple, a man and woman in their early twenties, racing towards me with their arms waving and shouting with enough fervour to rouse the whole town.

Joe had obviously heard them too, because he started to run towards them at the same time as I, and we all arrived together at the top of one of the concrete slipways. The couple were panting heavily, and I saw that their feet were bare, wet and sandy – obviously they’d just raced up from the beach. It was some time before they could pant out their news.

‘Take it calmly,’ said Joe, always a sobering influence. ‘Easy now. Get your breath back.’

The man was pointing to the sea; we could hear the regular slap of the waves in the darkness beside the pier, just down the slipway behind us.

‘Man, down there. Drowning … we tried to get him …’

‘Right!’ and with that Joe darted off with me in hot pursuit. He didn’t wait for anything further but took immediate action. We raced onto the wet sands, and as we left the streets and houses of the town, the darkness hit us. We used our torches but the movement of the sea and our own rushing footsteps made it difficult to see anything in the bobbing lights. The couple had caught up to us, and the man was pointing.

‘About here,’ he said. ‘In the sea. He waded in, fully dressed. I tried to stop him, but he hit me and said he was going to end it all.’

‘When?’ asked Joe.

‘Just now, minutes before I found you. We could make nothing of him …’

‘Jerry tried to drag him out,’ panted the girl.

‘Is he a local chap, then?’ asked Joe.

‘Dunno,’ said the man called Jerry. ‘I’m not. We’re on holiday.’

As we talked, we ranged the circular glow of our torches across the sea, and then the beach, and then the sea again, but saw nothing. I began to wonder if we were too late, if the fellow, whoever he was, had gone under the surface for ever. The sea was well out; the tide was turning and would soon sweep in across those bare sands.

I lifted my own torch and searched the waves further out. Only a matter of yards from the shoreline, they rolled in majestically before breaking and roared up the beach. And there, suddenly, I caught sight of him. My beam reflected upon his wet clothing and hair, creating a momentary burst of brilliance out there in the wet darkness, and so I shouted and held my light on him. He was attempting to wade out in the face of the incoming waves; they were making his progress difficult as he breasted each new wave, the strength of it lifting him onto his toes as he fought to make progress.

There were no boats here, save the lifeboat tucked away in its
shed, and there was no time to raise its crew; thinking as one person, Joe and I threw off our jackets and caps and waded in. We passed our torches to the young couple, asking them to keep the twin beams on the figure ahead of us. They would have to be our guides in the darkness.

‘Don’t shout,’ said Joe. ‘Just wade like hell.’

But it was easier said than done. When the sea was higher than our knees, we found the going very tough, but we forged ahead; sometimes the fellow would stop as if contemplating his fate, and this allowed us to gain a few precious feet, but in no time the water was up to our waists.

‘We can’t hang about too long,’ said Joe. ‘The tide’s coming in. Come on, he’s not far off now.’

The man, with the sea up to his chest, was finding the going more difficult than we did, but as it rose to our chests we had the same trouble. Then, with a terrible cry, he fell headlong into the water, arms outstretched; the torch beams shone into the unseen distance, and for a moment or two we lost him.

‘Keep them shining near us!’ bellowed Joe, and so we began to hunt for him among the rise and fall of the incoming tide.

‘There!’ I had seen him, floating face down apparently determined to drown himself, even if his clothing and the air in his lungs kept him afloat. He wore a fawn mackintosh which floated around him, making him fairly visible in the dark water.

The action of the incoming tide carried him closer to us as we waded out, and this helped us to reach him. The light of the torches was bobbing about close to us and helped a little. Without speaking, Joe and I separated as we closed in, and each of us seized an arm and lifted the man out of the water. He struggled in our grasp, coughing and spluttering, but we knew how to contain a person and in no time had our arms tight under his so that we could walk out of the sea, with him trailing behind and moving backwards towards dry land.

We carried him high onto the beach and laid him gently down. He was now silent. The couple came closer and shone torches on him. He was a very thin person, a man about forty with a head of lank, black hair and very white face. He wore a suit under his old raincoat, and a white shirt and black tie.

Joe slapped his face.

‘Leave me alone. I want to die,’ he said. ‘I just want to die …’

‘That’s not allowed,’ said Joe. ‘At least, not while we’re about. So, you’re not dead yet, which means we’ll take you to hospital. Come on, on your feet.’

The man just lay there, so we turned to the couple to obtain their names and address, for we’d probably need a statement from them about the affair. Then we went off to locate our hats and jackets.

But in those few seconds, the man had leapt to his feet and was running back into the waves.

‘Bloody hell, you can’t turn your backs for a minute!’ shouted Joe. ‘Come on, Nick, here we go again.’

In those few moments the determined self-destructor had gained ten or twenty yards on us, and by the time we had thrown our belongings back to the ground and shouted for the couple to shine their torches upon him once again, he had reached the water. By the time we caught him, he was up to his waist in strong sea-water, thrashing ahead with enormous splashes as if he intended wading across the entire North Sea.

This time we caught him before he had time to lie down in the water, and we executed the same move as previously. But this time it didn’t work. He began to thrash his arms and
simultaneously
kicked, shouted and struggled; he became like a human dynamo and windmill combined as he created a huge maelstrom in the water. In spite of this, we did manage to haul him to the shore, although both Joe and I got several knocks to our faces and bruises about our wet bodies. It was exhausting work.

As we arrived on the beach, he fell to the ground rather like a child who does not want to go for a walk, so we drew him along the sand and laid him down once more. He lay like a saturated rag doll.

‘Let me die,’ he was sobbing now. ‘I just want to die. Why can’t I die if I want to?’

Joe addressed the young man who was still hovering about with Joe’s police torch shining upon the saturated fellow.

‘Jerry,’ Joe had remembered the man’s name. ‘Be a good chap and call an ambulance, will you? There’s a kiosk near the bandstand, where you found us, and the hospital’s number is 2277. Tell them to come to the West Pier, and you wait there until they do, then call us.’

Jerry ran off to perform this useful task, while we and the girl stood around as the would-be suicide lay on the beach, weeping and covering his face with his sandy hands. We stood close enough to prevent him from another sprint into the waves. The girl, now shivering violently, stood at a discreet distance with her teeth chattering.

‘What will happen to him?’ she asked, with obvious concern in her voice.

‘We’ll get him to hospital,’ said Joe. ‘They’ll see to him. I would imagine he’ll come back to his senses after a day or so.’

‘I’m pleased you rescued him,’ she smiled, holding a cardigan tight about her slender body.

‘He owes his life to you,’ I said. ‘You noticed him and did something about it – promptly too.’

The man was struggling to get to his feet, and we were very wary of his next move. Already, I could feel the beginning of a black eye from his earlier thrash, and as I helped him to his feet I was very aware that he might attempt a new trick. But he didn’t. He stood beside us, dripping wet with his head hung low.

‘What’s your name?’ Joe asked him.

‘I’m not saying. I’m not saying anything,’ was his reply.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Joe. And so we waited in silence and then, after about five long minutes, Jerry returned, waving the torch once again.

‘It’s come,’ he called. ‘The ambulance, it’s waiting at the top of the slipway.’

‘Come on,’ Joe took the man’s arm, but in a flash he had shaken free and was once more sprinting like a gazelle across the beach, heading for the crashing waves.

‘This joker does not give up!’ and with a cry, Joe and I set off in hot pursuit.

This time we reached him before he gained the water, and although I do not claim to be a Rugby football player, I did
launch myself at him in what could be described as a
flying
tackle. I brought him down among cascades of sand only feet from the water’s edge, and he promptly began another fierce and powerful struggle, with Joe and me
battling
for control. This time, it was a fierce and bloody fight. I got a bloody nose from a flailing fist, Joe had a tooth
loosened
, but it seemed impossible to subdue this man whose insane strength appeared to grow greater as ours weakened.

It was like fighting with a whirlwind; his crazy mind seemed to have driven him berserk, and as we fought on that beach, he was just as determined to drown himself as we were to stop him.

It was Joe who stopped him. With a mighty blow to the man’s stomach, Joe winded him, and as he doubled up in breathless agony, Joe delivered a punch which would have delighted any boxer. It caught the man on the chin, and it felled him.

‘Sorry, old son,’ said Joe to the unconscious man at his feet. ‘But we can’t mess about all night.’

We carried him to the ambulance, thanked the young couple and walked back to the station to arrange some dry clothing.

The following day, as we paraded for duty, the Inspector was waiting for us at 10 p.m.

‘Rhea and Tapley,’ he said. ‘Report to my office before you go to your beats.’

We went through and stood before his desk, and he joined us soon afterwards. He looked us up and down, then said, ‘Would either of you describe yourself as violent?’

Joe and I shook our heads and denied such a possibility.

‘Well,’ said the Inspector. ‘We have received, via the hospital, a complaint against two of my constables. It seems that a patient alleges he was swimming in the sea last night, and was assaulted by two uniformed police officers. Now I know this occurred in the area which formed part of your beat, both your beats, in fact. I need not say that I regard this as a very serious allegation, and I want you both to think very carefully before making any response …’

‘No comment,’ said Joe.

And I concurred.

‘Well done, the pair of you,’ he smiled.

If there is one aspect of human behaviour which stands out more than any other in police work, it is the multitude of ways in which husbands and wives manage to deceive one another. Within the broad range of their miscellaneous duties, observant police officers see and learn much about the way that life is actually lived, rather than the way it appears to be lived, and this marital quirk is constantly observed.

In the area of supposed domestic bliss, therefore, the police are guardians of many secrets. They keep their eyes and ears open but their mouths firmly shut, for they know, often to their cost, that strife between man and wife causes more serious trouble than anything else.

Domestic rows in varying degrees of ferocity are a nightly feature of police work; one spouse engages in noisy and violent battle against the other, often over some trivial matter, and when the neighbours call the police in an attempt to restore order, the warring pair band together to assault the unfortunate peace-keeping constable. So police officers everywhere learn to cope with these outbursts.

Most ‘domestics’, as we call them, are concluded as rapidly as they arise, although some do spill into the streets as the whole neighbourhood joins the mayhem. Quite often, a good time is had by all.

Problems that arise through a man or wife misbehaving sexually, however, call for a different technique. The fact is noted, possibly for future use, but a discreet silence is maintained, even if the people in question are prominent in local public life. Discretion is an essential quality of police officers. The Yorkshire motto of “Hear all, see all and say nowt” was probably coined by a policeman with a long experience of others’ illicit affairs. Every police officer has, at some stage of his or her service, had to cope with a domestic problem of some kind.

It is not often that real love or genuine respect by one spouse for another causes those kind of problems. Usually, it is lack of those virtues which creates the agonies. Yet on two occasions at Strensford, love or respect, or possibly a combination of both, did cause domestic problems in which the police were involved.

The first concerned Mr and Mrs Furnell, Edward and Caroline to their friends. They owned and ran a splendid private hotel on the cliff top; it was a veritable treasure house of style and culture, the sort of place frequented by very discerning visitors with money enough to pay for their expensive and exclusive pleasures. The sheer cost of staying there kept at bay those of lesser quality, and there is no doubt that the genteel luxury of “Furnells”, as it was simply known, did establish standards which set it apart from the average seaside hotel.

Edward was a charming man. In his late forties, he was tall and slender, with a head of good, thick black hair which was greying with distinction around the temples. He was always smart in a dark grey suit or a blazer and flannels, and his turn-out was positively immaculate. He was handsome too, with a lean, tanned face and a sensuous walk which attracted many women. But in spite of the opportunities which must have presented themselves, he was never unfaithful to Caroline. Indeed, he was a pillar of the Anglican Church, a very active member of the Parochial Church Council and a sidesman who never missed the Sunday service. He was almost too good to be true as he ran his hotel with scrupulous honesty. Everyone thought he was a perfect specimen of manhood, an example to all. There is no doubt that many people regarded Edward as an
example of the ideal husband and businessman, and that many husbands found themselves openly compared with him.

Caroline was similarly well endowed with good looks and charm. If a little inclined to be plump, she did her best to appear smart on every occasion, when her blonde hair would be set in the latest style, her make-up impeccable, her clothing beautiful and her treatment of others charming and welcoming. A little younger than Edward, she would be in her mid-thirties. Although she lived in a world of expensive tastes enjoyed by expensive people, she was neither aloof nor snobbish. At times she was a real bundle of good humour and warmth, especially on those rare occasions when she was not in the austere company of her proud husband.

There were times when I did wonder if Caroline would be more relaxed and ‘ordinary’ if Edward was not around. In my view, it did seem that his presence sometimes overawed or even suppressed her, and there were times when I wondered if she was trying desperately to live up to his life-style. I felt he set standards which were not normal for her. Marriage to Edward had perhaps forced her to adopt his particular way of life, but she coped admirably and everyone liked her.

The Furnells were always happy, always good company and always an example to others. Patrolling policemen were welcome to pop into their hotel kitchen for a cup of tea and a warm-up on ice-cold mornings. That’s how we got to know the couple so well. Our presence served a dual purpose, because if there was any doubt about a guest, we would be told and we would carry out discreet enquiries in case he or she absconded without paying the bill. We had physical descriptions and car numbers well in advance, just in case.

This enviable state of bliss continued until Caroline started driving-lessons. Edward, perfectionist that he was, insisted on teaching his wife, because he felt he could do it so much better than anyone else. This practice is never recommended for normal husbands and wives, for there is no finer way to generate marital problems than to teach one’s wife to drive. For some reason, a woman behind a steering wheel will steadfastly refuse to learn anything she is taught by her husband, and she will
likewise blame him for all that goes wrong. How many lady drivers, when they have had a minor driving upset, have said to their husbands, ‘You made me do that!’

But Edward was not a normal man. He was Mr Perfect, and so he guided his wife around the town’s maze of quaint narrow streets, pedestrian crossings, junctions, lanes, bridges and corners and through columns of gawping tourists and dizzy townspeople until she was a very proficient driver. Sometimes they went out very early in the morning and sometimes very late at night for Caroline’s lessons, although he did take her into the thick of the daytime traffic whenever his hotel duties permitted.

And Edward, being so particular about things, sent her to a driving school for the finishing touches before she took her test – even he admitted the experts did have a role to play. And then, one day in late August, Caroline was due to take her driving test.

Edward was engaged with a conference of businessmen at the hotel, so Caroline walked the half-mile or so to the testing centre in Strensford, where the driving school’s car would be waiting. She said the walk and fresh sea air would calm her nerves before the ordeal.

An hour later, she returned to the hotel, where Edward was waiting.

‘Well, darling?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she breathed. ‘I passed, Edward, I passed. First time! Me, a driver!’

‘I knew you would, darling. I just knew. Now, here’s a little present for you,’ and he handed her an ignition key. Outside, on the car-park of their hotel, stood a brand new Morris 1000 in pale blue.

‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘A present from me.’

And so the citizens, and indeed the police, became accustomed to seeing Caroline chugging around in her lovely little car, sometimes shopping, sometimes going about hotel business or merely visiting friends.

Then, one busy morning in early September, something went wrong. No one is quite sure what happened, but the little car ran out of control down Captain’s Pass with a panicking Caroline at the wheel. She collided with some iron railings
outside a café which acted like a spring, for she bounced off and slewed across the road like a shot from a gun. Having been catapulted across the road in this manner, miraculously missing other cars and wandering pedestrians on its terrifying journey, her little car mounted the opposite footpath and careered across an ornamental garden. It concluded its short but impressive journey among a jumble of rocks, cotoneasters and geraniums. The Council’s Parks Department were not very pleased about it.

Fortunately, Caroline was not hurt, although she was rather embarrassed, and the immaculate little car suffered some plants in its radiator grill, a badly dented door panel, buckled wings and other minor abrasions. As a result, the machinery of law began to move, the police were informed and I arrived at the scene.

It was a ‘damage only’ accident involving just one vehicle, with no personal injuries, so there were few problems. Willing helpers manhandled the car out of the flowerbed, and it was still driveable; meanwhile, the shaken Caroline was muttering something about a black dog running over the road and causing her to lose control.

Having ensured she was not hurt, I had to ask for her driving licence and insurance; she did not have them with her and therefore opted to produce them at Strensford Police Station within the legally stipulated five days. This was standard procedure in such a case. I did not expect any further proceedings, although I had to chant the words of a ‘Notice of Intended Prosecution’ at her, this being a statutory formality at that time in case there followed a prosecution for careless driving or some other more serious driving offence.

I asked if I should take her home and she declined. She insisted she was fit to drive, and in any case she would like to break the news to Edward herself. So off she went.

I was not at the police station when she arrived to produce her documents but shortly afterwards was summoned to see Sergeant Blaketon.

‘Rhea,’ he stood before me at his full majestic height. ‘This Mrs Furnell of yours, the accident on Captain’s Pass. She’s been
to produce her documents. You’ll have to go and see her – her driving licence is not valid, and this being so, neither is the insurance on that car. It’s your case, so you’ll have to follow it up.’

When I looked at the details of her licence in the Production of Documents Book, they were for her provisional one, which had expired, albeit only a week earlier.

‘She’s probably brought the wrong one in,’ said Sergeant Blaketon. ‘Go and sort it out.’

When I arrived at Furnells, Caroline was not her normal, immaculate self. She was alone in the office as Edward attended to some business at the Bank, and she gave me a coffee. But she was paler than usual, her lovely eyes looked dark and sad, her hair much less tidy than normal and her general demeanour much less confident.

‘I know why you’re here,’ she looked steadily into my eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You produced an out-of-date licence,’ I said, probably unnecessarily. ‘It was your old provisional one. I need the new one, the one that was valid on the date of your accident. If it was a provisional one too, I’ll need the driving examiner’s slip to confirm that you passed your test, or, of course, I’ll need a full licence.’

She hung her head.

‘I didn’t. I failed,’ she said slowly. ‘I failed that bloody driving test, officer! And I daren’t tell that perfect bloody husband of mine! I daren’t tell him I was a failure! He does not recognize anything that’s second rate, he can’t tolerate anything that’s a failure, so I told him I’d passed. And when I said I’d passed, he gave me that car – it was all ready and waiting for me. He never thought I’d fail, you see. Never. So what could I do? I daren’t tell him, not after all that.’ She was weeping now. ‘So I got myself into a trap … a snobby, awfully stupid trap. I don’t know what he’ll say when I tell him.’

She wiped her eyes, and her make-up began to run down her cheeks. She looked anything but elegant and self-assured.

‘He doesn’t know? Not even about the accident?’ I was incredulous.

‘No. I got the car fixed – it wasn’t damaged much … but this will get my name in the papers, won’t it? He’ll have to know now, won’t he?’

‘It depends. You see, if you’ve no provisional licence in force, it could mean your insurance is automatically invalid too. And you were driving unaccompanied by a qualified driver. And you had no “L” plates on. There’s a lot of offences, Mrs Furnell. I’ve got to report you for them all.’

I had to go through all the formalities of notifying her of an impending prosecution for those offences and possibly a ‘careless driving’, but the decision about a prosecution was not mine. Ultimately, it rested with the Superintendent, who would study my report and make up his mind from the facts which I presented.

A few days later, I did see her driving around town again, with ‘L’ plates up and with a driving instructor at her side. She waved as she passed me. But I had finished my tour of duty at Strensford before she appeared at court.

I do not know what fate she suffered before the magistrates, although it would probably involve a fine of some kind with endorsement of her new licence for the insurance offence. I do not know how Edward accepted this blemish to his reputation, but I like to think that he, being a perfect gentleman, had treated his unhappy wife like a perfect lady.

The other case was very similar. It happened because Nathan Fleming loved his wife so much that he kept a guilty secret from her.

I had frequently seen Nathan about town because he was one of those characters that everyone knows, likes and respects. He seemed to be everywhere, a truly ubiquitous character. He was a member of one of Strensford’s oldest fishing families and owned several fishing boats which plied from the town’s picturesque harbour. In addition, he had a couple of wet
fish-shops
, a whelk stall and a little van which toured the outer regions of the town on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

I was never sure of his age. He was one of those men who could have been anything between forty-five and sixty, a
stocky, powerful man with the swarthy, dark features of the indigenous fisherfolk. More often than not, he had a few days’ growth of whiskers on his chin, and when about town he invariably wore a dark blue ganser with a high neck, even in the height of summer, along with blue overalls and heavy rubber seaboots. The ganser’s name is a corruption of guernsey, the name for a thick, dark-blue woollen jumper which originated in Guernsey on the Channel Islands. A jersey comes from Jersey too. Those boots came up to his thighs when on the boat, but he rolled them down when not on the boat, so that when he walked he looked like a tiny man in a pair of giant seven-league boots.