Constable by the Sea (7 page)

I took the bundle from him, and sure enough, they were £5 notes of the large, white variety, now obsolete but then very much in vogue. One of them represented something approaching a week’s wages for some workers. With the little fellow watching, I expressed my amazement and then carefully counted them before his eyes.

There was a total of sixty notes, £300 in all, very close to a year’s wages for the roadman, and not far off a year’s wages for me either!

‘Phew!’ I breathed. ‘You found all this money, down there in the gutter?’

‘Aye,’ he grinned weak smile, a nervous one almost and showed thick, brown teeth. ‘Just there, sweeping up. Noticed ’em on my shovel, just in time.’

‘We’ll have to report the find,’ I informed him. ‘Can you come with me now, to the station? I think you ought to be present when I record this.’

‘Ah’ve all this length to finish before knocking-off time,’ he said.

‘I think that can wait, under the circumstances.’

I wanted him to come to the station for two reasons. First, in view of the amount involved, I felt he ought to be there when the official procedures were set in motion, and secondly, it was more than likely that someone had already reported the loss of such an amount. If so, the money could be very quickly restored to its rightful owner, and there might be a reward for the sweeper. He agreed to come along with me, albeit with some reluctance, and so we proceeded through the streets, with the little fellow in firm control of his barrow and with me hiding the wadge of notes in my uniform pocket.

At the station, a Sergeant Moreton was on duty and looked in amazement as I entered with the roadman.

‘An arrest is it?’ he asked as I entered the office.

‘No, sergeant, it’s found property,’ I said.

I told my story, after which I plonked the £300 on the counter before him. His eyebrows rose in surprise and he looked at the roadman with admiration.

‘Enter it in the register, son. Now, in view of the amount involved, we cannot let the finder retain this. But, strange though it may seem, we’ve had no report of a loss. Not yet. I suppose there’s time for that. And, if there is no report of a loss, it will go to the finder, and that’ll make you a rich man, eh?’

The roadman smiled briefly. I went through the formalities, recording that his name was Lawrence Briggs who was employed by the council as a roadsweeper and who was
sixty-four
years old. He had an address on the council estate across the river. I explained the formalities to him and told him that if the money was not claimed within three months, it would be his.

‘It’ll be a nice retirement present,’ he said quietly.

‘You’re retiring soon, are you?’ I asked.

‘November,’ he said. ‘When I’m sixty-five.’

‘If this isn’t claimed, it could give you a holiday,’ I suggested.

‘New furniture more like,’ he said. ‘Me and the missus has never had much, not on my wage. I’d love a television and some good furniture, a nice settee …’

‘It was very honest of you to report that money,’ I
commented
. ‘I’d bet some wouldn’t have.’

‘Aye, well, mebbe so. But I’m honest, officer. Somebody’ll have lost that and it’ll mean more to them than me. No, I wouldn’t dream of keeping it.’

‘OK, well, it’s in safe hands now. So if it’s not claimed within three months, we’ll be in touch with you and you can come and collect it.’

He smiled and left the office, and I saw him trundling his barrow down the cobbled hill and back into the busy streets. With luck, he’d get his length finished by knocking-off time, but I did find myself marvelling at his honesty.

‘You know, son,’ said Sergeant Moreton two hours later. ‘This is very odd. No one’s reported losing that cash, not a whisper. It’s a fortune, you know; I mean, what sort of person
carries that amount with him, let alone loses it and doesn’t say anything?’

Like Sergeant Moreton, I could only marvel at the story but knew we dare not publicize the finding, otherwise all kinds of dishonest folks would suddenly ‘remember’ losing the money.

But in time someone did report its loss. The call came later that evening.

‘It’s Bridlington Police,’ announced the caller. ‘Sergeant Youngman speaking. Now, have you had a report of any cash being found in Strensford? A lot of cash. In notes. Fivers. I don’t expect you to say you have, because if anyone found it, they’d say nowt.’

‘Yes, sergeant,’ I said. ‘We have had some found.’

‘£300 in fivers, was it?’

‘Yes, it was found close to the harbourside.’

‘Then I’ve got a very relieved loser here right now. He lost £300 in fivers today. He’s a Mr George Kenton from Surrey. He came to Strensford on the SS
Princess
from Bridlington today and, when he got back on the boat for the return trip, realized he had lost his holiday cash. He couldn’t report it until the boat returned to harbour here, and well, he came straight to our office to tell us. I’ll ask him to come over to Strensford as soon as possible to collect the money. Now, who’s the honest character who found it?’

I explained how the roadsweeper had found the cash and provided his name and address. Sergeant Youngman said he would inform the loser of those details. Mr Kenton would come tonight, I was told, so after thanking Sergeant Youngman for his call, I made a note in the Occurrence Book so that the next shift would be aware of the situation.

I went off duty before the money was handed over to its rightful owner, and it seems he arrived late that evening to claim his cash. It was handed over against his signature and the matter was closed.

But he did not leave even a shilling reward for the
roadsweeper
. There was not a penny and not even a letter of thanks for his honesty. We all knew that he would not wish any thanks or a reward but would gain satisfaction from knowing that his
honesty had been ratified by the money going to its rightful owner.

We waited a few days, but nothing came, and so Sergeant Moreton, who was friendly with the local reporter on the
Strensford
Gazette
, decided to tell the tale to the papers. If Kenton was not going to give some reward, the story of the roadman’s honest was strong enough for the local and even the national papers. And so it won headlines in some papers and more than a few column inches in others, and we made sure a copy was sent to Kenton at his home address. But not even that prompted a response.

Happily, although the publicity did not prompt a response from Kenton, there was a small but touching flood of postal orders, cash and cheques for the roadman from readers all over England. If the loser did not appreciate his remarkable honesty, the public did. All the police officers at Strensford had a
whip-round
for him too, and he was able to buy himself a new settee with those generous donations.

Another odd use of the Found Property Register occurred late one night when I was working a night shift during that
three-month
spell of duty. I was sitting in the office around 2.15 a.m. having my break when a rather rough-looking, brusquely spoken character presented himself at the enquiry desk.

His name was Brian Stockfield, a taxi-driver in his early forties who was renowned in the town for his bad temper, his loud voice and awful, critical treatment of his fellow men. No one had a good word for Stockfield; he complained incessantly about everything, criticizing the council because of the rates, the police for letting holiday-makers park all over the town, the holiday-makers for crowding the streets, the children for their noise, dogs for barking … Every facet of Strensford’s society was criticized by this chap, and the outcome was that those who knew him kept out of his way. He had not been in Strensford during my initial spell, so I had never come across him until now.

Stockfield earned his living by running a one-vehicle taxi business, and his premises were a small wooden garage close to
the harbourside. He criticized other taxi-drivers for taking business from him, he wrote to the newspaper about their activities and claimed that some had not taken out the correct insurance for their vehicles, or that their hackney carriage licences were not in order. He was a regular caller at the police station, where his growing list of complaints was logged. In short, he was nothing but a confounded nuisance to everyone.

It was through chats with the local police that I discovered one of his unpleasant traits – perhaps, though, he had just cause for this particular behaviour.

When the police in Strensford came across a drunk who was not troublesome or a danger either to himself or to anyone else, they hailed a local taxi and persuaded the driver to take the drunk home. This system was very sensible, because it kept the cells empty, it saved the drunk from the trauma of a
prosecution
, it saved the police a lot of work and the courts a lot of time dealing with simple drunks. Furthermore, it helped to retain the friendly relationship between the residents and the police, for the people would resent any heavy-handed treatment of local merrymakers. It made a lot of sense to deal with them in this gentle way. Another aspect was that it kept all the
taxi-drivers
in business too, because they made useful, honest sums from their merry fares.

The system had a lot to commend it, but Brian Stockfield would not partake in it. He complained about the drunks, about their noise, their singing and their general conduct. He would not have anything at all to do with them. But this did not
unduly
worry the other taxi-drivers, who were happy to accommodate our discarded drunks. His financial loss was their gain.

On this night, as he arrived at the police station counter, I learned, he had answered such a call, and that was the reason for his presence. He had another complaint to make.

PC Joe Tapley, a local constable of considerable experience, was the office duty man that night, and he went to the counter to deal with Stockfield. I and three colleages sat near the fireside, enjoying our meal, and we were just beyond the vision of the visitor. But we could hear every word.

‘Ah, Mr Stockfield,’ greeted PC Tapley. ‘What brings you to us at this late hour?’

‘I have a complaint to make,’ he said. ‘About a clever sod who’s been to a dance at the Imperial Hotel.’

‘Not paid his fare?’ suggested Joe Tapley.

‘Paid? Yes, he’s paid. It’s bloody awful, Mr Tapley, terrible really, what folks do to your taxis.’

‘Oh, like that, is it? So what’s he done?’

Joe had a pad of notepaper handy and was preparing to record the problem.

‘Look, Mr Tapley, you know what I’m like with drunks, don’t you? You and the lads. I go for class clients, not drunks. My vehicle is the cleanest taxi in town, even though I say so myself. None of my fares can complain about me running a mucky vehicle.’

‘Go on, Mr Stockfield.’ I noticed the formal exchange of names between these two, indicative of some past conflict.

‘I got this call, right? From a chap attending the Imperial Hunt Ball, it is. He had a nice accent, and it is a class dance, as you know. Even though he sounded a bit fuzzy, a bit slurred when he spoke, I went for him. I picked him up at 1.30 a.m., on the dot, and took him to the Grand Hotel, where he’s staying.’

‘And he paid?’

‘Yes, he paid. Charming he was, all done up in an
evening-dress
suit, a right toff.’

‘Your ideal client, eh?’

‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’

‘So what is your complaint, Mr Stockfield?’ asked PC Tapley.

‘Well, I find this very embarrassing. I’m a clean-living,
clean-speaking
man, Mr Tapley, but, well, he’s used the back seat of my taxi as a toilet.’

‘You mean he’s peed on it?’ I could discern the merest flicker of a smile on Joe Tapley’s face, and he was doing his best to suppress it.

‘No, the other. Two massive great brown turds, like a dog’s, on the back seat. You come and see for yourself, and don’t stick your nose in either. The smell is bloody awful.’

Joe followed him outside, and so we all trooped out as well,
for this would be a sight to treasure. Sure enough, as Stockfield switched on the interior light, the centre of the back seat was graced by two shining examples of man’s slavery to the urgent needs of nature. They were a pair of thick, brown turds.

We were all creasing ourselves with laughter, and happily the darkness of the night concealed most of our efforts to keep straight faces, but Joe achieved it with aplomb. He led us all back inside, and we seated ourselves at the fireside again, leaving Joe to finalize the matter.

‘Well,’ demanded Stockfield. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘Do you know the man’s name? The chap who left it?’

‘No, he’s a visitor. I doubt if I would recognize him again. He was just a bloke who wanted a lift home from a dance.’

‘Hmm,’ said Joe writing on the scrap pad. ‘Name and description unknown.’ When he had finished writing, he said, ‘Well, thank you, Mr Stockfield. I have made a note of all the relevant details. Thank you for calling.’

‘But what are you going to do about it?’ demanded the taxi-driver, whose voice was beginning to grow louder.

‘Do?’ smiled Joe calmly. ‘Nothing else. I’ve done all that I can. I have made a record of the event in our Found Property Register. If the owner cannot be traced, and if the property is not claimed within three months, you may keep it. As things are, you may now take it home and await any likely claim of ownership. We will keep the matter of file for three months too.’

‘Found property?’ cried Stockfield. ‘You can’t call this found property?’

‘Then what else is it?’ smiled Joe, as calm as ever. ‘No crime has been committed, no byelaw broken, no traffic regulation breached, no street nuisance committed, no indecent public exhibition. It’s simply a case of someone unknown leaving something rather personal in your taxi. And thank you for reporting it. Goodnight, Mr Stockfield.’

He left without a word, and we waited until the sound of his revving engine faded before collapsing into bouts of laughter. There is a lot to be learned from an experienced police officer.