Prisoners, Property and Prostitutes (15 page)

As a policeman this made sense, and I suspect to most of the
public it would do too. The refreshing part about Sergeant Jeffries was that had he been asked the right questions I really do believe he would have come clean. He was just too honest to contemplate anything else, and would be the same to public and colleagues alike.

Any further discussion was interrupted by the appearance in the office of Jim Tudor. Jim was a long-serving traffic man who had come down from his first floor office to ask a favour.

‘I need to measure a fatal scene out at Heatley and need someone to help. Can I borrow Tom for an hour please?’ he enquired. Heatley was at the very edge of the Division and we would be gone for some time, but Sergeant Jeffries was happy to spare me.

‘If Tom wants to be borrowed that’s fine by me,’ he said. ‘In fact you can have him as an observer for the rest of the shift if you like.’

Jim agreed, and I jumped at the opportunity of several hours in a traffic car and helping with some accident investigation as a bonus. The appeal didn’t lie in being at the scene of a death per se, it lay in the examination of the mechanics of the accident, to find how an event which took fractions of a second could be broken down into a sort of ultra-slow-motion replay with all its secrets revealed. But today’s excursion revealed different secrets.

The scene was several miles west of Newport and dusk was falling fast by the time we arrived so I was denied the time I wanted to take it in properly, but it was good experience anyway. I held one end of the tape measure for Jim who jotted down all sorts of measurements, peered at black marks on the road, and
pointed out smaller details like damage to kerbs and bits of bark missing from a substantial-looking tree which appeared to be the main culprit in the death which had taken place.

By the time we packed everything away it was dark and there was nothing moving on the roads to attract Jim’s eye so we went for a general drive round, eventually coming to a place called Bricksworth Junction. This was a crossroads way out in the country and got its name from the long-removed railway track which ran alongside. The area where there had once been a dingy goods yard had been renovated and landscaped some years ago to provide car parking, and at one side an area with wooden seats and tables, and public toilets. Lying as it did in below the level of the main road, the car park at Bricksworth was enclosed on two sides by roads, and on a third side by a slope where a platform had once been, which led from the road to the car park. The fourth side had a small restored railway shed which was now a snack bar in the daytime, the rest of this side being turned over to trees and bushes to give natural shelter.

The whole place was very well laid out, and in the daytime there would often be an ice cream van to compliment the snack bar, so it had become a popular stop for families on their way to or from the coast. It was good to see recreational facilities created from industrial dereliction.

Jim slowed as we got closer to the crossroads, then turned the car’s lights off before turning onto the slope down to the picnic area itself. He brought the car to a halt and switched the engine off.

‘Filthy sods, they’re all at it again – never stops,’ he said quietly.

I didn’t understand what he meant as I looked out over the tranquil scene. The car park lay empty and in the dim moonlight I could see the trees and bushes at the far side moving in the light breeze.

‘What are you on about?’ I asked.

‘Can’t you see them all?’ He replied.

I was a bit worried by Jim’s behaviour, but then as I looked harder into the gloom I suddenly saw what he was looking at. The main parking area was indeed empty, but there were a number of cars if you looked closer, carefully reversed under the trees or in the darker parts around the edge of the restored railway building.

‘Why are they here at this time of night?’ I asked. I thought I knew the answer, but was perhaps hoping that such a pleasant daytime location didn’t harbour the dark secret that was starting to unfold. Jim seemed to bristle with annoyance as he confirmed my suspicions.

‘Bloody pervs, they’re here most nights, too scared to be honest about what makes them tick, they all meet up, bugger each other senseless then go home to be accountants and bank managers and pretend they’re normal people again.’

Jim was the son of a Welsh coal miner, and as a God-fearing chapel-goer the sort of activity which went on at Bricksworth Junction was even more abhorrent to him than most.

‘So what are you planning on doing about it?’ I asked. ‘You might as well just leave them to it. At least they’re being subtle.’

‘I’ll give them subtle,’ he muttered, and started the car’s engine again. With the lights still off we moved slowly down the slope, the big V8 making a low rumble which would be
inaudible to the preoccupied participants in and around their steamed up cars. Darkness had transformed Bricksworth, and instead of driving into a sheltered picnic area, it now felt that we were driving into a small amphitheatre, and in preparation of battle Jim swung the car round so we faced one corner of the car park. The visitors’ cars were now very obvious as we had descended to their level – geographically rather than morally at least. Jim picked up the radio handset and shifted the selector button from ‘Radio’ to ‘Public Address’. Then almost in one movement he switched on the headlights, the flashing blue light on the roof, and the two tone sirens. The car began to move slowly to its right, the headlights sweeping deep into the undergrowth. Moments later his deep voice boomed out over the loudspeaker:

‘This is the Police. Get back to your cars and go. Move move move!’

The effect was amazing. From being a moonlit and near-deserted backwater the place became a frenzy of movement as men of all shapes and sizes erupted from half-hidden cars and from the surrounding vegetation. Many appeared to be in various stages of undress, and all were keen to shield their faces from the lights, making for some very unusual styles of running. Jim started to laugh at this farcical sight, and within moments cars were revving up to hurtle off into the night. Shortly afterwards Jim turned off the lights and sirens, and the calm returned as rapidly as it had been shattered.

Just one car remained, a small Peugeot hatchback, so Jim went to check it over just in case it was genuinely abandoned. He was gone for a few minutes and returned with a grin on his
face. He said nothing and drove back up the ramp before stopping just short of the main road.

‘Let’s see if I’m right,’ he said, before winding his window down and switching the engine off.

Jim was right. The car belonged to a straggler from the pervert horde who had chosen not to break cover in the stampede. He had waited and returned to his car when all was quiet, hoping to avoid any confrontation. The car was only travelling slowly towards us and making a very strange noise when Jim switched on the sign on the rear of our car so the driver was faced with the illuminated instruction: ‘Police – Stop’.

He stopped.

We both got out and I followed Jim to the driver’s window which was by now open.

‘Good evening sir,’ said Jim. ‘Your car appears to have a problem.’

‘Yes, it seems someone has let one of my tyres down while we were away from the car,’ said the driver, a small bespectacled man in his mid fifties. He spoke softly, all the time staring straight ahead. Beside him a teenage youth sat with the look of someone who would give a great deal to be anywhere else at that moment.

‘Do you have far to travel sir?’ enquired Jim, oozing good manners and consideration.

The driver shook his head.

‘Where are you going to then?’

‘That’s no concern of yours,’ said the driver, becoming braver in the face of apparent politeness. This was a mistake, and Jim took full advantage of it.

‘It is very much my concern,’ Jim corrected him. ‘If I am not satisfied as to who you are and where you live, then I would have to consider arresting you and your…’ He paused as if looking for the right word. ‘…your
friend
on suspicion of theft of the car, until we had made enquiries to establish your identities and exactly why you were here tonight. So if you want to speed this matter up, can I suggest you tell me where you are going to,
Sir.’

‘I live and work at Wessingham Hall,’ said the driver in a firm tone as if trying to draw the conversation to a close. Well he might, as Wessingham Hall was an expensive private school some ten miles away. Jim asked the next question as I was thinking it.

‘What do you do there?’

‘I’m a teacher.’

‘And might I ask who your young friend is?’

‘He’s a pupil – look officer this isn’t what you think. I teach biology and we have been on an impromptu field trip to study rural wildlife.’

Quite how we were expected to believe this I am not sure, but like a lying child the man acted as if his story was entirely plausible. Like a patronising parent Jim pretended it was.

‘Really?’ said Jim. ‘Well I appreciate your dedication to your work.’

He stopped speaking and slowly, silently, leaned much closer to the man who became more uncomfortable than before as Jim spoke once more, his voice gaining a low, dangerously Welsh edge to it as he went on.

‘You need to be careful here, you do. There’s strange things happen here sometimes.’

‘What do you mean?’ said the man.

There was a sinister pause as Jim leaned even closer.

‘There’s
bummers
round here you know.’ He uttered the word with an extra heavy lilt to his accent, giving an intimate emphasis to the ‘m’s in the middle of it.‘
Bum-mers’
he repeated, like a malevolent echo.

‘I beg your pardon,’ came the reply with an attempt at a note of surprise. It was not convincing. Nor was Jim’s attempt at a caring tone as he elaborated.

‘
Bum-mers,’
he lilted again.
‘
Men who come at you in the night – and try to touch your bottom.’

A long pause. It was really quite uncertain where the conversation could go from this point.

‘Oh,’ said the teacher in a matter-of-fact sort of way, before falling silent again.

A shorter pause.

‘Not a place for you, and particularly not for your ‘
friend’
is it?’

‘Er…no. You’re right officer. But I assure you he is safe with me. A good job I was taking him back to the school anyway.’

‘Indeed so’ said Jim flatly.

‘Well we’ll be off then,’ said the man, more as a hopeful question than a statement.

‘What about the flat tyre?’

‘I’ll change it when we get on the road. No need to help further, constable.’

‘What about the other flat tyre?’ asked Jim. ‘The back tyre on the other side is very low too.’

‘We’ll manage, thank you.’

Jim and I returned to the Rover. The Peugeot limped off into the night and once again all was truly quiet at Bricksworth Junction. Then after a few moments I voiced my thoughts to Jim.

‘Why didn’t you lock him up then?’

‘I’d love to have done, but what for? He’s a perfectly reputable teacher who has visited at a picnic area with one of his pupils. You prove – and I mean
prove
– anything actually happened. You can’t. I’d rather let him go now than give him the satisfaction of being all pompous and claiming innocence when we had to let him go anyway.’

‘So you’re saying you’ve just harassed an innocent man.’

‘Probably.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘Would you let him babysit your kids?’

Jim never did admit to letting the teacher’s tyres down, and nothing was ever reported back to Wessingham Hall, but in a parallel vein to Albert Jeffries’ drink driver, justice had been done just as far as it could be, if not entirely by the book.

While Newport itself was a middle-sized town with good links to the outside world, the sub-Division also covered a large area of rural and semi-rural land. Travelling east from the town took you through some delightful countryside, where disused railway lines had been turned into a rambler’s paradise, well served with car parks and pretty, secluded woods, interspersed with large country houses. The whole area was a natural magnet for ramblers, birdwatchers, travelling burglars and sexual deviants.

At the far side of this area was Barton, having at its social extremes a strange mix of refined gentry and unrefined pond life. The former had worked long honest lives and expected to spend their declining years in peace and comfort. The latter had cut out the bit involving work, and had just retired and expected to spend their years declining in their own version of peace and comfort. This usually involved living in a pigsty, smoking and drinking to excess, and falling out with their families and neighbours in regular turn.

Each bout of falling out would result in a call to the local Police who were expected to arrive in moments and resolve the situation to everyone’s satisfaction.

Because of the relatively small size of the town and the lower numbers of troublemakers involved, it was in reality only a small hard core of people who provided the majority of calls. The Officers who covered the area were also a peculiar breed – it was not a particularly sought-after posting, as being a backwater it was not favoured by the promotion-hungry, and being a 15 minute drive from Newport carried the hazard that if things did go wrong, you could be waiting a considerable time for any back-up to arrive. In fact given that the radios only worked in about half the area, and then sporadically, you could be waiting for ever. It was often said that if you needed help it was best sent by recorded delivery letter for faster guaranteed response.

So the Police had to develop a style which combined confidence with a certain charm and reassurance, and the longer they worked there the greater the respect in which they were held by the regular customers, and consequently the less likelihood of problems in turning up at a drunken row between sparring neighbours.

Of course recognition had its drawbacks when dealing with those at the upper end of the social scale, who came to regard the Barton Bobbies as their own ‘property’.