Hello good people, George Pendlebury here, sat in my favourite corner of the Ferret and Wardrobe which I reckon is Wisstingham’s best pub.
Lovely old place it is. Wood panelled with a roaring log fire in the winter, leaded windows, polished brasses carpets and comfy seating. What with these, the best pub grub you could ask for and the keg beers the landlord puts on, you’d have to travel an awful long way to find its equal.
It’s always been the local for the Wisstingham folks, though we do also get our fair share of visitors.
I’m generally here most weekday evenings and early doors on a Saturday, but Sunday’s I’m tied up with ordering and doing the books. Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I, I own the Post office and grocery in the village. So, what with the chatter and gossip that passes over the counter there, and the conversations I have in here, there’s not much that goes on that I don’t get to know about.
I’ll tell you what though, you don’t often get the local constabulary coming in, either on or off duty. Well, we only have the two Bobbies but one of them’s a teetotaller and the other uses the Phantom Hound.
It was quite a surprise, therefore that Roger Stone called in the other evening. Apparently he was going to some function up at the Hall and had some time to kill, not wanting to go all the way home, after work, then set off out here. I’ve know him for years and years. A good chap on the whole, with a few eccentricities which I suppose most of us have.
I was congratulating him on his promotion to DCI, not having seen him for some time and he got chatting about how it hadn’t all been smooth going with his career. In fact, he got to telling me about how he very nearly got thrown out of the CID in his very early years. It was quite a stroke of luck that saved him. He also let slip about one of the bad habits he happened to pick up on the way.
Of course in those days, there weren’t the constraints on behaviour and what you could or couldn’t say to other people at work. I don’t imagine Roger’s boss would have lasted five minutes in today’s society but that’s how it was then and that’s how Roger laid it out to me.
Anyway, I thought I’d piece together a little anecdote on itl, so here we go. Hope you enjoy it.
Cheers!
Incidentally
‘What do you reckon, Sir?’ DS Snell addressed the back of his superior who was scowling out of the office window, jingling the loose change in the pocket of his baggy trousers.
DCI Broome turned and scratched some of the few remaining grey hairs that lurked at the side of his head. ‘A ruddy waste of time that’s what I reckon. We’re in the middle of a turf war with precious little to go on, and now we’re involved with a flaming Uniform job. Where are they all?’
‘Most of them are out at the refinery fire.’
Broome grunted.
‘So, do you think I should interview the old couple?’ queried Snell.
‘No, do I ’ell as like, and stop keep inspecting tha fingernails. Tha looks like a Nancy boy doing that. Is tha on’t turn?’
Snell’s manicured hands shot to his sides and a blush coloured his sallow face. He shuffled his feet. ‘Certainly not, sir,’ he huffed.
‘Tha’s got more important things to do than waste tha time with yon two,’ the DCI’s forefinger now excavating in his ear, ‘as far as I can see, he’s pots for rags and ten minutes with her’d give you the screaming abdabs!’
‘So should I just send them home and get Uniform to take the statements later?’
Broome let out a long, weary sigh. ‘Snell, tha’s a dimwit! Did tha pick up owt in Training, lad? For one thing, that’s not ’ow it’s done, and for another if we don’t do it now, with the memories them two ’ave, I reckon the lads’ll be lucky to even get their ruddy names out of ’em later on.’
The chair let out a loud ‘oof’ as the corpulent DCI slumped into it. ‘Just get on with what tha were doing on t’other case. Jeez lad! Not the flamin’ nails again,’ he groaned. ‘Is Stone in?
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Well send ’im in and you get on with what tha were doing.’
Moments later, DC Stone stood quaking in front of his superior, nervously chewing his bottom lip.
Broome looked him slowly up and down then fixed his gaze with narrowed eyes. ‘It’s not exactly been a flying start to tha detective career Stone, has it?’
The DC stared down at his shoes. ‘No sir,’ he mumbled.
‘No sir,’ mimicked the boss. He got up and walked round to the other side of the desk which emitted a loud creak as he sat on the end of it. With narrowed eyes and a crocodilian smile the DCI folded his fat arms and scrutinised Stone, The shoes briefly reoccupied the DC’s attention.
Broome glanced down at them then back up at their nervous owner’s youthful face. ‘Shiny aren’t they?’ he murmured, ‘which is more than can be said for thy contribution to this department since tha transfer, don’t you think, sonny Jim?’
‘I suppose so sir,’
‘There’s no suppose about it,’ Broome barked, ‘tha’s bin three weeks on’t Turf war and so far, nowt.’ His voice softened. ‘Just for now I need thee to sort out this accident. It’s not complicated lad, uniform work, tha should be good at that. Just statements. After that tha’s back on t’Turf war and it’ll be tha last chance to show whether that blue uniform of thine stays in’t wardrobe, or not. Am I coming over loud and clear, petal?’
The DC darted a quick sideways glance at his tormentor. ‘Yes sir,’ he murmured.
‘Well?’ growled the DCI, ‘what’s tha waiting for lad, divine inspiration? Off tha trots.’
Stone hastened out, chased by his boss’s glare.
‘Please sit down Mrs. Crabtree, the tea’s on its way,’ said DC Stone, trying hard to put the stooped, grey-haired lady at her ease. ‘Now I’d like you to tell me, in your own words, what you saw and can remember of the accident. Just take your time and let me have every detail, no matter how trivial.’
‘I’ll do what I can dear, but where’s your uniform? Are you sure you’re proper?’
‘Quite proper Mrs. Crabtree, I’m a detective constable.’
‘Oooooh!’ Mrs. Crabtree’s eyes widened.
‘Now before we start, are you suffering any after affects?’
‘Blue,’ she announced.
Stone narrowed his eye sin confusion, ‘Blue?’
‘I bet blue would really suit you,’ she said, with a smile.
He let out a quiet sigh. ‘Thank you. As I said, are you…’
‘No, no, I feel fine,’ she cut him off, ‘ but it was all very upsetting, not something you see every day and my Ron’s not a well man you know. He’s nearly ninety.’
‘I’m sorry it had to be you who witnessed it. What can you tell me about it?’
‘Asthma.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Asthma, Ron suffers from asthma.’
‘I see, I’m sorry. Er…the accident?’
‘And dementia.’
‘Oh I’m sorry! You have…’
‘Oh no, not me silly! Ron.’ Mrs. Crabtree batted away the error and let out a slight chuckle.
‘I’m sorry, my apologies. Now, the accident please.’
‘Well this car just came whooshing round the corner.’
‘How fast would you think it was traveling?’
‘Oh I haven’t a clue, dear.’
‘Well, what make was the car?’
‘Red,’ she said, emphatically.
‘No, the make.’
‘Sorry dear. Well I think it was a salon.’
‘You mean a saloon.’
‘Oh is that what they are? I thought that was a pub. When’s the tea coming? I hope there’s biscuits.’
‘I imagine there will be. About the car, you said it was red?’
‘I do like bourbons,’ she hinted.
‘Yes, now, what about the grey car?’
‘What grey car?’
DC Stone slowly exhaled and with eyes closed, slowly rubbed his forehead.
Mrs Crabtree leaned forward, her expression now anxious. ‘Have you got a headache dear?’
Not yet but I don’t think one’s far off, he was tempted to say. ‘No, Mrs Crabtree, I’m just anxious to get your statement completely right.’
‘So am I, dear, so am I.’ She put her fingers to her mouth and stared at him. Her eyes then widened. ‘You’re right, dear, there was a grey car. That came after the red one.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Ron had a sneezing fit.’
‘And?’
‘He has them daily you know. I blame the pollution,’ she sniffed.
‘What did you see happen then?’
‘Well there was this sample band going along the pavement.’
‘Sample band?’
‘Yes, a sample band, you know, that thump thump music with drums.’
His brow knitted, he stared at her for several seconds. ‘You mean a Samba band?’
‘If you say so, dear, I don’t know much about these things. Anyway, they were going along, very noisy, then this pedestrian stepped off the pavement into the road, to let them get past, you see. That was when the car swerved to miss him and hit the van that was parked by Slingers. They do lovely sausages you know.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Slingers. Do lovely sausages.’
‘Mrs. Crabtree, if we could please stay on the subject of the accident.’
‘My Ron reckons the thick ones are a lot nicer than the thin ones.’
Stone cleared his throat. ‘The accident please, Mrs. Crabtree.’
‘Sorry dear! Well it hit the van, then it seemed to bounce across the road, then it sort of turned sideways.’
The tea arrives, minus biscuits. Mrs. Crabtree stares at the tray for a moment, looks up at the DC and throws him an accusing scowl. Her arthritic fingers reach for one of the mugs as she sighs in resignation.
‘After the red car turned sideways, what happened then?’
‘Well the driver got out and ran away. He looked very frightened, poor thing.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, the sample band stopped playing.’
‘I suppose it would. What else happened?’
‘Well, the grey car came whooshing round and bumped into the red one.’
‘And?’
‘Then the driver got out and he ran off too, in the same direction as the first man. At first I supposed he was wanting to catch up with him to exchange details. I was going to tell all this to your lady colleague but she got called away.’
‘Is there anything else you can you tell me?’
‘She’s got lovely eyes. Are you married?’
The DC cleared his throat. ‘No I’m not.’
Mrs. Crabtree’s eyes widened again, as did her smile. ‘She’s a pretty lass your colleague,’ she whispered, her eyes now twinkling, ‘you could do worse.’
Stone let out a quiet groan. ‘Mrs. Crabtree the accident please.’
She glanced quickly from side to side. ‘Well dear, I’m not sure now if the second man was up to much good.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he was carrying a gun.’
‘Oh?’
‘And he dropped a small bag. It’s a good job I picked it up. Anybody could have taken it, you can’t trust people these days.’ She delved into her capacious handbag and pulled out a small man-bag that had clearly seen better days. This she placed on the table between the DC and herself. Stone’s eager eyes fixed on it.
Mrs Crabtree leaned forward to whisper. ‘I took a look in it. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong. Ron would hate that. He’s very particular about that sort of thing.’
‘As long as you haven’t taken anything, it’ll be alright.’
She drew back and sat bolt upright. ‘Oooh I wouldn’t do anything like that.’She sniffed as she lifted her head, her hands clasping the top of the handbag on her lap, then she stared indignantly at the scribing DC but only for a moment.
Her composure now recovered, she was back in conspiratorial mode. ‘Well, there’s a driving licence, money, some little packets of his white powder medicine and one of those portable telephones.’
DC Stone’s eyes widened as he sat back and regarded her. ‘A mobile eh?’ he murmured.
‘If you say so dear. Well they’re things you wouldn’t want to lose aren’t they? I do hope you’ll be able to find him soon and give them back to him. He’ll probably be quite worried.’
‘I reckon you’re spot on there.’
‘Oh, there’s also a notebook with lots of names in it.’ She leaned forward again and gently placed her hand on his arm, her face racked with concern. ‘I do hope I’m not wasting your valuable time, officer.’
Stone gave her a broad grin. ‘By no means, dear lady, do let’s carry on.’