Constable on the Hill (18 page)

We passed several knots of people
en
route;
entire villages turned out to see us pass, and motorists halted to let us through. As we approached each gathering of people, cheers
rose high in the air and I felt quite proud. Then the bike wobbled again; in recent minutes, I had become aware of its liability to wobble more than it should. Perhaps my back tyre was flat? I tried to look down, but this caused me to wobble alarmingly, so I frowned and kept going, hoping that I was not going to have trouble. Finally, when I reached a long, fairly flat and straight piece of road, I ventured a careful glance behind.

The leading elephant was clutching my wireless aerial!

It had seized the slender, tough aerial with its trunk and was trotting behind, hard on my tail. Three more elephants were behind that one, all gripping the tail of the one in front, and I was leading the motley procession towards the zoo. I never lived it down. One newspaper printed a photograph of me and my elephant and captioned it, “Elephant Old Bill”, while another headlined the item, “Lead Kindly Bike”.

It was all good, harmless fun and besides, I got free
admission
to the circus for my wife and family, for my part in the publicity. All the same, I began to wonder what Sergeant Bairstow would involve me with next!

I ought to add that the zoo in question was not on my beat. It lay within the boundaries of a neighbouring beat, but I frequently found myself patrolling the locality, due to my colleague’s absence on other duties, or when he was ill or attending a course. I enjoyed those duties because they were so different. On two occasions, however, I received a fright, and both occurred during the same night.

Sergeant Bairstow (who else?) asked me to visit the grounds of the zoo late one night because there was a barbecue on the site. Intoxicating liquor was being sold and the organisers had obtained an occasional licence for the function. I had to pop along to ensure they closed their bars on time and that the revellers dispersed quietly. The fun was to end at 2 am, I was told. As I was on night duty, driving a Ford Anglia car instead of my motor-cycle, I was allocated that duty. It was suggested that I make my visit fairly late, in order that my presence would jolt the memories of the organisers.

I decided to visit the barbecue at 1.45 am. I drove into the car-park and was surprised to see it was deserted. I left the police car there, placed my peaked cap upon my head,
grabbed a torch and walked towards the buildings of the zoo. There was not a sound from the place, save the twittering of birds and the grunts of sleeping animals. I reasoned that if there was a barbecue, there would be sounds of people and music; there’d be cars around the place and lights. But there was nothing.

In the stillness of that night, I stood with ears straining, listening for sounds of merry-making. But there was none. The place was deserted. Even the animals were asleep.

Because I knew the zoo’s geography fairly well, I had a look around. I knew there were certain areas which were ideal for such an occasion, like open fields, a picnic area or the lawns before the mansion. I made a systematic search but found nothing. I did not even find any trace of a recent event, let alone a current one. I veered towards the big house, hoping that lights inside might indicate a celebration of some kind, but all was in darkness. From there, I searched the
outbuildings
, but again drew a blank. It was at this stage that I began to wonder if this was one of Sergeant Bairstow’s quiet pieces of fun. To be completely sure in my own mind, I made a second tour of the entire zoo, but drew another blank. There was no barbecue here. I was sure of that.

I returned to the car because it was almost two-thirty in the morning and I was hungry. My refreshment period was overdue, and I was to take it at Eltering Police Station, where there was a kettle.

I began to re-trace my steps in the general direction of the car park and was cutting between some buildings when I became aware that someone was following me. My own feet made little or no noise because I wore brothel-creepers, boots with thick crêpe soles. But I could hear a woman’s footsteps immediately behind me. The delicate clipping sound of high heels moved along with me. My hair stood on end. I stopped. So did the woman. I looked behind, and there was nothing, only total silence.

I wondered if I had imagined it all and set off again. The striking footsteps renewed themselves. Clip clop, clip clop, right behind me. I stopped and whirled around. There was nothing. By this time, a cold sweat was making my back most uncomfortable and my hair was standing sharply upright
about the nape of my neck. No one had said the zoo was haunted, not even Sergeant Bairstow. And I didn’t think he would lay on a ghost, especially at two o’clock in the morning. Or would he?

I walked again, rapidly this time, but the terrifying
footsteps
came with me, moving in time with my strides. I knew the sound of a woman’s high-heeled shoes, and this was definitely that sound. There was no doubt about it. I had my torch and after stopping a few times, I decided I must catch the woman, or the prankster. I had decided it was one of my colleagues playing a joke. There was no other explanation.

To complete my plans, I walked rapidly along the narrow path which ran between a building and a wall. The wall was shoulder height and I strode purposefully along, then
suddenly
whirled around and shone my torch directly behind me. There was nothing. Not even Sergeant Bairstow.

I was almost at my wits’ end to know what it was, when I heard a snuffling sound at the other side of the wall. I shone my torch over and found a zebra in its compound. I talked to it, switched off my torch and moved on. The clip-clop came with me. I stopped, shone my torch and there she was beside me. It was the zebra, moving along with me in her
compound
. Every time I stopped, so did she. I walked backwards and forwards along that wall, and all the time she repeated her trick. I wished I had some food for her, but I hadn’t. I left her rather sadly, for she was infinitely more beautiful and far more interesting than the non-existent barbecue!

When I rang Sergeant Bairstow from Eltering Police Station and mentioned the missing revelry, he laughed and said, “I must have got the wrong night, Nicholas.”

I didn’t mention the zebra and wondered if he would bring up the matter at a later date, but he didn’t. He went to bed and after my welcome breakfast, I resumed patrol at
three-thirty
. There were two-and-a-half hours before knocking off time. To fill in the lonely hours, I drove along the main road from Eltering and turned off beyond the Black Bull Inn. This would take me back into the general area of the zoo, albeit from another direction. I might just come across the site of the barbecue, in a field near the zoo, maybe?

As I drove along, I kept my eyes open for the bus shelter
which stands at the junction. I used that shelter as a kind of landmark, knowing that I had to make a sharp right turn at the point. As my headlights picked out the re-assuring shape of the shelter, I was surprised to see it was full of dogs. They were lying or standing in the bus shelter, and there would be six or eight in all. I couldn’t be sure of the exact number. As my lights lit the interior, I realised they were Alsatians, so I pulled up directly opposite as they watched me with baleful eyes. Two of them came to the front of the car and sniffed at the engine, then peered into the headlamps, which I had switched off to leave only side lights.

As the engine ticked over, I racked my brains. Who bred Alsatians around here? I thought of sheep worrying and the chaos they could cause if they became savage. Clearly,
someone’s
breeding kennels had been left open, allowing the animals to wander off as a pack.

A pack?

My hair stood on end. For the second time that night, I was terrified. One of those ‘dogs’ came to my window and peered up at me. I saw that its eyes were yellow and that it wasn’t an Alsatian. There was some white about it, its tail was longer, the slope of its legs was different, the coat was thicker – and those yellow eyes …!

Wolves. This was a pack of wolves! I recognised them now. It was a pack of Canadian timber wolves and I knew where they’d come from. The zoo. I was horrified when I realised what might have happened if they’d taken a walk near that zebra, with me as an object of pursuit. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Feeling as if I was in a safari park, I sat in the safety of the car as they sniffed around it before returning to their shelter. They seemed content to remain there but I was in a
quandary
. If I left them to seek aid, they could wander anywhere and might harm cattle or sheep. If I remained here, how could I inform the zoo? My thinking must have been rather slow, probably due to the hour, for I remembered the car had a radio. I called up Force Control Room and asked them to contact the zoo, even though it was about four o’clock in the morning. The message was that their Canadian timber wolves were in a bus shelter just south of Eltering.

Within forty-five minutes, there arrived a van containing three men armed with two big nets. With remarkable
dexterity
, they coaxed the docile animals into the van, where they seemed like pets, and not in the least savage. It
transpired
they were not dangerous to humans, but I wouldn’t have given them the chance. It seemed that someone had slipped open the door of their compound, but we never traced that person.

I clambered into my warm bed just after six that morning, and Mary muttered, “Had a busy night?”

“I’ve been trapping Canadian timber wolves,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

“Wolves?” she murmured sleepily.

“Yes,” I said, snuggling down against her warmth.

“Not polar bears?” she asked, moving away from my chilly feet and sinking into a deep sleep.

A persistent animal problem came in the shape of Miss Fiona Lampton’s pony. Miss Fiona spoke with a horsy accent, dressed in horsy clothes and mixed with horsy people. She had a horsy face with matching teeth and it could be said that even her laughter had a ring of the equine. She was a spinster of the parish, aged about thirty-eight years, give or take a little, and she lived on private means. She hid no known occupation but was never short of cash; somehow she contrived to run a large, sporty car which was seldom clean, but always in a hurry.

She kept several horses but one of them was a pony, a delightful creature with a long, straggly mane and an equally straggly tail. The unfortunate animal caused me lots of problems because it had mastered the ability to open the gate of its paddock. Having perfected this trick, it would regularly unlatch the gate and take an unaccompanied stroll down the village street of Aidensfield. Horses were not unusual in our village street, but this one, whose name was Topsy, had a liking for lawns, garden flowers and lettuce. This made it rather unpopular.

During its perambulations, it would push open garden
gates or simply wander through the new open-plan estate, there to feast upon the flavour of the month, sometimes tulips, sometimes dahlias and occasionally prize
chrysanthemums
. Many complaints were levelled at Miss Fiona but they seemed to slide from her masculine shoulders like
rainwater
from a plastic mac. She agreed that Topsy was a naughty boy, in fact a bloody naughty boy at times, and she promised she would make him behave. Several villagers suggested a change of both latch and field, but she explained that Topsy was like Houdini – he could open any latch.

Eventually the problem landed on my doorstep. One or two of the more vociferous villagers decided it was time to do something official. In their eyes, that meant action by the constabulary.

I listened to their listed complaints and suggested they sent bills for damage to Miss Fiona; several had already
considered
that action and had sent bills, which had been promptly paid. One or two had made their garden gates more difficult to open, but as Miss Fiona said, Houdini the horse could open them. The villagers had wisely decided that a padlock on Fiona’s field was not a good idea because other people required access via that field to their own premises. Locks were therefore beyond consideration. Miss Fiona had tried placing Topsy in different paddocks, but he opened those gates too. If he wandered from the nearest paddock, into the village street, at least we knew where he was.

I promised I would do what I could, but the truth was I had no idea what to do. Everything that was possible had apparently been done, both by Miss Fiona and by the
villagers
. The pony seemed unstoppable.

I wondered if she should be asked to sell it, then a day or two later I met the lady in the street. She cried, “What ho, Officer,” and slapped her thigh with a riding crop.

“Ah!” I hailed her. “Miss Fiona. Just the person – I’d like a word with you.”

“Is it about that bloody animal of mine?”

“The pony,” I confirmed. “Yes, there’s been a complaint, from several villagers.”

“He is a bloody nuisance, Officer, and no doubt about it. A downright bloody nuisance. I can’t keep him in that field, or
any field for that matter. Daren’t put locks on, what? Might cause problems of rights of way and things. Damned
nuisance
, isn’t he?”

“You’ve horses in that top field of yours,” I reminded her. “Couldn’t Topsy go in there? He might like the company of other horses, and that might encourage him to stay.”

“Not on your bloody nerve, Officer,” she cried, horrified. “I keep my best animals in there – they’d kick poor old Topsy to death. No, I can’t do that.”

“He’s a danger to traffic,” I said. “There could be an accident.”

“Not with Topsy, Officer, not with Topsy,” she boomed. “Marvellous on the road, you know, better than a dog even. Hears oncoming cars and gets in the side. No problems there.”

“He eats people’s flowers and growing vegetables. One chap reckons he lost an entire garden full of prize dahlias.”