Constable on the Hill Read Free Page A

times never unpacked everything, in case they were soon on the move.
    Like those men, I maintained a useful collection of empty and half-full tea-chests which I lodged in garages and attics. Sometimes, we received only one week’s notice of a removal to a new station, sometimes less, therefore we remained ready for instant exit. Happily, things have changed but at that time, I decided to position my tea-chests in the office.
    The phone rang during the late afternoon of that first day, and a voice said,
    “Rhea?”
    “Yes?” I answered.
    “Sergeant Blaketon here. I’m your section sergeant. I’m at Ashfordly. You’re on at nine in the morning. Spend the first hour in your own office, finding things. Check the inventory. Then get the bike out and come down here. Be here before half-past-ten. Right?”
    “Yes, Sergeant,” I heard myself say, and the phone died.
    He didn’t ask if I could ride the official motor-cycle and I didn’t know either, so I went into the garage to examine it. There was plenty of room for my car and the bike. It was a Francis Barnett two-stroke with a windscreen at the front and a radio on the back. A tall, flexible aerial protruded from the rear, like an upright tail, and the speaker was fixed to the handlebars, just above the tank. The entire machine was black and very clean, so I sat astride. I shook it and found it was full of petrol, kicked the starter and it burst immediately into life in the confines of the garage. I chugged outside, did a shaky tour of the lawn much to the amusement of my family and returned it to its place in the garage. I had ridden a motor-cycle as a teenager but had rapidly decided on a car after Mary and I ploughed through a hedge on our old machine. That incident put me off work for eight weeks.
    But now I must ride again. On a summer’s day, it would be very pleasant and I was looking forward to it. My gear was inthe office, including a crash helmet of the correct size. Waterproof leggings and several coats completed the outfit, all sent along ahead of me by our efficient Clothing Department. I wondered how it would feel to ride a motor-cycle in police uniform. There’s a certain difference between roaring along on one’s own machine at the age of nineteen and steering a police motor-cycle about its legitimate business. I would soon know that difference.
    At seven the following morning, the children earned their keep by waking us, and I dressed and shaved. I put on a smart uniform and breakfasted, then went into my little office well before eight-thirty. I searched the drawers of the desk and found a mileage book for the motor-cycle. This had to be completed after every journey and after every filling of the petrol tank. I found the inventory for the house and office, checked it and found everything there. Also in the office were files of offence reports, the work of my predecessor, files full of circulars bearing details of unsolved local and national crimes, and masses of other papers. There were leaflets about warble fly, anthrax and foul pest, about firearms and vehicle accidents, about Colorado beetles and police dances. And there was the Beat Report.
    This was a most useful compilation, for it was an encyclopaedia of information appertaining to that beat. It provided me with the names of people like doctors, vets, RSPCA officials, Water Board officials, Gas Board and electrical wizards. It told me who to trust and who to watch; it named local villains and ne’er-do-wells; it had phone numbers of important institutions like the garages and pubs, and it listed churches, schools, experts on sundry things and a whole host of other useful material.
    As I browsed through its pages, the phone rang.
    “P.C. Rhea,” I answered, somewhat nervously, for this could be my first job, my first piece of live duty.
    “It’s Alwyn Foxton down at Ashfordly,” came the voice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. You’re coming in, Serge tells me, to have a look