Free Constable Across the Moors by Nicholas Rhea Page B

had reported his jacket and wallet stolen. It seems he had removed them while changing the wheel of his sports car, and when he’d finished the job, his sports jacket, and the wallet it contained, had vanished. I was on patrol at the time, astride my Francis Barnett, and the radio summoned me to the scene of this foul crime.
    It took me thirty-five minutes to arrive, and I found the irate motorist waiting near his Triumph Spitfire. I eased to a halt, parked the motor bike and removed my crash helmet. I left it on the pillion.
    “P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “Are you the gentleman who has lost a jacket?”
    “Not lost, constable. Stolen,” affirmed the man. He was tall and well-spoken with expensive clothes which spoke of a nice line in tailoring. His hair was plastered across his scalp with some kind of hair cream and he seemed totally lacking in humour. On reflection, it’s not funny having your belongings stolen while changing a car wheel.
    “Tell me about it,” I took out my pocket book. He told me he was Simon Christie from Southwark, having a touring holiday alone in the moors. His wallet contained some sixty pounds in notes, together with his driving licence and other personal papers. The jacket, he explained, was of Harris tweed, tailor-made in London and worth a lot of money. I didn’t doubt it.
    I asked how on earth he’d managed to get it stolen.
    “That is something you are here to establish,” he said haughtily. “Look, I got a puncture in my front offside tyre, and stopped right here to change wheels. I removed my jacket and placed it on the railings at the rear of the car. I worked on the wheel at the front, and when I’d finished, my jacket was gone.”
    “How long did it take to change the wheel?” I asked.
    “Ten minutes, maybe less,” he said.
    “And did anyone walk past while you were working?”
    He shook his head. “I’d swear that no one came past, constable. I’d swear it.”
    “Are you sure it’s gone? It’s not in your boot, is it?”
    He sighed the sigh of a man who’d hunted everywhere, but raised the boot lid. No jacket. I looked in the car, under the car, over the hedge and everywhere. It had vanished.
    “I’ll make enquiries in Milthorpe,” I promised. “Can I contact you locally if I find it?’
    “You sound hopeful, constable?” There was almost a smirk in his voice.
    “This is a very small community, Mr Christie,” I said in reply. “If anyone has stolen your jacket, someone here will have seen the culprit. These folks have eyes everywhere.”
    I made a deliberate attempt to sound confident, for I imagined his coat had been lifted from the verge by a passing tramp or hiker. If so, the locals would know where he was. I had complete faith in my ability to recover this property and emphasised that point.
    “I’m staying at the Crown Hotel in Ashfordly,” he said. “I’ll be there for a further four nights, constable.”
    “I’ll be in touch before you leave,” I assured him.
    Having obtained a detailed description of his jacket and of his wallet, I watched him leave with a roar of his throaty exhaust, and set about detecting Milthorpe’s crime of the century. When beginning enquiries in any village, it is prudent to begin at the Post Office. Village post offices are replete with gossip and information about local people and their affairs, so I strolled into the tiny, dark shop with its multitude of scents, dominated by soap and polish.
    At the sound of the door bell, a young woman appeared and smiled sweetly. She would be in her late twenties, I guessed, and had pleasing dark hair and a ready smile full of pure white teeth. She was very young to be a village post mistress, I thought.
    “I’m P.C. Rhea,” I announced, conscious that my helmet was on the pillion of my bike some distance away, and mymotor cycle suit bore no insignia. I could be anybody.
    “I saw you arrive,” she said, as if to confirm my belief in the all-seeing eyes of village