Constable by the Sea (8 page)

Night duty can be very lonely. After the pubs have closed, the restaurants have cleared their tables and the clubs have bolted their doors, the streets rapidly empty and there is little companionship for the patrolling constable. His solitary work, which in my case began at 10 p.m. and finished at 6 a.m., comprised the checking of lock-up premises and empty houses and a general watching brief on the sleeping town. I kept my ears open for those who prowled at night, for burglars and shop-breakers, for vagrants and other ne’er-do-wells whose illegal activities were conducted under the cover of darkness.

More often than not, nothing of this kind ever happened. There were few burglars and nocturnal villains to arrest or deter, and the resultant boredom was often relieved only by the appearance of the night duty sergeant or sometimes an inspector, with, very occasionally, the eminence of the
superintendent
himself. In the momentary absence of those
supervisory
officers, the constables would gather at some suitable place for a chat, flashing coded messages to one another by torch and making use of reflections from shop windows to pass our morse-like messages along streets and around corners.

There were times, however, when the exigencies of the service and the wanderings of supervisory officers meant that such meetings could not be arranged. This inevitably meant
that the long hours after midnight became very, very lonely and excruciatingly boring, so that a companion of some kind, any kind, was most welcome.

At 1 a.m. on such a morning, I stood forlornly outside the GPO in the town centre of Strensford. I was making a point at the telephone kiosk and was feeling very melancholy as I longed for my meal break which was scheduled for 2.15 a.m. Then I’d be able to have a few minutes chat and banter with my colleagues, all of which would be washed down with hot coffee from my flask and fortified with some of my landlady’s sandwiches.

As I waited in the chill of that summer night, I became aware of a dog trotting along the street towards me. He was a stocky animal, a mature yellow labrador, and he was completely alone. I said nothing as I watched, and then he noticed me in the dim glow of the kiosk and headed in my direction. Without any hint of indecision, he came and sat at my side, his tail thumping the pavement in greeting.

‘Hello, boy,’ I acknowledged him. ‘Who are you then?’

I fingered his collar, but it bore no name or address of his owner, nor his own name. But he was a solid-looking, well-fed dog in excellent condition and, I guessed, about five or six years old. He made a small fuss when I patted him but sat at my side almost as if he had been trained to do so. I spoke to him and used words like ‘go home’, but he did not shift his position until it was time for me to leave.

I now had twenty-five minutes of further patrolling before my next point at the New Quay telephone kiosk, and this would be occupied by checking the shops, back and front, and inspecting all the dark corners of the myriad of quaint passages which were such a feature of Strensford’s ancient town centre. They were called yards, and the police nightly examined them for sleeping tramps, drunks, people who might be ill or lost, or villains who might be lurking there hoping to break into a shop or hotel through the back windows or doors.

When my five minutes’ wait at the GPO was over, I said, ‘Well, boy, I must go. I’ve a lot to do. Goodbye.’

But as I walked away, he followed. He walked at my heels on
the right-hand side, his tail gently wagging with the swaying movement of his thick-set body. He was just like a trained police dog, and yet I had no idea where he had come from.

I decided to see just how carefully trained he really was. To carry out my little test, I stopped at the entrance to one of these dark and almost sinister yards and listened. He stopped at my side and sat down, ears alert. I had not given him any command.

Now I had to enter that dark and narrow tunnel-like passage to check dozens of shop premises, pubs and warehouses whose rear doors or windows were accessible from there, and
consequently
very accessible for an attack. It was a nightly task; armed only with a torch I had to check every pane of glass, and every cranny for lurking crooks. Without a personal radio set, I was alone and vulnerable. If I was attacked by burglars or layabouts, there was no way I could call my colleagues for help, other than by blowing my whistle, if I had time, or just shouting loudly in the hope that someone somewhere would respond. But now it seemed that I had some welcome assistance.

‘Seek, boy,’ I said to the dog, and off he went. Tail wagging and ears alert, he went ahead of me into the long, dark passage, and I waited at the entrance. The seconds ticked away and there was no sound, not even a reassuring bark or a cat scuttling for safety, so I allowed a full two minutes. Still with no sound or sign of him, I shone my torch into the dark void and, seeing nothing, decided that my companion of but a few moments ago had left me and that he’d gone home. Once more I was alone, so I entered the passage aided by the light of my torch, and there he was, trotting towards me in fine spirits. He wagged his tail in welcome, turned around and led me through the dank darkness.

As I checked all the premises along my route, he remained with me. He spent his time sniffing at doors, dustbins and windows and entering dark corners, outhouses, external toilets and similar dark structures well ahead of me. If there had been anyone hiding in those secret places, the labrador would have flushed them out or certainly located them.

For the next hour, he remained with me, always walking at heel without being commanded when I was patrolling the
streets and open spaces but going ahead to search the alleys, yards and dark recesses of the town whenever I said, ‘Seek boy.’

He was a remarkable dog, and I wondered what he would do when I went into the police station for my break. As the long-awaited hour of 2.15 a.m. approached, I made my way across Station Square to the welcoming lights of the old police station, and the dog followed, always at heel and never straying. But when I approached the side-street door which always stood half-open at night, he rushed ahead of me, pushed open the door and hurried inside. I followed down the steps into the depths of this Victorian pile and was in time to see him curling up beneath the counter, settling down for a snooze close to the fireside of the cosy office.

When I joined my colleagues for my break, Joe Tapley asked, ‘Has Rusty been with you tonight, Nick?’

‘Rusty?’ for the briefest of moments, I thought he was referring to one of the local officers.

‘The dog, that labrador. We call him Rusty.’

‘Oh,’ I smiled. ‘Yes, he picked me up at one o’clock and has been with me ever since. Is he yours?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘No, although sometimes I wish he was. He’s a wonderful chap, aren’t you, Rusty?’

The dog lifted his head and acknowledged the compliment by flapping his tail several times on the floor.

‘Where does he come from?’ I asked, opening my sandwiches and flask.

‘Dunno,’ said Joe, shrugging his shoulders. ‘None of us knows. He just turns up from time to time, selects one of us for his patrol and then walks the beat until six o’clock. Then he goes home. The trouble is, we don’t know who he belongs to or where he goes. We call him Rusty, and he responds. He’ll search all your awkward spots for you, you know. Just say “Seek Rusty” and off he’ll go. He could be the official Strensford Police Dog.’

‘Don’t his owners ever miss him?’

‘No, I don’t suppose they know he comes out at night. I imagine they shut him in some outbuilding for the night, and by the time they open up next morning he’ll be back in residence.
It’s almost as if he had this secret life helping us, being a Special Constable really. He’s great, a marvellous companion on nights.’

‘Doesn’t he show up in the daytime then?’ I asked.

‘No, never. He’ll come to town several nights during a month, not every night, mind. He’ll select one of the lads to be his companion during his night patrol and will stick with him all night. Then he’ll wander off home. He’s obviously from a good home because he’s so well fed, and he won’t eat with us either. He wouldn’t touch our sandwiches, although sometimes he’ll take a drink of water.’

‘Has anyone tried to follow him home?’

‘Not really. By six o’clock we’re all shattered and ready for bed, besides we’re all on foot anyway. He trots off and there’s no way we could keep pace with him. He lives out of town, we know that, so we think he’s from one of the nearby villages or farms. But beyond that we don’t know where he hails from.’

At 3 a.m. I was due to commence the second half of my shift, and as I moved from my chair to pack away my things and rinse out my flask, Rusty opened his eyes, thumped his tail and joined me. I gave him a saucer of water, which he lapped happily, and then we resumed our joint patrol.

He remained with me until a few minutes before 6 a.m.; as before, he checked all the yards and passages ahead of me and helped me enormously during that shift. Then, as I made my final slow, tired walk across the town to book off duty, he suddenly veered away from me and began to trot away.

‘Goodnight, Rusty,’ I called after him, and he turned his head, wagged his tail and departed. Two minutes later, he was out of sight.

During my short spell of duty in Strensford, I was accompanied by Rusty on four of five occasions. He came more often, of course, and seemed to share himself between the other patrolling constables.

Of the happy memories which I shall always associate with him, two stand out. On one occasion, about 1.30 a.m., I despatched him down an alley to carry out his customary search, and this time he barked. It was a warning bark, and it
was followed by a shout of alarm following which a youth bustled out of the darkness, dragging a girl with him.

He was one of the local small-time crooks, whom I recognized, and although I checked all the nearby premises and found them secure, I guessed Rusty had prevented a ‘breaking’ job that night. No doubt the girl was being used as a form of cover by the youth, and her (probably innocent) presence with him was designed to make the police believe he was merely courting. But I recorded the fact and his name in my notebook and left a detailed account for the CID, should any subsequent premises be entered.

Soon after that little episode, I was on day-time patrol and was asked by another local crook whether police dogs were operating in Strensford. Word of Rusty’s presence had obviously got around, so I said,

‘Yes, but they’re not Alsatians. They don’t look like ordinary police dogs; they’re CID – canines in disguise.’

I don’t know what he made of that information but I guessed it would circulate among the small-time crooked fraternity of Strensford.

The other memorable incident with Rusty occurred during the early hours of a chill morning, around 3 a.m. It was, in fact, the last time we patrolled together, and he had selected me for his companion during that night shift. I was finding the long, second half very tiring and was almost asleep on my feet as, with his help, I was checking shops and yards in another part of town.

I arrived at the entrance to Sharpe’s Yard, which led off Shunnergate, and sent Rusty about his usual mission. He came back without barking, which I interpreted as the all-clear signal. I knew that no villains lurked down there. Nonetheless, I had to make my own search in case there were broken windows or signs of illicit entry to the rear of the shops.

With my torch lighting the windows above me, I began my journey, but after only a dozen strides, Rusty was before me, growling and barking. His noise filled the air and jerked me into wakefulness. I stopped immediately.

Was someone waiting down here? Something had alarmed
him.

The hairs on the nape of my neck stood erect as the light of my torch searched the corners and ledges before me and above me. I could see nothing to cause me concern.

‘It’s all right, Rusty,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing.’

I started to walk again, but once more he barked. I stopped and this time shone my torch upon him.

He was standing near the front edge of a gaping hole, his voice warning me not to walk into it. Someone had lifted an
inspection
cover to a draining system and had left it propped against the wall. A hole some seven or eight feet deep, with iron steps leading down, lay before me.

‘Rusty!’ I crouched on my haunches and hugged him, and he seemed to understand my gratitude. I replaced the cover and, feeling rather shaken at what might have occurred, concluded my night’s patrol.

As always, just before six o’clock, Rusty trotted away. I shouted, ‘Thanks, Rusty,’ as he moved rapidly out of my sight, but he never looked back, and that was the last time we patrolled together.

I never saw him again. I did puzzle over the kind of formal training he had undergone because it had clearly been very thorough, and the incident with the missing inspection cover did make me wonder if he’d ever been trained as a guide dog for a blind person.

Even to this day, I do not know where he came from or who owned him, and perhaps I never will. But he was a lovely companion, a sincere friend, a super dog and a very good police officer.

I shall never forget him.

During that short sojourn to the coast, I had several memorable experiences with animals, most of which occurred during my night patrols.

It was a regular occurrence, for example, for animals to escape from their compounds at the slaughterhouse. It was almost as if they were aware of their impending fate and were making a last, desperate effort to escape and, hopefully,
survive.

It frequently happened that night-duty policemen were the first to know of these escapes, and it became their responsibility to arrange for the capture of the fleeing animals. In my short time there, a pig got loose, a sheep escaped, a young bullock absconded and a cow managed to free itself.