The County Mounties - Books 1-3

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

WEST BERKSHIRE – 7 YEARS LATER

It was 9 pm on a warm evening in mid-June, and the brightness of the day was finally beginning to fade to twilight. PC Don Barton, working the late shift, decided it was time to stop to take a short break and bring his pocket notebook up to date. He pulled the Morris Marina patrol car over into a field entrance at the side of the road and then reversed a few yards, turning the wheel, so that he ended up facing out towards the currently deserted country road.

Don did not like this car. The Marina was British Leyland’s replacement for the much loved and reliable, but sadly out-of-date, Morris Minor. The car itself was nicely designed, but for one reason or another it had gained a bad reputation for finish and reliability.

To make matters worse, police drivers were notoriously critical of any vehicle they used. Any faults (and the Marina had several) stood no chance of being overlooked or forgiven.

It had been a quiet evening on the Hampstead Norreys rural section and Don was bored. He was in his mid-twenties and he felt that the world was passing him by. Was it really almost a full year since he’d been kicked off the Traffic Department and dumped into this dead and alive country beat? The days and weeks were flying by, and Don could feel himself growing old before his time.

He knew it wouldn’t take long to bring his notebook up to date, but if he didn’t do it now there was a danger that he would forget to record something. He removed the little journal from its pigskin cover and took out his pen. He placed both items on the seat beside him and reached into the pocket of his tunic for his cigarettes. A smoke would help him reflect and recall the events, such as they were, of the afternoon.

He wound down the window of the car and lit up. However, before he began writing, he decided to radio into his control room and advise them of his location, just in case he should be required for anything.

Although his area was part of the Newbury Division, Don’s rural beat was well out of range of the local control room’s UHF radio system. This meant that for radio communication he had call in to the main Headquarters Control at Kidlington via the much more powerful VHF set fitted to his car.

He lifted the handset from its cradle and depressed the toggle. “HT Control from Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, over,” he said into the mouthpiece.

There were three main channels constantly supervised by Control Room staff, and HT was the frequency that covered the southern part of the Thames Valley force area.

“Go ahead, Five Zero,” a female voice answered him.

“Booking ten-five on the Brompton to Bucklebury road, available for commitment if required—Bloody Hell!”

“Is everything all right, Five Zero?”

“Er, yes, all okay. Sorry about that, I was startled for a moment. A white horse has just trotted past me. It’s running along the middle of the road heading towards Brompton. There’s no saddle or bridle, so I don’t think it’s thrown a rider. It’s probably escaped from a field. However, it is obviously a danger to traffic, so I’ll have to try to stop it. Any chance of some assistance, over?”

The Control Room operator put out a general call: “HT Control to any unit available to assist Foxtrot Golf Five Zero with a horse on the highway, please acknowledge with call sign, over.”

“X-Ray Delta Two One, resuming from the break-in in Didcot, I’ll start making, over,” came a male voice through the ether.

A dog handler! Just what the doctor ordered, thought Don. But he’s a long way off.

Control: “Thank you, Two One. Did you copy that, Five Zero?”

“Yes, all copied, many thanks. I’m following the horse now. I’ll advise Two One with more precise details as he approaches this location, over.”

“Obliged, Five Zero. I’ll leave this channel on talk-through and see if we can get other units to put some traffic control in place. Meanwhile, please keep me updated with progress, over.”

Because they transmitted and received on different frequencies, patrolling units could usually only hear the Control Room side of a conversation, but with “talk-through” engaged, they could clearly hear both sides. However, the protocol was that they would stay off the air themselves except for an emergency, or to contribute something to the unfolding drama.

Don had thrown his cigarette out of the window and was stealthily following the horse along the road by the time the radio conversation was completed – but he was already having difficulty. The horse was trotting at around 15 mph and kept speeding up every time he drew closer to it. The animal was also sticking to the centre of the road and showed no sign of slowing down or stopping.

Don was getting anxious. Two years previously he’d been patrolling the M4 when a horse had escaped from a field and somehow found its way onto the motorway. It was in the early hours of the morning, and a lorry coming out of London had struck the animal before crashing into the metal barrier on the central reservation.

The driver had been uninjured, but the horse had suffered a catastrophic laceration that had cut its stomach wide open and left it lying, pouring with blood, on the carriageway.

Don had never seen so much blood. He ruined his uniform when he tried in vain to attend to the poor creature as it lay whinnying piteously on the road. It had taken the vet over half an hour to arrive and put the animal out of its misery, then another forty minutes for a trailer with a winch to turn up and take the body away.

Meanwhile, the motorway had been at a standstill, and huge jams built up as the early morning rush hour approached.

Don vividly recalled seeing the Fire Brigade hosing the blood from the motorway as he now tried, cautiously, to get past this animal. His plan was to attempt to control it from the front. Pressing the accelerator, gently so as not to create too much noise, he crept closer and closer.

He gently eased the car over to the offside. Just a little more and he would be level with the horse’s rear quarters. Gently, gently, closer and closer; just another few more seconds and he’d be in front of it.

The horse suddenly became aware of what it perceived to be a strange creature creeping up alongside him, and it panicked. It tossed its head in the air and let out a loud whinny.

“Easy, boy,” said Don, knowing the animal could not hear him. “Stand still, you stupid thing!”

The horse suddenly bucked, then it kicked out behind itself and began to trot even faster.

By now, the light was fading rapidly and, with the sun setting low in the sky behind him, Don knew the horse would be almost invisible to anyone driving towards them.

The animal trotted even faster.

“Come on!” shouted Don, becoming frustrated, “I’m trying to help you.”

Don was getting worried that another vehicle was bound to appear on the road ahead of them before long. He would need to find a way to warn any oncoming traffic of the danger, but he realised he couldn’t dare use his rotating blue light for fear of spooking his quarry even more.

However, Don knew he had to think of something to highlight the danger to other road users – and fast. The horse still showed no sign of slowing, so Don decided it was worth the risk to experiment with operating his hazard warning lights.

He held his breath and flicked the switch. Amber light from the four-way flashers instantly bathed the road in front and behind the moving vehicle.

“Blast!” he shouted. The flashing light had spooked Don more than the horse, and he fumbled the switch off almost as soon as it operated.

Without warning, the horse slowed right down and stopped dead in the road. Don was forced to slam on his brakes. The car slid to a halt only feet away from the tail of the frightened animal. He was close, too close. Don began to gently back his vehicle away, but the horse began to shake his head and look all around.

Displaying amazing agility, the animal spun around and reared onto its hind legs. Don flinched as metal horseshoes thrashed the air a scant few yards in front of him. He stamped on the pedal and slewed the car backwards out of the way.

The horse suddenly leapt forward and ran full tilt past the startled officer. It was now heading back the way they had come. This was getting out of hand. There was no time to radio the control room, so Don performed a hasty three-point turn and, once again, gave chase.

Thankfully, the sun had completely dropped out of the sky, so although he was heading West, he wasn’t blinded as he would have been a few minutes earlier. However, without the light of the setting sun, visibility was becoming very poor.

“Oh, s**t!” Don shouted aloud. Through the gloom, he could make out the headlamps of an approaching Land Rover – a mere few hundred yards in front of him.

Don knew he had to take a risk. He flashed his headlights. No response. He flashed again, then repeatedly, all the while praying it wouldn’t scare the horse into an even more dangerous frenzy. To his immense relief, the driver of the Land Rover flashed an acknowledgement and pulled up onto the grass verge to its nearside. A few seconds later the horse, followed by the police car, raced harmlessly past the now stationary vehicle.

After a further quarter of a mile or so, the horse, finally exhausted, slowed to a trot then to a sedate walk. Amazingly, it calmed right down and now appeared not to have a care in the world. It quietly ambled into an entrance at the side of the road and stopped just in front of a five-bar wooden gate.

Don pulled up across the entrance, hoping to use his vehicle to cut off the animal’s access to the road. The horse started looking around but made no attempt to run off. Cautiously, Don got out of his car.

He had never ridden a horse in his life and, still fairly new to the rural area, he had no idea what to do next.

Then he had a brainwave. He opened the boot of his car and began to look for a towrope among the untidily packed road signs and other sundry equipment that had been thrown carelessly inside. Don sighed. As someone who had so recently worked as a Traffic motorcyclist, he hated seeing kit not being cared for properly. My own fault, he thought to himself. I should have checked the car when I picked it up.

After a minute or so, he found what he was looking for. However, the thick rope was a bit short as well as being somewhat greasy with oil. Nevertheless, it would have to do.

Don worked feverishly. Thankfully the rope had a metal eye at one end, and he was able to thread the other end through the hole to fashion himself a crude noose. Armed with his makeshift lasso he walked nervously towards the horse. The animal whinnied and tossed its head but didn’t kick out. Don held the rope in both hands ready to throw it over the horse’s neck. If he succeeded he intended to tie the horse to the gate and await the arrival of the dog handler.

As Don walked forward, the horse once more began to fret and shake his head more vigorously. Don paused when it started to paw the ground with its foreleg. Did he dare risk moving further forward, or would the horse try to kick him?

Suddenly, “What the Hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of my way!” came a sharp voice from behind.

Don spun around to see that the Land Rover from earlier had turned around and followed him along the road. It was now parked a few yards from the police vehicle.

A very irate young lady wearing a green Barbour jacket, having alighted the vehicle, marched purposefully past the bemused police officer. Calmly and confidently, she walked over to the horse and put her hand under its chin. She then stroked his nose. The horse was instantly comforted and nuzzled the woman. Don was impressed.

“You’ve been watching too many cowboy films,” the woman said scornfully to Don, pointing at his length of rope. “Open the gate, will you.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned around while Don operated the metal lever and opened the gate. The young woman led the horse into the field where it dropped its head and began to chew grass, perfectly contented, as though nothing had happened.

“Thank you for that, Miss,” said Don. “I’m not much good with horses.”

The woman dropped her stern countenance and smiled.

“I can see that,” she said. “You could have scared the poor thing to death, you know.”

Don estimated her to be in her late twenties and, from her accent, a member of the local gentry.

“Any idea who he belongs to?” he asked.

“Monty? Oh yes, I know who owns him. She’s a local girl – and she’ll be getting the sharp edge of my tongue tomorrow. It’s not the first time this naughty boy has made it out into the traffic. There’ll be an accident one day, then she’ll be sorry.”

“Do you know who owns the field, perhaps I should tell him he has a visitor.”

The smile vanished. “Why do you assume it’s a ‘him’? I own this field. Or don’t you think women should own land?”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t worry, you’re no different to anyone else around here,” she said brusquely. She then brushed past Don, walked back to her Land Rover and, without further ado, climbed in, slammed the door, and drove away.

Too late, having finally regained his composure, Don realised he should have taken more details from the woman – including her name and address.