The County Mounties - Books 1-3

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

A SIMPLE DOMESTIC

“Are you completely mad?” Suzanne shouted, standing in front of her husband. “This was all supposed to be behind us. It’s the reason we came to this shithole! Are we never going to be free of it? Well, are we!”

“Calm down, you stupid b***h!” Steve shouted back at her. He stood up from the sofa where he had been sitting and confronted the angry woman.” Do you want the whole village to hear us?” he hissed, waving his arms about.

Steven Hoskins wasn’t a big man, probably an inch or two shorter than his wife, and he was usually the personification of calm. Infuriatingly so, according to Suzanne. However, that evening, while his wife was out, he’d been drinking a lot more than usual. As with so many other usually calm and equitable people, alcohol released his inner demons.

“I’m a b***h, now am I?” she shouted back at him. Unfortunately, Suzanne had also been drinking. “Well this b***h has had enough, do you hear me? More than enough! They were f*****g children for crissake! We could all get sent to prison for pictures like that, you i***t!”

“I didn’t know, did I? I was told they were older.”

“What! So, you’re blind now as well! Perhaps if you stopped playing with yourself for five minutes, your eyesight might improve. How could you possibly think they were older?”

“They could have been jockeys.”

“You bloody stupid man! Well, I’m telling you this and you’d better listen. You’re completely on your own this time. If you get arrested, I’m washing my hands of you.”

“Oh no, you won’t. I know a thing or two about you as well, remember? If anything happens to me you’re coming down with me.”

“You spineless faggot!” Suzanne screamed. “Do you think you can get away with threatening me? I’ll bloody show you!”

She picked up a glass vase from the occasional table in front of her and hurled it in Steve’s general direction. It smashed to pieces on the wall behind his head, causing a picture to come loose and fall noisily to the floor.

Still furious, Suzanne screamed in frustration and ran at Steve with her fingers extended. He grabbed her wrists as she tried to scratch his face. As he pulled his head back out of reach of her nails, she brought her knee up as hard as she could between his legs. Fortunately for him, she missed her target and made solid, but relatively harmless, contact with the top of his inner thigh.

At this, Steve lost his temper and pushed her away from him. The push was hard enough to make her fall back against an armchair. He picked up a heavy marble ashtray and made as if to throw it at her. At the last moment, he appeared to think better of it and instead threw it at the expensive colour television set in the corner of the room. The ashtray missed the screen, but it hit the controls and knocked the channel selector knob out of its housing.

Still angry, Steve picked up one of the Waterford crystal whisky glasses he’d been drinking from. He smashed it into the fireplace. Now he turned his attention to the furniture and began throwing everything around the room.

“You’re lucky I don’t f*****g kill you!” he shouted.

“You’re mad!” his wife screeched at him. “f*****g mad! I’m not safe here with you, you lunatic! I’m off out of it!” She ran to the front door.

“Go on then, f**k off!” he yelled back at her. “See if I care! I should never have married you in the first place.”

“You bastard!” she shouted. “You really are a f*****g bastard! I’m going to set the law on you, and don’t think I don’t bloody mean it!”

She ran from the house and slammed the door behind her. There were tears streaming down her face as she stumbled down the gravel drive and out through the wooden gate into the road.

Steve stared at the, now closed, front door for a full minute. Then he took a fresh glass from the cabinet and poured a drink from the half-empty whisky bottle. He knocked it back in one.

The drink calmed him a bit, and he surveyed the damage in the room. He began to tidy up, cursing his bad temper. What was I thinking of? What a bloody shambles!

She won’t call the police, he thought to himself. She’s not that stupid, she’ll be back in a minute.

The church clock softly chimed for midnight.

Don Barton eased his patrol car into the bus lay-by and killed the engine. God, what an evening, he thought. One rubbish job after another.

As well as the runaway horse, there had been a report of vandalism in one of the local cemeteries.

(“Bloody Satanists,” the verger had said in all sincerity. “There’s loads of them around here, you can hear them chanting sometimes. I stay out of the way. It don’t pay to mess with that lot.”)

Then there had been an abandoned car in a ditch that would need a follow-up in the morning. A search had revealed no trace of the driver, and there was no reply at the home of the registered keep of the vehicle.

Hopefully, it was just a drunken driver keeping out of the way until he sobered up – but one could never discount the possibility of there being an injured person somewhere in the vicinity who needed help.

It was all very time-consuming. Routine, but important in its way.

Reaching for yet another cigarette, Don swore as his fingers found an empty packet. Had he really smoked the whole lot since booking on at six? The car’s overflowing ashtray gave him a silent and disapproving reply.

His shift still had two hours to run, so Don mentally explored the hundred or so square miles of countryside that represented his patch for tonight. He scratched his brains wondering as to where he was going to get some more smokes.

Well, there was an all-night garage on the A4 at Thatcham. Slightly off his ground – but not by much. Problem was, if he went there, the Newbury lads might call him in to help with some job or other. They were desperately under-strength, so he could easily find himself tied up all night.

Don wasn’t lazy, and usually he’d be only too happy to help his colleagues, but he was on duty at Royal Ascot Races the day after tomorrow. He really wanted a full day off before diving into the tedious, if very well paid, fourteen-hour shifts, including travel time, which went with policing the event.

Then he had a thought. How about the Green Lion pub up on the Wantage Road? When he’d booked-on and phoned in for briefing, the duty sergeant had told him the pub was having a private party after hours. As it was being held on licensed premises, he had every right to call in to check it was legitimate – and ensure they were obeying the rules.

They’d have fags. Kill two birds with one stone, then.

He crunched the Marina into gear and ambled forward. Don would much rather have been driving his Ford Escort van for routine patrol than this horrible motor. However, the saloon car, unlike the van, was equipped with a “repeater set” radio, and as Don was designated the “area car” for the evening, so he had no choice other than to use the hated motor.

The reason for this was that the van was primarily used for routine enquires on Don’s own “patch.” However, whilst driving the area car, he had responsibility for the whole rural section, and he was required to be available to be deployed to matters that couldn’t be left until the local officer was on duty. These jobs usually required a more immediate response.

The repeater sets were important because they allowed the officer to converse with his thirty-mile distant Headquarters Control Room whilst away from his vehicle. The set managed this by relaying short-range UHF transmissions from a hand-held Pye Pocketfone via the more powerful VHF set installed in the car.

This facility could be of vital importance to an officer attending the scene of a serious incident.

The car was supposed to be “double crewed,” but manning levels in the force at that time were critically low, and this frequently wasn’t possible. This didn’t bother Don. As an ex-Traffic motorcyclist, he was well used to working alone – and often preferred it that way.

Don was a conscientious police officer – and he was only too well aware the remoteness of the area was a magnet for town-based burglars as well as so-called joyriders and the all-too-frequent vanloads of professional poachers. Consequently, he drove slowly on his journey to the pub, carefully scrutinising the widely scatted farms and dwellings as he went.

The Green Lion had once been an old coaching inn and had an impressive façade, making it an important landmark in the area. The building itself was set back from the road, and there was some limited parking for cars at the front.

The white painted brickwork of the pub was run through with oaken beams and an archway, large enough to accommodate a carriage and four horses, led into a space in the rear. The old stable block behind the main building had long since been converted into storage units, but the land adjacent to the units had been cleared and tarmacked to provide additional parking for customers.

Unlike most of the licensed premises in the area, the Green Lion was what was called a “managed house,” so the landlord was a manager and an employee of the brewery rather than a self-employed tenant or owner.

Managers in the pub world were at the bottom of the landlord hierarchy; they had to be a married couple, and between them were paid a pittance for the hours they worked. Their employers, usually a main brewery, rigidly curtailed the small part of the business they could run for themselves. Inevitably, fiddling was rife, and a hard-pressed manager was disinclined to turn away cash trade, even if it was after hours.

The “private party” was a much-abused loophole of which many landlords took advantage. Legally, it was permissible to carry on serving after hours as long as the persons present were bone-fide friends of the licensee – being treated at his expense. In law, a customer who had been buying drinks could not suddenly become a “friend” once time had been called. Strictly, no money at all could change hands during the “party.”

In reality, like so much legislation, the private party rules were impossible to enforce. So, most police areas operated a more common-sense compromise. Basically, all the landlord had to do was notify the local station in advance of the start of the party. Then as long as he locked the doors, kept the curtains closed and the noise to a minimum, all would be well.

Obviously, the landlord of the Green Lion was aware of the rules. From the road, the establishment appeared all locked up with everyone inside gone to bed. However, as Don slid the highly visible police car into the car park at the rear, keeping it well out of sight of the main road, he could just make out clinks of light emanating from the edges of the curtains in the small back bar. He alighted from his vehicle and rapped on the hard, wooden rear door.

From inside a male voice called, “Hello?”

“Police,” said Don. “Routine check.”

The bolt rasped back, and the door opened a fraction. A youngish looking man in a sharp-looking flared grey suit peered out cautiously into the night. Seeing the officer, he said, “Private party, I’ve notified the Newbury lads.”

“Yeah, I know,” grinned Don. “To be honest, mate, all I want is a packet of cigs, Embassy if you’ve got them.”

The man visibly relaxed and smiled thinly back at the policeman. “You had me going there,” he said. “Fags are in a machine in the Public Bar. If you’ve got the right change, I’ll get them for you.”

Don handed over the coins and, while the man was absent, instinctively took a good look around the car park.

Not much of a party, he thought. Just two cars, a green Austin 1300 and an old, but well looked-after red Triumph Herald. Other than that, the car park was utterly deserted.

The grey-suited man came back with the cigarettes and said, “D’you fancy a quick pint while you’re here? You’ll have to drink it outside, though.”

There was nothing in the world Don fancied more than a pint at that moment but felt he’d pushed his luck enough already.

“I’d love one,” he said, “but not tonight. Maybe another time?”

“Any time you like. Goodnight, mate, stay safe out there.”

“Cheers.”

“HT Control to Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, over.” The Pocketfone in the top pocket of his tunic piped up. Don took the transmitter from his side pocket and pressed the transmit button.

“Foxtrot Golf Five Zero receiving. Go ahead, over.”

“Talk through with Foxtrot Yankee, over.”

Foxtrot Yankee was the call sign of the fixed VHF radio located at the Newbury Police Station control room.

“Five Zero from Foxtrot Yankee, can you make your way please to the TK at Brompton village. A distressed female has just called in on the nines requesting assistance. Possible domestic. Over.”

“Roger that, ETA eight minutes from my present location, over.”

“Thanks, Don. Many thanks, HT. Finished with talk-through. Foxtrot Yankee, standing by.”

Don knew exactly where the telephone kiosk in Brompton village was located; it was less than half a mile from where his own police house (and little one-man office) was located. For a driver with Don’s skill, eight minutes was a generous timescale. Had he been driving a high-performance Traffic car; he could easily have made the trip in under four – but he was in the Marina. So, it was a full five minutes before he actually pulled over outside the phone box and walked over to meet the lady who emerged from it.

“Good evening, Madam, was it you that called us?” Don smiled to take the edge off his rather formal approach. He estimated the woman to be aged in her forties, and he noticed she was very attractive. From her appearance and demeanour, she was obviously from the middle classes. Her dark trouser suit was discrete, elegant, and looked to be expensive. Her hair was neatly coiffed and her, now tear-stained, makeup had been expertly applied.

She made a visible effort to compose herself before speaking. “Officer, I’m so, so, sorry to have bothered you. I’ve never phoned the police in my life before, but it’s my husband. He’s just gone berserk. I’m absolutely terrified and didn’t know who else to call.”

Don said, “Okay, I’ll need a few details. Come and have a sit down.”

He opened the passenger door of the patrol car and let her in. With the lady beside him, Don became uncomfortably conscious of all the fag ends that littered the inside of the vehicle. As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. The lady was a smoker and asked him for a cigarette. Together they christened his brand-new pack.

“So, tell me all about it, “Don asked. “Are you injured at all?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Don could tell she had been drinking.

“What about your husband, has he been hurt?”

“No, of course not. Look, officer, I think I’m wasting your time. I was just upset, that was all. I’m okay now, I’m sure I don’t need any help after all, thank you.” She made to get out of the car.

“Hold on, just a minute,” said Don sharply, raising his finger. “It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid, Mrs …?”

“Hoskins, Suzanne Hoskins. I live about half a mile away. Our house is the one set back from the road on that bit of a hill.”

“I think I know the one, but I don’t recall seeing you before. Have you lived in the village long?”

“We’ve been here a few months, maybe a year,” she said. “We’ve travelled around a bit these past few years. We moved here to take advantage of the house prices. It’s also handy for my husband. He uses the motorway to commute to London three times a week.”

“Three times?”

“Yes, he stays in town Monday and Thursday nights.”

“Okay, so have you anywhere to stay tonight other than your home?”

“No, I don’t have friends here. I’ve no family and all my associates are in London.”

“So, what can I do to be sure you’ll be safe? Do you want me to arrange for you to go to a women’s refuge? The nearest one is in Reading.”

“Oh, God, no!” she looked aghast. “I’m sure Steve’s calmed down by now. I’ll just go back and sort it out myself…”

“Right, well, I’m sure you understand my position. I have to check for myself that everything’s okay, I can’t just leave you here.”

Before driving to the couple’s house, Don copied Suzanne’s personal details into his official notebook. Don was still smarting from forgetting to ask the horse woman her name.

Suzanne told him that she and her husband, Steve, had been married six years. She went on to say that, two years previously, she had foolishly become involved with another man. Her lover had been less than discrete in writing her a series of hot letters and, instead of destroying them, she had kept them hidden. Her husband had found them, and it had almost wrecked her marriage. One of their reasons for moving to the country was to give them a fresh start.

Don nodded, taking notes, “Carry on.” He encouraged her.

Tonight, they had both been drinking. For some reason the whole issue became the focus of a fierce row. Things got out of hand, and Steve had started throwing furniture about. Thankfully, he’d made no attempt to physically harm his wife, but she was badly frightened.

“Are you sure you’re safe now?”

Don knew only too well the difficulties of trying to repair a broken marriage when one party had been unfaithful, but he decided to keep that particular piece of knowledge to himself. He resolved to stay strictly within professional boundaries: protection of life and property and the maintenance of order. Nothing more.

“You’re very young to be working out here in the sticks, aren’t you?” Suzanne said suddenly. “I thought village bobbies were all fat old men.” Her smile lit up the car, and Don could see how easily this woman could attract men if she so desired.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he grinned back at her. “I’ll try and put some weight on.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” she said, with a smile that warned Don she could be a very alluring woman. “Ah, here we are. If you pull up next to the Jag, you’ll find it easier to get out of the drive when you leave.”

The house was a large, three-bed, modern build bungalow set in half an acre of land. There was a dry-stone wall around the perimeter and the five-bar gate, that Suzanne had left open in her flight and through which Don had just driven, led into a loose gravel drive wide enough for three cars.

Obviously, Steve was no motorcyclist, thought Don as he walked across the loose stones. You’d never get a bike parked on this stuff.

The man who answered the front door was bald, below average height and appeared to be a couple of years younger than his wife. He was wearing suit trousers with a blue and white striped shirt tucked loosely into his waistband. Like his wife, he wasn’t drunk, but he had obviously been drinking.

“Mr Hoskins? We’ve had a call from your wife.”

Mr Hoskins momentarily glared at the policeman then visibly withered. He stood back to let the officer into the house.

Don stepped inside and looked around. There were various items that were showing superficial signs of damage, but no serious destruction had taken place. It was obvious that Steve had been tidying up after his outburst.

“I don’t know what my wife has told you, constable, but I can assure you your presence here is really not necessary.”

“Well, sir, it’s not for me to interfere in your private marital affairs, but I do have a duty to maintain the peace. I need to be certain your wife is not likely to come to any harm if she remains here tonight.”

“You’d never hurt me, would you, Steve darling?”

Don sighed as he realised that Suzanne had silently, and contrary to his instructions, left the safety of the car and followed him into the house. He really didn’t want to be in the middle if a fight broke out between the husband and wife. He’d been in that situation more than once in his career and knew how nasty things could become.

However, in this instance, it appeared violence was off the agenda.

“Of course not, darling. How could you think such a thing? I love you far too much to ever think of harming you,” Steve said and burst into tears. His whole body shook with the sobs.

“Oh, darling!” Suzanne rushed forward to console him. Putting her arm around her husband, she glanced over at Don.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Barton, I don’t think we’ll be needing you any further tonight,” she said.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Don asked.

“Just go!” she hissed at him before turning back to Steve.

Don had been summarily dismissed, but there was nothing further he could do. No offences had been committed, and the woman was entitled to reside wherever she wished. Don grinned to himself and shook his head. Women, he thought, he would never understand them!

Don used the handset on the Marina to call into Control before driving out.

“Foxtrot Golf Five Zero for HT, all in order Brompton Village. Domestic dispute, both parties given advice. No offences, no further action required. I’m now returning to Foxtrot Golf, and I’ll pop an entry in the Occurrence Book before booking off.”

“Thank you, Five Zero. HT to stand-by.”