It’s your destiny, Rog. It was always your destiny.
Because there have been other cases, Rog, and other officers, but there has never been this case, Rog, and this officer. There has never been PC Roger Topping and (my teeth tingle as I prepare to write these words) the case of THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT. Or does it sound better the other way around? THE BURLEY CROSS POSTBOX THEFT case? I’m not entirely sure, Rog. Perhaps the second way is best. Or perhaps the first. Yes. The first. Perhaps the first has more punch, Rog, more attack, more gravitas.
Right. Good. I’m glad we’ve sorted that out. So let’s get down to business now, shall we?
The package, you will observe (if you double-check the contents back against the enclosed inventory – which, of course, you will; I would expect nothing less of you, Rog), is thirty-seven documents short of the initial haul. These consisted of twenty-two Christmas cards (from four original sources, all of which contained only the most perfunctory of messages), nine responses to a private advert in the local press about a foolproof, non-invasive remedy for unreliable erectile function (it’s an ageing population, Rog), three applications to take part in a government-funded solar water-heating scheme (environmentalist poppycock), a £212 cheque bound for an Egyptian donkey sanctuary near Cairo (raised by Wincey Hawkes at The Old Oak during the village’s monthly bridge night), another of £425 (bound for a clock repair specialist from Harrogate), and a third of £2,838 (heading for the Burley Cross Auction of Promises account at the Cooperative Bank, Ilkley), all of which I have duly returned to Wincey, by hand, on Tuesday (on the understanding that she may well have cancelled them during the intervening period).
I took the difficult decision to dispose of the remaining thirty-four documents as I saw fit (i.e. got Mary on the Front Desk to reseal them with Sellotape last Friday and bang them back into the post), because they couldn’t be crammed inside the Jiffy bag (this was the only bag in the building, Rog, and it’s my bag. There’s been a bust-up with Supplies. The wife of the tiny dick in charge recently delivered twins – one in breech – and word on the street is that a whole twelve weeks later, she’s still staunchly refusing to put out. So now we’re all paying the price, Rog; it’s well over a fortnight since I’ve so much as laid eyes on a paperclip).
Don’t be overly concerned by the green staining on the bag – it formerly contained my monthly delivery of organic kelp powder (amazing stuff – absolutely amazing. It’s worked wonders for my lazy bowel. I’m now regular as a station-clock, chiming twice daily: once at ten, and once at eight, on the dot).
Ever the consummate professional, I have seen fit to contact Messrs Thorndyke, Endive Jr, and Augustine personally (by email, at www.hystericaltosspots.com) to inform them of the fact that this case is now being passed on to the Ilkley Constabulary. I don’t doubt that you will be hearing from them very shortly. In fact you have probably heard from them already. In fact you are probably hearing from them right now, if the phone in your office is ringing…
Is it ringing, Rog? Thought so. Did you answer it, Rog? You did. And was it Mr Thorndyke’s solicitor, Rog, ‘keeping up to speed’ on things, while jabbering away, inanely, about heaven only knows what? Of course it was.
Since I have a few minutes to spare before tea-time (who tiptoes ever closer on her sweet, icing-sugared feet) and because I consider you ‘an old mucker’, Rog, I’ll give you a quick précis of my activities in relation to this case over the past six weeks (although, if you prefer, there’s always the enclosed file: a whole 474 pages-worth of completely pointless paperwork, duplicated thricely, as regulations stipulate).
Credit where credit’s due, Rog: PC Hill actually did much of the early legwork. His initial visit to the crime scene was on the morning after the theft (on the evening of the 21st – the night of the crime – we were all somewhat preoccupied in Skipton, as I’m sure you will recall, by my televised appearance on the National Bravery Awards – live, from the Café de Paris in London – following those tragic incidents surrounding the blaze at Tilton Mill; the fascinating denouement of which has been closely followed – and faithfully recorded, with accompanying photos and lengthy panegyrics from a grateful public – in the local and national press. Although, as I said at the time, Rog, ‘The label of “hero” sits uncomfortably on me. I’m just a typical, northern copper doing an extremely difficult – and often dangerous – job to the very best of my blah, blah, blah…’).
We have reason to believe that the break-in took place at approximately 21.00 hrs. The local vicar assured PC Hill that he posted a letter (case letter 15) at about 20.55 that evening, when everything appeared ‘just as normal – in fact, if anything, more normal than normal’. (PC Hill comments in his accompanying notes that he found this ‘more normal than normal’ statement, ‘slightly odd’, but that he didn’t press the reverend any further on the point because ‘he had just started a nose bleed and only had one tissue’.)
The crime was reported to us (with almost indecent alacrity, Rog) at 21.12, by Susan Trott – of Black Grouse Cottage – who had been, I quote: ‘out looking for hedgehogs when I was horrified to notice the postbox door had fallen off and was just lying there, on the ground’.
The report PC Hill submitted was, to put it generously, a tad perfunctory (you will notice that some of his ‘extra thoughts’ were jotted down on to torn shreds of chip paper – that fool in Supplies has so much to answer for!).
No serious attempt was made to dust the crime scene for fingerprints because – as you can read for yourself – it had been ‘bucketing down with rain all morning’.
His search for any kind of tool or instrument which might’ve been used to engineer the break-in was limited to ‘a quick peek in a nearby hedge’, where he was surprised to discover ‘a rusty, old biscuit-tin containing two slightly mildewed pornographic magazines: Trumpet for Boys (Issue 13, June 1998), and Golden Horns (Issue 4, December 2002)’. As you can probably detect from the titles, Rog, they were directed towards the specialist brass band enthusiast’s market, and aren’t currently included in the body of evidence because PC Hill took them home for ‘further detailed scrutiny’ (he plays a wind instrument himself; possibly the clarinet), and has yet to bring them back.
While it obviously pains me to level criticism at an officer from my own division, Rog, I don’t believe, in all candour, that PC Hill initially appreciated the true gravity of the Burley Cross Postbox Theft scenario – a serious schoolboy error for a young bobby of his obvious talent and considerable potential (and talking of errors, Rog, I think you’ll agree that he really does need to learn the correct spellings of ‘necessary’ and ‘instigated’).
Even so, there’s a perfectly passable description of the condition of the box itself. (‘Overall, the thing’s in a pretty terrible state. I’m surprised it’s still functional. It’s falling to pieces… There’s a bit of botched-up paintwork covering several inches of rust around the base, and another bit around the door’s hinges… To break into it, all you’d’ve really needed to do was jab at it for a while with a flat screwdriver or a putty knife…’)
You will doubtless already be aware of the backstory re the postbox, Rog. The Royal Mail – or Consignia (or whatever jumped-up moniker they’re giving themselves nowadays) – have been trying to replace it with a modern box for the past three years and have been repeatedly foiled in their attempts by a shadowy – but nevertheless deeply influential – pressure group in the village called The Burley Cross Preservation Corps.
The Corps is controlled by Independent local borough councillor (and gibbering idiot) Baxter Thorndyke. Thorndyke is also a staunch mainstay of both The Burley Cross Public Toilet Watch (est. 2005), and The Burley Cross Road Safety Committee, a group whose chief aim is to encourage motorists to stick to the busy A road that bypasses the village, rather than taking the – admittedly, rather tempting – short-cut straight through the heart of it (they have their own luminous, faux-military uniform and functioning speed gun – which they bought on the internet – and spend many a pleasant hour each week pointing it at random drivers and intimidating