Storyteller by Colin & Anne Brookfield (motivational novels for students txt) 📖

around the front of the house. Under normal circumstances I would have been in a very awkward position, but fortunately the criminal evidence was in the policeman’s pockets and he was still wearing thin gloves.

Within minutes the police arrived and I was whisked away to the station for questioning.

After waiting several hours, I was finally led into an interview room attended by several officers. In the centre of the room was a large table with two uniformed policemen seated at one side. The head of one of the men was bandaged; I immediately recognised him as the criminal officer. The man was looking disturbingly confident.

One of the officers read me my rights and then the charges.

“You grievously assaulted a police officer and then tried to incriminate him by planting stolen goods on him, and fitting gloves on his hands whilst he was unconscious.”

I could not comprehend what I was hearing at the time, and my protestations at the trial did nothing to convince the court of my innocence, so I was sent down for the period of three years.

Although all of that is now behind me, the injustice still festers daily in my mind. However, sometime after my release from prison, I was greeted one morning with what appeared to be a hopeful turn of events; it was a phone call from someone offering help.

“I am a police officer,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “I have the evidence that can clear your name but I can only do it unofficially. Meet me tomorrow night at number 16 Mountview Road at 12:45am, and don’t be late!” The caller hung up.

If there was one thing I had now learned – it was to trust no one. Within half an hour of receiving the phone call, I had already acquired the names of the residents of that address from the electoral register, a Mr. and Mrs. K. Williams. I had also learned all about patience during my incarceration, so an immediate day and night surveillance of number 16 would be no problem. A car park on the other side of the road gave a clear view of the house from my vehicle.

Two hours later, a smart young woman emerged with a basket on her arm and returned an hour later with provisions for the house.

Apart from the postman, nobody else came or went until the early evening, when a police car stopped outside. The front door was opened by a senior police officer, who I could see through my binoculars, was an Inspector. I also had a clear impression of the man’s face and that of his wife, just in case it might prove useful at a later date. He got into the car and was driven away. It seemed apparent that he was the woman’s husband, presumably being picked up for night duty.

As the hours ticked by, daylight gradually faded into darkness. I fell asleep on several occasions only to jerk back awake each time, but thankfully my watch confirmed my sleep was never for more than a second or two. Then at midnight, my patience finally paid off.

A shadowy figure appeared in front of the house. A few seconds later, the hall light from the opening door fell across the face of a man that I could never forget. It was the policeman responsible for my three years imprisonment. He was quickly ushered in by the woman and the door closed.

Several hours passed before the man left. He was obviously philandering, but what else was he up to? Was it this man who had arranged my appointment for the following late evening and at this house? I wrestled with these thoughts until at last the night gave way to daybreak.

At 8:30 in the morning, a police car drew up and returned Inspector Williams back to his home at number sixteen.

There seemed little point in staying any longer, so I returned to my flat for breakfast and some well earned sleep.

It was almost six in the evening before I awoke, and lay for a while thinking about the recent disclosures. Then I remembered that several weeks earlier, someone had entered my flat through a window that had not been secured properly. It had seemed strange at the time that all my valuables were still intact and only a few unimportant items were missing. I was now wondering if this had any connection with this rogue police officer.

My neighbour had clearly seen, what she described as the burglar’s ‘distinctive features’ and that she would volunteer as a witness if it were required. I thought this could hopefully prove to be fortunate – an ace in the pack so to speak.

At 8:00pm I parked my car once more where I could observe number sixteen as I had the previous evening. Again, at 8:30 the police car arrived for Inspector Williams, but this time, I followed the car until it came to a halt outside the local police station. The Inspector was scarcely through the building entrance when I caught up with him.

“Excuse me. Inspector Williams?”

“Yes,” he replied tersely. “Who are you and how did you know my name?” The rest of the conversation took place in an interview room. I began by explaining that five years ago, local police officers had conspired to save a criminal fellow officer by altering the evidence. They had falsely incriminated me and I was imprisoned for a crime I did not commit.

“A likely story!” said the Inspector. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Not quite,” I retorted. “Yesterday I had a mysterious phone call from a man purporting to be a police officer. He said he had evidence that would clear my name and that I should meet him tonight at number 16 Mountview Road at 12:45am.

“That’s MY address. How did you get my name?” exploded the unbelieving police inspector.

“From the electoral register,” I had shouted back, “but there is much more. I’ve had your house under constant surveillance since early yesterday. At midnight last night, I recognised the officer who had falsely criminalised me; he was at the front door of your house and was welcomed in by your wife. He stayed for two hours.”

“LIAR!” he bellowed. “Trying to corrupt the good name of a fellow officer is a further offence for which you will be dealt.”

Within minutes, I was locked up in a cell to await my solicitor’s arrival on the following day. I was exactly where I had planned to be. Furthermore, I had previously informed the mystified solicitor of my plan to get myself deliberately incarcerated. Nevertheless, he was still surprised to receive a phone call from the police station in the morning, indicating that I was in custody and in need of legal representation.

It was 10:30 in the morning before I was brought from my cell to the interview room where my solicitor was waiting. The man listened quietly as my story unfolded.

“I know you are telling the truth,” he said, “but I also know of things which you are probably not aware, that will corroborate your story. The wife of Inspector Williams was murdered last night. Had her husband treated your accusations seriously, she would still be alive.”

My jaw dropped in disbelief at that revelation.

“Anyway,” he continued, there is now an internal police enquiry taking place concerning the falsification of evidence at your trial five years ago. The officer in question, a Police Constable Jennings, who was the principle cause of your imprisonment, is now in custody under suspicion of murdering the wife of Inspector Williams. The affair had apparently been going on for some time but had ended acrimoniously.”

I remember the solicitor smiling at the look of amazement on my face. Then he continued.

“When Jennings’ house and effects were searched, letters were found, written by Mrs Williams demanding money, or she would ruin his career. She also mentioned that his foolish bragging to her about his light-fingered habits on crime scenes would definitely face him with imprisonment. Many items were found in Jennings’ house that proved to have been taken from robbery investigations. It was very fortunate you did not arrive as requested at 12:45 in the early morning at that address, because you would have found the woman strangled to death. She was found by her husband, who noticed his front door slightly ajar upon his arrival home from work. The crime scene was littered with items carrying YOUR fingerprints, presumably the insignificant things that were stolen some time back from your residence.”

I can still remember my enormous relief at the finality of it all, and as my solicitor turned to leave, he winked.

“Bit of remarkable luck you being banged up here at the appropriate time, eh?”

Out of the Ashes

 

The military band rang out loudly, ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag...’ as it turned into the High Street. Crowds of people left what they were doing and rushed out towards the commotion. There were soon so many on the pavements, that the colourful Lord Kitchener ‘Your Country Needs You’ posters dotting the street walls, could hardly be seen.

Signs of excitement and longing began showing on the faces of young men and boys. One young lad turned to his friend saying, “I’m off to the recruitment, otherwise the war will be over and my chance of being a hero will be lost. Pity about you Willy, being an under-age sprog, but at least you will be able to say that your best mate Freddy is getting his chest full of medals.”

William wandered off alone and put his thinking cap on. The family were out at work and the house was empty. When he reached home, he took a good look at himself in the mirror; the sight didn’t look hopeful, so there was a lot to be done. It took a great deal of careful skill with a soft dark pencil, installing a few care lines and crows feet by the eyes. Then he mixed some dark coloured powder with water and smoothed it around his hands, neck and face with a ball of cotton wool, which allowed the eyebrow pencil marks to submerge into shadow lines.

“Better not put too much make-up on, I’ll get rejected as someone’s old grandad,” he mumbled aloud to himself. He was also listening to his former treble voice, now pulled down to a gruffer tone. Next, discarding his knickerbockers (knee length breeches), he donned a pair of his older brother’s long trousers and a jacket with a thick jersey underneath to hold up the shoulders.

A last look in his mother’s long mirror, revealed the resplendent figure of a mature young adult, the very kind that King and Country were seeking to do their duty.

It seemed scarcely two hours later when William, feeling proud that he had been accepted, returned home and quickly replaced all the borrowed items to their proper places, then left to attend a pre-arranged appointment. He wrote a hurried note to his parents, telling them that a friend, whose family were off to tour the Scottish Highlands in their charabanc had offered him a chance to go with them, but as they were going immediately, there was no chance to get their permission, as they were