Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  CONSTABLE IN CONTROL

  Nicholas Rhea

  © Nicholas Rhea 1994

  Nicholas Rhea has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1995 by Headline Book Publishing

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER I

  Constable Nick was off duty and dressed in oily overalls. He was lying beneath his beautiful MG car which was safely jacked up while on the floor around him was a selection of his tools and a brand new exhaust pipe, shining and clean. The dim light of his garage was barely sufficient to illuminate the scene but in the confined space, he was struggling to free a bolt somewhere beneath the car. That bolt had rusted so that it was difficult to move; it wasn’t the correct type either, some previous owner having fixed the existing but worn-out old exhaust with the wrong-sized bolt. Unless it had become cross threaded? That was a possibility. Whatever the reason, the bolt was refusing to budge and it was stubbornly securing the burnt-out exhaust.

  The exhaust pipe had developed a large hole which made it useless and illegal. Nick had partially removed it and it was now suspended, half on and half off, from the underside of the car, dangling like the broken branch of a tree. Unless it came completely off, he couldn’t use, or even move, the car, nor could he complete the fitting of the new part.

  And just one stubborn bolt held it! One small piece of metal was causing all this delay and frustration! He’d released all the others.

  “There’s always one!” he cursed to himself as he struggled to free the reluctant bolt. But it was immovable. He tried hammering it, hoping that this might dislodge it from its firm setting, or that blows from the hammer might loosen any rust which might be securing it. The snag was he couldn’t get sufficient leverage — there was a bracket in the way and it was obstructing his efforts with the spanner. If he could remove that bracket, then he might be able to get more purchase on the head of the bolt by using a large adjustable spanner…

  But before he could do that, he needed a bigger screwdriver to loosen that bracket! None of his was large enough…Nick sighed with frustration. This just wasn’t his day! He’d hoped to complete this job tonight — now it would drag on until he managed to shift that stubborn bolt. If he didn’t do something quickly, the car would be stuck here for days. And Aidensfield wasn’t the sort of place where you could just pop out and buy a new screwdriver — that meant a trip into Ashfordly tomorrow. There’d be no shops open tonight.

  Momentarily defeated, he eased himself from beneath the vehicle and was rising to his feet, rubbing his hands on an oily rag, when Kate came through from the house. She was casually dressed, also being off duty. Like Nick, she was hoping there’d be no call-outs this evening but, just like a policeman’s duty, a doctor’s work was never done.

  “Problems?” she asked.

  “Somebody’s used the wrong bolt,” he sighed. “It’s either got rusted in or it’s cross threaded. Whatever it is, I can’t shift it so I can’t get that exhaust off. I’ll have to move a bracket to get better leverage and to do that I need a bigger screwdriver! And that’s what I haven’t got! I’ve got every size except the one I need!”

  “Leave it for tonight, Nick, it’s half past nine. Come on, it’s time to put your feet up!”

  At a moment of silence that followed, the sound of a speeding car could be heard outside. It was roaring past, hurtling along the street and making a tremendous din. It was evidently someone in a hurry.

  “Somebody’s in a rush! I wonder if it’s an emergency?” said Nick throwing the oily rag to the floor. “I hope they’re not coming here!”

  “No, it’s the third I’ve heard tonight,” Kate told him. “It’s probably a motor rally.”

  “A motor rally?” he cried. “I haven’t been notified about any rally that’s run through here, the police are supposed to be informed if motor clubs arrange rallies through any police area!”

  “Forget it, Nick! You’re off duty!” she emphasised. “And leave that rusty old bolt as well. Come along, you’re tired. I’ll get us something warm to drink and we can have an early night.”

  With a backward glance at the disabled exhaust pipe, he followed Kate out of the garage, switched off the light and somewhat reluctantly went into the house. He felt he’d been cheated of achieving his objective this evening, but Kate was right. He did feel tired and he was ready for a wash and a change of clothing. After all, the job could wait another day.

  “I’ll check at Ashfordly police office in the morning,” he said, partly to himself and partly to Kate as he strode into the lounge. “If there is a rally, there might be something in our files.”

  “Nick, forget it! You’re off duty!”

  But he was not allowed to forget the noisy cars. As he was sipping a welcome warm drink made by Kate, he could hear more vehicles roaring past at regular intervals. They were all heading in the same direction, all making for the moors beyond Aidensfield with lots of revving and the occasional screech of tyres.

  “There is a rally!” he stressed. “Listen to them, tearing through the place. I’m going out for a look.”

  “Nick…” the tone of Kate’s voice was enough to halt him, at least momentarily, and then the telephone rang. He hurried into his office to take the call, wondering whether it was for him or Kate. He snatched at the receiver.

  “Aidensfield Police,” he announced himself. “PC Rowan speaking.”

  “It’s Adrian Fairbrother from Oxgang Cottage,” the deep masculine voice was loud and well-spoken. “You really ought to do something about those noisy cars, constable.”

  “Noisy cars, sir?” Nick pretended to be ignorant of the problem. Mr Fairbrother always found something to complain about and besides, he might be referring to some other vehicles.

  “Coming through the village at one minute intervals, they are,” continued Mr Fairbrother. “Making one devil of a noise. One after the other, like a motor rally…”

  “I’ve not been informed of any motor rallies tonight, sir,” admitted Nick. “But I’ll look into the problem.”

  “It shouldn’t be allowed, disturbing the peace like that.”

  “I will definitely look into it, sir. Rest assured I’ll do what I can, Mr Fairbrother. I’ll keep you informed.”

  With a sound something like “Hrrumph”, the caller replaced the telephone and Nick returned to the lounge of his home. “Not trouble, is it?” Kate asked. “A call-out?”

  “It was old Mr Fairbrother complaining about noisy cars,” he explained. “It makes a change from him complaining about noisy dances or noisy kids or noisy music or noisy doors being slammed at the pub! I’d better just pop out for a look, I might catch sight of a number plate or recognise one of the drivers. I can always stop one of the cars and warn the driver if it is someone local.”

  “You’re not going out now, are you?” she asked. “You are off duty, remember!”

  And at that moment, another roared past; this one added several loud toots on the horn as i
t passed the police house. Nick gritted his teeth and dashed to the window, but the car was out of sight. He managed to see the tail-lights disappearing into the darkness but was too late to see the number plate.

  “They’re asking for it…it sounds like locals to me, doing that…cheeky blighters! It’s not some of the village lads, is it?”

  “Nick, I thought we were going to have an early night? It is our day off, remember…”

  He looked at her with mock seriousness.

  “No, I have my duty to do; one’s constabulary duty must be done…” and her face showed her disappointment and the beginnings of anger as he added, “So the last one into bed puts the light out!”

  And he raced for the staircase.

  *

  For most of that same evening, the bar of the Aidensfield Arms had been almost deserted. George had expected one or two early customers but none had arrived. The only drinkers were a courting couple who had occupied one comer of the bar while sipping all night from just two drinks, and Claude Jeremiah Greengrass who had spread himself in front of the fire.

  During the evening, the young lovers had been completely absorbed in one another. They had spent the entire time sitting close together over their drinks as they had gazed into one another’s eyes and dreamt of future bliss. They hadn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in chatting to George.

  Claude, on the other hand, had had a half consumed pint on a table at his side for ages and he’d been totally absorbed in an item in the pub’s copy of the Evening Gazette. He had shown no desire to make small talk either. He’d spent a long time reading the paper, sipping from his pint as Alfred, his lurcher dog, had slept at his feet. Apart from the occasional words of endearment from the couple in the comer, no one had spoken; the only noise was the crackle of logs on the fire and the heavy breathing of the slumbering Alfred. He was probably dreaming about hectic pursuits of rabbits and pheasants.

  George Ward, the licensee of the Aidensfield Arms, hadn’t been able to remember when the bar had been so quiet at this stage of the evening, so he’d taken the opportunity to replenish his shelves from stock in the cellar. He’d carried several crates from below, puffing and panting as he’d staggered into the bar beneath their weight, and he’d then started to rearrange the bottles on shelves behind the bar counter.

  “It’s quiet tonight, isn’t it, Claude?” George had commented as he’d taken a welcome breather from his labours.

  Claude had not replied; his head had been deep within the pages of the paper. George had tried again, this time speaking in a louder voice.

  “I said it’s quiet tonight, isn’t it, Claude?”

  But on that second attempt at conversation, George had won another nil response. Claude had appeared not to hear him. So he’d tried again, this time using shock tactics and raising his voice by a few decibels.

  “I said Adolf Hitler’s bought that house behind the church, Claude.”

  That time, there had been a response.

  “He’ll have to do summat about that rising damp,” Claude had muttered, not taking his eyes from the paper.

  And so George had given up this attempt at being a friendly and chatty host. With customers like this, he could always amuse himself by fetching more bottles from the cellar or doing a crossword puzzle in the daily paper.

  Having resigned himself to a long, boring evening, George had set about his self-imposed task, but when he had returned from that final trip to the cellar, Claude had gone. He’d vanished without even saying goodbye — he’d even vanished before closing time which made the event very unusual. And he’d taken Alfred with him. George had found it all very puzzling — Claude was usually so full of chatter. Furthermore, he was always on the scrounge, seeking free drinks or help with his dodgy business enterprises. But not tonight.

  He’d been a different man! Tonight, he’d been totally absorbed in something he’d discovered in the newspaper. And now George would never know what it was because Claude and his dog had disappeared without a word.

  Pondering the situation, George went across to the table Claude had been using and began to clear it, but when he lifted the Evening Gazette, it fell open to reveal a large ragged gap in one of the pages. Somebody had torn out an article…and that somebody must be none other than Claude Jeremiah Greengrass! It was just the sort of trick Claude would do…but what on earth had he torn out?

  George re-folded the paper and placed it behind the counter so that he could read it after closing time, but the way things were going tonight, he could close early. And then, at the very moment he was savouring that thought, there were the familiar sounds of activity outside. Lots of cars were pulling up on the forecourt in rapid succession — suddenly, he was going to be busy! This was typical — a crowd of customers all arriving at the same time, and all expecting to be served! It would be a last minute rush just before closing time!

  The pub door crashed open and in came a horde of boisterous young people, youths and girls, all chattering noisily, laughing and joking as they made for the bar counter. Leading them was Gordon Turnbull. Tall, slim and good looking, Gordon was nineteen years old; rather arrogant in manner and smartly dressed, he worked for the family business of estate agents.

  Never short of money, he always drove a smart sports car and always managed to be accompanied by a pretty young woman. From George’s viewpoint, it always seemed to be a different girl — either Gordon was very fickle or else the girls he chose didn’t find him permanently attractive. Tonight, he was followed in by Julie Mason, his latest conquest. She was a fine looking brunette whose splendid legs were shown to advantage by her mini-skirt. But Gordon was also accompanied by lots more youngsters, almost twenty of them by the look of it, and George recognised most. Many of them came from Aidensfield, Elsinby and the surrounding villages. They were an assortment of young people whose jobs ranged from farm labourers and garage mechanics to hotel receptionists and secretaries. All would be in their late teens, George reckoned.

  “Right, George,” began Gordon in his loud and commanding voice. “Drinks for everybody. And the slow worm’s paying…tonight, that’s him over there,” and he pointed to a thin faced youth who was pushing his way forward to the bar. “Slim Jim Grieves.”

  “Slow worm?” puzzled George.

  “Slowest around our club route, George. He did the slowest time tonight — you know, the Killing Pits Club. We do a circuit of Aidensfield, a drive around the moors, and the one who does the slowest time pays for drinks for everybody else. Great idea eh?”

  “Bloody dangerous if you ask me!” George snapped. “I thought that club was for kids on bikes?”

  “It used to be, George. When we were all kids on bikes, we called ourselves the Killing Pits Club because we met at the Killing Pits. We had races then, on our bikes. We had a slow worm then, kid’s game I suppose, but we’ve kept it. When we were kids, the slow worm had to buy sweets for all the others. Anyway, now we’ve all grown up. The lads all got motor bikes with pillions to begin with, so we could take the girls out or go scrambling across the moors, and now we’ve all got cars. Same kids, same club, same rules, different transport.”

  “And you still meet at the Killing Pits?”

  “Yes, we’ve been meeting there for years. We meet, have a chat about our cars and things, and now we’ve decided to do that circuit we did tonight. It’s a bit of a challenge for us. And after doing the circuit, we’ll come here for a few drinks. That’s what we’ll be doing at the Killing Pits Club meetings from now on.”

  “Well don’t be surprised if there’s complaints! If it’s your cars that are making all that noise, you can bet somebody will start to make a fuss. You didn’t do the run on your motor bikes, did you?”

  “Not this run, George. We did moor scrambles then, away from public roads. But we need roads to drive our cars on.”

  “Well, I can guarantee there’ll be trouble if you’re racing through Aidensfield at night!”

  “Racing? We�
�re not racing, George, we go one by one, at one minute intervals…that’s a time trial, not a race!”

  “It’s a race so far as I’m concerned. Just watch it, Gordon, or you’ll have PC Rowan on your backs! He’ll say you’re racing, he’ll reckon a time trial is a race, Gordon, and don’t forget — it could be dangerous, kids in old cars speeding like that…”

  “Dangerous? Us? Come off it George! We’re the best drivers for miles around. Besides, we’ll make sure we do the run when Rowan’s off duty. And we never drink before the run, that’s a club rule. We celebrate afterwards. We’re not daft…anyway, we’re all here now so it’s drinks all round on Slim Jim. So that’s nine pints, three gin and tonics, two port and lemons, four Babychams — and something for yourself!”

  As George began to pull the pints, he experienced a deep sense of foreboding and wondered if PC Rowan knew anything about the modernised Killing Pits Club.

  CHAPTER II

  Both Nick and Kate were on duty the following morning. Nick was scheduled to undertake a routine patrol of Aidensfield and district on his motor cycle. Sergeant Blaketon had instructed him to pay particular attention to detecting a spate of undetected thefts from church offertory boxes. The thefts had been occurring for a few weeks now with isolated rural churches being the main targets. The thief was creeping into the churches while they were not being used for services, breaking into the wooden offertory boxes and taking the contents. A considerable amount of cash had been stolen, albeit in individual small sums, and Sergeant Blaketon was determined to have the thief arrested.

  With that task to occupy Nick, Kate was faced with a morning surgery in her temporary premises at the village hall, followed by a visit to Ashfordly Nursing Home. Afterwards, she had her rounds to complete. It looked like being a busy day for both.

  Nick was first out of bed. He had washed and shaved and was preparing breakfast while Kate had her morning bath. Clad in his uniform trousers and a shirt without a tie, he had prepared a hefty meal of fried eggs, sausages, bacon and mushrooms. It was all sizzling on the stove and the smell gave him a hearty appetite.