Then the telephone rang. He answered it.
“Sergeant Blaketon, officer in charge, Ashfordly Police,” he identified himself.
“Inspector Murchison speaking, sergeant,” responded the deep and familiar voice. “I hope I’ve not got you out of bed?”
“Bed, ma’am? I’ve been at work for hours, this is a very busy section, you know. There’s no slacking here! We are highly regarded by the public and highly efficient, renowned for giving a first class service to the public.”
“I like my officers to be good time-keepers, sergeant, as well as being dedicated to their work and never afraid of doing their duty. Now, down to business, I require one sergeant and two constables for football duties. In Whitby tomorrow afternoon. A cup tie.”
“From Ashfordly, ma’am? But I can’t spare that number of men at such short notice. We’re in the middle of a crime wave here and there’s patrol duties, the office to manage.”
“Ah, the crime wave! The offertory box thefts. You’ve not caught the thief yet, I note. Dozens of churches have been raided and several hundred pounds stolen over the past weeks and yet there’s not a single arrest! It’s not good enough, Sergeant Blaketon. I’d have thought it was simple enough for you to lay a trap and catch the thief or thieves.”
“Rest assured we are concentrating upon that series of crimes, ma’am, my men are visiting all churches on a regular basis, liaising with the resident priest or vicar, checking the offertory boxes, showing a uniformed presence in vulnerable areas and acting as deterrents…”
“Yes, well, I look forward to an arrest very soon. It would greatly help your “crimes detected” figures. Now to the reason for my call. You will supply one sergeant and two constables at Whitby football ground tomorrow at two o’clock in the afternoon, dressed in their best uniforms. Kick-offs at three. I will brief your team when you arrive.”
“Me, ma’am? You want me to come?” There was a hint of horror in his voice. Oscar Blaketon was the officer in charge of Ashfordly section, not a mere town patrolling sergeant with football matches to worry about.
“You are the sergeant at Ashfordly, aren’t you? Now, this is a cup match, sergeant, a quarter final, Whitby Town versus Crook. A big crowd’s expected. I want no bus loads of fans fighting on our streets or in the ground. Is that understood?”
“Fans fighting? There’ll be no fighting while my men are on duty, ma’am, you’ll get the cream of Ashfordly section, men capable of the utmost diplomacy, men who can control the very worst of situations…”
But she’d rung off. He was talking to himself. He slammed down the handset and stalked along the passage to the general office. And there, seated in a cloud of cigarette smoke, was PC Alf Ventress. He was reading a newspaper but upon hearing Blaketon’s office door being opened, he was able to hide it beneath his desk.
“Ventress!” snapped Sergeant Blaketon. “That woman has no idea how to run a police force! What’s more important, do you think? Solving crime or playing football?”
“I’m not with you, serge!”
“We’re in the middle of a serious crime wave and she wants us to perform duty at Whitby tomorrow!”
“It’ll be nice at the seaside, serge,” smiled Ventress.
“Nice? It won’t be nice where we’re going. It’s football duties, Ventress, keeping fans from kicking each other’s heads in.”
“You’ll see the match, though, from the touchline. That’s a bonus, free entry to the game. So who’s going, serge?”
“Me, as officer in charge of the Ashfordly contingent,” and his chest expanded with pride at his own description, “I’m taking PCs Rowan and Bellamy.”
“Bellamy can’t go, serge,” beamed Ventress. “He applied for the day off tomorrow. Remember? You approved it.”
“Did I? Why’s he want the day off?”
“He’s playing football, serge, for Whitby Town.”
“Football? Has the world gone mad, Ventress! There are times I think the police force is obsessed with sport, some people obviously think it’s more important than real police work. Well, if he’s not available, Ventress, you’ll have to go.”
“Me? But who’ll look after the office?”
“We’ll close the office, Ventress. The public will have to manage without us. The way things are going in the police service, we’ll be closing offices all over the place because people want to watch or play football. That’s progress, Ventress, progress towards a crime-ridden and undisciplined society. Take my word, it’s the start of the destruction of our society, Ventress, but orders are orders. So it’s best uniform tomorrow — brushed free of cigarette ash before you leave and kept free of cigarette ash while you’re there! Leave your filthy fags at home, Ventress, then you won’t be tempted. Now, where’s Rowan?”
“He’s on his way into the office, serge, with a careless driving file.”
“Right, I’ll brief him when he arrives. Now, if that woman rings, tell her I’m out.”
“Where shall I say you are, serge?”
“Say I’m out patrolling the town, Ventress, doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Preventing crime, solving crime, being a policeman, doing what I’m paid to do! Not playing football, not watching football, not discussing football and not even worrying about rampaging football fans…”
And he stomped into his office and slammed the door.
*
Nick, en route to Ashfordly with the completed careless driving file in the pannier of his motor cycle, was approaching the Killing Pits junction of Aidensfield when he noticed the distinctive khaki clad figure of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Claude, with Alfred trotting behind on a long lead, had parked his old pick-up truck outside the parish church and was ambling towards the gate which led into the churchyard.
Driving slowly, Nick watched the big man; Claude was carrying a scythe over his shoulder and in one hand he held a strickle, the North Riding of Yorkshire name for the whetstone used for sharpening the scythe. The strickle dangled from a leather loop; the implement was about fifteen inches long and shaped rather like a plumpish stick! With these implements in his hand, and with Alfred on a long lead, Claude approached the turnstile. His bulk and his encumbrances made it almost impossible to negotiate it.
The handles of the scythe got caught in the frame of the gate; Claude’s bulk meant he had to lift the scythe high to clear the top of the gate, and then the strickle hit him in the face…but after much cursing, panting and puffing, he squeezed through. During all these manoeuvrings, however,
Alfred remained outside the gate, on the end of the lead.
“Come on, Alfred!” shouted Claude. But the dog either would not or could not negotiate this gate. After all, these gates were especially designed to admit humans while frustrating animals like cows, horses and the free-range moorland sheep which roamed the village green. Claude tugged on the lead, shouted at Alfred, cursed him and tried to compel him to enter the turnstile, but Alfred steadfastly refused. Nick stopped his ride to observe the fiasco, whereupon Claude decided he must retrace his steps to deal with his dog.
And so the charade resumed, this time with Claude trying to get out of the churchyard; he hadn’t the sense to leave his scythe and strickle inside, nor to release the lead, and thus began another elephantine ballet as Claude coped with the turnstile. When he was back in the street, he shook a finger at Alfred,
“All you have to do, you daft bugger, is walk through that gap, you bend your body in the middle…like I do…now come on!”
And as Claude made a further attempt with scythe, strickle and dog, Nick decided to drive closer.
He chugged along to the church and parked his motor bike near the gate, leaving it as he approached the struggling, cursing Claude.
“Are you trying to get in or out, Claude?” he grinned.
“Interfering coppers…ought to mind their own business…there’s no peace from the law these days…” muttered the embattled Claude. By now, he was back inside the churchyard
, but Alfred was still outside on the end of his lead.
“Drop your end, Claude,” suggested Nick.
“Don’t be personal, constable!” retorted Claude.
“The lead, drop your end of the lead,” repeated Nick.
“That’s typical of the law, arresting a defenceless dog for loitering
“Don’t be daft, Claude, I’m going to get him into the churchyard!”
“You incomers think you know everything!” and Claude dropped his end of the lead and stood to watch Nick, beaming in anticipation of Nick’s futile attempt. Nick withdrew the lead through the gate, went to the other large gate a matter of a few feet away, opened it and said, “Shout for Alfred, Claude!”
“That’un’s always locked!” snapped Claude. “It’s only used for funerals and weddings!”
“Not today it isn’t,” grinned Nick, opening the gate wide. “See, no problem! It opens easily!”
“Well, how was I to know that? You just stood there and let me look stupid! Alfred, come here, you daft bat!”
Tail wagging, the scruffy grey dog trotted towards his master and obediently sat at his feet.
“So there we are, Claude,” Nick had closed the gate and was now facing Claude who blinked at him and tried to avoid the gaze. “One good turn deserves another. So what are you doing here?”
“Cutting grass, aren’t I?”
“But this churchyard’s always neatly cut.”
“Not under them trees, it isn’t!” grinned Claude, pointing to a distant comer beneath some yews.
“And what do you charge for your services?” asked Nick.
“Nowt! I’m charging nowt. I’m a pillar of this community, constable, and I’m doing my social duty to this village and others. Free gratis. For nowt. No pay or expenses.”
“Really?” Nick wasn’t quite sure how to take this news.
“You don’t believe me, do you? It’s a sod when a well-respected citizen like me can’t do my social duty without the law suspecting him of summat.”
“And you’re using that old scythe? I thought you’d need something more modem!”
“I can’t afford a new scythe, besides this’un’s just right for them awkward spots near tombstones, far better than them motor mowers.”
“So you’re doing other churchyards?”
“Glutton for work, I am, when I’m doing it for a good cause.”
“The good cause being you, eh? So, Claude, have you seen any other suspicious characters hanging about the churches?”
“Other?” there was a tone of hurtfulness in Claude’s voice.
“Somebody’s going round raiding offertory boxes. Smashing them open with a screwdriver or jemmy and stealing the cash.”
“It’s your job to find ‘em, constable, not mine! Why should I help you, tell me that?”
“Because you are a pillar of the community, a well-respected citizen.”
“Aye, well, I’ve seen nowt and I know nowt, but if I do see summat, I’ll let you know. I can’t be fairer than that, I reckon nowt to folk who rob churches. Now, I’ve the Lord’s work to do, not the constabulary’s!”
And as Claude ambled away towards the overgrown portion of the churchyard with Alfred following off the lead, Nick watched him for a few moments. He was sure Claude was involved in some dubious scheme; those blinking eyes, his avoidance of eye contact and the mere fact he was here indicated some scheme of a dodgy nature. It was hardly likely that Claude was simply cutting grass out of the goodness of his heart. Nick decided to keep an eye on him, but in the meantime decided to enter the church to check the offertory box. Happily, it was secure. No attempt had been made to break it open or steal the contents. He made a note in his pocket book of the date and time he’d made this check, then decided to resume his journey to Ashfordly.
But when he emerged from the turnstile, Alfred was sitting outside, looking forlorn and wanting to be in.
“How did you get out here, old son?” grinned Nick and as he opened the larger gate once more, he heard Claude shouting, “Alfred, you mutt, where the hell are you?”
Alfred trotted into the churchyard once again to be reunited with Claude as Nick kicked his motor cycle into life and rode off to Ashfordly. When he arrived at the police station with the careless driving file in his hands, Alf Ventress was seated among his usual cloud of smoke and Phil Bellamy was entering some details into a register. Bidding them good morning, Nick dropped the file into the “In” tray for Sergeant Blaketon’s attention as Alf asked,
“Hello, Nick. I’ve some good news for you and some bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Try me with the good news!”
“You’re on football duties tomorrow at Whitby!”
“Great,” beamed Nick. “That means I’ll see the match. So what’s the bad news?”
“Blaketon’s going with you!” chuckled Bellamy turning from his work.
“Look, don’t speak so loud, he’s in his office,” Ventress warned them. “Now look, while you’re both here, listen to this. It’s his birthday tomorrow. Seeing he’s divorced and has nobody to celebrate it with, how about us all clubbing together to get him a present and a card? Something from the lads?”
Nick and Bellamy were both delighted with the idea and gave their agreement, with Bellamy saying he was on patrol duties in the town, so he could buy something. He’d pay for the gift and the others could settle up with him later. And the moment they had organised that little surprise, the sergeant’s office door opened and out strode Sergeant Blaketon. He looked fiercer than usual.
“I might have known,” were his first words. “Smoke and ash everywhere, my men gossiping and not doing any work! Nothing changes in this establishment. I dread to think what the new inspector would think if she walked in now! There’s work to do out there, all of you, information to gather, traffic to control, crimes to solve, thieves to arrest…”
“Good morning, sergeant,” smiled Nick. “Nice morning!”
“Has Ventress briefed you about tomorrow’s duties, Rowan?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Good, then I’ll pick you up at Aidensfield police house at one o’clock tomorrow. Prompt. Best uniform, boots polished, trousers pressed. The Ashfordly contingent will be the smartest men there, Rowan. And that means you, Ventress!”
“Yes, sergeant,” muttered Alf.
“Very good, sergeant,” said Nick and he turned to Phil Bellamy. “Aren’t you going, Phil?”
Sergeant Blaketon answered for Bellamy.
“He is not gracing us with his presence, Rowan, because he’s the star player for Whitby Town. Centre forward no less. He’s far too busy to be a policeman, he’s a footballer, Rowan,” and Sergeant Blaketon turned to Bellamy. “And mind you score, Bellamy! If you don’t I’ll put you on permanent nights!”
“I’ll score, serge, either with my feet or with a woman!”
“Right! That’s settled. Now there’s another matter,” continued Sergeant Blaketon. “On Sunday, I shall be taking a day’s leave. That means you will be in charge during my absence, Ventress.”
“Something special, serge?” Ventress wondered if Blaketon was having some kind of birthday treat.
“I’m going for a spot of culture, Ventress.”
“Not the Palace of Varieties at Scarborough, serge?” chuckled Bellamy.
“That’s the sort of crack I’d expect from somebody who puts football before police work! No, I’m going to the Parsonage at Haworth, a literary trip with the Brontë Society.”
“Well, have a nice day, serge, we’ll just have to struggle along without you!” smiled Bellamy.
“And when I get back, I shall expect you to have arrested the offertory box thief, one or other of you. Now, the latest information is that a motor cycle has been heard at the raided churches, and its presence coincides with the time of the attacks. Also, the tool used to break open the boxes has been identified as a screwdriver with a three-eighths blade.
“A goo
d impression was found at one church, the CID has taken a plaster cast for future comparison. That’s enough clues for Sherlock Holmes, so it should be good enough for you. So get to it!”
“Right, serge,” they chorused.
Nick then added, “Serge? Alf? Have we been notified about a motor rally in the area — one that came through last night? I’ve been getting complaints about noisy and speeding cars.”
“No,” said Blaketon. “There’s been no notification here. But if folks are complaining, Rowan, it’s your job to put a stop to the noise and speeding instead of hanging about here discussing football!” and he stalked towards his office.
“Yes, sergeant,” said Nick.
“So get out there and do your duty, Rowan!” was Blaketon’s parting shot.
CHAPTER IV
Nick returned to Aidensfield for lunch. He and Kate usually had a light meal, a sandwich perhaps, or an omelette, then if they were both off duty, they enjoyed a more substantial meal in the evening. They might enjoy this at home or as a bar snack in one of the local inns. On this Friday lunch time, however, Nick arrived home ahead of his wife but as he walked into the house, the telephone was ringing. It was the Reverend Jason Chandler, the vicar of Crampton.
“Sorry to bother you at lunch time, Nick,” he said. “But somebody’s had a go at our offertory box. It’s been smashed open and the contents taken.”
“Oh, no, not another!” groaned Nick. “How much has gone? Any idea?”
“It’s hard to tell, I never know how much there is from day to day, but at a guess, I’d say five or six pounds. That’s the usual income around this time of the week.”
“There’s been a spate of these raids, Mr Chandler,” Nick explained. “Something like a couple of dozen in the area during the last few weeks. The thief forces the lid off the boxes with a large screwdriver and steals the cash. Now, have you heard a motor cycle near the church?”
“Yes, when I was having my coffee this morning. I heard it stop somewhere near the church, around eleven o’clock.”
Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 3