Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  “And did you see anyone?”

  “Sorry, no,” apologised Mr Chandler. “I never suspected anything, not even the motor bike registered any alarm in me.”

  “If your raid is part of the same series, the raider uses a motor bike to travel to the attacked premises, then forces the offertory boxes by using a large screwdriver with a three-eighths inch blade. It usually leaves marks in the woodwork.”

  “I’d say this has all the appearance of a similar attack, Nick. What shall I do now?”

  “Have a word with your church insurers and consider a new metal cash box which is fitted into the wall of the church; have it cemented in. A local builder will do the job for you. In the meantime, I’ll have words with our CID and they’ll come to examine the scene, there might be fingerprints on the woodwork and they’ll want plaster casts of the break-in marks, to compare it with the others that have been raided. So don’t touch anything just yet. I’ll come to see you immediately after lunch and I’ll make enquiries around Crampton. Somebody might just have been chummy arriving or departing, somebody might just have seen the motor bike and might recognise it.”

  And so a new crime was reported. Nick rang Sergeant Blaketon to report the matter and he was far from pleased, exhorting Nick to get out there and catch the thief, otherwise the new inspector would think Ashfordly section officers were a bunch of amateurs. Nick assured Blaketon he’d do everything possible to arrest the thief.

  Then before Nick could begin preparation of the lunch, Kate arrived.

  “Trouble?” she asked, sensing Nick’s mood.

  “Another break-in, same method used at Crampton parish church this time. Five or six pounds taken from the offertory box.”

  “That’s awful, Nick, who’d raid churches and steal money like that?”

  “If I knew who it was, he’d be arrested in double-quick time and put before the court. I reckon it’s somebody fairly local who knows my movements, and those of the other police officers. He always seems to pick a church that’s a long way from where we’re on duty. And if it is somebody local, somebody who’s regularly around in the daytime, his presence wouldn’t arouse suspicion, would it?”

  “I saw Claude in Ashfordly churchyard this morning,” Kate said, walking into the kitchen with Nick following.

  “In Ashfordly churchyard?” Nick was surprised. “What was he doing there?”

  “Cutting grass,” she smiled. “He had a scythe and said he was trimming the long grass around the gravestones. He offered to tend my grandparents’ grave.”

  “And I saw him in Aidensfield churchyard this morning.” Nick began to fill the kettle from the tap. “He’s obviously getting around them all. He couldn’t be our thief, could he?”

  “Claude wouldn’t break into offertory boxes in churches, Nick, he’s not that sort of rogue.”

  “And he doesn’t ride a motor bike,” mused Nick. “But I’d better check Aidensfield church again and I’d better have words with him.”

  “You don’t suspect him, surely?” Kate sounded concerned.

  “I’ve got to keep an open mind, love,” Nick spoke seriously. “If he’s visiting local graveyards, he’s up to something dodgy and besides, he might have seen our motor cycling villain.”

  “You’ll have some lunch first?” she smiled. “What do you fancy? A sandwich, or something cooked?”

  “A sandwich of some kind will be fine, thanks. I don’t have to rush off immediately, there’s no desperate urgency about this. I’ll ring the CID before I have my sandwich and arrange to meet them at the church.”

  “Right. Now, when I was in Ashfordly this morning, I bought us a brand new frying pan, Nick. I want you to be careful with it, no more fires even if nagging women do ring you up! And I got your screwdriver. Three-eighths of an inch blade, as you wanted.”

  From her shopping bag, she pulled both the pan and the screwdriver. He took the screwdriver and examined it — it was a powerful tool and would make short work of something as flimsy as a wooden offertory box. Just insert the tip of the blade beneath the lid and exert a little pressure…

  A screwdriver of this size was almost as useful as a jemmy. Who did he know who might possess such a tool, and who also rode a motor bike and who was familiar with the local churches? His mind ranged across the names of several local youngsters who owned motor bikes, but he couldn’t imagine any of them being sufficiently evil to raid a church and to take money destined for some charitable purpose. But he was also experienced enough at his job to know that the nicest people are capable of committing crime. The thief could be anyone, someone he knew, someone who appeared honest and decent…someone in Aidensfield.

  After lunch, he mounted his motor cycle and rode out to the Greengrass ranch. The place was deserted. It was an untidy conglomeration of old farm machinery, motor vehicles, scrap household metal and ruined sheds. Hens clucked among the miasma and a couple of rats scuttled away at his approach. Nick hammered on the door of the weather-battered old house but received no response. He tried the doors, back and front, but both were locked and there was no sign of Alfred either. After shouting Claude’s name several times, Nick abandoned this visit. Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was out somewhere.

  Nick hoped he wasn’t raiding churches.

  *

  Claude was in fact in a churchyard, but he was not stealing money from the offertory box.

  He was scything long grass among the tombstones at Ploatby, having received consent from the vicar. As with his other graveyard enterprises, Claude had offered to mow the long grass around the tombstones without making any charge; he said he was tidying the churchyards out of the goodness of his heart, and so the vicar, constantly embarrassed by the untidy state of the graves, had given his consent.

  But Claude’s mission was not merely to cut grass; he was scrutinising every tombstone, reading the inscriptions and checking names and dates. The grass he was cutting was merely the long strands which obliterated names or dates and, with his razor sharp scythe, he was able to chop away the intrusive growth to enable him to study the words.

  But his endeavour was taking longer than he’d anticipated. He had no idea these small churchyards contained so many graves, they didn’t seem to be arranged in any particular sequence or order and so he walked miles, trudging around the stones, chopping down the grass, reading the names…and all the time, Alfred followed him, patient and loyal to his master.

  “If he’s buried here, I’m going to find him, Alfred,” he said to the dog on more than one occasion. “Come on, it’s time to go a bit further!”

  *

  For Graham Blaketon and his mother, the drive across the North York Moors from Pickering to Aidensfield had been beautiful.

  With staggering views of the open moorland, offset with deep tree-lined valleys and tiny villages, Graham had manoeuvred the vehicle up the hills and around the comers without any problems. They’d taken several detours off the main road to provide Graham with more experience, and he’d even negotiated the steep downward incline of the Devil’s Elbow at the Hole of Horcum without causing his mother undue anguish!

  He’d shown that he was a very capable young driver; en route, they’d stopped for a meal at one of the moorland pubs and had even taken a stroll along one of the more scenic of the moorland footpaths. When they arrived at Aidensfield, it was mid-afternoon and they received a warm welcome from Mrs Rhoda Myers, Denis’ mother. In her mid-forties, she was a comely country woman who welcomed everyone to her home as if they were long-time friends.

  A kettle was singing on the hob and she had prepared some buttered scones with strawberry jam. After the preliminaries, during which she showed Graham the bedroom he would occupy, they all sat down for a cup of tea and some scones. They chattered about old times, when the boys had been at school together and laughed at some of their escapades, and then it was time for Joan to leave.

  “I must be going, Rhoda,” Joan smiled. “I promised Margaret I’d be there before four o’cl
ock. It’s so good of you to let Graham come for the weekend.”

  “It’s a real pleasure, Joan, I really mean it. Denis hasn’t many friends in the village now, they’ve grown up and moved away, or else they’ve got cars so I’m so pleased he and Graham keep in touch.”

  Graham stood up as his mother was preparing to leave. “Mum, I haven’t got a present for dad yet. I’ll be seeing him on Saturday night, we’re going out for a meal together.”

  “He’ll be so pleased about that!” she smiled.

  “I wondered if you could get something in Whitby for him, from me. Then, when you come back this way tomorrow, you could drop it in here, I’m sure Mrs Myers will be in.”

  “I won’t be far away, Joan, if I’m not around, just leave it in the wash-house.”

  “All right,” agreed Joan. “I’ll see if I can find something from both of us. I’m returning home late on Saturday afternoon so I’ll come around this way and drop it off. You’ll be going home on Sunday, Graham?”

  “Yes, I’ll get the bus back, don’t worry about me.”

  And Graham pulled a £1 note from his pocket and passed it to his mother. “Here, this will be my share.”

  “All right, see you tomorrow perhaps, ‘bye!” and she left the Myers’ house. Graham watched her leave, waving as she turned the comer to head out of Aidensfield towards Whitby, and then returned to his hostess.

  “So what are you two doing tonight?” asked Mrs Myers. “It’s Killing Pits Club night,” said Denis. “I thought me and Graham should go, we used to go as kids!”

  “Great idea!” enthused Graham. “We used to race our bikes up and down the green, didn’t we? Then some of them got motor bikes and scrambled over the moors…”

  “It’s all cars now,” said Denis wistfully. “I can’t join because I haven’t a car, but we can go along to have a look…it’s great fun, there’s some really smart cars there. And some old bangers souped up! Gordon’s got an Austin Healey…”

  Mrs Myers left the pair to plan their evening while she began to clear the table. It was so nice that Denis had a friend to stay — he had seemed a bit lonesome lately. All the other village lads had managed to buy themselves a car, but the wages Denis got as an apprentice bricklayer didn’t allow him to spend that sort of money. He was saving up for a car, she knew, and sooner or later, he’d be able to afford one.

  Then he’d be one of the gang again.

  *

  It was around six o’clock that same evening, Friday, that Graham and Denis went outside the house and into the garage. Denis was planning to show Graham his motor cycle, but Graham’s eyes lighted on the car which was parked beside it. It was an old Austin A40 in a rusty condition, almost a banger in fact, and it bore “L” plates.

  “Who’s is the car?” asked Graham.

  “It’s dad’s,” Denis explained. “He’s away at sea a lot, he comes home once every five or six weeks, and he’s supposed to be teaching me to drive. That’s why it’s got “L” plates on. But he’s never here, and when he does come home he never seems to have time to help me. And mum can’t drive, so she can’t accompany me. There’s no driving schools around here, so I’m stuck. I’m never going to learn how to drive a car!”

  “I’m a passed driver now,” Graham boasted. “I drove all the way here, in mum’s car. I could accompany you, as your passed driver, at least for this weekend.”

  Denis’ face brightened. “Yeh, you could, eh! We could take the car to the Killing Pits tonight, eh? And do the run, me driving and you beside me…”

  “Could we?”

  “Yeh, course we could! They won’t let me join the club now, ‘cos I haven’t a car. I’m not allowed, I can’t do the run, can’t do anything…I mean, there’s a car here, not being used and the club’s meeting tonight. It seems daft not to take the car down to the village tonight, and join the Killing Pits Club run….”

  “Would she let us take it? I mean, would your mum really allow me to supervise you driving?”

  “We could always ask,” Denis didn’t sound very sure about his mother’s reaction to that idea, but as they were pondering that suggestion, Mrs Myers came into the back yard to hang out some washing.

  She saw them and realised they were plotting some scheme; smiling, she asked, “Now then, you two, what are you scheming?”

  Denis looked at Graham, and Graham looked at Denis, neither wishing to be the one to pose the question. But as Graham realised that Denis would never pluck up the courage, he took a deep breath and said,

  “Er, Mrs Myers. I’m a passed driver now, I drove all the way here from Pickering and, well, I was wondering…”

  She anticipated his question. “You were wondering whether you could borrow the car, eh? You and our Denis?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Denis added, “Can we mum, just for tonight?”

  It was evident that she was far from enthusiastic but she did not like to offend the guest by an outright refusal. “Well, I suppose so,” she condescended. “After all, Graham is the sergeant’s son and he won’t do anything silly, will you, Graham?”

  “No, I won’t, I know how to behave…we’ll not drink and drive, Mrs Myers, and I’ll look after the car.”

  “Well, in that case, I suppose you can borrow it. But our Denis mustn’t drive. You’re just a learner, our Denis, and I know your dad wouldn’t allow it. But because Graham’s passed his test, he can drive. That’s what I say — Graham must be the driver. Now, the car doesn’t go far these days, dad says it could do with more outings…yes, all right. Mind, I’m relying on you to look after things, Graham.”

  “I will, I promise,” smiled Graham Blaketon.

  But she didn’t miss the smile of triumph on the face of her son.

  CHAPTER V

  Having secured the necessary screwdriver, Nick decided he could complete his work on the MG, hopefully in one session that Friday evening. He finished his patrol duties around five thirty, one annoyingly unresolved enquiry being the identity of the raider of Crampton church. Another concern was the continuing absence, from his usual haunts, of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Nick had been to his scruffy moorland home on several occasions during the day, but each time Claude had been absent, and Nick had not spotted the rogue anywhere around Aidensfield either. He was telling Kate about it.

  “I can’t think where he’s got to, he’s usually somewhere about the place during the afternoons,” he said as they enjoyed a meal cooked in their new frying pan.

  “You don’t honestly think he’s the guilty person, Nick?” Kate asked him. “He just wouldn’t do that sort of thing. Claude would never go into a church to steal money by breaking into offertory boxes.”

  “No, and he hasn’t got a motor bike either,” Nick mused. “I don’t really suspect him, but I must interview him. He is going around local churchyards, and it is local churches that are being raided. It’s very feasible he could have seen the culprit, even if he didn’t realise it. If Blaketon ever finds out I’ve not grilled Claude, I’ll get it in the neck!”

  “Sergeant Blaketon seems to think Claude’s guilty of every crime that occurs around here,” smiled Kate. “The poor old chap can’t win, can he? Even when he’s doing someone a good turn, he’s suspected of being up to no good!”

  “The first thing Blaketon said to me when I was posted to Aidensfield was “Keep an eye on Claude Jeremiah Greengrass”. He went on at great length about what a villain he was, but I know Claude’s not that sort of villain, Kate. A rogue yes, but never a break-in merchant. Even so, if I don’t interrogate him and find out everything he can tell me and eliminate him from our enquiries, Blaketon will say I’m not doing my job, he’ll hint that I’m neglecting my duties!”

  “So you haven’t told Sergeant Blaketon about Claude’s visits to those churchyards?” Kate grinned at him. “That means you don’t really suspect Claude.”

  “If I’d mentioned Claude’s visits to those churchyards with some cock-and-bull story about cutti
ng grass, Blaketon would have him locked-up for questioning! But I can wait — Claude’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  “Nick, we talked about going out tonight but I’ve got some paperwork to do, I’m working at Whitby tomorrow. Jim Radcliffe is having the weekend off — a family wedding I think.”

  Kate had recently formed a surgery partnership with Doctor James Radcliffe of Whitby, the pair of them setting up a joint practice in the town. Kate’s Aidensfield practice had been linked to the Whitby one.

  This amalgamation had produced a larger, more efficient unit. The new arrangements meant Kate would have more time off because Radcliffe would cover Aidensfield and district in her absence. For the two doctors, the scheme was working well, even if some of the patients were taking their time in making adjustments.

  “I’m working in Whitby too,” grinned Nick. “Football duties tomorrow. Me, Alf Ventress and Blaketon. I’m being picked up here at one o’clock. That means I can have Saturday night off which means I’ll definitely be able to get my car exhaust fixed!”

  “You’re not spending Saturday night lying under a dirty old car!” she retorted. “You can do it tonight while I’m busy with my paperwork! Then we can have Saturday night off, we might even go out for a bar-snack or something!”

  “Right, great idea! I should get the exhaust fitted tonight. Once I get that awkward bracket shifted, it won’t take long to fix the new one.”

  And so, after they’d finished their meal and washed up the pots, Nick changed into his overalls and went into the garage. The new exhaust was lying on the floor and so he lay on his back and eased his way beneath the jacked-up MG, his new screwdriver to hand. And he breathed a sigh of relief as the power exerted through it enabled him to free the stubborn bracket. He removed it very quickly and realised that fitting the new part would be now a comparatively simple task.

  He began to whistle as he worked.

  *

  As Nick worked happily in his garage, members of the Killing Pits Club were gathering upon the grassy portion of moorland at the end of the village. It was dark by this time — around nine o’clock — and some eight or nine cars had assembled. They were truly an assorted lot — one or two were smart sports cars but some were old bangers of doubtful safety, many with rusted bodywork and unsafe lighting systems or unreliable engines. Their spare parts were obtained from scrap yards and some of the cars functioned through a combination of good luck and wishful thinking!