Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  Wandering among them were several teenage youths and girls, eighteen or twenty in total, all aged between seventeen and nineteen. They were generating a good deal of noise too. Engines were being revved, radios were being played, sometimes a horn would blast or there would be an outburst of laughter or giggling as the young men chased girls around the cars and across the moor into the heather and bracken. But at this deserted location, there were few houses and so no one complained.

  The Killing Pits Club had met at this venue for as long as any member of the gathering could recall, first with bicycles and then with motor bikes, and none of the villagers had complained.

  Although the very young children of Aidensfield continued to meet here to play after school, these maturing youngsters had cars and they continued to meet at the same place. It had long been the play-area for the village children, their own portion of moorland. And it was known as the Killing Pits.

  The reason for this odd name was lost in history. The edge of the moor at this point was covered with short grass, shorn beautifully by the ever-present free-roaming moorland sheep, but as the moor rose gradually from the road, the terrain became rougher. It developed into a mass of shallow ditches and uneven bumps, many hidden beneath the heather and bracken, and some historians believed this was the site of the early village. From time to time, Stone Age artefacts were found and bones had been discovered in the early eighteenth century. The earthworks were probably the remains of buildings, long since fallen into ruin and buried, and it was possible to identify moats, walls, floor spaces, doorways and so forth.

  Another theory was that the site had been used, probably in Stone Age times, to trap wild animals. Deep pits were dug in the moorland and wild animals, such as deer or even wolves, were driven into them. The hunters would arrange themselves around the higher edges of the pits and once the animals were trapped, they would systematically be killed with spears or even heavy rocks. Hence the name — Killing Pits.

  For the young children of Aidensfield, however, the entire area, a moorland space without boundaries or fences, was a haven of delight. The pits were pits no longer but merely shallow depressions in the earth and here the youngsters could play without danger and without hindrance, as they had for centuries. Even now, the children of Aidensfield relaxed at the Killing Pits, playing hide and seek among the tall bracken in the summer, tobogganing in the winter or simply meeting there to decide what else to do.

  Many of the older children, now teenagers, had cars. This was the adult section of the Killing Pits Club and membership was strictly limited to those who owned a motor car. Those who had access to a car, such as the family saloon, did not qualify. Youths had therefore stretched themselves financially in order to purchase a motor car, any sort of motor car, because membership of the Killing Pits Club was indeed a matter of some stature. Only the best of Aidensfield and district could join!

  And so it was, in the darkness of that late evening, that the present generation of senior Killing Pits Club members gathered for a meeting. Their leader was Gordon Turnbull. No-one had elected Gordon but he was a natural leader. His style, his free spending of money, his well paid job, his commanding presence and his natural qualities of leadership had all combined to make him the obvious choice. And the others followed him, almost without question.

  Tonight, however, he was having problems. The engine of his Austin Healey was overheating, apparently through a leak in the radiator, and if this was the case he could not give the vehicle a time trial tonight. Indeed, it must not go anywhere because the engine could seize up — and that would be extremely costly. He had the bonnet up now and was peering into the radiator with a torch. The water level was very low, far lower than was safe even though he had topped it up before leaving home. As he searched around the engine, he saw the tell-tale signs of glistening water on the grass beneath. He cursed to himself — it was a very severe leak and it would have to be fixed. He shouted to his girlfriend, Julie, who was in the driving seat.

  “Start her up, Julie, and give her a short burst while I listen…”

  His girlfriend obeyed, switching on the ignition and pressing the accelerator as Gordon’s keen hearing tried to identify any unwelcome sounds from the engine. But it seemed to be running sweetly; the ignition system seemed fine, none of the plugs was missing a sequence of firing. So far, no real harm seemed to have been done.

  “OK, Julie, switch off. It’s over-heating, that’s what’s making it miss sometimes. There’s a radiator leak. So we’re grounded tonight.”

  She switched off the engine and came around to him as he closed the bonnet.

  “So we won’t be doing the run tonight?” she asked.

  “Not you and me, not in this car anyway, but the others can do a circuit. Hello, here comes young Blaketon and that chump, Denis Myers!”

  Gordon grinned as the battered old A40 with Graham Blaketon at the wheel, eased to a halt at the edge of the group. The car was bearing “L” plates, and so Gordon went over to greet Graham.

  “Graham! Nice to see you,” they shook hands. “So what brings you back to Aidensfield?”

  “I’m staying with Denis for the weekend, my mum’s in Whitby so I came along for the outing. So the Killing Pits Club’s still very active, eh?”

  “Lively and popular, that’s the description. So is this your car?”

  “No, it belongs to Denis’ dad, Denis is the learner. I’ve passed my test, but I haven’t a car of my own yet. Anyway, we thought we’d come and see what goes on here!”

  “You did right,” then Gordon placed his fingers between his lips and produced a loud, piercing whistle. It had the desired effect — everyone stopped to listen to him.

  “Hey, everybody, Graham’s here,” and several of them shouted “Hi Graham” and other words of greeting. As one or two came across to speak to Graham Blaketon, Gordon turned to Denis. His manner was condescending and he spoke with just a hint of a sneer.

  “So, our Denis, you still haven’t got your own car?”

  “No, I can’t afford one, Gordon, not yet. I’m saving up though, earning bits of extra cash wherever I can. But I wondered if I could join now though, and do the run tonight in this car. It’s my dad’s and I can drive it, with Graham accompanying me.”

  “No chance!” echoed Gordon. “You know the rules, our Denis. Only owners of cars can join.”

  “But you’re letting Graham in!”

  “As my guest. As the guest of a club member who must have a car. Besides, he’s the sergeant’s son, we might need him, if you see what I mean. He might be able to exert a bit of influence if we happen to need it…”

  Graham, who’d been chatting to another of the members, did not hear the exchange, but was now coming to rejoin Denis and Gordon.

  “So Denis will be doing the run tonight, Gordon?” asked Graham.

  “No chance, Graham, he can’t. Sorry and all that, but it’s the rules.”

  The look on Denis’ face indicated his disappointment but he said nothing. One day he’d show that pompous Gordon Turnbull…one day he would have a car and one day he would arrive in a posh sports car with a lovely girl beside him…one day…

  “Tell you what, our Denis,” smiled Gordon. “You can be the time-keeper for tonight. How about that? It is an important duty.”

  Rather than be left out of the evening’s entertainment, Denis agreed. He would wave the cars off and see them back, entering their times on a piece of paper to determine who was the slowest tonight. And the slowest would have to buy drinks for all the others at the Aidensfield Arms after the run. He hoped Gordon was slowest — the slow worm, the slowest was called. He’d love to see Gordon as the slow worm…

  Then Gordon whistled through his fingers once more, the shrill sound compelling everyone to a respectful silence.

  “Right everybody,” he shouted. “Time for action. Our Denis is going to be the time-keeper, so it’s a case of drawing lots for the running order.”

  “It’s
been done,” said somebody from the darkness.

  “Good, we are highly organised! So who’s first?”

  A youth called Ian raised his hand. “Me and Liz,” he called back.

  “Right, get to your starting place. We set off at one minute intervals. No short cuts allowed. Norman’s the half-way marshal, so you must pass him during the circuit. And the slowest is the slow worm for tonight and he buys the first round for everybody. Right, our Denis? Got a white handkerchief and a watch?”

  Denis showed his wristwatch and waved his handkerchief as Gordon indicated the starting point. Graham walked beside Denis and said, “I’ll come with you, Denis, I’m not doing the circuit, not in your dad’s car. I promised to look after it.”

  “Thanks,” said Denis, who then saw Ian and Liz heading his way. He held out his arm to halt them at the starting point, checked his watch and said, “Ready?”

  Ian, in a tiny Hillman Imp, shouted from the window.

  “Ready and waiting, Denis!”

  Denis began to study his watch and raised the white handkerchief. “OK, ready, Ian? Get set. Five, four, three, two, one. Go!”

  And with a roar of its engine, the gallant little car raced from the Killing Pits and headed for Aidensfield village.

  “Next one take your position,” shouted Denis and a sporty Triumph Spitfire moved forward.

  *

  At the Aidensfield Arms, George Ward, the landlord, was polishing glasses. The bar was deserted and he was beginning to wonder where his customers were when the door crashed open and in staggered Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

  He was carrying a scythe and a strickle, and had Alfred at the end of a long lead. As man and dog entered the bar, the scythe crashed against the tables and chairs, banged the counter and threatened to demolish the peaceful state of the inn as Claude made for the counter.

  He was hobbling painfully and looked completely exhausted. He puffed and wheezed as he tried to deposit the scythe against the counter.

  “Now you’ve got in without wrecking the place, Claude, I take it you’ll be having your usual?”

  “I need summat that fortifies the over-fifties and stops me feet aching!” breathed Claude. “By, I’ve had a rough day!”

  “Well, start with a pint — and have this one on the house. It might bring us both good luck — where is everybody?”

  “Shall I go out and come in again?” blinked Claude. “That’ll make it two customers!”

  “And you’ll be expecting two free pints! No chance. Anyway, you look shattered! Been busy, have you?” George wondered what on earth Claude had been doing. He was seldom this late into the pub and he never looked so worn out.

  “Busy?” echoed Claude. “Folks round here don’t know the meaning of the word. I’ve never seen so many gravestones!” and at that point, they were interrupted by the roar of a car as it hurtled past the pub.

  “Somebody leaving his wife, is it?” smiled Claude.

  “It’s them daft lads again, the Killing Pits Club. Racing around the village, they are. They’ll be killing somebody next…I don’t know why Nick doesn’t put a stop to it.”

  “He couldn’t put a stop to a leaking tap!” grinned Claude.

  “They wait till he’s off duty, then they race around the moor. Slowest one on the night has to buy drinks all round.”

  “Free drinks all round?” beamed Claude. “Then I’ll wait!”

  “They’ll be coming in soon so you’d better shift that scythe. I don’t want anybody getting hurt!”

  “I’ll sit down near the fire,” smiled Claude. “I can wait…come on, Alfred,” but Alfred’s lead was tangled around a chair leg and it fell over as the dog moved.

  “Claude, you’ll be paying for damages if you’re not careful!”

  “Aye, well, I might just be able to pay up an’ all, I’m likely to come into money, George, big money, so think on who you’re talking to,” grinned Claude, his eyes blinking furiously.

  CHAPTER VI

  That same Friday evening, Nick was determined to complete the work on his car. The new screwdriver had enabled him to dispose of the stubborn bracket and once that had been dealt with, it was a comparatively simple matter to fit the new system. As he was making the final adjustments, Kate came to see how he was progressing.

  “Five more minutes, love,” he shouted from beneath the vehicle. “Then it’s done! It’ll sound as sweet as a sewing machine!”

  “Shall I make us a drink?” she asked. “I’ve finished my paperwork.”

  “How about a drink at the pub instead? I feel like a long cool pint after working among all this dust and dirt.”

  “All right, I’d enjoy that. I’ll run a bath for you.”

  “And you can jump in with me!” he shouted as he emerged from beneath. “Lots of warm water and bubbles.”

  “I’ve had my bath!” she said rather coldly. “And besides, who’d want to share a bath with a man who looks as if he’s just finished a shift in an oil well?”

  And she left him to his work. He slid under the car, tugged at the exhaust to make sure it was secure then began to tighten each of the securing bolts. Just before the final tightening he’d run the engine to ensure there were no leaks. It was during a moment of silence as he shifted position that he heard the roar of a car engine outside; he listened carefully, trying to determine from the noise whether or not the vehicle was racing or merely passing. But it did sound like a speeding car…he waited. If this was like last night, there’d be another along in a minute.

  And so there was. With a roaring of its engine and a squealing of its tyres, another vehicle hurtled through Aidensfield and so Nick decided he must do something about this. If there were no rallies, it was probably local youths and he knew they must be stopped. Perhaps his visit to the pub tonight would be very timely?

  *

  Inside the police house, Kate had prepared a couple of mugs of coffee and was waiting for Nick to arrive when the telephone rang. She was tempted to ignore it, with both Nick and she being off duty, but she relented. It could be someone needing urgent help.

  “Dr Rowan, Aidensfield Police House,” she announced.

  “It’s Jack Wilson here,” snapped the angry voice. “Is your husband in?”

  “Not at the moment, Mr Wilson, he’s off duty this evening, so can I take a message?”

  And at that instance, a terrible roaring noise sounded in the garage; Nick was running the engine of his MG and pressing the accelerator to test his new exhaust pipe.

  The din echoed in the confines of the garage and because she’d left the door open, the noise also filled the house.

  She shouted into the telephone.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Wilson, what was the message?”

  “It’s those noisy cars!” bellowed the caller. “I can hear ‘em now. Racing through the village, they are, creating a terrible racket and going far too fast. They’re a liability, Dr Rowan, somebody’ll get hurt one of these days. I want your husband to do something about them, put a stop to whatever they’re doing, make sure decent residents have a chance of a bit of peace and quiet. Then there’s the danger aspect, you know, the speed some of ‘em are going

  “Yes, I’m sure he will deal with the matter when he gets back on duty, Mr Wilson. He is aware of the problem and I do know he is making enquiries to trace the perpetrators.” And as she spoke, the noise stopped. Nick had switched off his engine and the resultant silence was a blessed relief but Kate was still shouting! She was speaking in a false raised voice to Mr Wilson before she realised it was quiet around her.

  “There you are,” said the caller. “That’s what we have to put up with all the time, dozens of ‘em racing past our house. Mark my words, there’ll be an accident one of these days…”

  “I’ll ask Nick to contact you about it,” she said sweetly just as he came into the room, wiping his hands on an oily rag. She replaced the handset with a smile.

  “Who was that?” Nick asked her. “A call-out?�
�

  “No,” she said sternly. “It was Jack Wilson from just along the street, he’s complaining about noisy cars, and if you’d heard the racket you were making…”

  “It works perfectly,” he enthused. “No more fumes leaking through, no more illegal noise…I’ve done a good job in there! I could always get a job as a mechanic if I leave the Force!”

  “I think the residents want you to do an even better job by stopping those noisy cars outside!”

  “When I get back on duty,” he said. “That will be my first priority — after I’ve caught the offertory box thief. Now, a quick coffee, a quick bath and a trip to the pub for a quick pint! We’ll have to get there before George closes. I can’t walk in after time and ask for a drink!”

  *

  Nick was bathed and ready in less than ten minutes and when he and Kate entered the pub, it was deserted except for Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and Alfred. Claude was sitting at a table with Alfred at his feet and an almost empty pint glass before him. George was alone at the bar counter too, amusing himself with a crossword puzzle in the local paper. The inn was desperately quiet and so, when Nick and Kate walked in, George beamed with pleasure.

  “Customers!” he smiled a welcome. “You know, I was beginning to think I’d got smelly breath or something. It’s been dead quiet these last two evenings. Anyway, nice to see you. So what can I get you both?”

  “A gin and tonic for Kate and a pint for me, George. And one for yourself. So what’s the matter with old Claude? He’s not his usual chirpy self, is he?” Nick could see the tiredness in both Claude and Alfred.