Charlie reacted with commendable speed; he left his car to take a quick look at the scene, realised from the damage that was immediately visible that it was a very serious situation and said, “Right, you stay here. Slow other cars down otherwise there’ll be a worse pile-up. Leave it to me, I’ll ring Ashfordly Police.”
“No,” cried Graham. “There’s no point. The office is shut today, and Aidensfield as well. They’re all out at Whitby, at the football match. You’ll have to ring Whitby, get an ambulance from there as well.”
“Right,” and Charlie returned to his car, reversed onto a patch of flat moorland, turned his car around within seconds and was tearing back to Aidensfield with lights blazing. He must warn any oncoming vehicles, find a telephone and get help.
Graham went back to his mother.
He felt so useless. All he could do was to say, “Help’s on the way, mum…I’m sorry…”
But she made no reply as the blood drained from her.
*
Charlie’s call for help was received at Whitby Police Station in Spring Hill. It was a red-brick Victorian edifice on the narrow, cobbled lane just below the hospital and the office duty constable, a calm voiced man called Finch, listened and said, “All right, Mr Stephens, I’ll have someone sent out immediately. Can you return to the scene and give whatever help is needed in the meantime?”
“Sure,” consented Charlie. The first thing he’d do was to find a breakdown vehicle because something powerful would be needed to haul those cars apart, then he’d go and stop all oncoming traffic at the scene. Some of those Killing Pits Club members might not be quite as skilled as he, and might plough into the wreckage…God, he hoped Graham was coping out there.
PC Finch knew that Inspector Murchison was on duty at the football ground and although she was not in radio contact with Whitby Police Station, she could be reached by telephone. Finch rang the ground and asked the club secretary to find Inspector Murchison and bring her to the telephone.
“She’s right here beside me,” was the response. “I’ll put her on.”
When Inspector Murchison responded, Finch said, “We’ve a report of a traffic accident, ma’am, near Aidensfield, at a place called Bracken Comer. Two injured persons, both serious by the sound of it. I’ve called the ambulance. We need an officer to attend, they’re at the match.”
“Right, I’ll send Sergeant Blaketon and the Ashfordly car, I’m sure we can manage without him and his men while the crowds are departing.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
And so the emergency services were alerted. The ambulance service responded immediately, despatching one vehicle and two crew members to the scene without delay. They would make an assessment to see if a doctor was required, but in the meantime, the casualty department of Whitby Cottage Hospital had been warned of the impending arrival of two badly injured patients. While that was happening, Inspector Murchison ran out of the football ground to find Sergeant Blaketon. With as much dignity as she could muster, she ran down the street to hail Blaketon.
He was standing with his back to the high fence, feeling very bored and very useless; Ventress had kept asking why they couldn’t go home because there was nothing to do here and suggested they all disappear for a cup of tea while Nick’s preoccupation seemed to be the score. At the moment, it was still one-nil to Whitby and then Nick noticed the Inspector heading towards them, her large, ungainly figure looking hilarious as she tried to gallop with some dignity.
“The new inspector’s in a bit of a flap,” grinned Nick. “Do you think she’s coming to warn us that the game’s nearly over? To warn us to get ready for a rush of departing fans?”
“She’ll do herself an injury, running like that,” grinned Blaketon.
“Sergeant, Sergeant Blaketon,” she was calling to him. “There’s a serious traffic accident near Aidensfield, Bracken Comer. Two injuries, a head-on collision. The ambulance has been called. I think you should deal with it, it is in your section.”
“No more details, ma’am?”
“No, that’s all we have at the moment.”
“Right, no sooner said than done. Rowan, Ventress, we’ve work to do. Into the car immediately!”
“Yes, sergeant,” they chorused and each ran towards the waiting Ford, thankful they had something positive to occupy them instead of just hanging around the streets. This was better than car parking at a football match!
But even as they climbed into the car, with Blaketon at the wheel, the crowd in the ground erupted into loud cheers.
“Another goal!” shouted Nick.
“But who’s scored?” grunted Ventress. “Don’t say Crook’s gone and scored!”
“We’ve no time to worry about football scores at a time like this,” smiled Blaketon. “This is real police work, Ventress. Right, Rowan, which is the quickest way to Bracken Comer?”
*
As the emergency services were heading across the moors towards Aidensfield, various forms of assistance had arrived at Bracken Comer. One was, by chance, a passing doctor who was on holiday in the area. He instructed the others that under no circumstances should Mrs Forrester be moved from her car until the ambulance arrived. He’d remain to supervise the ambulance staff, although he did express an opinion, after crawling around the interlocked vehicles, that the cars could be hauled apart without harming the patients, if it was done gently. Access to the injured parties would then be easier. A local farmer, en route to the village, stopped on his tractor and soon he was coiling a powerful chain around the bumper of Denis’ car, while a delivery van driver halted and came to help the farmer. Other people arrived too, including several members of the Killing Pits Club who had been attempting the fastest tour of the circuit.
There were assorted onlookers too, motorists, a party of hikers and some local people who had come along to see what was happening. Scenes like this always attracted crowds; ghouls, the police called them.
First of the official emergency services to arrive was the ambulance. Parking their vehicle as close as possible, the two ambulancemen, reacting calmly and very efficiently to the situation, were guided to the casualties. The doctor, whose name was Rowe, said that Mrs Forrester could be moved, albeit on a stretcher, and that the young man was not so badly hurt. The ambulancemen, with their stretcher at the door of Mrs Forrester’s car, began to tenderly extricate her from the wreckage while the doctor supported her wherever he could. In a surprisingly short time, she was lying on the stretcher with the doctor continuing to monitor her as she was being carried to the waiting ambulance.
“She is a very sick woman,” he warned them. “She must go to hospital without delay — you’ll radio ahead for casualty to be prepared for her arrival? She’ll require immediate emergency treatment and her loss of blood is very serious.”
“We’ve time to recover the lad as well?” queried one of the ambulancemen.
“Sure, yes, of course but be quick, every second counts.”
And so Denis Myers, still unconscious, was removed from his badly damaged car and at this point, some of his injuries became evident.
His left arm hung at an awkward angle and his face was bleeding and bruised where he’d been lying on some broken glass. With the same tenderness they’d shown to Mrs Forrester, Denis was laid upon a stretcher and rushed across to the waiting ambulance. Its engine was already running and the rear doors were open. Under the expert guidance of the willing doctor, the two casualties were eased into their positions, one at either side of the ambulance, as the two ambulancemen began to secure the stretchers to their base.
During these events, Graham Blaketon had been wandering around like a lost sheep. Sometimes he’d gone across to his Killing Pits friends, amongst whom Gordon had appeared, and sometimes he peered into the distance as if awaiting his father, but all the time he was unable to say anything. He seemed to be in a daze and then someone said, “Here’s the police, about bloody time too!”
“Don’t move the cars
any more,” Doctor Rowe said. “The police will want to see them in position.”
Graham saw the small black car coming closer and when it was a few yards from the damaged cars, Sergeant Blaketon eased it onto the verge. Putting on his cap, he emerged from the car as Graham ran across to break the awful news.
“It’s mum,” were his first words.
“Your mum, Joan? Where?” asked Blaketon.
“In the accident, she’s in the ambulance…Denis ran into her, dad…it was awful,” and Graham broke down.
Tears began to roll down his face as he sobbed beyond control, and so, tenderly, Sergeant Blaketon said, “Go and sit in my car, son, I’ll see you in a moment or two, it seems I’ve got work to do.”
Nick came to his sergeant’s side.
“Serge,” he said quietly. “Did I hear right? Is it Mrs Blaketon who’s been hurt?”
“Yes, Rowan, it is my former wife, her name’s Forrester now. Now, you and Ventress go and assume control of the situation while I have words with the ambulancemen. I need to establish the seriousness of the situation.”
Nick could see that his sergeant was having a struggle to contain his emotions; to be confronted with the fact that your wife, or ex-wife, was a casualty in a serious traffic accident must be terrible. Blaketon was clearly displaying an enormous degree of self control as he strode across to the ambulance. Just as he reached it, one of the men was closing the door. Nick decided he would stay a moment or two at his sergeant’s side. As the ambulanceman was walking away, Sergeant Blaketon reached for the handle and began to open the door. “Sergeant!” snapped the driver. “No, not now! There’ll be time for interviews later, this is an emergency.”
“It’s my wife,” he said softly. “Well, ex-wife to be precise.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the ambulanceman now appreciated the awful agony of the policeman’s situation.
“Can I see her?” asked Blaketon.
“For ten seconds, sergeant, no more. I must get her to hospital, she’s lost an awful lot of blood,” and he began to unlock the door. Sergeant Blaketon climbed inside and looked upon Joan. He was devastated by what he saw and broke down in tears. The ambulance driver was hovering near the door, uncertain how to react but anxious to get his patient into casualty without further delay.
Nick spoke to the ambulanceman, “He can go to the hospital with you, can’t he? Sergeant Blaketon? Being a relative?”
“Yes, sure, we’ll take him.”
“And the son?”
“Yes, tell him to get in now, front seat will be fine. Then we must go, really we must.”
“Sergeant,” Nick shouted into the rear of the vehicle. “Stay there, go to the hospital with her. Graham’s coming as well.”
Blaketon tried to put on a brave face in his dilemma, and said, “You can cope, can you?”
“I’m in control, sergeant, I’m an Ashfordly section officer, remember? The cream of Ashfordly section, that’s me and Alf. Of course we can cope.”
“Right, I’ll go with her. I must, it’s such a shock…”
“Graham,” Nick shouted across to the lad in the police car. “Get into the front seat, you’re off to hospital with your mum and dad. Look after them, son, they both need you!” Without a word, Graham obeyed and once the Blaketons were all aboard, the driver switched on his blue rotating light and the ambulance eased away smoothly for its swift run to Whitby’s Cottage Hospital.
“So, what happened here, Alf?” Nick asked as the two constables began their task of dealing with the aftermath.
They took measurements, asking bystanders for statements of evidence but none had witnessed the accident. He saw members of the Killing Pits Club who were standing some distance away and went across to them. He asked after Gordon, but someone said he’d come and gone, taking his motor bike with him, saying Graham didn’t need it any more.
One by one, Nick asked if any of them had witnessed the accident, but none had. Then he asked whether Denis had been racing, whether Denis had a full driving licence and what he was doing with his father’s car, but no one could enlighten Nick.
“Well,” said Nick after his abortive quizzing of them. “You have not been very helpful, and we do have a very seriously injured woman as a result of this. I fully intend to find out exactly what did happen here today, and exactly what Denis was doing. I will visit you each individually starting this evening. I will find out what happened, mark my words.”
From the available evidence at the scene, however, such as dirt on the road, debris and broken glass, Nick was able to identify the precise point of impact.
That was most important for his report and having achieved that, he gave permission for the breakdown truck to remove the battered cars from their present resting places. Now the road could be opened to traffic again, but as Mrs Forrester’s car was being hauled upon the platform of the breakdown vehicle, Nick could see the skidmarks it had left on the surface of the road, seconds before impact.
“Alf,” he said with some sorrow. “See that?”
“What?” asked Alf.
“She was on the wrong side of the road,” said Nick.
CHAPTER XII
While Nick Rowan and Alf Ventress were examining the scene of the accident and gathering evidence for the report that Nick would eventually submit, Sergeant Blaketon held the unconscious Joan’s hand as the ambulance swiftly but smoothly conveyed her and Denis to hospital. One ambulanceman was in attendance as the other drove; he monitored Joan’s stertorous breathing as Blaketon sat in shocked silence.
There was so little Blaketon could do. For the first time in his professional life, he felt useless. That knowledge was made worse by the fact that the victim was the woman he had loved and still loved. He gripped her hand gently, but there was no corresponding response from her.
Graham was in the front passenger seat, saying nothing to anyone because his entire concern was whether or not his mother would survive. Never before had he seen such injuries; he’d seen plenty of scrubs, cuts and bruises at school, and one of his footballing pals once broke a leg, but it had been nothing compared with this. Graham had also seen his father’s reaction to those injuries — that alone revealed that his mother was in an extremely serious condition. The thought of what had happened to her, and his part in the drama, caused a tear to well up within his eye. He began to weep in silence, wiping his eyes and hoping the driver wouldn’t notice.
He tried to settle down for the awful journey to hospital, he tried to think what his father might have done if he’d been first at the scene, but the longer the journey, the more Graham brooded over his unhappy role in this terrible drama. If only he hadn’t left Denis with the others, if only Denis hadn’t taken those pills, if only Denis hadn’t driven so fast into that comer, if only his mother hadn’t swerved…
At the hospital, the ambulance turned smoothly into the casualty department’s entrance and reversed into the necessary bay as the team of waiting experts moved quickly into action. They had been forewarned of this admission, they knew Joan needed immediate and highly skilled surgery, coupled with an urgent blood transfusion. Joan, immobile upon her stretcher, was swiftly carried into the hospital and taken straight to the theatre.
“If you gentlemen would like to wait in reception,” said one of the ambulancemen to the Blaketons. “Someone will come and see you. Please be patient, it might take some time.”
Sergeant Blaketon knew his way around the hospital and led his silent unhappy son into the depths of the building through a series of stark corridors until they arrived at the reception desk. A nurse smiled at them.
“Yes, sergeant?” she asked. “Can I help you?”
“The traffic accident,” he said somewhat nervously. “We’re here with Mrs Forrester, she’s just been taken into theatre. It was at Aidensfield…”
“I’m afraid you will not be able to interview her, sergeant…” she pulled a form from a drawer and began to complete the heading. “Now, if you are de
aling with the accident, you’ll be able to help me. What is the lady’s full name and address, and who are the next of kin?”
“We are,” he said. “The casualty is my ex-wife, and this is our son. I’m not here to interview her, I’m here to give her support. My name is Blaketon, Oscar Blaketon from Ashfordly Police Station and this is our son, Graham; she is now called Mrs Forrester, she married again, you see.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sergeant, I thought…”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “People of my profession usually come here to interview witnesses. There was another young man too, in the accident.”
“His name is Denis Myers,” said Graham, trying to be useful. “He lives at Aidensfield,” and Graham gave details of the Myers’ home address.
“Thank you, I’ll let the doctor know you are both here, sergeant, and we’ll try to get word to Mr Myers’ parents.” When the nurse had completed the necessary paperwork from the details they supplied, she indicated some chairs and said, “If you’d like to wait here, I’ll get the doctor to visit you. Now, a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, yes. Milk, no sugar, for us both.”
Sergeant Blaketon, cap in hand, moved across to the row of chairs, nodded to a young couple who were already waiting there, and sat down, placing his cap on the chair at his side. Graham joined him.
“Dad, I…I mean…it was awful…I was there, I saw it.”
“Accidents happen, son,” said Blaketon. “I just hope she pulls through.”
“But dad, I feel as if I’m to blame…”
“You mustn’t, Graham. It would be that other lad’s fault, Denis, driving like hell, I bet. You know what lads are like. But Rowan’s in control, he’ll find out what happened, so don’t you fret about it. She needs us here, both of us. We’re all she’s got now.”
And so Graham lapsed into a deep silence, tortured by his own thoughts. He was plagued by images of his mother driving along the wrong side of the road and of Denis racing into that comer…and then he had vision after vision of that terrible collision. He sat with his head in his hands as a nurse arrived with two cups of tea and some biscuits on a tray. Blaketon took the tray and set it on an empty chair, then touched Graham’s shoulder before silently handing him a cup.
Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 10