CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19)

by NICHOLAS RHEA

  Replacing my helmet, I walked over the muddy uneven ground towards the noisy, slow-moving machines and, eventually, a man noticed my approach. He waved to indicate he was aware of my presence, concluded his business with the driver of one of the machines, and began to walk towards me.

  I waited in some awe at the huge scale of the operation currently underway, even though it was little more than shifting thousands of tons of earth, rock and undergrowth at this stage. Ramsdale Bridge and the old road were still intact. Soon, the white-helmeted man was within talking distance. He was smiling and relaxed, clad in what looked like a light blue boiler suit and steel-capped boots. I noticed that his helmet bore the name Rigby.

  ‘’Morning,’ he greeted me, with his hand outstretched. ‘Ken Rigby.’

  ‘PC Rhea, Nick, the village constable from Aidensfield.’ I shook his hand. ‘This operation is on my patch so I thought I ought to introduce myself.’

  ‘Good of you to come, Nick. Fancy a coffee?’ He led me back to his office where the typist, Karen Richards, produced two mugs of coffee. With his helmet removed, he revealed a round, cheerful face with thinning brown hair and warm brown eyes. In his mid-forties, his skin was weathered due to his outdoor work and he was of average height, not as tall as me but certainly wider. Stocky might be a way to describe him.

  In the comparative peace of his office, Ken outlined the kind of work that would be undertaken over the coming months, beginning with what he called the unwatering. That meant blocking the route of the existing stream and diverting its flow so that the dam’s foundations could be created. To completely rid the site of water was vital. He told me how the volume and type of work would change as the various phases were completed and how, in the longer term, water would gradually be reintroduced into the basin to form the new reservoir.

  Even when the dam was finished, the reservoir would take many months to fill completely, with constant checks and counter checks of both the dam and the strata beneath the water as it was doing so. He showed me maps of the dale, sketch plans with and without the water in position, the routes of the new roads and access points, locations of key offices and power units, and everything he thought might interest or inform me.

  In return, I explained how the local police had to strike a liaison with the contractors to determine a policy for dealing with emergencies which might include everything from suicides to sudden death by way of industrial accidents and sudden illnesses — but Ken knew the system. He’d worked previously on reservoirs, road construction, industrial complex building, earth removal — in fact, a whole range of large-scale operations. From his files, he produced some internal papers which he gave me; these contained all the information I was likely to require. We also discussed security of the site when it was unoccupied, and again this had been closely considered by Marchant French, as indeed it was with all their undertakings. He assured me they did employ their own security guards. I was provided with more papers detailing things like emergency telephone numbers, details of the security firm who had been instructed to protect the site at all times and the names of the key personnel. It was a worthwhile visit and, more importantly, I found Ken Rigby most friendly and co-operative. It was a good start to what promised to be a long working relationship.

  As we concluded our coffees and our chat, I asked, ‘So what role is Claude Jeremiah Greengrass going to play?’

  ‘Who?’ His brow furrowed as he puzzled over the name.

  I explained the doubtful reputation of our resident rogue, reminding Ken of the rare gentians on his patch of land and how he’d fought a campaign to save them.

  ‘Oh, him; you mean the chap with the old army greatcoat and scruffy dog?’ he smiled when my description identified Claude. ‘We said he could be our flora and fauna consultant. It was to shut him up really, and keep him away from our workmen, and we said he could take rabbits from our land, so long as he does it while we’re not operating. He offered to remove our waste for us — top soil, rocks, timber from felled trees, scrap metal and so on. But we have our own system of waste disposal, all carefully supervised — particularly for matters like oil and other noxious substances. So to keep him quiet, my boss came up with the consultancy idea and the rabbits. We don’t want rabbits digging holes among our machinery, to be honest, so it does mean he’ll be on site from time to time. And another chap who’s been given almost total freedom of access is that artist in the farmhouse along the road. Our managing director has commissioned him to produce watercolours of our progress. We’ll use them on our office walls and for future publicity.’

  ‘He’s called Gordon Precious,’ I said.

  ‘That’s him, yes. A nice chap, bit on the quiet side but his work seems good if I’m any judge. Now, I don’t think you’ll have much trouble from our lads. Very few will actually live on the site. Some will be boarded in the village, Aidensfield that is, or even Ashfordly, at bed-and-breakfast places or even the local pubs. A lot will be bussed in on a daily basis although from time to time, we might have to resort to caravans for overnight accommodation, if there is a particular task to be completed by a deadline. But even so, the men will spend most of their time working, there’ll be little time to spend in your pubs or chasing the female talent of the locality. But I’ll try to keep you informed of such occasions, so you can make any necessary plans. I’ll know of such things about a month in advance.’

  ‘That’ll be fine for us,’ I said, and gave him the telephone number of Ashfordly Police Station, with Sergeant Blaketon’s name should he need it. He introduced me to the two office girls, Karen Richards who was the site secretary, and Debbie Clark whose role was chiefly to ensure that everything that was needed in the office was ready and available, like the ongoing plans and copies of the contracts.

  Both girls had found accommodation in Aidensfield and would travel daily to the site, I was told; they’d rented a flat above the stores but would return home to Doncaster at weekends. Ken then told me that, being a single man, he had no settled home because of the nature of his work, and he practically lived out of suitcases. There was a bed in his office which he sometimes used, but generally he found accommodation in a pub. In this case, he was boarding most of the time at the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby, telling me that the reason for his choice was his interest in horse-racing. That pub was a centre for the local horse-racing fraternity, something he had already learned, and he’d discovered the tremendous rise of local interest in a horse called Western Cloud.

  The owner lived nearby at Thackerston and Western Cloud had been entered for a race at Thirsk in the summer. Bets were already being placed by the locals — myself included. I’d risked £1 each way. I wished Ken well in his stay in the district and knew he’d be well fed and cared for by George Ward, the landlord. It was a very comfortable and well-run establishment.

  In that way, I established my first important personal contact at the Ramsdale Reservoir project.

  Chapter Three

  And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

  The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

  THOMAS MOORE, 1779–1852

  One peculiarity about young girls who are outwardly sensible and intelligent is that some are attracted by the dubious charms of scruffy, greasy, unwashed, itinerant, uneducated and downright untrustworthy young men. This feminine characteristic greatly puzzles rational and honest young fellows and so far as I know, none has ever produced a satisfactory answer. One Yorkshireman attempted to provide a reason by saying aimless flies were always attracted to muck, although he was not polite enough to use to work ‘muck’.

  I must admit I wondered whether this feminine trait would surface with the arrival of the construction workers as it so often did when travelling fairgrounds settled for a few days. I did expect some dizzy young girls would frequent the site in the hope of captivating a crane controller or dazzling a dumper driver. I must admit, however, that the first few months were comparatively worry-free and that Sergeant Bl
aketon’s doom-laden prophesies were not fulfilled. Apart from the occasional arrest of a drunk and disorderly dam worker on a Saturday night, or a summons for driving a car without an excise licence and insurance, or catching a tearaway roaring about on a battered old motorbike with a hole in the exhaust pipe, there was very little real bother. And no hordes of lovesick nymphs flocked to the site.

  The outcome was that most of the fears expressed by local people did not materialize — and never would. None of the expected protectors or rent-a-mob turned up to make nuisances of themselves, no one vandalized the site buildings or stole any equipment, and there were no riots or random acts of violence by the workmen. Any real noise from the heavy vehicles was confined to the site, and even though some of them regularly passed through Aidensfield and neighbouring villages, I did not receive any complaints.

  In time, however, one item of concern did materialize. The ‘scruffy-man attraction’ syndrome did manifest itself, albeit in a minor way. I became aware of it when two young Aidensfield girls were apparently being lured to the reservoir site. This arose through my own observations because no one mentioned the matter to me — certainly the girls’ parents did not — and this suggested either that there was no cause for concern or that the parents were unaware of their daughters’ destination. Perhaps I was being too diligent, but I did notice that the girls were enjoying rather more bicycle rides than hitherto. And I also noticed that those rides took them along the lanes and across the moor towards Ramsdale. Their motivation was, in my opinion, fairly obvious. I reckoned they were attracted to the rough, tough and virile site workers who would respond to their attentions, just as they would respond to any pretty young woman.

  In this case, there was a particular problem: both girls were only fourteen years old and still at school.

  In their casual outfits, however, each had the appearance of being at least sixteen, especially on those occasions when they tried to make themselves look older. Both were well developed, quite tall girls who, with the right make-up and hairstyle, would easily pass for sixteen or even seventeen. I think their fifteenth birthdays were not far away, probably in the autumn of that year, but that did not alter the fact that they were fourteen-year-olds.

  They were Denise Emmott and her friend, Elaine Sowerby. Both families lived in the council houses along Thrush Lane, Aidensfield; the Emmotts at No. 10 and the Sowerbys at No. 12. They were from decent, caring families, Doug Emmott working on the railway and Frank Sowerby employed by the Urban District Council Highways Department. As both men were active in village affairs, I knew them quite well. Both enjoyed a night in the pub where they played darts or dominoes, both were proficient growers of vegetables in their allotments, while in the summer they were both keen cricketers.

  Both played for Aidensfield and in this hobby they were well supported by their families. I’d often attended village cricket matches where I’d seen Denise and Elaine among the spectators — although I suspect cricket might not have been the prime reason for their presence. Some fine young lads did play for the Aidensfield team and also for the opposing sides, and I had often witnessed the banter between them and these girls.

  Denise had a younger sister and Elaine an elder brother; each of the mums worked part-time in the local school, helping with the dinners.

  The families were friends and good neighbours to one another, Denise and Elaine being playmates even before they started primary school. They had passed through Aidensfield Primary School together, and were now seniors at Strensford Secondary Modern, Denise considering hairdressing as her livelihood and Elaine contemplating a secretarial career.

  As I became aware of the girls’ increasingly frequent gravitations towards the reservoir site, I wondered whether or not their parents knew of their destination and their sudden interest in cycling and, if so, whether they would object. Girls, even those as young as fourteen who were riding bikes past whistling workmen, were not doing anything illegal, immoral or even dangerous, so was it any official concern of mine? It was one of those minor dilemmas which confront a diligent constable from time to time. Interference in contented family life is wrong; on the other hand, caring for families is right and justifiable, but where does one draw an acceptable dividing line? When a constable joins the Force, he or she swears to protect life and property, and to prevent crime, but in seeking to fulfil that pledge, where does unjustifiable interference begin?

  I decided I needed more information about the girls’ activities before I could determine my future action. If they were merely riding their bikes to observe the progress of the reservoir, then I should have no worries. But rather like their reason for visiting the cricket matches, I believed their real interest did not lie in a desire for knowledge of the building process. My worry was that one or other of the more irresponsible site workers might regard these nubile girls as available conquests.

  In such an eventuality, there could be long-term problems for their families so the wise thing is to prevent trouble before it starts. I thought it might be necessary to alert their parents and in this, I had to bear in mind that there were very strict laws about sexual activities involving children under sixteen years of age. In reflecting upon this development, I decided my most discreet action would be to patrol around Ramsdale on those occasions I believed the girls would be there. In that way, I’d encounter them ostensibly during my routine work and with a bit of luck, I’d be able to decide if they were at risk. Whatever I learned would dictate my future actions.

  Sometimes they rode their bikes towards Ramsdale after school, usually on a Friday evening, although on occasions they ventured out mid-week, apparently preferring Wednesdays. I wondered whether this was due to a light homework load or whether there was a particular attraction at the site on those evenings. They also rode towards the reservoir on Saturday afternoons and Sunday afternoons, the site being busy during all those times. Work never stopped except when it grew dark. Although members of the workforce did have their days off, these were staggered throughout the week so as not to interrupt the non-stop construction work. This meant there was always some kind of activity when the girls were haunting the place.

  My low-profile strategy determined, therefore, it was early one Saturday afternoon when I saw the girls embarking on yet another of their outings towards the site. It was a warm June day, a highlight of which was to be a cricket match between Aidensfield and Elsinby.

  It seemed the girls had decided not to be spectators on that occasion. The match would be played at John’s Field which was the name of Elsinby’s sports ground, and the fathers of both girls would be playing for Aidensfield. The match was to begin at 2.30 p.m. which meant the respective dads were conveniently occupied during the entire afternoon and well into the early evening which in turn meant they would not be around to ask searching questions of their daughters. The two mums had gone shopping to Strensford, something they did when the team played away from home. A home game, on the other hand, meant both wives voluntarily made teas for the teams.

  With each set of parents usefully occupied, therefore, I noticed the two girls wheel their bikes into the village street. Each was clad in a pair of very short shorts, a bright T-shirt and sandshoes, with Denise tying her long, dark hair in a red ribbon behind, and Elaine allowing her blonde curls to be caressed by the mild moorland breeze. They mounted their cycles and, with some giggling and excitement, began to pedal towards Ramsdale, their interest in cricket and cricketers evaporating in favour of construction work and construction workers. I could envisage any red-blooded young man believing they were sixteen or even older. Certainly, they were highly attractive — and they knew it. I felt they’d outgrown any interest in schoolboys!

  It was half past two as they passed the war memorial and turned towards the Anglican parish church, clearly making for the heathery heights which overlooked the village. The journey involved a couple of undulating miles across the moor and I reckoned it would take about half an hour because there were so
me steep ascents.

  They’d have to walk up the hills and push their cycles to the summits, and there were very few downhill runs on the outward journey. I would therefore allow them one hour before I embarked upon a gentle patrol of Ramsdale on my official motorbike.

  To occupy my time, I drove into Elsinby where I parked at the cricket ground to watch the game and chat with supporters. Aidensfield were fielding so I had no opportunity to talk with the girls’ fathers, not that I had anything to say to them at that stage. No one commented upon the absence of Denise and Elaine, although I suspect one or two young spectators might have noticed their absence. Some of the players too, I’d guess.

  In due course, I made my way to Ramsdale. It was a glorious summer day with the sun beating down so I removed my uniform jacket. I folded it somewhat ignominiously and stuffed it into one of my panniers. Thus I was motorcycling in my uniformed shirt sleeves albeit with my crash helmet in place. With the wild moors around me and a cooling breeze generated by my speed, I was thoroughly enjoying myself, even if this was classed as police duty.

  When I arrived at the site, I saw the two cycles leaning against the stout wire perimeter fence but there was no sign of Denise and Elaine. The high, barbed wire-topped gate was standing open but there was no gateman or controller to deter trespassers. Inside was a sea of dried mud, all churned up with the activity of the heavy vehicles but hardened in the heat of the sun. Even so, there were some deep pools of muddy brown water and a good deal of soft soil around the site.

  An earth-moving machine was operating — I could hear the drone of its engine and the sound of its shovel striking stone as it struggled to cope with huge buried boulders. There was a mobile crane too — I could see its lofty jib moving around as if picking a place to drop its grab. Perched on a tank-like base with caterpillar tracks, the big yellow crane was lifting huge iron water-pipes from a colossal pile and relaying them end to end in a long line which pointed down the dale. Their first use would be to carry water from the site during the unwatering process and, much later, they would be reutilized to carry any surplus from the outlets of the full reservoir.