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

  ‘I believe you,’ I smiled.

  ‘Look, if you must know, I buy it by the lorryload and my contract says I can sell it. That’s how I make money — I buy cheap and sell fast. The profit’s mine — these contractors want shot of the stuff anyway and there’s enough in that valley to cover half the new gardens in Yorkshire. I’m doing a service by getting rid of my share, even if it’s nobbut a drop in the ocean compared with all the stuff they’re having to shift.’

  ‘So it’s a new business, is it? Selling topsoil?’

  ‘Do you know anybody who might want to buy some?’ was his next question.

  ‘Not off-hand,’ I said. ‘But I’ll keep my ears open, I’ll refer them to you. How much can you spare?’

  ‘All this lot!’ he snapped.

  ‘All of it? But you’ve enough to cover a whole building site. You could cover hundreds of house gardens, or a football pitch or cricket field . . .’

  ‘Aye, well,’ and he blinked anew. ‘That was the idea. It was this chap I met at Ashfordly mart . . .’

  ‘The mart?’

  ‘Well, the pub really, on market day. He was a builder, he’s developing a big site on the coast near Strensford, a hundred and fifty new houses, detached and semi-detached, with garages and gardens. He said he wanted some good topsoil because the land on them cliffs is a bit thin . . . you know how it is.’

  ‘And you said you could fix him up with some very good topsoil?’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s right enough. It is good stuff. Untilled for centuries, full of natural goodness.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’ I had to ask.

  ‘He went broke before he even made a start,’ muttered Claude. ‘Not one spadeful of ground did he dig before he went bust; summat to do with a development near Bradford.’

  ‘And you’re left with tons of topsoil that you can’t get rid of?’

  ‘Well, not that I’ve tried all that hard, not just yet. I’ve got to shift it from the reservoir basin as fast as I can because if it’s left behind, it’ll cause a hold-up and I’ll be into the penalty clauses. The contractors are shifting their allocation — I’ve my own allocation which I have to get moved by month end.’

  ‘Think of the profit!’ I laughed.

  ‘What profit?’ he grunted. ‘It’s doing nowt but cost me money right now, and instead of delaying yon reservoir, it’s delaying my caravan project. I can’t start my caravan site until I get all that muck shifted.’

  ‘And you can’t shift the mountain of muck because you’ve not found a buyer?’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of muck to shift . . .’

  ‘You could always dig a hole and bury it!’ I laughed.

  ‘Give over!’ he groaned.

  ‘All right. If I hear of anyone who wants a few loads of topsoil, I’ll tell them to contact you,’ I said, and I meant it.

  ‘I’d appreciate that, Constable, I really would,’ he said; and so I bade him farewell.

  It was about a week later when I received a call from Sergeant Blaketon.

  I had completed a morning’s patrol of my Aidensfield patch and was at home for lunch; as I was enjoying my coffee afterwards, the telephone rang. Mary answered it and advised me that Sergeant Blaketon wanted to speak to me. It seems someone had reported a crime on my beat and my attention was required. I went into the office and picked up the telephone.

  ‘PC Rhea, Aidensfield,’ I announced myself.

  ‘Sergeant Blaketon, Ashfordly,’ came the familiar voice. ‘Rhea, get your skates on, you’ve got a crime to deal with.’

  ‘Right, Sergeant. What’s happened?’

  ‘Somebody’s nicking fresh topsoil,’ he said.

  ‘Not Greengrass?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Greengrass it’s being nicked from!’ he chuckled. ‘Now what I should be asking is where or why Greengrass has obtained such a thing. It’s not exactly the sort of thing he’d leave lying around that ranch of his.’

  ‘Oh, I know how he’s acquired it.’ I then explained to my sergeant how Claude had managed to acquire a sizeable hummock of earth, what he had intended to do with it and how he was now unable to get rid of it.

  ‘Then I’d have thought he’d be pleased if somebody was relieving him of the stuff!’ laughed Blaketon. ‘Anyway, we’ve had a report of a crime so we must respond, even if the victim is Greengrass.’

  ‘Is it a crime?’ I asked him.

  ‘Is what a crime?’ He was puzzled by my question.

  ‘Stealing earth,’ I replied. ‘I thought that things attached to the realty were not larcenable.’

  ‘If what you say is true, the Greengrass cache of soil has already been detached from the realty, therefore it is larcenable. It belongs to him, it’s been removed by him and so it can be the subject of larceny, Rhea. So if somebody is helping themselves unlawfully to his gold mine, then we must take the necessary action.’

  ‘Right, Sergeant, I’m on my way. Where is Claude, by the way?’

  ‘He rang me from his home, he’d been trying to contact you but there was no reply.’

  ‘I was out and Mary was shopping this morning,’ I said.

  ‘Well, he said he was going to his caravan site and would wait until a police officer arrived. So over to you, Rhea.’

  Claude was not in the best of moods when I hove to upon my little Francis Barnett. I dismounted and walked across to him as he waited beside his truck, taking my notebook from my pocket as I approached him.

  ‘What took you so long?’ he snapped. ‘I rang Blaketon ages ago.’

  ‘I was out on another job, Claude. I got here just as quickly as I could.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t he come? Is a crime of this kind beneath the skills of a sergeant? Or is it because I’m the victim that he’s not taking it too seriously? There’s no hope of catching ’em now is there? I mean, whoever nicked my soil will be miles away. I thought the idea was to catch ’em red-handed . . .’

  ‘So when did it go missing?’ I asked.

  ‘How do I know?’ he blustered. ‘I wasn’t here, was I?’

  ‘So when did you miss it?’ I tried again. ‘When did you last see it here, and when did you notice it had gone?’

  ‘It was here when I packed up the night before last, half-four or thereabouts, just as it was getting dark. I was away yesterday, on business, and came here at half-eight this morning. That’s when I saw it had gone.’

  ‘Enough time for a lorryload of soil to be driven down to London, put on a ferry and used to build a dam in Switzerland or grow tulips in Amsterdam. I doubt if we’d have had much success if we’d chased an invisible load of muck, do you?’ I said somewhat facetiously. ‘So how much has been stolen?’

  ‘How do I know?’ he asked. ‘They took a big chunk out of the side of that mound. They must have had a digger to dig it out and load it, and a truck of some kind to carry it away. How much has gone? A lorryload, I’d say.’

  ‘How much is there in a lorryload?’ I pressed him. ‘A ton? Two tons? More?’

  ‘I never weigh my loads. Besides, I have no idea how big the lorry was that took it.’

  ‘You should weigh your loads; you might get prosecuted for overloading!’

  ‘Give over! Anyroad, this is private land, the rules of the road don’t apply.’

  ‘Just be careful, Claude. Now, the hole that was left? Can we put an amount on that?’

  ‘Two tons,’ he snapped. ‘Say two tons.’

  ‘And the value?’ I asked. ‘I need this for my crime report.’

  ‘Value? How can I tell you how much it’s worth if I don’t know how much has gone?’

  ‘I need an estimate of its value, Claude. One lorryload of topsoil. Two tons. How much would you charge for that?’

  ‘Thirty quid?’ He raised his eyebrows and perhaps I could hear his brain ticking over with insurance claims in mind.

  ‘If you say thirty quid, then that’s good enough for me,’ I said, jotting down the fi
gure in my notebook. ‘Now,’ I continued with a twinkle in my eye. ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘Describe it?’ he burst. ‘You can see it for yourself! Or what’s been left. It was just like that. A sort of soily-looking colour and texture, with a few dandelion roots in it . . . you describe it!’

  ‘Shall I say one lorryload comprising two tons of high grade topsoil, untreated?’

  ‘Very high grade topsoil,’ he grinned.

  ‘Right, and you’d recognize it if you saw it again?’

  ‘Recognize it? How can I recognize a load of topsoil as mine?’

  ‘Well, if we trace the soil, we have to be sure it is yours before it can be restored to you. And we’d need you to state, beyond any doubt, that it was your soil that we recovered, and that no one had permission to remove it. That’s if we are to prosecute the thief.’

  ‘This is getting dafter by the minute!’ he growled. ‘All I wanted you fellers to do was to get on your bikes and establish a road block or summat, to stop the thieves before they got rid of it.’

  ‘So have you any idea who’s taken it?’ I asked.

  ‘No, how could I?’

  ‘So you’ve not seen anyone snooping around your place, asking about topsoil or riding up these lanes on lorries or diggers?’

  ‘No I have not, apart from the construction workers.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll ask around. Someone might have heard something or seen something in your absence.’

  ‘You’ll be asking that artist chap and his missus?’

  ‘I will,’ I assured him.

  ‘And them fellers on the site?’

  ‘I will indeed.’

  ‘But you’ll not set up road blocks and search building sites or visit folks building their rockeries from stuff they nick from the moors . . .’

  ‘If we suspect anyone in particular, then we shall visit them and ask where they got their soil, but we can’t just rush off into the countryside without a little more information to work on. Now, you’ll have to make sure you secure your premises tonight, Claude, otherwise they might be back for more!’

  ‘I’ve got a padlock for my gate, a brand new ’un,’ he said. ‘It’ll be locked from now on.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’ll commence enquiries and in the meantime, I suggest you contact your insurance company; the fact you have reported it to us means they will look with sympathy upon your claim.’

  ‘So you’re not going to set up road blocks?’

  ‘Tell me where you suggest we start, and I’ll have words with Sergeant Blaketon,’ I suggested. ‘Or is it better that we make discreet enquiries first?’

  ‘I don’t know why I pay my rates for this kind of service. And what about you guarding my property tonight, then? Keeping watch on my soil to see if they come back?’

  ‘That’s your responsibility, Claude. You keep watch, and ring me if they turn up.’

  ‘There’s no phone up here!’

  ‘I rather suspect the thieves will know that,’ I said. ‘But I cannot spend all my time sitting and waiting for topsoil thieves, but we will circulate details and we will maintain a close watch on all local roads during the night in the hope that we come across the thieves. Every patrolling officer in this area will be told about these thefts and we do hope we catch them red-handed. You know there’s an ongoing epidemic of mobile crane thefts too?’

  ‘Are you telling me they’re using ’em to nick my soil?’

  ‘No, not in so many words, but something pretty big is needed to lift your soil from that pile. I’d keep my eyes open if I were you, Claude, you might just drop across a mobile crane doing something unlawful.’

  ‘With my soil?’

  ‘With your soil, Claude,’ I said with tongue in cheek.

  ‘Aye, well, if the nation’s constabularies are on the lookout, there’s just a chance I might get it back!’

  I knew, in my heart of hearts, that there was very little chance we would ever find this particular load of topsoil; even if we did, it would be practically impossible to prove it had come from Claude’s pile and so we were left with the hope we would catch the thieves as they attempted to dispose of it, or if they returned to bear away more of it under cover of darkness. In spite of those reservations, I had to make an effort to detect the crime and one of the methods was to make enquiries in the vicinity. There was only one dwelling in Ramsdale — the home of Gordon and Deirdre Precious — which meant that my local house-to-house enquiries would not take very long.

  When I arrived, Gordon was out on the moors, completing a landscape for a client and Deirdre, with a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, admitted me to her kitchen. She made a good pretence of making me welcome, offering me a coffee which I accepted, and no doubt pondering, in the initial moments, the reason for my call. As we awaited the boiling of the kettle, I explained.

  ‘Oh,’ was her first response. ‘Oh, I see. I thought it might be about the other night.’

  ‘How you spend your leisure moments is no concern of mine,’ I explained. ‘I was sorry to intrude as I did, but I do have to check all suspicious vehicles.’

  I told her I’d already spoken to Ken Rigby and that I knew of their plans to stay away from each other. There was the beginning of a tear in her eyes as we talked and she sniffed several times, saying how foolish she had been and how she really did love her husband and she’d never cheat him again. I assured her, as I had assured Ken, that I would not reveal her indiscretion to Gordon nor indeed to anyone else, and this offered some relief.

  ‘You must think I am terrible, Nick,’ she sniffed, as we sat at her kitchen table.

  ‘My job teaches me a lot about human nature,’ I heard myself say. ‘I would never condemn you, nor would I condemn Ken, but when I saw you together, I must admit my first thought was for Gordon.’

  ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s all over now, we can resume our lives . . . thanks for being so understanding.’

  I then quizzed her about Claude’s missing loads of topsoil, asking if she’d heard any unusual noises in the dale during the night, or seen any suspicious vehicles or people travelling to and from Claude’s caravan site. She had not. She explained that she and Gordon occupied the main bedroom at the front, overlooking what would become the new reservoir, and the thickness of the stone walls meant they heard very little; vehicles could pass along the lane behind their home without them ever realizing.

  She said she was speaking for Gordon too; if he had heard or seen anything odd, he would have mentioned it to her, but he’d said nothing about any odd goings-on in the dale.

  But, she promised, she would bear Claude’s loss in mind and if the thieves returned, she would write down a description of them, along with details of their vehicles, including registration numbers. I mentioned the mobile cranes too, not that one would venture along her narrow lane but in her travels, she might encounter one being surreptitiously removed from the reservoir site. I left her after thanking her for her help.

  I must admit I was pleased I had re-established contact with Deirdre and that any lingering embarrassment had now evaporated. Any future meetings would be easier. I was pleased that she and Ken had made such an adult and sensible decision about their future and when I dropped into the site office to make routine enquiries about Claude’s loss of soil, I spoke to Ken. I told him I’d spoken to Deirdre only minutes earlier and he understood what I was saying to him — but he could not help me with any information about Claude’s loss. Like Deirdre, he said he would keep his eyes open for future villainy.

  After leaving Ramsdale, I did make enquiries around the district, particularly at local buildings sites and from people I thought might be in the market for fresh topsoil but I never traced those responsible. Happily, however, no more soil was taken from Claude’s pile and I must admit I did sometimes wonder whether he had imagined the loss. A settling of soil, a miniature landslide or even a change of appearance in the shape of the pile due to continuing dumping might have led h
im into thinking someone had stolen a load, but it was all speculation.

  Over the following days, I kept in touch with Claude about my lack of progress, albeit explaining what I had done, and although he grumbled a lot, he did appreciate how difficult it was to recover his topsoil and apprehend those responsible. Having calmed him to that extent, my heart sank when he rang three or four days later.

  ‘Yes, Claude?’ I asked. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘There’s been another theft from my caravan site!’ he snarled.

  ‘How much this time?’ I asked.

  ‘Not soil!’ he grunted. ‘It’s that new padlock. They’ve nicked my new padlock!’

  ‘Do you want me to establish road blocks around the county?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ he grunted.

  ‘Right, then, can you describe it?’ I asked, reaching for my notebook.

  Chapter Eight

  We only part to meet again.

  JOHN GAY, 1685–1732

  It was no surprise that Ken Rigby’s tenure of Claude Jeremiah’s caravan was of exceedingly short duration. Claude’s caravan, which was rather like a decaying plywood henhouse on wheels, but not as comfortable, could never be described as desirable accommodation. One of its many defects was Claude’s ever-increasing mountain of topsoil. Apart from obscuring views from the windows, the soil had spread across the entrance to the parking area to frustrate any attempt to move the caravan. Without shifting several tons of soggy earth, therefore, it was impossible for Ken to tow his temporary home to a more congenial place.

  He tolerated the solitude, discomfort, inconvenience and ever-increasing pile of muck for little more than a fortnight, then by dint of much telephoning and personal contact, managed to obtain a very pleasant room at the Oak Tree Hotel in Ashfordly. The cosy, traditional but very comfortable old inn with its oak beams and open fires occupied one side of the marketplace and overlooked a small stream to the rear. It catered for Ashfordly imbibers as well as tourists, and the regulars could be guaranteed to stage a local yokel act for the benefit of gullible visitors. For Ken, the chief advantage was that the bar was always full of Ashfordly people, male and female, consequently it was a focus of activity throughout the year. Out of the tourist season, the landlord was pleased to have his rooms in use, therefore Ken’s arrival was regarded with considerable favour.