The Florries of this world are unstoppable, they cannot prevent themselves stealing and some fail to see anything wrong in what they do. They seem to think that taking goods from shops is not sinful and not a crime, so how can society teach them otherwise? Locking them up or fining them does not stop them.
After dealing with that minor drama I had time to wonder about the outcome of the collision between Deirdre and Ken.
At the time, I couldn’t talk to either at length, although I did visit Ken as I’d promised to sort out the legalities of selling alcohol at a private birthday party in his works canteen. I suggested the party organizer approached a local public house landlord and ask him to apply to the magistrates for an occasional licence. This would allow the licensee to sell alcohol in the works canteen, and the fact that a licensee or a member of staff was in charge would add some kind of control to the event.
While discussing these matters with Ken, he never mentioned Deirdre. I felt he might have made some reference, however short and humorous, about the incident in the street but he didn’t. In retrospect, that was rather suspicious — our conversation that day was not rushed or interrupted and he had ample time to mention Deirdre if he’d wanted to, if only to ask if I’d seen her or talked to her recently. My interpretation of his silence was that he wanted to resume his friendship with her — or that he had already done so.
Over the next few months, I did see Ken in his site office and Deirdre either behind the bar of the Hopbind Inn or in Ashfordly as she took a break from her shop work. I chatted to each very frequently, the humorous incident with Florrie having apparently wiped away the embarrassment of my discovery of them in the car. But from that moment, I never saw them together. In some ways, I considered that rather strange because, if their reaction outside Sandra North Fashions was an indicator, they were still deeply in love. But, I reasoned, if they were never seen together, was it because they were now being extremely careful?
Perhaps they never met in this area? Perhaps their liaisons were a long way from home? As I pondered this, I realized I had never seen Ken in the Hopbind while Deirdre was working behind the bar. I had never seen them chatting in town or having a snatched conversation in Aidensfield or Ramsdale. I had never seen them together at any of the race-meetings and, so far as I knew, they never joined the same outings or attended the same parties. If they were continuing their relationship, then it was being conducted very secretively. But was the affair continuing? I had no idea and it was not the sort of question I could ask in the village. If I wanted an answer, I’d have to maintain very discreet observations.
Over the months, I continued to drop in for chats and coffee with Gordon Precious who seemed totally content with his new life, and not once did he suggest problems between himself and Deirdre, or that Deirdre was being unfaithful. He spoke about her with his usual love and admiration, praising her for her support and for the long hours she worked so that he could further his career. I was sure Gordon had no knowledge of Deirdre’s earlier diversion but, as he chatted, I realized there were thousands of occasions when Deirdre could play away from home. He referred to her working overtime, she would often go away with friends, shopping in Harrogate or York, or even to London to visit the theatre. Most certainly, she was not tied to Gordon or the house and, similarly, he was frequently away. He went to exhibitions or gave lectures about his work; he had been recruited as a tutor for some art evening classes in Ashfordly and, of course, he did venture on to the moors and into the dales to work on his watercolours, sometimes spending an entire day away from home.
If either had wanted an affair, there were ample opportunities.
As I kept the likelihood at the back of my mind, the Greengrass project continued to intrigue me because, after increasing its girth apparently without end over the months, his pile of muck began to dwindle. Upon making enquiries, I discovered he had found someone to purchase his topsoil and over the weeks, Claude’s mountain of muck began to shrink lorryload by lorryload. I learned it was to form the basis of a new nursery and garden centre near Eltering, and this made Claude much happier. He did spend some nights in his caravan so he could go early-morning rabbiting and he also spent time collecting and selling items of scrap abandoned upon the reservoir site by the contractors. It was amazing, the stuff that was found while clearing the floor of the dale — apart from the contractors’ litter, several old mangles were unearthed, along with oil drums, car wheels and cart wheels, bits of tractors and parts of ploughs, stone troughs, hemmels and large pieces of corrugated iron roofing, the latter probably having taken flight in a gale long ago. Being Claude, he kept most of it in the hope he could sell it to dealers or collectors. In that way, he helped keep the site tidier than it might have been, although with regard to his own business empire, there was still no sign of the hard-standings which were necessary if he was to develop a caravan park. I wondered if there were planning problems but that formed no part of my police duties.
In the ensuing months, the emergent structure in the dale began to look like a dam. After the course of the beck had been diverted and the foundations completed, work began on the huge base.
Massive granite rocks were imported, the kind which formed piers and sea defences at places like Whitby and Scarborough but colossal concrete slabs were also utilized. As time went by, I could discern the distinctive shape of a dam. With a broad base, a rock-filled interior, sluices for the water and other internal necessities, it was, in essence, a huge, solid and well-built wall constructed with a slight curve which faced upstream. It was designed to withstand the pressure of millions of gallons of water which would rise behind it and it was the task of the builders to ensure the dam was impregnable and strong enough to withstand the mighty forces which would be permanently pitted against it. The front of the dam would comprise colossal stones which would eventually blend with its moorland surroundings. Huge oblong rocks of granite would be utilized, making the dam appear, from a distance, to match the dry-stone walls which dominated the surrounding moors. At one end, on the right when facing the dam from downstream, there would be a space large enough to accommodate the coffin of Warwick Humbert Ravenswood, while matching it at the other end would be a stone of like size which would eventually bear a commemorative inscription. The inscription on Warwick’s final resting place would match it.
Below the dam, built on to an extension of the main structure, would be huge platforms upon which would be the powerhouse, transformers and offices. At one end of the dam, the end reaching the slopes opposite Ramsdale House, there would be the spillway, a means of preventing an overflow should a surplus of water ever arise.
I found the work very fascinating, particularly the design of pools called stilling basins — these were below the dam and their purpose was to accommodate any overflow in such a way that the velocity and force of incoming water did not cause dangerous erosion to the bed of the stream. Even as the dam was rising from the moorland, the upstream portion — the vast basin which would contain the reservoir — had been virtually cleared of vegetation, earth, trees, stone walls and all the other accoutrements of a former cultivated Yorkshire dale.
Continuing geological tests had been made to ensure the basin would be strong enough to contain the enormous weight of water which would collect — this area was rich with limestone and there were many underground caverns, some empty and others full of water, but no such cavern existed below Ramsdale. Every test showed the dale could cope with the immense weight soon to be imposed upon it, while the sides of the dale, soon to become sides of a huge natural basin, were also solidly waterproof. There would be no discernible leakage from this reservoir.
While all this work and change was happening, Gordon Precious continued to visit the site to depict the major changes and I undertook my routine police duties. Time passed; I worked days, nights, weekends and bank holidays; I dealt with road accidents, motoring offences, sudden deaths, petty crimes, petty vandalism, liquor licensing offences and superv
ision, some housebreakings, shopbreakings and even a rape. I visited farmers to check their livestock registers, firearms and pig licences. I attended court and race-meetings, I undertook special duties at the seaside, at festivals, agricultural shows and other public gatherings.
Between times I patrolled my patch both on foot, on my Francis Barnet motorbike and later in a minivan. People died, were married and were born, and before I realized it, four years had passed since the beginning of construction of the Ramsdale Reservoir. At the end of that period, the dam had assumed a handsome, sturdy but surprisingly graceful curved appearance. The stream had been rerouted to its original course and the reservoir was being filled, albeit slowly. The process of filling the reservoir was done in stages with hundreds of tests being conducted as the water rose behind the huge new wall of concrete and granite. And as it rose behind the dam, it spread across the basin which had been prepared for it.
It meant Ramsdale now had a lake, albeit a shallow one, but it was a lake which was expanding slowly as every day went by. For the contractors, it was a tense time; if there were problems with leakages either through the ground or in the man-made features, or problems with the structure of the dam itself, this was when they would be revealed. I visited Ramsdale from time to time, noting that upon each occasion the level of the lake was slightly higher than previously and that the water had spread further towards its eventual limits. Even at this early stage, waterfowl like mallard and moorhens had made their homes beside the reservoir and flocks of black-headed gulls were regular visitors. Slightly rippled by the ever-present moorland breeze, the surface of the lake became a beautiful blue beneath the clear skies and I must admit I was proud of the reservoir. On the occasions I popped in to see Gordon, I found him painting the changing scene, recording it for posterity in all its moods, often with the schoolgirl cyclists in the picture.
Having not seen Deirdre with Ken Rigby over those months, I must admit I had forgotten about their early affair; similarly, the reception they gave one another in Ashfordly had also faded in my memory. Deirdre seemed to be working happily at her various jobs and Gordon’s work was selling well in the local towns; he had an annual exhibition and was in demand as a speaker and lecturer.
Life, for them both, seemed perfect.
Then, unexpectedly, I found myself nominated for a refresher driving course. It was for three full days and it would involve three constables plus one advanced driving instructor from our Road Traffic Division. We would use one of the Force’s fleet of Ford Zephyrs. Each morning around 9 a.m. I would be collected from my home by the car and would be returned each night around 5 p.m. During the day, with the instructor in the front passenger seat, we would take turns driving in all conditions, town and country alike, at high speed on the main roads, at low speeds in country lanes and on the skidpan. We’d be put through regular tests; we had to provide a commentary while we were driving and the overall purpose was to have our multiple faults corrected. It was an enjoyable break from routine which would conclude with an individual half-hour test.
On the middle day, we did what was called the long run. This involved a drive across the Pennines into the Lake District where we had lunch in a Lakeland café before returning to the North Riding later in the day. We made full use of main roads, byroads, villages and towns in our testing routine, but it was enjoyable.
The drive through the splendour of the Pennines is always popular, many Yorkshire people regularly making the trip for a day’s visit to Keswick, Ambleside, Windermere, Grasmere and elsewhere.
In our case, lunch was in a café below Aira Force and on the shores of Ullswater. We were allowed to wear civilian jackets while having our meal but as we continued to wear blue shirts, black ties and police trousers, civilian jackets were hardly a disguise. Even so, we felt it made us less conspicuous among the hikers and ramblers — even if there was a big police car in full livery parked outside. The café had tables both indoors and out, but we elected to use an indoor table nicely tucked into a corner but with views towards the lake. We bought soup, sandwiches, cakes and coffee from the counter and adjourned to our table to enjoy the meal.
From my seat, I could see the arrival of cars outside, some of which dropped their passengers before heading to the car park behind the café. Then I had a shock. I saw Ken Rigby’s car arrive with him at the wheel. And in the front passenger seat was Deirdre Precious.
Chapter Nine
When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat;
Yet, fool’d with hope, men favour the deceit . . .
JOHN DRYDEN, 1631–1700
Ken and Deirdre settled on a table outside where a waitress quickly attended to their order. Whereas my colleagues and I took an official but sedate three quarters of an hour to savour our meal, Ken and Deirdre completed theirs in little more than twenty minutes. Afterwards, they bought bars of chocolate, apples and canned drinks, then left, unaware of my presence. I saw them hand in hand, heading towards the car park probably with the intention of visiting the lovely Aira Force. There is a wonderful climb through the woods and the spectacular falls are certainly worth a visit.
Upon completion of that refresher course and having achieved the necessary standards, I pondered my Lakeland discovery for some time. One half of me said there was nothing intrinsically wrong in a couple of friends having a pleasant day in the Lake District, even if they were a married woman with a man who was not her husband. Contrariwise, the other half of me said they were doing wrong, even if they were merely walking and talking. However innocently it was disguised, this outing was just another stage in their affair and if it had survived almost from the beginning of the work on the reservoir, Gordon must have nursed some suspicions about his wife. If not, how had Deirdre managed to maintain such an enduring secret?
Her behaviour must have changed although, I suppose, Gordon might think it was due to their move to Ramsdale and the uncertainties of the new life they’d created.
In the following weeks, I didn’t see Deirdre in Ken’s company but I did see them individually. I came across them occasionally during my daily routine and did visit Gordon from time to time but I never told Deirdre or Ken that I had seen them in the café near Ullswater. It was a mistake for them to be seen by me and it might be described as sheer bad luck on their part, but if they could make one mistake, I told myself, they could make another. I might come across them again, or they could be seen by someone else. Or they might be discovered by Gordon. Or by someone who knew Gordon. There were many permutations and I felt that few people would keep the secret in the way that I had done.
The crux of the matter was that if Ken and Deirdre persisted in their affair, then the unfortunate Gordon would be hurt. I felt increasingly sorry for him and I wondered if there was anything I could do or should do, and yet repeatedly told myself not to get involved with his domestic life. Even if we had become friendly enough to enjoy informal chats, I was always conscious of my role as a policeman. Impartiality when on duty is important; even when off duty, there are difficulties in dealing with the domestic problems of others and I hoped I would be able to remain impartial when the proverbial balloon went up! And up it would surely go!
Some weeks later, when I called on Gordon to enjoy our usual mug of coffee and a chatter, I realized he was not his normal affable or confident self.
He wasn’t painting, for one thing. That was a departure from his routine — on every other occasion I’d called, he’d been working. That day, therefore, he admitted me to his kitchen and made a couple of coffees, but as he busied himself with the kettle and mugs I sensed something was wrong. I studied him for a while, noting that he was quieter than normal and almost morose. I guessed he was brooding over some very personal matter — perhaps a commission that had failed to materialize or a disaster with one of his works — and then he managed a smile.
‘Sorry, Nick,’ he said. ‘I’m not much company . . . forgive me.’
‘Something wrong?’
He d
id not reply for a long time, then asked, ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Something’s bothering you.’ I watched as he settled at the kitchen table opposite me. He handed me my coffee with a weak smile, then said, ‘Nick, you’re probably the only true friend I’ve got. I have to talk to somebody. I don’t want you to mention this to a soul, especially not to Deirdre, but if you suspected your wife was cheating you — with another man — what would you do?’
‘That’s a real poser.’ With the knowledge I had so long kept to myself, I did not know how to react to his question. ‘If we’re talking about real people, I don’t think my wife would ever do that . . .’
‘No, I know she wouldn’t but, well, I wasn’t suggesting that. What I mean is, I want you to treat this as a hypothetical example. So what would you do? Please tell me, it is important.’
‘Well, if it was mere suspicion, I think I would need to find out if there was any truth in it. There’s nothing worse than unresolved suspicion; it can demolish any person, man or woman. It’s like a cancer gnawing at you.’
‘Yes, it is . . .’ he almost whispered.
‘And it’s made far worse if it’s some suspicion which has no genuine foundation. Suspicion based on rumour or speculation is terrible. So, yes, I would start by setting out to discover out whether or not there was any truth in those suspicions.’
‘I’ve done that,’ he said quietly.
‘What are you saying, Gordon?’
‘I’m saying Deirdre is having an affair, Nick, and it’s devastating me. I can’t work for thinking about it. I just can’t concentrate . . . I’ve tried to shake off my suspicions, God knows I’ve tried, but it’s little things. Lies she’s been telling me, her normal behaviour’s changed, she been buying sexy underwear, spending lots more time making herself up, having more hairdos, using more perfume, dressing differently, all sorts of little things, Nick, changes in her behaviour . . .’
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 15