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

  Over the following weeks, Gordon painted and painted yet again the watery scene before him, sometimes incorporating the two nameless schoolgirls on bikes, and in that time, his leg mended, the plaster was removed and the water level in the reservoir rose yet further. It crept closer and closer to Gordon’s house, filling what had once been a deserted dale and washing across what had recently been a sea of mud with aquatic birds making the most of their new environment.

  Gordon painted it all, day by day, week by week — but whenever I paid him a visit, his pictures portrayed dark waters beneath black and stormy clouds. I wondered if he would ever paint a sunny scene but did not suggest it, nor did I ask why he persisted with his dark pictures.

  As the reservoir was being slowly filled and the finishing touches were being made to the various buildings and structures which would serve it, I enjoyed frequent chats with Ken in his site hut. I did mention Deirdre and in return he did assure me that the affair was over — they had not fallen out, he stressed, but had mutually agreed after a long and very difficult conversation, that it was in everyone’s best interest if he never saw her again. And, once again, I believed him.

  During those chats, I was interested to know there had been no underground leaks, no water had permeated beneath the foundations, the dam itself had not shown any signs of leakage or weakness, and the ground which was now carrying the new lake had proven capable of acting as a giant container. Although the dam and reservoir were not quite complete, some of the workforce were leaving. Their part in the construction had been completed.

  Gradually, their numbers reduced as the giant machines departed from the dale. But Ken remained in his site office. It was while the workforce was being reduced that I called again on Gordon and found him at work in his garden, painting yet another reservoir scene. This time it was different. It was a cheerful picture. He had incorporated some mallard and black-headed gulls on the water and on this occasion the water was a beautiful blue. Its colour came from the reflection of the sky and there was not a black cloud in sight. I had no idea whether or not this was a significant moment in his life, but I did feel he had conquered that long, long mood of despair. He smiled when I arrived, made me a coffee as usual, and we settled down to enjoy it. He was happier and more relaxed than I had seen him for months. Deirdre was at work in the shop, he told me, and went on to say how she’d nursed him through his injuries with all the tender loving care she could muster. I did not question him any more about Deirdre’s affair, thinking that any reference I might make would trigger off bad memories. I reasoned that if he wanted to discuss the matter, then he would raise it, but he didn’t. We parted on that occasion just as we had done many times prior to, and indeed during, her liaison with Ken. It was almost as if there had been no intervening problem; Deirdre was at work, Gordon was producing his beautiful pictures, Ken was in his site office and I was performing my routine patrols. If there was one difference between now and those early days, it was that the dale now contained a massive but beautifully crafted dam behind which acres of water were spreading to provide a unique kind of serenity and beauty.

  But things were not destined to remain like that.

  As so often happens in such cases, the problems began almost accidentally. A combination of innocent circumstances produced a devastating effect. Gordon had been invited to be guest speaker at a ladies’ luncheon club in Eltering. As with such cases, he was invited to join the group for the meal which began at 12.45 p.m. and then to speak for about three quarters of an hour. He’d be paid a handsome fee and the ladies wanted some light-hearted tales of his life as a professional artist; he could also take a few pictures for display and possible purchase. This was the kind of outing he enjoyed. But because Deirdre was working at Sandra North’s Fashions in Ashfordly, it was decided that Gordon, whose leg was now fully healed, should drive her there so that he could have use of the car. She finished work at 1 p.m. but had some shopping to do, so Gordon said he would collect her after his talk. His calculations were that if the meal began at 12.45 p.m. and continued for the anticipated hour and a half, he would begin his talk at 2.15 p.m. That meant he would conclude around 3 p.m. which in turn meant he’d arrive at Ashfordly to collect Deirdre around 3.30 p.m. He told her he’d park in Ashfordly marketplace and she would seek the car. He didn’t mind waiting if she was delayed, and likewise, she said she had enough to occupy her until he arrived, so he hadn’t to worry about being late. Lunch followed by a speaker could never be guaranteed to finish at a specific time.

  It seemed a very amicable arrangement and suggested their marriage crisis was healing. But Gordon’s talk finished earlier than expected. Lunch had started absolutely on time with speedy clearance of the dishes between courses.

  Another factor was that there were only two courses, not three, and so Gordon had found himself on his feet at 1.30 p.m. instead of the anticipated 2.15 p.m., and he had finished by 2.15 p.m. A few questions followed and even after time for a chat about the paintings he’d taken with him, and the sale of one of them, he left the hotel at 2.30 p.m. for the fifteen minute drive to Ashfordly. At 2.50 p.m. or thereabouts, he was easing to a halt in Ashfordly marketplace, almost three quarters of an hour earlier than either he or Deirdre had expected. I became aware of these timings due to the enquiries I had to make afterwards.

  As he came to a halt, he sought Deirdre among the people who were thronging the place, but did not find her and consequently decided he’d buy a magazine from a newsagent’s shop, then pop into a café for a cup of tea to pass the time. His talk had made him thirsty and the pubs were shut so a refreshing pint of beer was out of the question. But as he’d walked into Beckside Café, he was mortified to see Deirdre sitting at a table with Ken Rigby. They were enjoying tea and scones, laughing and talking to each other like old friends. For a moment, they did not see Gordon; he halted abruptly in the doorway, wondering what course of action to take, then slammed the door and stormed out. Deirdre heard the crash of the door and looked up to see her husband striding across the marketplace in what was clearly a very foul mood. He hurried towards his car, leapt in and slammed the door. As the engine burst into life, Deirdre came rushing out of the café running across to their car, but she was too late. Gordon roared out of the marketplace with tears pouring down his face as Deirdre stood and stared at the departing vehicle.

  Ken Rigby then appeared at her side and took her gently in his arms, saying he’d run her home. When she arrived home, Gordon was not there and neither was the car. That’s when she rang me. I was on patrol at the time, having at that stage of my service been issued with a minivan. Mary took the call, assessed its urgent nature and managed to have me contacted by radio from Ashfordly Police Station. Alf Ventress’s distinctive voice came over the air.

  ‘Urgent request to visit Ramsdale House, Nick, home of Mr and Mrs Precious who I believe are known to you. Mrs Precious is there now, Mr Precious has disappeared. She’d like you there as soon as you can make it.’

  ‘Will co, Alf,’ I responded. ‘I’ll submit a situation report as soon as I have established the nature of the problem.’

  ‘Message understood, Control out,’ he said, and ended the conversation.

  When I arrived at Ramsdale House, Deirdre was in tears and was being comforted by Ken Rigby. He’d made a pot of tea and had lit the fire, and when I arrived, they were standing before it in misery.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nick, to bother you like this . . .’ She was weeping softly.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I looked at both for some clarification.

  Deirdre told me about that day’s transport arrangements which had been made by Gordon, and said she’d gone into Beckside Café for a cup of tea to while away the moments until he arrived to collect her. By chance, Ken had been in the café, too, having already bought his snack; he’d spotted her and had invited her to share his table.

  It was nothing more than that; it was not a planned meeting or a secret liaison. It was just how it had
worked out. But Gordon had stumbled upon them, misreading the situation due to his early arrival. He’d stormed away without seeking for an explanation.

  ‘I’m so miserable,’ she sobbed. ‘He’d forgiven me, at least I think he had. We were just getting together again, it was lovely, so lovely, with him loving me and sleeping with me, and working and producing those lovely pictures . . . I mean, how jealous can he get? It was just a cup of tea and chat with people all around . . .’

  ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She spread her hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘I might be able to get some lads from the site to help look,’ offered Ken.

  ‘I don’t think my sergeant will sanction a full-scale search yet,’ I had to tell them. ‘A man driving off in his car after a row with his wife is hardly the sort of thing that justifies a search party.’

  ‘But you know him, Nick.’ She was almost pleading now. ‘He could do anything.’

  ‘If we think he might harm himself, then that could be justification for launching a full-scale search,’ I said.

  ‘I think he might . . .’ she whimpered.

  ‘I’d have to tell my boss the whole story,’ I warned her. ‘He’ll have to justify his actions to the search team which means I can’t guarantee the searchers will not talk to the Press . . .’

  ‘I don’t care!’ She was weeping freely now. ‘I just don’t care. I just want him found.’

  I took a detailed description of Gordon and his car, including its registration number, and then rang Sergeant Blaketon. Reminding him of our earlier search for Gordon, I told him the story, stressing my belief that this time Gordon was likely to harm himself in some way, and suggesting that all patrols be given the car’s number so that it might be located. He agreed with that course of action. He would not sanction a full-scale call-out of a search party because we had no starting point and no cause for thinking Gordon had made for the remoteness of the moors. He was with his car. We had to find that first. That was the most important because wherever it was discovered, it would provide a clue to his whereabouts. I hoped he had not decided to connect a hosepipe to the exhaust in an attempt to asphyxiate himself — we did come across lots of suicides on the moors who had taken that course.

  I told Deirdre what we’d done. I said that every patrolling officer in the North Riding of Yorkshire, including those near our boundaries with the East Riding and in Middlesbrough Borough, had been supplied with Gordon’s registration number. There was a distinct possibility the car would be found but I could not predict the state of Gordon’s mind when we found him. I asked Ken if he would stay with Deirdre — he said he would, qualifying that remark by adding he would make sure he left the building before Gordon returned. I suggested he didn’t answer the phone and hid his car somewhere!

  Then I left, saying I would drive to the various vantage points with which I was familiar in the hope I could spot the car either on the heights or in the dales below. I carried some powerful binoculars to aid me; they were almost permanently in the vehicle and had proved their usefulness on many occasions. In spite of my search and in spite of knowing Gordon’s car by sight, I did not find him. I kept in touch with Ashfordly Police Station by radio and asked Alf Ventress to ring Deirdre from time to time, to see if Gordon had made contact. But she’d not heard a thing from him, and by eight that evening, there was no sign of Gordon.

  I was on duty until 10 p.m. but was prepared to work all night if necessary, and then just after nine o’clock, I received a radio call from Alf Ventress.

  ‘Nick,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a call from George Dixon, the manager of Thackerston Quarry. Can you get yourself there as soon as possible? Sergeant Blaketon’s en route and will rendezvous with you at the quarry. Someone’s broken into the explosives store, it’s happened since 5 p.m. this afternoon. They’ve taken a large quantity of explosives along with some detonators and fuses.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Many waters cannot quench love,

  neither can the floods drown it . . .

  The Song of Solomon viii. 7

  The explosives store at Thackerston Quarry consisted of a small rectangular brick building constructed especially for that purpose. It was located on an elevated portion of land some fifty yards from the vast hollow in the limestone in which were situated the various quarry faces. Out of sight of casual visitors and passers-by, it was securely built into an excavation in the ground and had a thick concrete roof above a metal-faced door secured with a very stout padlock. There were no windows and no markings by which its contents might be known. A small sloping concrete path led down to the single door — about half the store’s height was above ground level. I knew it well because it was one of several similar small explosives stores on my beat. I had to inspect each of them at least once every three months and, like most of the others, this was classed as a Mode A Registered Store, the mode being determined by its structure which in turn was determined by the quantity and type of explosives kept there.

  I arrived at the quarry ahead of Sergeant Blaketon and found George Dixon in his office. He was a large, rather ungainly man in his late fifties and sported a big round face with an eternal smile below a head, bald save for a few wisps of grey hair. I asked him to take me to the store. He pressed a switch on his office whereupon a light on a tall post above the store floodlit the scene.

  Armed with our torches, we walked across to the store. When I arrived, the door was standing wide open, but inside there were some cases of dynamite, fuses and detonators. Most had not been touched, the thief having taken only enough for his particular purpose.

  ‘I didn’t touch anything so you fellers could see how exactly the raider left it,’ George said.

  ‘Good thinking, George,’ I thanked him. ‘So what’s gone?’

  ‘Rolls of quarrying explosive, lengths of shot-firing cable, fuses that is, and fulminate of mercury detonators. He’s taken thirty pounds of explosive — Amelite and Ammina makes, and enough fuses and detonators to set the whole lot off. He cut the hasp of the padlock with bolt cutters; the lock’s on the ground where he left it.’ His torch indicated the remains. ‘A professional job, I’d say.’

  ‘Not an opportunist crime?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, he came specially,’ George was positive about that. ‘If he’d parked his car anywhere near the quarry gates I’d have seen him or heard him. I reckon he parked out of my sight and beyond the range of my hearing, then came across country to the store. He knew where he was going, where the store was; it takes a bit of finding so he knew where to come. And you can climb our boundary fences easily enough.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s somebody who knew exactly what he wanted and where to find it?’

  ‘I am,’ said George with conviction.

  ‘So why would anyone want to steal quarrying explosives?’ I asked.

  ‘To blow a bloody great hole in something,’ he laughed. ‘We use it for blasting rock. You could use it to blow up a tree stump or demolish a factory chimney or blast a hole in the ground to make a fish pond . . .’

  ‘Or open a safe?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s enough here to blow up the Houses of Parliament,’ he said.

  ‘Guy Fawkes a suspect, is he?’ I tried to make a joke of this.

  ‘I wouldn’t object to anybody blowing up Harold Wilson’s government, those bloody Socialists have made a right mess of things like they always do,’ George grinned. ‘But I don’t think chummy’s taken this lot just to open a safe; he’s taken enough to blow a big hole in something like the Bank of England.’

  I examined the ground around the store but apart from the damaged remains of the lock, there was little of interest — the villain had left nothing incriminating and the concrete path did not show his footprints. I made a careful search over a wider area but did not find the bolt cutters, although I was limited by the darkness. A daylight search would be necessary b
ut it did seem he’d taken the cutters with him. An examination of the ground which surrounded the store did not reveal any footprints either — it was too hard and dry. Consequently I could not determine from which direction the thief had entered the quarry. Tomorrow’s daylight search might show where he’d clambered over the surrounding fences or if he’d got caught on the barbed wire; there might be useful evidence like fibres from his clothing or footprints and tyre marks in some softer earth.

  ‘How would be carry it away?’ was my next question.

  ‘One man could easily carry all that that’s gone.’ he affirmed. ‘A sack mebbe, bag of some sort, suitcase even. The lot wouldn’t weigh more than a small sack of taties and it won’t explode by being bumped about. It needs fuses and detonators.’

  ‘So what prompted you to check the store?’ I asked. ‘Did you hear noises or something?’

  ‘No. It’s summat I allus do at night,’ George told me. ‘We stopped work at half-four and I did my usual closing-down rounds when everybody had gone. The store was locked — we keep it locked until we need access as you know. I checked the store about five o’clock, summat I do every day. It was OK then, locked and secure.’

  ‘You inspected it personally?’ I had to ask.