CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  My bike and I safely negotiated that steep hill in our outlandish style and we glided to a smooth standstill at the base, very little worse for our experience. I must have lost some material from the seat of my pants and from the soles of my boots, and the bike had shed half a windscreen and some slivers of paint. Some petrol had spilled out too, but the engine worked and the lights lit my route ahead. I was mobile.

  I had no idea how I would climb back up that hill or up any other hill, but that was some time in the future. Right now, I could continue my journey deep into the forest, hunting the Russian and serving my nation with unstinted loyalty.

  The Forest of Swairdale occupies a large tract of land in the bottom of that valley. Planted by the Forestry Commission, it comprises row upon row of immaculate pines, spruce and larch, all in symmetrical rows. Nothing else grows beneath them, and they cover the land with a deep blanket of dead pine needles, through which very little grows, other than a few fungi and blades of brave grass. As a moorland valley, it would be no good for agricultural produce, so its reclamation years ago from heather and bracken had been beneficial due to the timber it currently provided.

  Indeed, a little village community flourished here. Due to the work brought to the valley by the Forestry Commission, a group of people live and work deep in the forest. They occupy cosy wooden homes which look like log cabins, and the community has a post office-cum-shop with an off-licence for liquor. Having arrived safely in Swairdale, I parked my machine near a gate and performed a walk-about patrol. It was half-past seven and the place was coming to life.

  I spent an hour or more in the village, drinking coffee in a forestry worker’s cosy home, finding the farmer to whom to apologise about his milk churns, and asking everyone to let me know if they noticed a Russian skulking in the woods. By eight o’clock, I had warned everyone, and returned to the motorcycle.

  The radio was calling me.

  I responded; it was Sergeant Blaketon.

  “Location please, Rhea,” he asked, speaking through the courtesy of Control Room via a system known as Talk-Through.

  “Swairdale,” I said.

  “Down in the valley, you mean?”

  “Down in the valley, sergeant,” I confirmed with some pride.

  “I never thought you’d make it this weather,” was his remark.

  “Neither did I, sergeant.”

  “Look, Rhea, you know the Moorcock Inn?”

  “I do, Sergeant.”

  It was not far from here as the crow flies, but in fierce moorland weather, it would be isolated and beyond the reach of anyone. It would be like riding to the North Pole.

  “I want you to call there,” he said softly.

  “I’ll never get there, sergeant, not in these conditions,” I protested.

  “It’s vital, Rhea, very important. You must make the effort, and that’s an order.”

  “Is the Russian there?” I put to him.

  “No, but there’s a bus load of businessmen lost up there. They went to Strensford last night for a conference at the Royal Hotel, and haven’t returned home. We checked, and they’ve left the Royal Hotel, but they haven’t got home to Bradford. We can’t make contact with the Moorcock Inn because the telephone cables are down, due to the weight of snow. Seeing you’re in the area, we thought you might pop in to see if they’re there. Lives could be at risk if they’re not located.”

  “But it will take hours, sergeant!” I tried to protest.

  “Then get going immediately, Rhea. Look, you’d better do something — one of those missing men is the Chief Constable’s brother.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said.

  At first, I thought there was no way to the Moorcock other than by the hill down which I had travelled so dramatically with the milk churns and burning trousers, but I pulled the map from my pannier and examined it. My boundaries were clearly defined, and as I pored over the details, I discovered a forest track which led from Swairdale high on to the hills. It cut through the dense trees and then crossed the open moor at a point close to the summit, emerging at the top of a steep hill. The Moorcock Inn lay mid-way down that hill on the main road to Strensford.

  I knew the forest route would be rough and for that reason it would provide traction for my wheels. Beneath the trees, there would be a minimum of snow. Having satisfied myself that the Russian was not lurking in Swairdale, I set forth upon my diversion to the isolated inn.

  Surprisingly, the trek was possible. The heavy snow had failed to penetrate the ceiling provided by the conifers, and although a light covering did grace the route, it was negotiable without undue difficulty. I trekked high into the forest, standing on the footrests and using the machine in the manner of a trials rider. The action kept me warm and cosy, and after two miles of forest riding, I saw the summit ahead of me. A tall wire fence ran across the skyline and this marked the end of the woodland; beyond were untold square miles of open moor.

  My forest track ran towards a gate in the fence and I halted there to open it. I checked again for the Russian — there was not a mark in the snow; no spies had passed this way. In fact, no one had passed this way. I went to open the gate.

  It was locked.

  A stout iron chain was wrapped around the tree trunk which formed the gatepost, and the chain was secured with a gigantic padlock. There was no way through. And the fence stretched out of sight in both directions.

  I was completely stuck. I could ride all the way back to Swairdale but would never negotiate that steep hill to regain the main road; besides, that route emerged miles from here. I hoisted the bike on to its stand and walked along this perimeter fence, but there were no breaks. It had been erected recently and was totally motorcycle proof. Then I had an idea.

  I looked at the hinges of the gate. Two large hinges were secured with long screws, and they were fastened to the other post, the one which did not bear the chain. With no more ado, I found the screwdriver and began to remove the hinges. It was the work of moments. In no time, I had both hinges off and swung open the gate, its weight being borne by the massive chain at the other end. I wheeled my trusty machine through, and returned the hinges to their former place. So much for moorland fences.

  I mounted my bike and felt contented. I wondered how someone might interpret the footprints and wheel marks in the snow — there was a single wheeled track to the fence, a lot of untidiness around the gate and a wheeled single track leading from it. Once through, the terrain was terrible. I was crossing wild moorland, with my wheels bouncing and the machine bucking. I rode the bike in the style I’d now come to adopt, standing on the footrests and allowing it to buck and weave beneath me, trials style. I had a horror of falling off and breaking a leg, for no one would find me here. I would freeze to death, and for some two and a half miles, I carefully rode through snow which was smooth on the surface, but which concealed an alarming variety of pot-holes, clumps of heather, rocks and other hazards.

  But I won. With my motorcycle and myself completely enveloped in frozen white, I managed to navigate that awesome moor. As I reached the distant edge of the moor, I saw to my right the three gleaming white balls of the Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station. They looked duck-egg blue against the pure white of the snow-covered backcloth, and dominated the surrounding moorland. The huge structures towered majestically above everything and looked surrealistic in this ancient moorland setting. The old and the new mingled in a fascinating manner.

  Somewhere in the hollow which lay before the Balls, but which was invisible to me due to the snow, there stood the sturdy moorland inn to which I was heading. I reached the main road and was pleased to note that traffic had passed this way. A snowplough had pushed its way through, and there was evidence of other vehicles. Sergeant Blaketon’s message was therefore rather odd, because if a snowplough had forced its way along here, and if other traffic was passing, then it was difficult to understand how a bus load of businessmen had come to be marooned in the blizzard.

  I
t would be about nine o’clock as I carefully descended the steep, twisting gradients of Moorcock Bank, and sure enough, a bus was standing on the car park of the inn. It bore a Bradford address, Bradford being some eighty-five miles away. Having parked my bike, I knocked on the door and a lady opened it; she smiled and her pretty face showed some surprise at my snow-clad appearance. I wondered if she knew I was a policeman — the POLICE legend across my helmet was totally obliterated.

  “P.C. Rhea,” I announced, removing my gauntlets.

  “Good heavens!” she stood back to allow me inside. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said, stamping the snow from my boots. It fell on to her door mat.

  “Come in for a warm, for God’s sake,” and she stepped back to permit me enter. The interior was comfortably warm, and I was shown into the bar area with its flagstone floor and smouldering peat fire. The place was full of men, some dozing and other sitting around quietly playing cards.

  “Oh,” I said. “Company?”

  “Marooned,” she smiled. “A bus load.”

  I began to unbutton my stout clothing, my hands warm and pliable after the exercise of controlling the bike, and she asked, “Coffee?”

  “I’d love one.”

  “I’m doing breakfast for that lot. Forty-two of them, bacon and eggs. How about you?”

  At the mention of food my mouth began to water and I assured her that a delicious bacon and egg breakfast would be the best thing that could happen to me. She told me to remove my outer clothing and sit with the others. She’d call us into the dining-room when she was ready.

  Some of the men glanced at me, and it was only when I peeled off the heavy jacket that they realised I was the law. I could see their renewed interest.

  “What’s this, Officer? A raid for drinking after time, or before time?”

  “No,” I struggled with the ungainly trousers and rubber boots and was soon standing with my back to the fire, warming my posterior and rubbing my hands. My face burned fiercely and my ears began to hurt as the sudden warmth made the blood course through them. I hadn’t realised my extremities were so cold.

  “Breakfast then?” a stout man smiled. “You’ve called in for your breakfast?”

  “I am going to have breakfast, as a matter of fact.” I looked at them. “Are you the businessmen from Bradford?”

  There was a long silence and then the stout man nodded. “Aye,” he said. “How come you know about us?”

  “I’m searching for you,” I lied to make the matter seem more dramatic. “There’s a hue and cry out for you — there’s reports of missing men snowed up in the North Yorkshire moors, men dying from starvation and exposure, buses falling down ravines and bodies all over . . .”

  “Gerroff!” he laughed. “Go on, what’s up?”

  “I’m out here on another job . . .”

  “Not working? They haven’t made you work out here, in all this snow, on a bloody motor bike?” One of them stood up and addressed me.

  “They have. It’s important,” I tried to explain without revealing national secrets.

  “It must be — I’d have a strike at my factory if I even suggested such a thing,” and he sat down.

  I tried to continue. “I was called on my radio. Our Control Room said your bus was thought to have got stuck, and it was felt you might be here but they couldn’t make contact because the telephone lines were down.”

  “No, not down, officer. We’ve taken the phone off the hook.”

  “Off the hook!” I exploded. “You mean I’ve come all this way . . .”

  “Look,” the stout man stood up and came towards me. “We’re businessmen, and we’re always on call, always being rung up and wanted for some bloody thing or another. When we got here last night, for a drink, it was so nice and cosy that when the weather took a turn for the worse, we decided to stay. We took the telephone off the hook because we didn’t want to be disturbed and we intended staying, didn’t we, lads?”

  “Aye,” came the chorus from the assembled group.

  “This is our holiday, officer. A sudden, unexpected and excellent holiday. Can you think of anything better than being snowed up in a moorland pub miles from civilisation? The landlord and his lady are marvellous and they’ve a stock of food that’ll not get eaten unless they get crowds in. The beer’s fine and we can play dominoes and cards to our hearts’ content. We can drink all day because we’re residents, and we’ve no worries about driving home or getting in late. Our wives will be happy enough that we’re safe, and we’ll stay here as long as we want, away from business pressures, telephones, secretaries, bank managers, problems and wives. We were going to ring today to tell them we’re safe, but snowed up. Now you’ve gone and ruined it.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “As long as you’re safe, my job is over. I’ll report back by radio.”

  “Don’t say we’re not snowed in, will you? I mean, we could leave now because the plough’s been through, but we don’t want to. Tell ’em we’re safe, but stuck fast.”

  “I’ll simply radio to my Control to say you are here and you are all safe. Am I right in thinking none of you wants to be rescued?”

  “No,” came the murmured chorus. “For God’s sake don’t rescue us. Leave us, officer. In a while, that telephone will mysteriously be reconnected and we’ll convince our loved ones we’re fine, sitting here in eight-foot drifts and suffering like hell, and then the telephone cables will come down again!”

  “I get the message,” I said.

  “Then join us for breakfast. Cereals, bacon, eggs and tomatoes and mushrooms, toast and hot coffee . . .”

  I joined them. I couldn’t refuse, not after my appetite-raising morning. They chattered about their meetings, their businesses, their twelve-hour days and hectic travelling, and I could see that this enforced holiday was perfect for them. They could relax totally, and I would not reveal this to anyone.

  After breakfast, I told them I must leave. I got invitations to visit them and pocketed many address cards before buttoning up my motorcycle suit. Now it felt cold and damp, and the thought of leaving this warm place with its beams, open fires, smell of smoke and peat was awful. But I had a mission of national importance and I must not dally a moment longer.

  As I fastened the zips and buttons, a young man in a fine suit and sleek blonde hair came forward for a chat.

  “You didn’t come all this way just to find us, did you?”

  “No.” I was honest. “I’ve another job here.”

  “I reckon it must be important to your people,” he said, puffing at a pipe, “otherwise they wouldn’t have made you risk life and limb by motorcycling here.”

  “It is,” I confirmed, sliding my head into the cold helmet. I pulled the strap under my chin and it was wet with melted snow. I grimaced as I tightened it.

  “Something to do with that chap that I saw crossing the moors, maybe?” he smiled knowingly.

  “Aye.” I knew he’d seen my Russian!

  “I saw him from that back bedroom,” he said. “A tall chap dressed like a bloody Russian. Snow suit and big fur hat. He was crossing the moor on that track behind the pub.”

  “What time?” I asked.

  “Not long before you came,” he said. “Quarter to nine, maybe.”

  “Which way was he going?” I had fastened my chin strap and was ready to leave.

  “Out towards the moor heights. I reckon he’d been sleeping in one of the outhouses of this place, officer.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your interest.”

  “And we appreciate your discretion,” he said.

  I waved farewell to them, and thanked the lady for a superb breakfast. I’d been there well over an hour and was feeling fit and ready. I radioed a brief report to Control and merely confirmed their presence here. I said they were fit and well, with adequate food and warmth, and there was no risk to them.

  To cut a long story short, I guided my faithfu
l Francis Barnett towards the track in question and there I found a single trail of footprints. They emerged from an outbuilding close to the pub and it was easy to follow them in the snow. By now, the flakes had ceased falling and a wintry sun was trying to force a way through the heavy grey clouds. I thought again of Candlemas Day and wondered if the sun would shine.

  It was said locally that, “If Candlemas be dry and fair, Half of winter’s yet to come — and mair!”

  Perhaps the rest of winter would be better than this?

  After a mile and a half, the footprints wove erratically towards a grouse butt. I could see the boot marks etched clearly ahead of me as they climbed towards the lofty butt. Boris must be hiding there now! A grouse butt is like a three-sided square, it is made of stone with walls about four feet high. Grouse shooters lurk in there to blast at birds which are driven over their heads . . .

  I decided to park and inform Control of this development. It seemed I had succeeded where others had failed. Upon receiving my message, I was instructed to await further orders. I waited for quarter of an hour, and this caused me to feel the cold for the first time. My feet, hands and face were icy and a bitter wind whipped the dry loose snow into small heaps and drifts. If the wind strengthened, this place could soon be well and truly isolated. Those businessmen might be there for days!

  Then came the response from Control.

  “Proceed to arrest,” I was ordered. I was a long way from the hiding man and decided to take the bike. At least, it would get me closer to him in a swift manner. I kicked it into life, and began to climb the rough track, with the wind biting into my face and driving loose snow into the goggles and among the engine parts. I wobbled in the fierce wind but kept my eyes on that distant grouse butt.

  Suddenly, the man stood up. His head and trunk appeared above the rim of the butt as he stared in disbelief at my approach. Then he began to run. At that instant, a Land Rover materialised from somewhere, having been hidden down a dip in the track and it also raced towards the fleeing Russian.