Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  He was looking forward to the meal when the telephone

  rang. Leaving the savoury offering, he went into the office to take the call.

  “Aidensfield Police, PC Rowan,” he announced himself.

  “I wish to register my annoyance at that motor rally last night,” said the haughty voice of Mrs Bridget Maitland. “Dozens of cars hurtling through the village, constable, and all that noise and revving…you will take the appropriate action to end the nuisance, won’t you, PC Rowan?”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs Maitland,” sympathised Nick. “I am going to Ashfordly this morning and I will check our records to see who the organisers were, then we shall contact them to express our deep concern about the disturbance that was caused. Rest assured we shall take very positive action to prevent a recurrence.”

  “I should think so too! These people really are the limit,” she went on. “Using our lanes for their doubtful pleasures, making all that noise and pollution. I really think motor rallies ought to be banned and I’m surprised the police allow them. There is absolutely no need for them, they do not fulfil any useful purpose and I shall write to my Member of Parliament about it! I will demand that he takes action to have these silly rallies banned…”

  “Yes, well, I will make sure the organisers are aware of our concern…” he tried to interrupt her non-stop verbal flow but he failed.

  She went on and on about rallies and motor cars, about pollution of the air with their fumes and invasion of one’s living space with their noise, not to mention damage to roadside verges, railings and fences, coupled with injuries to wild animals and moorland sheep.

  As she ploughed on with her complaint, Nick smelt smoke.

  “Mrs Maitland…I must go, there’s a fire … smoke…”

  “Yes, well, so long as you do something, constable. If not, I shall feel obliged to write to your chief constable and another thing, I really ought to mention the mud that some farmers are leaving on the roads

  “Goodbye, Mrs Maitland and thanks for calling!”

  He slammed down the handset and ran into the kitchen where his frying pan was fiercely ablaze. His attempt at making breakfast was doomed, for all he had produced was a pile of blackened ashes which were stuck to the frying pan. He whipped the pan off the heat and was wise enough not to place it under the tap; the effect of cold water on hot fat would be disastrous and dangerous, so he found an old floor cloth, soaked it in water and spread it across the pan.

  It smothered the flames even if it did produce a lot of smell and smoke, but a quick examination of the bonfire told him the pan was ruined. It would require something with the power of a road drill to shift that mess! He placed the pan on the draining board to cool off and would dump it in the dustbin when he’d finished eating.

  Now, he’d have to settle for a breakfast of toast and marmalade. He made enough for Kate and was sitting down to his own meal when she burst in.

  “You never said it was so late!” she cried. “I was really enjoying a soak and thought it was eight o’clock but it’s nearly nine o’clock and it’s surgery…where’s my diary, my prescription notes…Nick? Keys? Where’s my car keys…? I’m late and you know what people are like if they have to wait for the doctor…”

  “Calm down, love, a couple of minutes wait won’t hurt anybody!”

  Kate ignored him and continued to dash around the house grabbing her coat, her brief case and other belongings before she halted and sniffed the air.

  “Nick? Something’s burning? What is it? Can’t you smell it?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about now, love. It’s finished, somebody rang about those noisy cars when I had the pan on but I’ve put it out.”

  “Put it out? Put what out?”

  “The fire in the frying pan. It was those sausages. I had no idea sausages could do that, spontaneous combustion I think it must have been!”

  She went across to inspect the ghastly mess in the remains of the flying pan, a wedding present.

  “Nick, the pan is ruined! You could have burnt the house down, you really should be more careful.”

  “It was Mrs Maitland nattering, she went on a bit…”

  “Look, I haven’t time for anything,” she had resumed her frantic activity while trying to put on her coat. “I haven’t time for any breakfast and haven’t time to stay and talk. I must open surgery in two minutes then afterwards I’m going to Ashfordly, to the nursing home. And while I’m there, I thought I would put some flowers on my grandparents’ grave in Ashfordly churchyard

  “Then you’ll have time to get a new frying pan while you’re there?” he grinned mischievously.

  She was now heading for the door, with one arm still not in the correct sleeve of her coat. She was desperately trying to find the right place for her hand.

  “Yes, all right.”

  “So you’ll be going to the ironmongers?” he persisted, delaying her even longer.

  “Yes, of course. Look, I must go.” Now she had found the right armhole and managed to thrust her arm down the sleeve. She was heading for the door now, a picture of bustle and haste.

  “Then you can get me a screwdriver at the same time, so I can get that exhaust pipe finished.”

  “Screwdriver?” she cried. “I thought you were going to Ashfordly as well, to check on motor rallies or something. You can get your own screwdriver — and a new frying pan! It was you who ruined the one we’ve got!”

  “I’m not supposed to go shopping when I’m in uniform,” he smiled in his most charming way. “You know what Sergeant Blaketon’s like about that sort of thing. Rules are rules — no private shopping while in uniform…”

  “All right, all right, I’ll get your screwdriver…”

  “A large one, three-eighths blade,” he said. “That’s very important!”

  “Right! Now get that smelly frying pan out of the house, will you? It’s awful…it’s like somebody burning horse manure!”

  “Yes, love,” he beamed.

  “Why do I get myself talked into these things?” demanded Kate as she finally left the house, banging the door behind her.

  “It’s because you love me!” Nick shouted as she departed.

  He returned to the business of the ruined frying pan and just as he collected it from the draining board, the telephone rang. Sighing, he went to answer it, still carrying the pan like a tennis racket. It was someone else complaining about noisy cars last night and this time, the caller thought the Monte Carlo rally must have been routed through Aidensfield.

  Nick assured the gentleman that it was not the Monte Carlo rally; he’d have known if that event had been scheduled to pass through the village! He added that he would do all within his power to trace the organisers of last night’s event so that due representations could be made. The caller appeared to be satisfied, and so Nick went outside, threw the blackened flying pan into the dustbin and returned to the kitchen to wash the pots. Only then could he prepare for his own tour of duty.

  *

  As Nick and Kate were beginning their day in Aidensfield, Mrs Joan Forrester and her son Graham were preparing for a weekend away from home.

  Joan, recently widowed, was the former wife of Sergeant Blaketon. She’d divorced the sergeant, re-married but had recently lost her new husband. Sergeant Blaketon was the officer in charge of Ashfordly police station, and Graham was their son. Now aged 18, Graham was in his final year at secondary school and still pondering his future. But a weekend away sounded a good idea; he’d been invited to stay with his long-time friend, Denis Myers. Denis lived at Aidensfield with his parents. As small children at primary school, the boys had been inseparable and had always kept in touch, even as young men.

  Joan Blaketon, on the other hand, had initially found life as a divorcee quite tough; her social life had almost ceased and she’d found it difficult to make new friends.

  She had tried to make a success of her marriage to Oscar Blaketon but had decided, with reluctance, that he was more in
love with his job than with her. And so they had divorced some years ago, with Joan getting custody of their son. She’d moved to Pickering where she’d found work, and then she’d met and married Alan Forrester who worked in a printing office. But Alan had died prematurely less than a year ago and now she was alone, with only Graham for company. From time to time, she did meet her former husband and their relationship was fairly amicable.

  Looking forward to her weekend break, she’d done the washing and ironing and now, as she packed her case, she saw that Graham was outside, washing the car. He was keen to go for his weekend break too and she smiled at his ploy — he’d just passed his driving test and his new enthusiasm for cleaning the car was his way of softening her so she might allow him to drive to Aidensfield! She allowed him to work without interruption.

  Having finished her own preparations, Joan went outside to see how Graham was progressing. He had washed the vehicle with a brush and hose and was now drying it with a wash leather, polishing the chrome and glass and standing back from time to time to admire his handiwork.

  “You have done a good job!” beamed Joan, her dark eyes showing her pride. She was a handsome woman, tall and slender with a head of thick dark hair and warm eyes.

  In many ways, Graham resembled her because he was tall and slender. His dad, she often thought, was of a more stocky nature, heavier and not so agile — all very good for the stolid image of a rural policeman!

  “Well,” beamed Graham. “We can’t have you going off to Whitby in a scruffy old car, you never know who you might bump into!”

  “I’m only staying with my friend Margaret and we’re off to the Spa Theatre to see a play, just the two of us! There’s no blind dates or anything like that, I’m not looking for romance, Graham!”

  “Will you be seeing dad?” Graham asked.

  “I haven’t any plans to see him, we are divorced remember! But look, it’s his birthday on Sunday and I think you ought to get him a card and a present. I’m just popping down to the paper shop now, to tell them I’ll be away for the weekend. I’m getting a card to post to your dad, so shall I get one for you to send?”

  “Thanks, mum, yes I’d like that. And I’ll get him a present while I’m away — I can take it to him. Any idea what he’d like?”

  “To be honest no, not at the moment. I’ll think about it as we’re driving over the moors. Now we’ll set off in, say, an hour from now, shall we? We can get some lunch on the way, stop at a moorland pub perhaps. You’re all packed, are you?”

  “Just about. But relax, I’ll be ready on time, mum!”

  “And I expect you’d like to drive, wouldn’t you?”

  His eyes lit up with excitement.

  “Can I really? Your car? All the way to Aidensfield?”

  “You’ve passed your test so that means you’re capable, doesn’t it?” she smiled. “So it’s a deal — you drive and I’ll make sure I’m not a backseat driver!”

  *

  Meanwhile in Aidensfield, Graham’s friend, Denis Myers, was worrying about a peculiar rash which had appeared on his arms. He’d tried to ignore it, thinking it might go away, but when his mother saw it, she told him to get straight down to the surgery.

  “You never know what you might have picked up, our Denis!” She always called him “our Denis” and some of his pals copied her. “Working on them building sites like you do, you could have got anything. So get yourself down to the village and see Dr Rowan. I just hope it’s not catching! And don’t forget you’ve got Graham Blaketon coming to stay tonight — we don’t want him infected with whatever it is, so if the doctor says it’s infectious, you’ll have to ring Graham and tell him not to come. Now, surgery’s open till ten o’clock and there’ll be a queue, there always is, so you’d better be off.”

  Denis went to the garage behind the house, opened it and began to manoeuvre his motor cycle into the yard. It was a small machine, a BSA Bantam, one he’d had since he was sixteen.

  Parked beside it was his dad’s Austin A40 but Denis had not passed his test for motor cars, so he wasn’t allowed to take out the car. His mum couldn’t drive which meant she could not accompany him or give him lessons. On top of that, his dad was away a lot at sea, so poor Denis had very few opportunities to drive the car or to learn how to drive. Worse still, most of his mates now had cars of their own — old bangers most of them, but they were roadworthy and they helped enormously when it came to attracting girls. Denis sighed. All his mates had money and girls, he had neither. One day though, when he had saved enough money, he’d buy a car of his own. It would be a sports model with a red body and wire wheels…one day…

  He kicked his motor bike into life, settled upon the saddle and rode down to Dr Rowan’s surgery. The surgery was currently being held in a room at the village hall because when Dr Ferrenby died, his relatives had sold the house in which the surgery was contained. This had left young Dr Rowan without any suitable premises; for a time, she’d used a room in the police house but the village hall committee had allowed her to use one of the smaller rooms as a temporary measure. And so it was to the village hall that Denis drove, passing one or two other patients who were walking the same way.

  Denis awaited his turn with patience and was finally admitted to the doctor. She smiled and asked him to be seated, then asked about his problem. He told her about the rash on his arms, explaining how it had arrived so quickly.

  The doctor made a swift examination then asked about his work — he was an apprentice bricklayer — and what he and his mum kept at home, such as pets or flowers, or what kind of food he ate.

  “Well,” she said after a while. “It’s an allergy, Denis. I’m not sure what you are allergic to, but it could be something you’re in contact with at work like brick dust or cement powder, or it might be something in your home, like the cat, or certain flowers, food even. Different people can be allergic to different things.”

  “Is it serious? Is it catching?” there was some worry in his face.

  “No, it’s not serious and it’s not infectious. You won’t pass it to anyone else, so you can relax. Now, the only way to find out what’s causing it is to be aware of everything you touch or come into contact with…it might take a long time to work out what’s causing the rash — and once you’ve done that, then you keep away from whatever it is! For example, if the rash has just broken out, it could be caused by some new product at work — so keep your eyes and ears open and try to find out what it is!”

  “But you can cure it, can you? It itches like mad, makes me scratch all night, in bed…”

  “I’ll prescribe some tablets for you,” and she went across to her medicine cabinet and took a bottle of tablets from the shelf.

  “These are called antihistamine tablets, Denis,” she continued. “Start taking them tonight, when you go to bed. Have one at bedtime, one before breakfast and another one in the middle of the day, around lunch time or dinner time as you call it. Do that for a week, and the rash should clear up. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sure, thanks,” he rolled down his sleeves and waited as she wrote the instructions on the label.

  But before handing him the tablets, she looked at him steadily and said,

  “Now this is important, Denis, so listen carefully. Once you have taken the first tablet, you must not drive — no driving cars or motor bikes. These tablets will make you feel dizzy — and on top of that, there’s no drinking alcohol either. Now that’s very important. It’s only for a week or so, so it’s not exactly a prison sentence! I want you to understand that, it is extremely important.”

  “Yes, sure, doctor. Right, thanks. It’ll be worth it to get rid of this itching! I can get a lift to work, so I won’t need to ride my motor bike.”

  “No, I’m going to sign you off work as well, that’s during the time you’ll be taking the tablets. We can’t have you getting dizzy if you’re working on scaffolding or while you’re building walls, can we? So, it’s eight days off work, startin
g from now. And come and see me in a week’s time.”

  He indicated his understanding as she signed the necessary certificate, but as Denis Myers left the surgery, she felt uncertain as to how carefully he would obey her instructions.

  She decided to keep an eye on Denis Myers over the next few days.

  CHAPTER III

  That same morning, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was preparing for his exciting day’s work while Sergeant Blaketon was beginning his duty at Ashfordly police station.

  Claude, with the faithful Alfred at his side, left his tumbledown home in a very happy state; the day held a lot of promise because it had presented an opportunity to earn a large and very useful sum of money. On this occasion, it was a lawful sum of money, although Claude had decided that the tax man might never know about it.

  For Sergeant Blaketon, on the other hand, the new day held the rather bleak prospect of an unannounced visit from the new inspector. She might arrive at any time of the day or night. She’d be coming to find fault with Ashfordly section, she’d be coming to check all the station registers and records, to see if the men had smart haircuts, polished boots and pressed uniform trousers, to check on the number of arrests and prosecutions and to see how the crime detection rate was progressing.

  The lady in question was the formidable Inspector Murchison who was now based at Whitby. Due to recent divisional boundary changes, Ashfordly, Aidensfield and the surrounding villages lay in Whitby sub-division, of which she was the officer in charge.

  Somewhat apprehensive about her propensity for making unannounced supervisory visits, Sergeant Blaketon was in his office very early that morning. He was checking every possible thing that might attract the critical attention of Inspector Murchison because she had a reputation for being meticulous in her scrutiny of the police stations she visited. To prepare for her, he even dusted the mantelshelf, swept up some coal dust from the hearth and placed new toilet rolls in the cells. One’s prisoners must have every consideration; constables, on the other hand, had to bring their own loo rolls!