“Right!”
And so, in the absence of their strict master, the two constables settled down to watch the final part of the game, each nourished by a hard-boiled egg, a ham sandwich and a share of the hot sweet tea from Alf s flask.
“Phil’s playing well,” observed Alf. “He’s running rings round those Crook defenders…I reckon they’ve run themselves out of steam and Whitby’ll beat them…this is a good match, eh?”
“Good old Phil,” breathed Nick. “If he scores, it’ll make my day — especially if we see him do it!”
*
For Sergeant Blaketon, the fact that he was working in a town like Whitby for however short a period, presented an opportunity to search for some second-hand books. He had a large selection of popular novels by people like Dickens, Trollope, Hardy and Walpole, but his pride was his collection of Brontë editions. He had at least one copy of every edition of every Brontë novel, some in rather poor condition, and so his quest for finer specimens was never-ending. He wanted to own the best collection in England, he wanted to rival even the Brontë Society itself.
Oscar Blaketon knew there was a small but very highly regarded second-hand bookshop in Silver Street, Whitby and this afternoon’s duty, with its long moments of inactivity, offered an ideal opportunity to visit the shop.
He realised, of course, that such private expeditions were no part of a police officer’s duty but, he had reasoned, all the town’s officers were on duty at the match. This meant he could undertake what he called a supervisory patrol of the streets which also meant that if he just happened to be passing the shop during that patrol, then he might be tempted to pop in.
In leaving Ventress and Rowan alone, he knew they would find something to occupy them and so it was that Sergeant Oscar Blaketon happened to be walking past the secondhand book shop. The door was standing open, almost tempting him to enter. He paused to glance at the window, his trained eyes scanning the display, and then he looked up and down the street. There was no one about; Silver Street was off the beaten track anyway, but at this precise moment, it was deserted. There was not a person in sight and so, like a wraith, he disappeared into the book shop.
He moved among the shelves, all packed with a variety of desirable volumes; he passed the local history section, the transport section, the war section, the natural history shelf, the travel shelf…and then he found the fiction section with its array of novels by Britain’s foremost authors.
Blaketon owned copies of most of the books on display but as he was seeking anything by one of the Brontë sisters, he heard a voice behind.
“Good afternoon, sergeant,” it was a small man with spectacles. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, yes,” Blaketon was partly taken by surprise because he hadn’t heard the man’s approach. “I was just passing the shop and thought I’d pop in — I collect Brontë novels, you see, all editions.”
“Ah, well, I’m sorry. I’ve just sold my only copy — Wuthering Heights it was. I took it into stock only yesterday, put it on the shelf this morning and it went before lunch. A lady bought it, an early Blackamoor edition.”
Blaketon smiled his disappointment. “I’d have liked that. Oh, well, that’s the way it goes. But I might be back.”
“You’re new to the town, sergeant?” the man commented. “I’m from Ashfordly,” Blaketon told him. “Our boundaries have been altered slightly, and from time to time in the future, I might be doing duty in Whitby, like today. So I shall make a point of coming into your shop.”
“Well, I do get Brontë editions in quite frequently, sometimes in sets and sometimes individual volumes. I could always drop you a line if you’re a very keen collector.”
“Sergeant O. Blaketon, Ashfordly Police Station will find me,” said Oscar. “I’d appreciate that.”
And as he turned to leave, he was horrified to see the distinctive figure of Inspector Murchison passing the doorway of this very shop. She glanced inside as she passed and Blaketon tried to conceal himself behind some bookcases.
Had she seen him? He waited until he reckoned she’d gone.
The shopkeeper was saying, “I could always place your name on our search list, sergeant, and if a dealer has a rare Brontë title, you would be informed before it was put on general sale…”
“Oh, er, right,” he wasn’t really concentrating on the man’s words any longer. “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you. Well, I must be moving along, the football crowds will soon be turning out!”
“It’s quite a walk to the ground, sergeant,” smiled the shopkeeper, but as Blaketon moved towards the door, Inspector Murchison came in.
“I thought I saw you in here, sergeant, when I came past just now,” she said pointedly. “I trust things are in order at the football ground?”
“Er, I was just familiarising myself with the town, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve left my men in control at the football ground. I have complete faith in them, they’re the cream of Ashfordly section, totally reliable. They can work without close supervision, I assure you!”
“Let us hope so, sergeant. Now, shall we walk back to the football ground together? Back to where you should be on duty?” she added pointedly.
And so, marching side by side in precise military fashion, Sergeant Blaketon and Inspector Murchison strode through the streets as they made for Whitby football ground.
As they approached it about quarter of an hour later, there was no sign of Ventress or Rowan on the street where he had left them. Poor old Oscar began to fear the worst…they’d let him down, and just when the Inspector was going to discover their lapse! They drew nearer to the ground with Blaketon desperately looking for his officers; he saw the high fence come into view along the street which contained the rows of parked cars, and then he saw his men. His heart sank; they were peering through a hole in the fence! Had she seen them?
Blaketon tried to ignore the sight because it consisted of two uniformed police officers, with their helmets on the backs of their heads, as they stooped to peer through a hole in the railings. And both were cheering and shouting. Worse still, Ventress was puffing at a cigarette and at that moment, the crowd roared in excitement and shouted “Goal, goal!”
“Phil scored!” shouted Nick as he jumped up and punched the air with his fist. “What a goal! He beat that goalie as if he wasn’t there…great stuff…!”
Blaketon realised that Inspector Murchison had seen the display and decided to act.
“Ventress, Rowan!” he bellowed. “Get back to your posts this minute! This is disgraceful…”
They turned and saw the two senior officers bearing down on them. Alf nipped his cigarette and stuffed it into his pocket as Nick replaced his helmet and strode back to the street, with Alf following.
They heard Inspector Murchison saying, “Your men work very well without supervision, you told me, Sergeant Blaketon. The best of Ashfordly section, you said. I’d say they were neglecting their duty, I’d say they were improperly dressed and at least one of them was smoking on duty, sergeant. I shall expect you to deal with them accordingly, sergeant!” And off she marched, heading for the entrance to the ground as Blaketon came towards them, red-faced and wishing a hole would open up beneath him.
“I shall speak to you two when we return to Ashfordly,” was all he said. “Now get back on patrol, both of you!”
“Sorry, sergeant,” they said meekly.
CHAPTER IX
While the football match was in progress at Whitby that Saturday afternoon, several members of the Killing Pits Club had assembled on the moor at the outskirts of Aidensfield. There were fewer than last night, perhaps five or six cars and up to a dozen members comprising youths and girls. Indeed two of the members had gone to the football match, being keen supporters of Whitby Town, but the others had assembled for a Saturday afternoon outing of some kind. This gathering was to enable a decision to be made. Should they drive out to York, or the coast or visit a ruined abbey?
As they were assembl
ing, someone noticed an old Austin A40 coming down the hill towards them and at the wheel was Graham Blaketon. Beside him was his pal, Denis Myers, and the car sported “L” plates to the front and rear.
As he drove, Graham noticed the gathering of youngsters and, turning to Denis, asked, “Shall we stop and see what they’re up to?”
“Sure,” agreed Denis, although he was not too anxious to join the club members; after all, they had rejected his pleas for membership so there was no real point in trying again. But he knew Graham was friendly with some of them, old school friends mainly. Graham turned his car towards the group of vehicles, drove it onto the smooth grass and stopped.
He and Denis climbed out just as a small motor cycle chugged to a halt beside them. The rider turned off his engine and sat astride the machine to speak to them. It was Gordon Turnbull.
“Hey, what’s happened to you, Gordon?” laughed one of the group. “Got sick of driving around in posh cars, have you?”
“My radiator’s sprung a leak, so I can’t use the car until 1 get it fixed,” he explained. “It’s a huge hole, I can’t go more than a couple of miles before it’s drained dry. I thought I might have a ride over to Ponderosa Scrap Yard to see if I can find a good second-hand radiator, then I saw this lot gathering and thought I’d stop to say hello.” Then he turned to Graham and smiled, “So what are you and our Denis doing here?”
“I saw the group,” Graham told Gordon. “Me and Denis were off to Scarborough then I saw them all here so we stopped for a chat. We wondered if there was going to be a club outing somewhere, Scarborough maybe?”
“Aren’t they doing the run this afternoon?” asked Gordon, directing his question to anyone who might answer.
“I’ve no idea,” Denis responded. “I’ve not heard anybody talk about it. I mean, I haven’t really had chance to find out yet, we’ve only just got here.”
“Graham,” smiled Gordon with just a hint of cunning in his eyes as he changed the subject. “They tell me your dad’s on duty at Whitby this afternoon?”
“That’s right, Whitby Town’s playing Crook, they were expecting a big crowd. Rowan’s gone from Aidensfield as well, and Ventress from Ashfordly.”
“So there’ll be no local coppers to worry us if we did a run this afternoon?” beamed Gordon. “A daylight one. Now that would be a good idea, a real test! It’d be far better than a night-time trial.”
Denis shrugged his shoulders. Such an idea held no appeal to him because he wouldn’t be allowed to participate, and Graham was not too happy with the idea. The idea of youths racing around the moors on a Saturday afternoon, when the roads could be busy with tourists and local people, was not one which commended itself to him. He experienced a sense of foreboding; a shudder ran down his spine, but he said nothing. He had no wish to be regarded as a spoilsport, nor to give anyone the opportunity of suggesting he was behaving like his father! He knew most of the lads were extremely good drivers and nothing had happened yet. None had had an accident, and the police had never stopped them — the only complaint was about a bit of noise and that was not serious. Noise never hurt anybody.
As they had been talking, three more cars arrived, their drivers having seen the somewhat impromptu gathering of the club. There were girls too. Whatever the members decided, it looked like being an exciting Saturday afternoon’s entertainment.
Gordon was now enthusing over the idea.
“I reckon somebody could beat five minutes fifty-five seconds this afternoon,” he was saying. “It’s perfect. The roads are dry, the weather’s fine, visibility’s good, there’s no strong winds. So let’s go for a record, shall we? Best time out of three circuits each? How about that?”
Before Graham could add his reservations to that idea, Gordon whistled through his fingers to attract the attention of the few who had gathered. He hoisted his motor cycle onto its rest and left it as he strode to a slightly higher piece of moorland.
“Right,” he said, having gained their attention. “How about a record attempt this afternoon?”
He went on to explain about the absence of police officers, and the fact that conditions were ideal for a very fast time. A persuasive speaker, Gordon had no difficulty convincing them it was a good idea. What had started as a gathering of club members for little more than a chat and a comparison of vehicles, had suddenly developed into the beginning of a serious contest.
“Right,” he said. “We need to get things organised. Three circuits, the fastest time counting. That gives you three chances to make a name for yourself. We need a time-keeper and a half-way marshal. Graham,” he turned to young Blaketon. “How about you being the half-way marshal? They’ve all got to pass you to qualify — that stops them taking short cuts; you clock their times as they pass you.”
“Sure,” agreed Graham Blaketon, if a little reluctantly.
“You remember the half-way point?”
“You bet!” Graham tried to show some enthusiasm. “Bracken Comer. I once fell off my push bike there, when we were doing a teenage kids’ race!”
“That’s the place. Look, can you take Denis’ dad’s car? We can give you five minutes to get there and set up for your timing stint.”
“There’s nowhere to park a car there, Gordon, it’s a very narrow road. I’ll need a lift out there. Maybe somebody could take me out there and come back for the trial?”
Gordon didn’t reply to that suggestion but suddenly flashed a smile and said, “Tell you what, you could take my motor bike. You’ve passed your test for bikes, haven’t you?”
“Sure, and cars.”
“Right, there’ll be no problem parking the bike, so take that. And I have a job for our Denis. Right, off you go, settle yourself in at Bracken Comer and we’ll set them off in ten minutes time. One minute intervals as usual.”
“Synchronise watches first!” said Graham, and so he and Gordon made sure each watch showed exactly the same time. Then Gordon whistled again and shouted,
“Right, Graham’s off to be half-way marshal. We start in ten minutes. Now, I’m feeling generous so tonight, I’ll buy drinks all night for the crew of the car that’s fastest at the half-way stage.”
This announcement was greeted with cheers and whistles, as Gordon continued, “But, as usual, the slowest round the circuit pays for the first round as before…how about that?”
They all indicated their agreement and then Gordon asked one of the girls to write every driver’s name on a piece of paper. There would be a draw for the order of starting and as these arrangements were being finalised, Graham mounted the small motor bike, kicked it into life and set off through Aidensfield.
He enjoyed the feel of the wind through his hair, this being long before the compulsory wearing of crash helmets, as he guided the tough little machine around the lanes. There was a series of steep hills and sharp comers before he arrived at the place known as Bracken Comer. It was a steep, winding hill between elevated pieces of moorland, almost like a gorge in fact, and once the cars had passed through here, they could complete the circuit without cheating by local short cut. He found a flat area to park the machine then climbed onto his vantage point to await the first competitor.
As Graham was going about his responsibilities, Gordon approached Denis.
“Now then our Denis,” he began, using the term Denis’ mother always used when she spoke about him. “What have we got lined up for you, eh?”
“Starter, I should think,” muttered Denis. “I’ve got a white handkerchief, and a watch.”
And at that point, he experienced a sudden attack of dizziness. It was only slight, but he felt the world begin to spin around him and he rested one hand against the car to steady himself.
“You all right, our Denis?” asked Gordon with mock concern.
“Yeh, nothing. Just lost my balance, I’m OK now.”
“Well, I had a nice thought, our Denis,” oozed Gordon. “I mean, you’ve been asking us for ages if the club would accept you and we can’t
. Rules, you know. You have to be a car owner and driver, as you know.”
Denis looked at Gordon, wondering what was coming next.
“Well,” continued Gordon. “This event’s a bit special and it is Saturday afternoon, I’m feeling in a happy and generous mood, the police are miles away and you have a car, right there beside you!”
“It’s my dad’s,” muttered Denis, his head still reeling from his attack of dizziness.
“And you’re a learner. But I thought I might persuade the others to let you have a go this afternoon. You know, do the circuit, as a sort of test.”
“Test?” asked Denis.
“Well, we know how keen you are to join us, and you have always been a member in the past, with your pedal bike and motor bike, and so I thought that if you could do the circuit in less than, say six minutes, then we might accept you.”
“In dad’s car, you mean?”
“Why not? The cops are away from the area, you could take the “L” plates off and who would know? You’re a good driver and all you have to do is get that old crate around the course in less than six minutes. A doddle, I’d say. And if you did, we’d accept you as a special member, even without owning a car. How about that?”
“Well, I’m not sure…I mean, it’s an old car, to get round in less than six minutes, well, you really have to be motoring and besides, I am a learner…”
“You’ll never get another chance like this, Denis. I’ll bet your mum will never let you have the car again, it’s only because Graham’s here that you’ve got it…”
Denis knew they were right. His mother could not drive and there’d be precious few other opportunities. It took only a moment’s thought for him to agree.
Gordon smiled; Gordon knew the old car would never get around the circuit within six minutes, but he did enjoy seeing poor old Denis suffer…the fellow had no money, no style, no girlfriend…
Having secured Denis’ consent, Gordon whistled for attention and put the proposal to the other club members. It was very simple — if Denis, in his dad’s old car, could complete the circuit within six minutes this afternoon, then the club would accept him as a special member. The others, listening to Gordon’s suggestion, all agreed.
Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 8
