Constable in Control (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 16)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  “Me too, but you know what’ll happen if we both turn in — the phone will ring or somebody will come knocking on the door! And you’re still worrying about Denis, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” she admitted. “It was a terrible thing to say, Nick, about me not warning him about the effect of those tablets, especially when it’s not true. It makes me look as if I’m not doing my job properly. Did you ask Graham Blaketon if he knew about Denis’ tablets?”

  “I haven’t managed to track him down yet,” he admitted. “He spent the night with his father, at Ashfordly, then used Blaketon’s private car to take Mrs Myers to see Denis.”

  “Poor Graham, he’ll be without a home now, won’t he? Do you think he’ll move in with his father?”

  Nick shrugged. “They’ve never really got on in the past, but Graham is a bit more mature now. It might just work and I’m sure Blaketon will offer the lad a home. It could be the finest thing for both of them, Blaketon does appreciate a home life, you know, even though he never seems to take time off.”

  “Graham will need a father’s support just now,” said Kate. “When I saw him at the hospital, he was in a very subdued mood. He was blaming himself for what happened.”

  “I can’t see why,” said Nick. “Mind, I don’t know the full story yet, which is why I must interview him before too long. He wouldn’t say a thing the last time I spoke to him, he just said he knew nothing and had seen nothing. But I think he does know something, especially the fact that those kids were racing along those lanes.”

  “You won’t forget to ask him whether Denis knew the risks when taking those antihistamines?” she persisted.

  “I’ll ask him, I promise,” Nick assured her. “Now, how about that early night?”

  “Right, you make the cocoa and I’ll warm the bed up!” she smiled, rising to her feet. And at that moment, there was a knock on the door.

  “Oh, no,” she groaned. “I knew it! It always happens! Don’t answer it, Nick, please

  “I can’t ignore it,” he said. “It might be somebody in trouble, you never know…”

  “Yes, of course. You’re right,” she conceded. “See who it is.”

  And when Nick opened the door, Graham Blaketon was standing there looking distraught and miserable, and his father was immediately behind him, stem faced and very much the police officer on duty. He was in his uniform.

  “Rowan,” he nodded a greeting.

  “Sergeant Blaketon!” Nick sounded surprised. “This is a surprise.”

  Graham spoke next. “Dad says I should come and tell you all about the accident,” he said quietly.

  “You’d better come in,” invited Nick and he opened the door wide to admit his guests. Instead of dealing with them in the office adjoining the house, he took them into the lounge.

  “It’s Sergeant Blaketon and Graham,” Nick told Kate. “They’ve come about the accident. Tea, sergeant? Coffee?”

  “A cup of tea would be very welcome,” said Sergeant Blaketon.

  “Graham?” Nick tried to put the youth at his ease; quite clearly, he was distressed and upset about the predicament in which he found himself.

  “Thanks, yes, tea would be fine.”

  “I’ll make the tea,” offered Kate. As she went into the kitchen to brew the tea, Nick settled them before the fire, hoping they would both relax and that they would feel more comfortable here than in the clinical atmosphere of the hospital, still fresh in their memories.

  “Graham wants to say something to you,” began Blaketon looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  Nick, standing before the fire, looked down at the unhappy youth, then changed his stance and settled in an armchair next to Graham. Now both were on a level and Nick smiled.

  “So, Graham, what do you wish to say?”

  Graham took a deep breath, saying, “Dad says I should tell the truth, about everything,” he began. “You know, Denis driving his dad’s car without being accompanied by a passed driver, being a learner, and the Killing Pits Club doing those trials around the village and all that.”

  “All right,” said Nick. “Now, I’m sure your father will have explained that I must take it all down in writing, for my accident report that is. So what I want you to do first is to tell me everything, and then we’ll put it all on paper.”

  With gentle questioning by Nick, particularly about the chronology of events, Graham told his version of things. He told Nick about the Killing Pits Club and how they raced around the moors, the slowest having to pay for the drinks after the trials, and how Denis could never become a club member because he had no car of his own. And he couldn’t drive either, not alone, because he hadn’t passed his driving test. Graham went on to explain how Mrs Myers had allowed them to take the family car, trusting Graham to look after it, but yesterday afternoon, when the Club was short of members, Graham had been asked to serve as the half-way marshal. Graham explained that his half-way position was at Bracken Comer, a notoriously bad comer with steep downward hills dropping into it from either direction. He had to time all the cars as they passed through, and also ensure none took a short cut.

  Unknown to him, Gordon Turnbull had tempted Denis into attempting a fast run in his father’s car, persuading him to remove his “L” plates and Denis, so anxious to do well and so keen to become a member of the Killing Pits Club, had agreed.

  At this point, Kate came in with mugs of hot tea for them all, and some biscuits.

  Nick paused in his questioning as Kate distributed the refreshments, and then, when she was seated in her chair, Nick resumed.

  “Graham,” Nick asked. “Was Denis fit to drive?”

  “He was just a learner,” Graham said.

  “No, I don’t mean that,” Nick pressed him. “I mean was he ill? You see he’d been to visit the doctor and she’d given him some tablets.”

  “He had a rash, I saw it on his arms when he went to bed. I shared a room with him.”

  “And was he taking pills for the rash?” continued Nick.

  “Yes, I can’t remember their name, but he was taking them in the morning, one at dinner time and another before he went to sleep. I saw him taking them and when he showed me the rash, I asked if it was catching. He said it wasn’t. He said he hadn’t to drive while taking the tablets or have a drink of beer, they would make him dizzy. The doctor had told him not to drive, so he told me, so he was off work as well, for a week.”

  “Thank you,” breathed Kate. “So I did warn him!”

  “Warn him?” asked Blaketon. “What about, might I ask?”

  Kate smiled. “Denis had an allergy, sergeant, I do not know what would have caused it, but I put him on a course of antihistamine tablets for a week. The allergy had caused a nasty rash on his arms and other parts of the body, and it would be uncomfortable. However, the tablets do make the patient feel dizzy at times, and so I warned Denis of the dangers of becoming dizzy while driving, or working on scaffolding and even after having alcohol. I made him promise not to drink or drive while on the course of tablets, and I signed him off work until he’d recovered.”

  “So those tablets would adversely affect his driving?”

  “Yes, very much so. He’d get dizzy spells which would make him incapable of having full control of the vehicle, but Denis swears I never warned him of the consequences. Graham has just confirmed that I did warn him, sergeant. Denis should never have been driving at all, not even his motor bike.”

  “Point taken,” said Blaketon. “You’ll incorporate that in Graham’s statement, Rowan?”

  “Of course, sergeant. Now, Graham, this is the nasty bit for you, and for your father. From evidence collected at the scene at the time of the accident, and from tyre-marks we have recorded, it does seem that Mrs Blaketon, er Mrs Forrester, was driving on the wrong side of the road. You were there, Graham, so I need to know exactly what you saw.”

  Graham nodded.

  “She only went to the wrong side at the last minute, Mr Rowan. She was
driving perfectly normally just before the accident. I saw her coming down the hill, into the sharp bend, and at the same time saw Denis racing along, into the same sharp bend. I could see the two cars would meet there, I knew there’d be a collision.”

  “Denis was going too fast, was he?” asked Nick gently.

  “Yes, far too fast. He didn’t seem to be in full control, not like a normal driver would have been…I could see there was going to be an accident unless I stopped one of them. So I waved my arms at mum, I was standing high above the road really, and don’t know whether she could see me, but I ran about and waved my arms, shouting for her to slow down or stop.”

  There were signs of distress in the lad’s voice now, but Nick must not allow him to waver, not at this stage.

  “Go on, Graham,” he encouraged him.

  “I know she saw me waving my arms about, she was very surprised to see me there, in the middle of the moor, and I think she must have thought I’d had an accident or something…anyway, she swerved the minute she saw me…and that’s when Denis ran into her. It was awful, Mr Rowan, really awful…I mean, I couldn’t do anything…nothing…I ran down to help and then some other cars came.”

  “Thank you, Graham,” breathed Nick. “You’ve been very brave and I appreciate it.”

  “It was my fault, Mr Rowan, it was all my fault! If I hadn’t borrowed Denis’ dad’s car, if I hadn’t waved at mum, if I hadn’t agreed to be the half-way marshal, or told the Club the police were all away at Whitby…well, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Graham, you must never blame yourself, none of this was your fault. We will be speaking to Denis in due course, when he’s fit to be interviewed, but you mustn’t blame yourself.” Sergeant Blaketon leaned across and patted his son on the arm.

  “PC Rowan is right, Graham, you must not blame yourself.”

  “There are still some more terrible ordeals ahead for you, Graham,” added Nick. “The inquest for one thing, and maybe a court appearance if we decide to charge Denis with anything.”

  “Dangerous driving, you mean?”

  “It could be worse than that,” Nick spoke solemnly. “Driving under the influence of drugs, perhaps, or even causing death by dangerous driving. I know he has been medically examined at the hospital, so we will have to see what the experts say about the amount of drugs in his system.”

  Graham was weeping now. Putting his head on his father’s shoulder, he was sobbing quietly to himself as Sergeant Blaketon, in a rare touch of gentleness, put his arm about the lad and cradled him to his breast.

  “Thank you for being so gentle with him, Rowan,” said Blaketon. “It’s so tough for him, thinking he’s responsible for Joan’s death.”

  “It was a most unfortunate accident, sergeant,” was all Nick could say. “I really am most sorry.”

  “If there is any fault, Graham,” said Kate, “a lot will lie on Denis’ shoulders. He might need help from you, Graham, to get over this. I know he’s trying to talk himself out of any responsibility, but once the full realisation of his actions filters through to him, I think he might need your support.”

  “But he killed my mother…” sobbed Graham.

  “An accident killed your mother,” said Nick.

  “We’ve got a lot of enquiries to complete and soul-searching to do before we start blaming people, Graham,” said Sergeant Blaketon. “Come along, son, it’s time we were going home.”

  And at that point, there was another knock on the door.

  “Who on earth is this?” breathed Nick.

  “I’ll get it,” offered Kate.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  When Kate opened the door, she found a crowd of young people standing there, many of whom she recognised as youths and girls from Aidensfield.

  “Doctor Rowan?” a tall youth stepped forward. “I’m sorry to come at this time of night, but, well, we suddenly decided we should come and see PC Rowan.”

  “Oh, really, what about?” she asked.

  “Well, all sorts,” the lad seemed somewhat diffident about his purpose. “Mainly, though, about the awful accident, and the Killing Pits Club, and so on.”

  “Well, you’d better come in, all of you,” and she held the door wide open so that they could crowd into the house. She led them into the lounge. Some eighteen or nineteen youngsters crowded into the police house and one of them, a girl, was carrying a paper carrier bag.

  “Nick, there’s someone to see you,” smiled Kate. “In fact, a lot of someones to see you!”

  Nick turned to see the influx of people and was momentarily shocked. He recognised the leading youth, a lad called Duncan Saunders.

  “Hello, Duncan, what’s this? A deputation?”

  Duncan, rather nervous at seeing Sergeant Blaketon sitting in the room with his son, said, “Er, no, but we’ve had a meeting of the Killing Pits Club…”

  “We’ll leave, PC Rowan,” said Blaketon, rising to his feet. “I think we have concluded our business.”

  “No, please, don’t go, sergeant,” Duncan was sufficiently quick thinking to ask Blaketon and Graham to remain. “What I have to say does affect you as well, both of you.”

  “Oh, well, if you say so, I don’t want to intrude on something private, you know.”

  “It’s not private, sergeant, and the first thing I’d, er, we’d all like to say, is how sorry we were about your ex-wife’s death. It really shocked us, all of us. We are members of the Killing Pits Club, you see, and we all feel responsible…”

  “It was an accident,” grunted Blaketon. “I’m not one for apportioning blame without hearing all sides.”

  “Well,” smiled Nick. “Is this all the club, then? Every member?”

  “Except Gordon,” said Duncan with just a hint of a wry smile. “We often wondered where he got his money from. He won’t be allowed back in, Mr Rowan, not after what he’s done.”

  “Well, I can’t find chairs for you all, so you’d better sit on the floor or wherever you can find a space,” and so they all settled down before Nick asked, “So why are you all here?”

  “We had a club meeting tonight, Mr Rowan, at the Aidensfield Arms, and we decided that we should put the club on a proper footing. You know, with a chairman, and a committee and rules and things. We’ve been daft, really, but all we want is something to do with our time, and we all love cars so we wondered if you would be chairman. I mean, you have that lovely MG and you know about the law, and you could explain things to us, about the laws, about driving skills, about car maintenance and so on. That’s what we’d like to do.”

  Nick looked at Sergeant Blaketon for guidance.

  “It sounds a fine idea to me, Rowan,” he smiled. “Youngsters do need guidance with their motoring and I’m sure you could do a good job.”

  “Right,” said Nick. “If I am to be chairman, this is what I want from you all. I want a proper club, run with responsibility, with some of you elected as committee members. I’ll be chairman, but I’ll need a secretary and first of all, I would want to instigate the Joan Forrester Memorial Trophy for some event that the new committee will determine. And I want you all to attend her funeral, which is to be arranged soon — that is a mark of respect, the least you can do.”

  They sat around and listened in silence as Nick walked up and down, expressing his views. He told them about the need for car maintenance, for the need not to upset the villagers with noisy vehicles and for a new sense of responsibility to be created. They all agreed with him.

  He spent about twenty minutes outlining his idea and then concluded by saying, “I think we should change the name too. Killing Pits Club sounds terrible!”

  “What shall we call it?” asked Duncan.

  “How about the Aidensfield and District Motoring Club?” suggested Nick. “And open it to all motorists, motor cyclists included, so that people like Denis can join and be welcomed. If you will agree to help me run the new club along sensible lines, then I will be pleased to act as chairman, at least
for one term of office. OK?”

  The expressions on their faces showed a mixture of relief and pleasure, and without exception they agreed to consider his ideas. He suggested another meeting next Friday night, at the Aidensfield Arms, when he would produce his suggestion for a set of club rules and some ideas for club outings and events.

  When they had all digested his views, Duncan said, “Well, that’s fine. We were so nervous about coming here, in view of what’s happened.”

  Blaketon spoke now. “I think what you did took a lot of courage, from all of you. I am full of admiration and think the new club is a very worthwhile one. You have my full support.”

  “Maybe you should be President, sergeant?” smiled Nick, and the assembled youngsters cheered spontaneously.

  Blaketon beamed and said, “Yes, yes, I would like that. What a lovely idea.”

  And so they all clambered to their feet as they prepared to leave, but one of the girls, the one carrying the carrier bag, came forward.

  “Mr Rowan,” she said. “You know we all went to the scene of the accident yesterday, well, when everyone had left, I found this on the moor. I think it had been thrown out of one of the cars, I thought I’d better hand it in.”

  From her carrier bag she lifted a brown paper parcel bearing a gift tag, and handed it to Nick. He saw the handwriting on the label: it said, “To Oscar with love and wishing you a happy birthday, Joan and Graham.”

  Nick swallowed.

  “It’s for you, sergeant,” he said, passing the gift across to Sergeant Blaketon.

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