I entered the bar area, had a chat with George Ward, the licensee, and then caught Deirdre’s eye. She saw me, waved cheerfully and grimaced as the backache man never halted in his lurid account of years of unyielding pain. Deirdre showed no sign of embarrassment so probably she had no idea I’d seen her with Ken at Catterick Bridge races. Maybe I was wrong about their relationship?
Several days later, though, I was walking through Elsinby while enjoying a foot patrol in the crisp autumn evening. I was working a late shift from 6 p.m. until 2 a.m. and had recently begun my patrol when I saw Deirdre’s car easing to a halt just outside the Hopbind Inn. By the time it had halted, I was walking past; Deirdre emerged ready to begin work and I was surprised to see Gordon at the wheel.
‘Evening, Nick,’ she beamed, as she hurried across to the front door of the pub. ‘Nice night.’
‘Very pleasant,’ I agreed, turning to talk to Gordon. ‘You’re acting as chauffeur tonight, Gordon, eh?’
‘Deirdre usually drives herself to work,’ he said, ‘but Galtreford WI have asked me to give a talk about my work tonight, so I need the car. She’ll get a lift home, she said, there’s always someone she can ask at closing-time.’
Closing-time for the bar was at 11 p.m., although drinks could be served until midnight in the dining-room, there being a supper-hour extension in force at this inn. While I was chatting to Gordon, I told him Mary would like to view the painting we had earlier discussed as a present for my parents, and he said we could pop in any time.
I explained I had two days off next week, Wednesday and Thursday, when I would endeavour to bring her. He suggested 11 a.m. was a good time. Having concluded our modest business, Gordon drove away to prepare for his talk and I continued my patrol.
It was just after 1 a.m. when I was completing the tour of my beat. I was on my little Francis Barnett motorcycle at that time and in the final hour had decided to undertake a late-night check on the perimeter fence which surrounded the dam workings. This was a routine task. Apart from the possibility that someone might steal a mobile crane, there were some valuable tools and vehicles within the compound, therefore a random police presence was not a bad thing. I chugged gently along the deserted road which led from Aidensfield into Ramsdale; it was pitch dark at the time, although the night was dry and rather mild for the time of year. In the far distance, I could see the glow from the night security lights of the site but knew that no one would be working at this hour.
I had done this patrol many times, always without finding anything or anyone suspicious but as I motored along the lane, I became aware of the glimmer of a reflection from the headlights of a parked car. It was concealed in the entrance to a copse of pine trees, well off the highway.
The lights were not burning but it was the glow from my own headlights which had been reflected from the car. If I stopped immediately, I would alert the people in the car and they would drive off — that’s if they were there for an illegal purpose such as nicking cranes!
I drove on for a couple of hundred yards or so, then stopped, switched off the engine and dowsed my lights. I would investigate on foot; that enabled me to approach unseen and unheard.
Armed with a powerful torch which I did not switch on at this stage, I strode through the deep darkness towards the copse. I could see the outline of the pines silhouetted against the skyline and as my eyes grew accustomed to the lack of illumination, I could distinguish the shape of the car parked beneath them. There were no lights inside the vehicle and no one standing near it; if it was a car used by thieves, poachers or other villains, they might have left it here to go about their nefarious work on foot and in silence.
As I approached, I could see the car was a dark colour, navy blue by the look of it, and it was a Ford Consul. Even at this stage, I did not switch on my torch but as I drew ever closer, I realized it did contain someone. I could see movement inside . . . the car was moving slightly and I caught sight of white flesh, male and female.
I switched on my torch and simultaneously opened the driver’s door.
Two faces appeared above the seats, each blinking in the fierceness of my light. I had disturbed Ken Rigby and Deirdre Precious.
Chapter Seven
Absence from whom we love is worse than death,
And frustrate hope severer than despair.
WILLIAM COWPER, 1731–1800
The embarrassment to Deirdre and Ken (and, I might add myself) did result in their eventual dissociation. In the heat of that moment, though, and as the car door stood open to admit the cool night air, I apologized for disturbing them but at the same time gabbled I was merely doing my duty. I explained, as well as I could in the circumstances, that I had to check all suspicious vehicles seen near the construction site during early hours of any morning, particularly in light of the nationwide epidemic of mobile crane thefts. However, I did refrain from asking if they’d noticed any jibs or low-loaders.
If Ken had been fully dressed, I’m sure he would have leapt out to punch me on the nose, perhaps not realizing it was a police officer or me in particular, but the fact he was completely naked and lying in a rather peculiar position did restrain any attempt to physically vent his anger. He simply blinked into the glare of my torch as he strove to shield his vulnerable parts and at the same time protect and conceal Deirdre. Deirdre, as women often do in such cases, tried to cover her face while leaving everything else exposed and I think the chilly draught from the open door produced sets of goosepimples in some rather curious places. I am never quite sure what happens to the gear lever in such circumstances, whether shoes are always discarded or why the rear-view mirror is always covered.
After those first embarrassing seconds, I concluded with, ‘I think it’s time you went home to Gordon, Deirdre,’ then closed the car door. I switched off my torch and quickly walked away.
Leaving them in the gloom to consider their more immediate future, I returned to my motorcycle which was concealed further along the road and sat astride it for a few minutes, awaiting their reaction. Several minutes ticked by and then, having had time to recover their clothes, get dressed, calm themselves down and decide their next move, Ken’s car motored slowly towards Deirdre’s home, but they did not see me hidden in my dark place. As I watched their departure, I wondered what Deirdre would tell Gordon — I guessed it would be to the effect that the Hopbind had hosted a dinner party which had lasted longer than expected. And Gordon, loving his wife so dearly, would accept her story. At this time of the morning — around 1.30 — he’d probably be asleep anyway.
It was several days later when I had to call at the site office for a chat with Ken Rigby. There’d been another mobile crane theft, this time the thieves spiriting a monster machine away from a motorway construction site in the Midlands. It seems they’d used a low-loader, but what on earth did they do with the cranes? I had come to remind Ken of that theft and Karen welcomed me with an offer of coffee as Debbie went to tell Ken I had arrived. He was working on site; from the large rear window of the office, I watched Debbie approach him. There was a brief conversation and then he waved to indicate I should join him. Karen presented me with two mugs of coffee and I carried them to where Ken was waiting.
We were totally alone, the only presence being an earth-moving machine operating nearby and drowning any conversation which might be overheard. But we could converse in raised voices. I presented him with one of the mugs before raising my own and saying, ‘Cheers’ in a show of comradeship. The expression on his face suggested he was relieved to see me.
‘About the other night . . .’ he began, his face revealing his anxiety to explain.
‘Ken, it’s nothing to do with me,’ I interrupted. ‘What you do in your spare time is of no consequence to me, unless you break the law. And it’s not a criminal offence to make love to another man’s wife.’
‘But I do owe you some kind of explanation. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, to explain. I know it was wrong . . . it just happened . .
. we went too far . . . but we’ve agreed to stop seeing each other,’ he said quickly. ‘I wanted you to know.’
‘That’s probably a wise decision.’ Although it was no concern of mine, I felt I had to make a positive response.
‘Deirdre cried that night, she was desperately worried about Gordon, wondering what he would do if he found out. I think he’s vulnerable to black moods, depression even, and he trusts her totally. He depends on her more than we realize. She was ashamed of what we’d done.’
‘Or ashamed she’d been caught?’ I put to him, immediately wishing I hadn’t said that.
‘Both,’ he said quietly. ‘But it was she who suggested we part.’
‘A wise decision, but I’ve not told anyone about you,’ I assured him. ‘It is not recorded in any of my official logs, and so far as I am concerned, there is nothing further to say about it. Most certainly, I have not told Gordon and I never will. That’s between Deirdre and him, no one else.’
‘She was all for giving up her job at the Hopbind,’ he said.
‘That’s hardly necessary,’ I responded.
‘She couldn’t work there if I was living in, so I said I’d move out. It was my fault, Nick; I made all the moves; I chased her. It’s my responsibility. I know she loves Gordon and wants to support him. It’s more than the money and I’d hate to ruin their marriage — it was a fling really, but you never think things will go that far, do you?’
‘You’re talking sense, Ken. Gordon does need her.’
‘I know. In hindsight, I feel a right bastard. Anyway, I told her not to give up work on my account. So I’ll keep out of her way. It’ll be hard, I know, because, would you believe, that over the months, I’ve come to love that woman, I really have. She is more to me than just a bit on the side.’
‘You’re not leaving the site, are you?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no. I’ll find some other digs, perhaps in Ashfordly or another village. I like pubs; they provide me with different company after work. I don’t like living and working with my mates. Meanwhile, I’ve found a caravan.’
‘A caravan? At this time of year! It’ll be a bit on the chilly side!’
‘It’s on Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s site, that old crate of his. It’ll do temporarily. I should be out before the worst of the winter. Maybe if you know of any good digs, you’d let me know? Those I’ve tried are full just now, catering for the last of the summer visitors.’
‘Yes, I’ll keep my ears and eyes open for you.’
There was a momentary lull in our conversation before he continued, ‘I do know we attracted comments from the pub regulars, me and Deirdre, and I suspect George Ward was keeping a close eye on her. She is a good barmaid, reliable and trustworthy. Maybe we weren’t as discreet as we should have been. You never think folks are watching and taking things in.’
‘Gordon would have found out if you’d continued. But perhaps now he’ll never know. It is all over, isn’t it?’ I put to him. ‘Really over, I mean.’
He nodded and I could see the beginnings of a tear in his eye; he might have said it was due to the chill wind which was blasting across the site but I felt otherwise. I did wonder, even then, whether or not the affair was truly finished. In spite of his assertion, I guessed it would not require much of a spark to rekindle it.
‘I’m bound to see her sometimes,’ he conceded. ‘She’ll be passing the site quite regularly on her way to work or going home, or I might come across her in town or at Aidensfield . . . but we both know the score. We’ll keep our distance, Nick.’
‘Let’s hope you can live up to that promise,’ I smiled, adding, ‘I haven’t seen Deirdre since that night.’
‘I think she took the next night off work, claiming a headache or something.’
‘I was in the Hopbind a couple of days ago, but it was at lunchtime and she wasn’t behind the bar.’
‘I think she’ll be keeping out of your way, Nick!’ and he smiled, the first smile during that conversation. ‘She really is embarrassed by what happened.’
‘I don’t make a habit of being a Peeping Tom,’ I had to say.
‘I know. You were doing your job, I appreciate that. So let’s forget it, shall we?’
I told him about the latest crane theft and he assured me his were as secure as he could make them. I was pleased I was able to have such an adult and level-headed conversation with Ken. It elevated him in my estimation, but I reckoned it would not be quite so easy coping with Deirdre when we met.
Although I was within a short distance of Gordon and Deirdre’s home, I decided not to call but because I was in the dale, I would drive higher into the wilderness to see how Claude Jeremiah’s caravan site was progressing. It was some time since I had ventured this way; Ken’s reference to the Greengrass caravan project had reminded me about it and I knew that Sergeant Blaketon would quiz me sooner or later about any scheme currently being perpetrated by Greengrass. It was sensible to keep myself fully informed.
When I arrived, two things were immediately visible: one was an old and battered cream-coloured caravan with a black metal chimney stack, and the other was a colossal pile of fresh earth. There were tons of the stuff. It was covering the area where I had expected to find a well-prepared concrete or tarmac surface.
It was so large that lorry marks extended to the top and it was clear that the vehicles reversed up the heap to deposit yet more from the summit. It was a growing mountain of fresh earth. I thought Claude was preparing that patch of ground as a base for static caravans. If he was intending to fashion a commercial site, he’d need a toilet block or standpipes at each pitch, and perhaps an office or small shop, but there was no room for anything here. And I wondered whether this monstrous pile had smothered Claude’s patch of famous rare flowers.
Anxious to find an answer, I parked my motorbike and walked into the caravan site, the gate standing wide open. I could see lots of lorry tracks leading into it, an indication of the means of arrival of the mountain, and I could trace the lorries’ turning circle and their trip to the summit to tip yet more earth upon this growing pile. But the place was deserted. I wandered around the mountain of earth, looked across to the patch of rare flowers which had not been impaired, then peered into the caravan, wiping a window clear of muck to do so. But there was no sign of the proprietor of this esteemed establishment.
As I mounted my motorbike to return to Aidensfield, however, I noticed the familiar shape of Greengrass’s truck heading towards me from the reservoir site. It was piled high with fresh earth and so I decided to hang around to see what transpired. Greengrass was at the wheel with Alfred at his side, his flea-ridden dog sitting on the passenger seat and peering through the windscreen. I waited on the rough track outside Claude’s piece of ground and when he saw me, I could see the change of expression on his face.
He muttered something to Alfred, something which was probably both obscene and uncomplimentary, but as I could neither lip-read nor hear his words, I chose not to think about it. Once through the gate, he ignored me, pulled into a parking bay, reversed out in the opposite direction and chugged backwards up the slope of the earth mountain. The gradient was shallow enough for his old vehicle to reach the top where Claude operated the tipping mechanism and released his current load of soil. As it slithered to rest down the rear slope, he returned to ground level and halted near me, lowering his window to talk.
‘If it’s me you want,’ he said, ‘I’ve down nowt wrong. This truck’s quite legal. I’m not breaking any laws by shifting this topsoil, besides we’re not on a public road so the usual rules don’t apply!’
‘I was just passing, Claude . . .’
‘Just passing? Hah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t just pass this place. You’ve got to make an effort to get here. So what is it this time? Somebody complaining about mud on the highway or noise or summat else?’
‘No complaints, Claude. No trouble. No law breaking. Not even a query about overloading. It’s just a social visit, t
o see how you’re getting on. I was interested in the caravan site you were preparing. Remember, you told me about it months ago? I’m interested because tourists often ask me to recommend suitable places where they can stay.’
‘Oh, I see, well, that’s different. I mean, if we’re talking business . . .’ and he descended from the wagon to join me. Alfred came too but slunk away towards the caravan, hoping to find a bowl of water.
‘That was the idea, Claude. But I see you’ve not made much progress.’ I glanced at the huge heap of topsoil to show my concern. ‘I see there’s no room for more caravans.’
‘Aye, well,’ and he blinked rapidly for a few moments. ‘Yon soil’s not a permanent fixture. It’s just a temporary storage place until I get it shifted.’
‘And your caravan? Ken Rigby says he’s going to use that.’
‘Aye, he wants to rent it for a few weeks. I said he could shift it from here if he wants to. He can park it on the reservoir site, somewhere close to toilets and fresh tap water and that canteen of his.’
‘That’ll make more room for your soil project,’ I grinned. ‘You could start another pile over there, or extend this one!’
‘I don’t want to start any more piles!’ he snapped. ‘I want rid of the stuff. That was the idea. To get rid of it.’
‘Oh, I thought you were collecting it!’
‘Look, it’s nowt to do with you why I’m storing tons of topsoil in my land.’
‘So long as you’ve not pinched it,’ I couldn’t resist that comment.
‘Trust you to lower the tone of this conversation! You can ask at the site office: I’ve got permission to move it.’
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 12
