‘So there’s money to be made. All we have to do is to make sure none of the locals win. All the money will be on them, won’t it? None’ll bet on the unknowns. So I’ll … er … we’ll clean up a fortune. What we have to do is bring in a sure-fire winner, you see, somebody nobody bets on.’

  Gina began to follow Claude’s logic. ‘Ah, so you’re willing to pay a fee for a pop group to come all the way from Liverpool, just to be sure of winning this competition?’

  ‘That’s it.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘I’d see you all right, of course, that goes without speaking. I’m a very reliable chap, you know, when it comes to deals.’

  ‘My Uncle George is having a go, he’s got a very good voice,’ Gina said. ‘Some say I’ve inherited his talent. So you’d need somebody better than him.’

  ‘Aye, but not anybody famous, I mean, not anybody who’s a professional. We need amateurs, but good ‘uns.’

  ‘I know a very good group who used to sing in the Cavern with the Beatles. They’ll do it if they’re free.’

  ‘Tell ‘em the pay’s good and they’ve a reliable backer, a well-known local entrepreneur and businessman, financing them.’

  ‘There’s isn’t much time to get this organised, Claude,’ Ginn warned.

  ‘No, well, strike while the iron’s hot, that’s what I say. Fortune never strikes twice in the same spot, or summat.’

  ‘I’ll try to get hold of them this morning. They’re called the Mersey Hounds. Red hot over there, they are, very popular. Look, Uncle George has gone to Ashfordly for his meat and bread, so he won’t overhear our plans. Leave it with me.’

  ‘It’ll make us both rich, Gina, mark my words!’

  She smiled sweetly at him.

  Flushed with the initial success of his scheme, Claude Jeremiah went around the village knocking on doors and offering to take bets on the outcome of the talent contest. During his perambulations, with Alfred in tow, he collected the names of the various Aidensfield contestants, quoted the odds for them winning, issued the punters with some old bookmakers’ tickets he’d acquired and entered their details in a tatty old notebook. He was delighted to find that, without exception, parents placed bets upon their own children to win, and the money poured in.

  ‘I’ll be in the hall on the night,’ he told them all. ‘That’s if you want to add to your stakes.’

  But he told nobody about the Mersey Hounds.

  He was set to make his recently acquired fortune even bigger. Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was aiming to become the richest man in Aidensfield.

  There was one man, however, who did not want the talent contest even to go ahead. Mark Sutton had been left out of Ashfordly’s successful football team in favour of Phil Bellamy. Bellamy had even scored with one of Sutton’s girlfriends and so Sutton had embarked on a secret campaign to ensure that his enemy’s fund-raising efforts for the club were all doomed to failure. His first action had been to break into the Oddfellows Hall to flood the place and so prevent the contest taking place; his second had been to remove each of the posters which advertised the event. Now that the contest had been relocated in Aidensfield, though, he had to begin all over again. The snag was that in such a small village, his unlawful activities might be observed. PC Rowan seemed to be always around the place and so, as he brooded upon the best way to thwart Bellamy’s success, Sutton decided to drive over to Aidensfield at night and take a look at the hall itself. There must be some way of halting the contest and making Bellamy squirm.

  When he arrived in the village, he went first to the Aidensfield Arms for a drink. There he met some of his footballing friends from other moorland teams, and before long an enjoyable evening was in full swing. Later, he reckoned, when everyone had gone home, he’d take a look at the village hall. There was plenty of time, all night in fact.

  That night Nick and Kate were being taken out for their meal by Peter Hughes. As arranged, he called for them in his distinctive blue car and they drove out to the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby which was renowned for its good food. In spite of Nick’s dislike of Peter, the evening was a relaxing one, even though Nick had to ensure that he left the pub before closing time - village policemen should never be seen in the pubs on their patch after hours! After thanking Peter for his hospitality, Kate and Nick turned in for an early night.

  And then the telephone rang. It was just eleven o’clock. ‘Your turn!’ shouted Nick.

  Kate smiled and went to answer the noisy instrument. ‘Aidensfield Police,’ she said.

  ‘Hello?’ panted someone. ‘Can you come quick?

  There’s been an accident, a hit-and-run, somebody’ hurt.’

  page 121

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nick and Kate lost no time responding to the call; both were clearly required in their professional capacities. In their private car, the man-and-wife team rushed through the night towards the location the caller had given, the road between Aidensfield and Elsinby at the sharp corner near Lowlands Farm. Nick knew the corner well; lots of strangers to the area tended to miss it and frequently drove straight through the hedge into the neighbouring field. After a ten-minute drive Nick eased to a halt to find the owner of Lowlands Farm, Ron Aldham, standing at his gate waving a torch. There was a bicycle lying on the verge and Nick saw that its rear mudguard was twisted and buckled. He made a quick examination, and then tested the bicycle’s front and near lamps. Both were working.

  ‘They were on, Mr Rowan,’ said Ron Aldham. ‘I switched ‘em off. Bert Wilkinson rides past here every night, he allus has his proper lights on.’

  ‘Thanks, Ron.’ Nick went towards him. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Poor old Bert, some lunatic knocked him off his bike and didn’t stop. I heard the crash and came out but the car had gone. Bert’s in the house, I took him in and the missus is seeing to him.’

  ‘Is he badly hurt?’ asked Kate with concern in her voice.

  ‘Shaken up a lot, I’d say, and he was complaining about his arm.’

  ‘I’d better go and see to him. I wonder if he’ll need an ambulance?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, he’s a tough old character. Come on, I’ll take you in.’

  ‘Can I put his bike in your buildings for tonight, Ron? I’ll need to examine it in daylight.’

  ‘Aye, no problem, Mr Rowan. Fetch it in.’

  Old Bert, who was in his late seventies, was sitting beside the farmhouse fire nursing his wrist. Mrs Aldham had made him a cup of tea which stood on the table near him; he was sipping from it between bouts of holding his arm.

  Kate smiled at him. ‘Hello, Mr Wilkinson. What happened?’

  ‘Some lunatic racing down the road, going like a bat out of hell. He nearly didn’t get around the corner and clipped my back wheel. Knocked me off, he did, sent me spinning into the ditch. Then just cleared off and left me.’

  ‘And you were on the correct side of the road, back light on?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Yes, of course I was. I allus rides well into my own side, and all my lights were working.’

  ‘Where are you hurt?’

  “This wrist, I landed on it. I’m all right otherwise, just a bit bruised here and there.’

  Kate examined his wrist. ‘Well,’ she said, I don’t think there’s any bones broken, but I’ll bandage it tightly and it might be an idea to keep it in a sling for a day or two, just to rest it. Now, we can run you home -I’m sure your bike will be safe enough here till you’re ready to collect it.’

  Aldham nodded. ‘He can call for it any time,’ he said. ‘He rides past every night, on his way to and from the pub. Been doing it for years, haven’t you, Bert?’

  ‘Aye, and with never an accident till now. Bloody motorists, they think they own the roads.’

  ‘Who was it, Mr Wilkinson?’ asked Nick. ‘Did you recognise the car?’

  ‘No, it all happened too fast. It was a blue one, though, I remember that.’

  ‘I’ll just have another quick look at the bike, if I may,’ Nick said to Aldham. While Kate bandaged Mr Wilkinson’s wrist, Nick retraced his steps to the shed where he’d left the bike and Aldham switched on the interior light. In the dull glow of a low-powered bulb, Nick inspected the heavy old bike. It was coloured black, with strong metal mudguards. Bending close, Nick could see traces of blue paint on the twisted rear mudguard.

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow and take samples of that paint,’ he told Aldham. if I can find the car it came from, our forensic wizards can match the vehicle with this sample. Even mass-produced cars have their own individual paint style - due to wear and tear, polish and so on.

  Then I’ll know for certain who hit this bike. Did you see anything at all, Ron?’

  ‘No, we were inside, just about to call it a day when I heard the bang. I looked out and saw the car lights vanish round the corner, but that’s all.’

  Nick nodded. ‘OK, well, thanks for looking after old Bert. I’ll run him home now. He is married, isn’t he? He won’t have to look after himself with just one arm?’

  ‘No, he’s got Jinny, she’ll see to him.’

  ‘I’m only glad he’s not more seriously hurt,’ Nick said, thankful he didn’t have to take worse news to Bert’s wife.

  After recording details for his accident report, Nick took Bert home, where Kate advised his wife on how to care for the injured arm, promising to pop in from time to time to see how he was progressing. During the short drive home, Kate chattered away about irresponsible motorists but Nick was silent and thoughtful.

  ‘You’re very quiet.’ Kate studied him quizzically.

  ‘I was thinking about the blue car,’ he said. ‘The one that hit old Bert. If that paint left on his bike is anything to go by, it was a very distinctive blue.’

  ‘That’ll make it easier to find, won’t it?’ she smiled.

  ‘If it’s a local car, I should be able to trace it,’ he acknowledged, it might have some scratches on too, on its nearside.’

  ‘Can you think of any blue cars in the area that might be responsible?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s one that left Aidensfield for Elsinby tonight. A very distinctive blue one.’

  She looked at him closely. ‘You don’t mean Peter Hughes?’

  ‘Who else?’ he asked. ‘So tomorrow, I’ve got to have words with him, and I’ll need paint samples from his car.’

  Kate looked appalled. ‘Nick, you can’t, he’ll think you’re getting some kind of revenge on him.’

  ‘Can’t? Of course I can, it’s my job. If he didn’t knock old Bert off his bike, he’s got nothing to fear, has he?’

  ‘There must be other cars that are the same sort of blue, surely?’ she said.

  ‘Then I hope I can find one,’ he replied, turning into their drive. ‘All he had to do was stop, that’s all.’

  Despite the fact that it was a Saturday, first thing next morning, Nick drove out to Elsinby to search all the bed-and-breakfast establishments for Peter Hughes’s car. He knew them all and it was a matter of half an hour’s walk around the village before he discovered the car. It was parked in the drive of Honeysuckle Cottage. Nick made a swift examination for signs of damage and found some faint scratches on the front nearside wing. Then he went to the door and knocked. Mrs Linda Gray answered.

  ‘Hello, Mr Rowan, what brings you here at this early hour?’

  ‘It’s a Mr Hughes, he is staying here, isn’t he?’ ‘Yes, sure, come in.’

  Peter Hughes was having breakfast and invited Nick to join him for a coffee. Nick obliged, sitting at the table while Mrs Gray found a cup.

  ‘Peter,’ started Nick. ‘This is difficult for me.’ He was quickly interrupted.

  ‘Look, Kate’s yours, Nick, I have no intention of stealing her from you. It was nice coming to see her again. You’re a lucky man, Nick, but it’s time for me to be moving on. I’ve got my own marriage to sort out …’

  ‘It’s not that, Peter, it’s duty for me. You drove straight back here last night, did you? After leaving us?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And did anything happen on the way?’ ‘Happen? Like what?’

  ‘An accident. Did you see a cyclist between here and Aidensfield?’

  ‘Yes, I passed an old chap riding a pedal cycle. He seemed fine, he was pedalling along nicely.’

  ‘Did you collide with him, Peter?’

  ‘Me? Good God, no! Why, what’s happened?’

  Nick explained in full, giving details of the hit-and-run accident, and ending his account with the fact that traces of blue paint had been found on Mr Wilkinson’s bike.

  Peter seemed shocked. ‘Look, Nick, if I’d knocked him off, I’d have stopped, I’m not a hit-and-run merchant.’

  ‘I’ve got to go through our procedures, Peter, if only to eliminate you. It means taking a paint sample from your car, and one from the bike, then checking to see if the two samples match.’

  ‘You go ahead, I’m innocent, and if your forensic chaps can prove that, then I’m more than willing to help you.’

  ‘You’ll not be leaving for a day or two?’ Nick asked, it’ll take a few days to get the results.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ Peter said. ‘But Nick, you don’t honestly think it was me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t think anything, Peter, I just collect the evidence and let the facts decide. Now, I need to scrape a tiny bit of paint off your car, just half the size of my little fingernail. And then I’m going to do the same with Mr Wilkinson’s bike.’

  ‘You do what you like, Nick. I’m innocent, and I hope you can prove it!’

  Watched by Peter, Nick took out a small plastic envelope and, using his penknife, scraped a sliver of blue paint from the scratched area of the car.

  ‘Is that all you need?’ asked Hughes.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Nick. ‘Now, I’ve got to scrape the blue bits off the bike.’ He paused. ‘Look, Peter, sorry to come to you like this, but duty is duty.’

  ‘You’re doing your job, Nick and I respect you for that. But you will come and tell me I’m innocent, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  After scraping the blue paint from the old bike, Nick rode down to Ashfordly Police Station to ask Alf Ventress to send the samples off to the forensic laboratory for analysis.

  ‘How’re the arrangements for the talent contest coming along?’ Nick asked as Ventress filled out the forensics form.

  Alf sighed. ‘Bellamy’s off duty today, he’s gone to Aidensfield to get the hall ready, and Sergeant Blaketon’s wrapped up in his rehearsal of “The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God”. If I’ve heard it once, I must have

  heard it fifty times. He wants to impress that lady novelist.’ Alf’s eyes twinkled. ‘He’s taken a right shine to her, Nick.’

  ‘What about that trouble? Any more vandalism?’

  ‘Not down here, but I did hear a bit of useful information last night. You know a lad called Sutton, Mark Sutton?’

  ‘No, can’t say I do,’ admitted Nick.

  ‘He’s an Ashfordly lad, not very bright and more than a handful of trouble when he’s had a drink or two. He’s prone to jealousy. We’ve had one or two problems with him.’

  ‘What sort of problems, Alf?’

  ‘He once hit a chap in the face with a broken beer glass just because he thought the chap was eyeing his girl. Then, on another occasion, he threw a brick through the window of a house because the man there didn’t want Sutton visiting his daughter. He gets violent if things don’t go his way.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Nick, puzzled.

  ‘Well, he was in the football team till Phil Bellamy took his place, then he was seeing a lass called Margaret Eddison until Phil started taking her out. So I was thinking about that breakin at the Oddfellows, and then how some posters for the talent contest have been torn down … I reckon Sutton might be behind all this. He’s got the motive for doing things like that, and it’s the sort of reaction I’d expect from him. I thought I’d warn you. Now that the contest’s been moved to your village, you might find him paying Aidensfield a visit. He’ll start at the pub to get himself tanked up with beer to give him Dutch courage, and then he’ll set about his troublemaking.’

  ‘Thanks, Alf. What’s he look like?’

  Alf described Mark Sutton in some detail and added, ‘He gets about in a Ford Anglia, a blue one. Nice car, he can earn good money when he wants - he works at the steel works in Skinningrove, something to do with the electrical side of things. He lives in Ashfordly and travels over the moors to work every day.’

  ‘That’s probably why I haven’t come across him,’ said Nick.

  ‘Right. Actually, he’s a hard worker when he sets his mind to it but he can be a nasty piece of work when he’s in drink.’

  ‘He’s off work on Saturdays?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Very likely. Certainly on a Saturday night,’ said Alf. ‘So you’ll be at the hall tonight?’

  ‘I will, I’ll be in uniform, but not doing my Laughing Policeman act! I’ll be watching out for Sutton.’

  ‘I’ll be there doing my MC bit in my dicky bow and black suit,’ grinned Alf. ‘But me and Phil will always come to your rescue if you needs us.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ smiled Nick.

  Nick was patrolling Aidensfield village street when an old van painted in masses of psychedelic colours pulled up outside the post office. Nick strolled across to it just as a tall, long-haired youth in scruffy clothes clambered out.

  ‘This Aidensfield?’ he asked Nick.

  ‘It is,’ said Nick.

  ‘Where’s it all happening then?’

  ‘Where’s all what happening?’

  ‘The music, the fun, the talent contest.’

  ‘Over there, in the village hall.’ Nick pointed to the building. ‘Not till tonight, though, you’re a bit early. Who are you? Are you entering?’

  ‘Mersey Hounds, best thing since the Beatles, man. We’re entering, we’ll win, you’ll see.’