It was in fact almost ten thirty when Kate arrived home. Nick had had some tea and sandwiches for his supper.

  ‘Sorry I’m late back,’ she apologised, ‘I called in to see Alex. I was worried, leaving him alone and in charge of the practice while I was out, but he said he wanted to do it.’

  ‘How is he these days?’ asked Nick, echoing the concern of the entire village. Everyone could see that Dr Ferrenby was far from well and there was widespread concern for him. In his time at Aidensfield, he had become a much-loved and respected part of the community.

  ‘He tends to get very confused about things,’ Kate said. ‘Yesterday morning, he came into the surgery in his pyjamas; he’d been in bed and thought there was a call-out.’

  ‘And wasn’t there?’

  ‘No, I think he’d dreamt it. Then he gets very distressed when he discovers he’s made himself look silly, but I do understand. I try to humour him. The truth is, Nick, I’m not sure what to do with him. He’s becoming something of a liability, if I’m honest. It’s getting to the point where I’m not sure he can deal properly with the patients.’

  ‘He’s had a couple of severe setbacks, luv. That attack by the raiders and then the train crash, that combination was enough to upset anybody, let alone a man who’s getting on in years. He needs to get away again. He did go to his brother’s, didn’t he? Could he go somewhere else for a longer break?’

  ‘Lord Ashfordly says he can have a day’s shooting any time he wants. That’d be restful, but I think he needs to go away for several weeks. I might see if there’s anywhere like a convalescent home that takes in doctors in need of rest and care.’

  ‘You could always pack him off on a fishing holiday,’ Nick suggested. “They’re advertised all over the place. A fortnight in Scotland perhaps?’

  Kate shook her head doubtfully. ‘He’s best not left on his own, Nick, he needs somebody around to look after him, especially when he does these silly things. Anyway, I’ll keep my eyes open for something suitable. How was your evening?’

  ‘A quite drink with Phil, that’s all. I warned him about his love life. He does seem to pick up women who are likely to cause him trouble.’

  Kate grinned. ‘So who’s his present lady love?’

  ‘He’s knocking about with Jack Scarman’s ex-girlfriend now. Somebody called Debbie Chapman.’

  ‘Scarman? Who’s he?’

  ‘A local businessman operating just inside the law; he’s into greyhound racing, property development, amusement arcades, gambling machines, that sort of thing. Always on the edge of respectability, but never quite makes it. A bit cheap and flashy, no substance. But nasty when people disobey him. He’s not averse to beating the living daylights out of people who cross him but they’re always too frightened to complain officially. We can never touch him, he’s clever.’

  ‘So what’s Phil Bellamy doing getting tangled up with one of his cast-offs?’

  ‘He thinks he’s in love!’ laughed Nick. ‘Love makes us all go funny in the head! Come on, how about an early night?’

  Kate smiled knowingly. ‘Whatever you say, my Lord and Master!’

  ‘Maybe I’m in love too,’ chuckled Nick, and Kate hit him playfully on the arm.

  But even as they were climbing the stairs, the telephone rang. They looked at one another and, as one, said, it’s your turn!’

  ‘You’re nearest,’ said Kate, running to the top of the stairs and leaving Nick stranded halfway. He plodded down to the office to take the call.

  ‘Aidensfield Police,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Alf Ventress,’ said the familiar voice from Ashfordly Police Station. ‘Sorry to ring you, Nick, but there’s been a shopbreaking.’

  ‘Where? Aidensfield?’

  ‘No, Ashfordly. St Nicholas Pawnbrokers. I’m alone in the office, I can’t attend. You’ll have to go, Nick.’

  ‘Me? But isn’t Phil on duty in Ashfordly? It’s his responsibility, Alf, not mine. I’m supposed to be off duty.’

  ‘He’s not answering our calls, Nick. He missed his last point, I can’t raise him.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, he’s not been knocked on the head, has he?’

  ‘I thought I’d give him a bit of time before I raise any alarm, but the shopbreaking needs immediate attention. The owner’s at the shop now, waiting for a policeman. He’s a Mr Raymond Smailes and there’s a witness called Harris.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Nick. ‘You’ll call the fingerprint department and photographer?’

  ‘Leave it to me. A dark minivan with a loud exhaust was seen leaving the vicinity and might be linked. I’m circulating details to all mobiles and fixed stations. You never know, some bright constable might drop across it before it has the chance to ditch the stolen goods.’

  “Thanks, Alf, I’ll call in when I’ve interviewed the shop-owner.’ Resigned to his task, Nick went to find a civilian jacket, and his notebook and warrant card.

  ‘What is it?’ Kate’s voice came from the top of the stairs.

  ‘Call-out, luv, I’m sorry, a shopbreaking at the pawnbroker’s in Ashfordly. I’ve got to go.’ ‘Isn’t Phil on duty?’

  ‘They can’t find him,’ said Nick, reaching for his keys, I’m in civvies, so I can pretend I’m CID. I hope Phil’s not got himself into trouble.’

  ‘Be careful,’ she said, running down the stairs to kiss him goodbye.

  Raymond Smailes ran his pawnbroking business in premises which adjoined his second-hand bookshop; it was named after St Nicholas, the patron saint of pawnbrokers, better known as Santa Claus. Ironically, a lot of the goods

  in the shop were unwanted Christmas presents.

  There were two separate shops which shared a common entrance, and the thief or thieves had smashed the glass of the door leading into the pawnbroker’s. They had slid back the bolts on the inside and then viciously kicked the door to smash the Yale lock. Once the door was open, they had entered to quickly remove several silver items and an assortment of other objects. These included some binoculars, a camera, and some small pieces of jewellery and glassware. It was all fairly good quality merchandise. The rubbish had been left behind.

  The crime had been discovered by a Mr Alan Harris who had been walking his spaniel in the vicinity; he’d heard the smash of glass and the sound of splintering wood, but initially had been unable to determine the precise source of the noise. As he’d toured the narrow, winding streets to investigate, he’d heard the sound of a departing vehicle, one which was very distinctive because of the excessive noise which seemed to come from the exhaust.

  He’d started to run towards the noise and had been in time to see a small minivan hurtle out of an alleyway next door to the pawnbroker’s. In the dim light from the streetlamps, it had been impossible to determine its colour, except to say it was dark. It might have been dark blue, dark green or even black, but the noise it made was unforgettable. He had not, however, been able to see the registration number. Mr Harris, who knew Smailes well, had rushed to a telephone kiosk to ring the police, and PC Ventress had immediately circulated the somewhat

  limited details of the van in the vain hope that some patrolling constable might be able to halt it while it still carried the stolen goods. He’d then called out the owner of the premises, Raymond Smailes; he and Harris were both in the shop when Nick arrived.

  ‘I can’t give you a precise list of things that have been stolen,’ apologised Smailes. it’ll mean checking my pledge book against my sales ledger, although I can give a rough idea of what’s missing.’

  ‘A rough idea will be good enough to start with,’ said Nick, if we can catch the van with the stuff in it, we’ll be able to convict the thief. Now, I’m going to search the whole premises, just to make sure no one’s hiding here.’

  The rear door, the one used by Mr Smailes when he locked the shop up, was secure, and none of the other windows or doors had been smashed. Nick searched the stock room, the toilet and the rear portions of the premises, but found nothing.

  He went back to speak to Mr Harris, who was still holding his spaniel on a lead. ‘This van, Mr Harris, what can you remember about it?’

  Alan Harris, a widower in his late sixties, could not add a great deal. He repeated his story about hearing the smashing of glass and the splintering of wood some time before the dark-coloured minivan roared away. But apart from that, he could add little more, except to say that only one person appeared to be in the van’s front seats. He could not provide any description of that person. Nick took down the details he required for his crime report, thanked Mr Harris for his public-spiritedness, and asked Mr Smailes to wait for the arrival of the fingerprint and photographic officers. He must not touch anything in the meantime, although he could begin to compile a list of the stolen goods.

  Nick returned to Ashfordly Police Station to provide Alf Ventress with an update and was pleased to learn that Alf had made all the necessary arrangements for circulating the crime.

  ‘Any sign of Phil?’ he asked Alf.

  ‘No, not a word. I’m thinking about calling out Sergeant Blaketon, but if Phil’s just skiving, I don’t want to land him on a disciplinary charge. He should have been at his point, he should have been available to deal with the shopbreaking.’

  ‘When’s his next point, Alf?’ Policemen made points at telephone kiosks in case the office required them. If they were needed, the phone in the kiosk would ring.

  ‘Five minutes, he’s due at the kiosk outside the post office.’

  ‘I’ll go and wait there myself,’ said Nick, if he’s there, I’ll tell him to report in.’

  ‘Right, and thanks for attending the breakin. The boffins are en route now.’

  Nick returned to the centre of Ashfordly and walked towards the telephone kiosk outside the small post office. Sure enough, Phil Bellamy appeared, his hair all awry looking harassed, rushed and dishevelled. He failed to spot Nick standing in the shadows and took up his stance near the kiosk. After a few moments Nick approached him. ‘And

  where the hell have you been, Phil?’

  Phil started at the sudden voice. ‘God, you scared me, Nick. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I asked where you’d been, Phil. I might have been Sergeant Blaketon or even the Inspector; fortunately for you, it’s me.’

  ‘Look, I had to see to something that cropped up …’

  Nick’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. ‘A woman, Phil? Have you been with a woman?’ ‘Nick, what’s all this about?’

  ‘There’s been a shopbreaking, and I was called out to it.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell!’

  ‘CID are there now, photographers and fingerprint department, and somebody, somewhere, sometime, is going to ask where you were. It was on your beat, Phil, I thought you were door-knobbing. You’d better have a bloody good story.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘St Nicholas Pawnbrokers.’

  ‘God! I checked it, not long after half past ten. It was secure then, I tried the door handle, I swear it.’

  ‘But you missed your point, Phil, and when Alf tried to raise you, you weren’t there … It’s not down to me to quiz you about what you were doing, but you’d better have a bloody good reason for your absence ready for when Blaketon starts asking questions. I’d suggest you get round to that shop now, have words with the owner and the CID, tell Alf you’re not lying anywhere with your head bashed in and then get back to work. Then I can go home.’

  ‘Look, Nick, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to cover up for me …’

  ‘Forget it, but don’t expect it to happen every time, right?’

  Phil Bellamy strode off looking highly embarrassed and worried. He didn’t glance back at Nick.

  Early next morning, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was in his battered old pick-up truck.

  Accompanied by Alfred, he had been engaged upon what he would describe as ‘personal business which was nowt to do with the law’. As they bowled along, Alfred sat on the passenger seat with his head out of the window, enjoying the scents of the fresh moorland air. Greengrass was in a cheerful mood too, humming a Beatles’ tune. As he bumped down the rough lane, he passed a meadow on the outskirts of Aidensfield. To his astonishment, a lithe jet-black greyhound was streaking across the field, moving with the magnificent power of a champion and all the style of a thoroughbred. It was a beautiful sight, a dreamlike moment in the life of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Entranced, he eased his old pick-up truck to a halt to watch.

  This was the kind of dog that could win races and, reasoned Claude, if it could win races, it would win him lots of money. He struggled out of his van to peer over the hedge and so gain a better view. As the dog tore across the turf, Claude saw that it had a distinctive white flash on its head, but apart from that, it was a beautiful polished jet-black colour and seemed to be in first-class condition.

  At the far end of the meadow was a young man, about eighteen years old who seemed to be controlling the greyhound, calling it to him and then making it run across the open field.

  Claude watched for a few minutes without the youth or the dog knowing of his presence, and the more he watched, the more his admiration increased.

  ‘Now that’s a real greyhound,’ he told Alfred, then asked, ‘But who’s the kid?’

  The youth looked like a senior schoolboy, a nice, pleasant and somewhat innocent lad, but Claude decided that it would be inappropriate, at this early stage, to introduce himself. He had plans for that dog, plans to which its owner might not give ready consent. So he watched for a few more minutes, then drove away.

  Later that morning, Claude went to the Aidensfield Arms to begin his quest for information about the greyhound and its young master. After buying a drink for Gina, he ordered a pint for himself, then asked, ‘Gina, my young friend, you know most of the youngsters round here, don’t you? Handsome lads, you know. Heartthrobs. Good-lookers like me.’

  ‘Some of them, but not all, Claude.’

  ‘Well, it’s a lad with a greyhound, lives somewhere nearby, I reckon. Nice-looking dog, I thought.’

  ‘That’ll be David Parrish. He often comes into the village to get things for his grandad. They live up at Ghyll End, haven’t been there long. It’s a smallholding, his grandad took it on when he retired. He keeps a few cows and moor sheep.’

  Claude blinked and nodded his head. ‘Oh, aye, I know it. A bit run-down, not well kept like mine.’

  ‘Mr Parrish isn’t very fit, he’s got chest problems, so David does most of the work, when he’s not at school. He’s at Ashfordly Grammar School doing his A levels. He hopes to go to university, he wants to be a vet.’

  ‘He’s obviously an animal lover. Him and me could be mates, you know, we’re so alike in our choice of animal,’ beamed Claude. ‘Well, thanks for that Gina, it’s nice to know who’s living in the spot. Now, I’ll have another pint.’

  For a moment, Gina wondered why Claude Jeremiah should be interested in young Parrish but it was none of her business. She pulled him his pint, then turned away to serve another customer.

  Claude realised that David Parrish would be at school now; the boy had obviously been exercising his dog before catching the school bus. Claude decided he could wait. There was no great rush to put his plans into action. He knew that, not far away near Maddleskirk, there was a training day in progress for some of the local greyhounds which were being prepared for the prestigious Maddleskirk Trophy. After draining his pint, Claude departed from the pub and turned along the Maddleskirk road.

  It was here that Wilf Welford ran his boarding kennels, one of his sidelines being the training of the greyhounds of a few local owners. Claude had often halted awhile to observe the dogs in training before visiting the local tracks to wager some cash upon them.

  Today he wanted to see Jack Scarman’s dog, Northern Flash, in action. Local gossip was that Scarman had paid a lot of money for Northern Flash, an all-black dog, but that the dog had not come up to expectations - hence Claude’s visit this afternoon.

  There was a group of about twenty men watching the events which comprised several training races. Among the group Claude noticed Jack Scarman. His dark hair was greased back and he smoked a large cigar as he stood among the men with Debbie, his present girlfriend, at his side. Wilf Welford was there too; he looked more than a little worried and carried a stopwatch as he prepared some dogs for a training gallop.

  ‘Put him up against the best you’ve got,’ Scarman shouted, ‘I want him to race against the best, I want to win that Maddleskirk Trophy. And you’re going to get my dog into peak condition for it, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Jack, but if the dog’s no good…’

  ‘No good,’ bellowed Scarman. ‘But you recommended it! You said I should buy it, that it would be a good investment. You told me it had all the signs of being a winner, the best dog you’d seen for years, you said. Now, let’s see what you’ve done with it. You’re the trainer. Run it now while I’m here.’

  And so several dogs were brought to the track and placed in the traps, Northern Flash among them.

  Distinctive due to his colouring, the dog waited for the off, as keen as all the others. Wilf started the artificial hare. It rattled around the course and once the dogs had it in their sights, the traps were lifted and the dogs leapt forward to give chase. There was no shouting and cheering as there would have been on a real track, but then Scarman had no cause to cheer. Northern Flash was hopeless; it trailed in behind all the others, a sorry specimen. Scarman was furious; his face showed his massive anger and embarrassment as the dog was brought forward. Debbie bent to pet it, but Scarman snarled, ‘Leave it, leave the stupid animal. Just think what money I’ve put into that useless dog. If I enter that for the Maddleskirk Trophy, I’ll be laughed off the track.’

  ‘I did my best with him, Jack,’ Wilf said, ‘but it’s just not there. He hasn’t got what it takes. I honestly don’t think he could win the Maddleskirk Trophy, certainly not against the opposition I know‘11 be there on the day.’