Scarman softened a little, disappointment now taking over from his initial anger. ‘Take the bloody thing away, Wilf, till I decide what to do with him.’

  As the unhappy Wilf Welford led Northern Flash into the Kennels, Claude Jeremiah came forward.

  ‘It’s a pity about your dog, Jack, he looks good. What looks best when you buy, though, can perform least well when you expect it, eh?’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Greengrass?’ snapped Scarman.

  ‘Well, I mean, you being set on a winner, like, it’s only natural you’d be upset at that performance.’

  ‘Upset? That dog could beat them others if they were racing on three legs!’ ‘Well, as I said, you don’t always get what you see, do you?’ Claude’s voice had lowered now and there was a tone of conspiracy in his voice. Scarman did not miss it.

  ‘What are you saying, Claude?’

  ‘I’m saying you want to win the Maddleskirk Trophy and I might be the chap to help you, if you know what I mean. Hush hush and all that.’

  Scarman glanced around him. ‘Go and sit in the car, Debbie, I want to talk business with Claude.’

  And so the two men went off to sit in Scarman’s Jaguar while Northern Flash was locked in his kennel.

  As a direct result of that discussion, Claude Jeremiah went to Ghyll End to speak with young David Parrish. He arrived at the house just as David was leaving with the beautiful dog; it was teatime and David had returned from school.

  ‘By, that’s a nice-looking animal.’ Claude patted the dog, taking the opportunity to run his hands expertly over its body. ‘Fit an’ all, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Yes, he runs well. Jimbo’s his name.’

  ‘Aye, well, I was just passing and brought some eggs and a brace of pheasants for your grandad. I heard he wasn’t too well, so me, being a nearish neighbour like, felt I wanted to fetch him summat, show him we cared sort of thing. Greengrass is the name.’

  ‘I’m David Parrish,’ smiled the youngster, I’d take you in to see grandad, but he’s in bed, resting. He was up all night, with his chest.’

  ‘He needs seeing to,’ proffered Claude.

  ‘Dr Ferrenby’s being seeing to him. I rang the surgery to ask him to pop in when he’s passing, he might have

  something that’ll make grandad breathe better.’

  Claude nodded, blinking ingratiatingly. ‘Well, I reckon he’s in good hands, with you about to help him. Now, this dog of yours, he’s a real sparkler, eh? How do you fancy running him on a proper track, just for a bit of fun?’

  ‘A racetrack? Where?’

  ‘Not a proper race, you understand, just a bit of fun, over at Welford’s kennels. Me and some mates run a dog or two there. I reckon your Jimbo would enjoy an outing with ‘em.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never had anything to do with greyhound racing, but I suppose it would be all right.’

  ‘Right, well, how about me calling for you tomorrow, after school. We’ll see what Jimbo can do, eh? Just as a bit of fun.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said David, shrugging his shoulders innocently.

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ beamed Claude. ‘My treat, I’ll come and pick you up.’

  The same morning Nick received a telephone call that excited him tremendously.

  When he’d lifted the receiver, a voice had said, ‘Get yourself down to Williams’s lock-ups in Pasture Lane, Ashfordly, Number 17. You’ll find the pawnbroker’s stuff in there.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Nick had asked the caller, but the telephone had gone dead. Normally suspicious of anonymous calls, Nick nonetheless decided this had to be checked out, so he rang Ashfordly Police Station and spoke to Alf Ventress.

  ‘Alf, I’m coming down to Ashfordly. I got a tip-off just now that the pawnbroker’s stuff is in a lock-up in Pasture Lane. Can you tell Sergeant Blaketon?’

  ‘Sure. Keep in touch,’ said Alf.

  Nick then rang the owner of the garages, Ian Williams, and asked him to be there with a master key.

  Half an hour later, Nick rode his motorcycle on to the parking area of the garages and found a young man with a mop of thick ginger hair and a beard awaiting his arrival.

  ‘I’m Ian Williams,’ said the man. ‘What’s all this about?’

  Nick explained about the raid on the pawnbroker’s shop, something Williams had heard about in Ashfordly gossip, and then referred to his anonymous tip-off.

  “The caller said the stuff was here, in Number 17. Would you know who rents it?’

  ‘Sure, I brought the files with me. We rent these places by the month, payable in advance. I keep good records.’ He turned to his books. ‘Yes, here we are. A chap called Peter Bennett. He paid cash for a week in advance on Number 17.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know the name,’ admitted Nick. ‘He’s not one of our local villains. Can I have a look inside?’

  ‘I can’t see why not. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to fear, has he?’

  Williams inserted his master key in the lock and the doors swung open to reveal a single garage space, but with no motor vehicle in residence. At first, the space looked deserted but then Nick spotted a holdall at the back. He strode in to examine it and, zipping it open, found it was full of silverware, jewellery and other items. He saw a pair of binoculars too, and a camera.

  ‘What’s all that?’ Williams was standing over him, staring at the haul.

  ‘I think it’s the stuff from the pawnbroker’s shop,’ Nick said quietly. ‘I’ll have to take it there for identification, but I reckon I need to know Mr Bennett’s address now.’

  ‘I knew nothing of this,’ spluttered Williams, I’m not in the habit of letting my premises out for criminal purposes.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Nick said calmly. ‘So where’s this guy live, Mr Williams?’

  Once again, Williams turned to his files and, after flicking through several sheets, indicated an entry. Nick began to write down the address, then stopped in a state of shock.

  It was the address of Phil Bellamy’s flat.

  page 161

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nick’s first duty was to take the holdall to the pawnbroker’s shop for inspection by Raymond Smailes. Under Nick’s guidance, he checked the contents without handling them, merely opening the bag wide enough to obtain a sighting.

  ‘It’s not all here, Mr Rowan, but there’s a good half of the stuff, I reckon. I can definitely say all the items in this bag came from my shop.’

  ‘That’s all I need for now,’ Nick said, I’ll have to take these things away with me for fingerprinting, but you’ll get them back in due course.’

  ‘Can I ask where you found them?’

  ‘It’s a bit peculiar, Mr Smailes, but I got an anonymous telephone call about it. I found them in a lock-up garage here in Ashfordly, but I hope they’ll lead us to the thief.’

  Nick’s next job was to take the goods to the police station and inform Sergeant Blaketon of the grim news about Bellamy’s address having surfaced during enquiries. As he entered with the holdall in his hand Sergeant Blaketon was beaming.

  ‘Well, Rowan, Ventress has told me the good news. You’ve got the stuff, then?’

  ‘Not all of it, Sarge, but there’s about half of it here, Smailes has identified it. Without touching, I might add. Alf can send the stuff away for fingerprint examination.’

  ‘Well, this is a good piece of work, a bit of luck on our part, eh? So who’s our anonymous informant?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Sarge, but he did lead us right to this loot. There’s more information, though, a name and an address.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘False name I think, but real address, Sarge. The chap who rented the garage said his name was Peter Bennett, and he gave this address.’

  Nick showed the address to Sergeant Blaketon and then thrust it under the nose of Phil Bellamy. There was a deathly hush in the room as Bellamy reacted.

  “That’s my address,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell … hey, you don’t think…’

  ‘In my office, now. Bellamy and Rowan. Ventress, not a word about this, not a whisper outside this office, not yet. Understand? You get busy packaging those exhibits for CID to check them over for fingerprints.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  Blaketon led the two young constables along the passage and into his office where he slammed the door.

  Bellamy was looking sick with worry and Nick was grim-faced; it really looked as if Phil was in the frame for this crime.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ Phil croaked as he faced his inquisitors.

  ‘No, Bellamy, this is not a joke. Rowan, tell us exactly what’s happened so far. And I don’t need to remind you, Bellamy, that you were absent from your beat at the precise moment of this crime, weren’t you? I’ve still not had a convincing account of what you were doing at the material time, and the duty log does show that Constable Rowan had to visit the scene in your place, because of your absence from duty. So, Rowan, you explain things.’

  Nick outlined his enquires so far, concluding with the anonymous telephone call which had led him to the lock-up containing the stolen property.

  When Nick had finished his account, Phil looked desperately nervous, not at all his usual cheerful and confident self.

  ‘But Sarge, I’m no criminal, this has nothing to do with me,’ he protested feebly.

  ‘That’s not how it looks from my point of view, Bellamy.’ Sergeant Blaketon’s face was ashen. ‘A crime has been committed on your beat and you were absent at the material time, and so far, you’ve not volunteered any satisfactory explanation.’

  ‘I didn’t break into the shop, Sergeant, you’ve got to believe me!’

  Blaketon continued as if Bellamy had not spoken. ‘Next we have a lock-up premises rented by a man giving a false name - though with your initials, and with your correct address.’

  ‘I didn’t rent the place, Sergeant …’

  Blaketon still ignored him as he continued, ‘And stolen goods were found in the premises you apparently rented under a false name. What am I to think about all this, Bellamy? Can I ignore what the facts are telling me?’

  ‘It’s a set up, Sarge, it’s got to be.’

  Nick felt the time had come to weigh in on his friend’s side. ‘Sergeant, in my opinion, this whole thing stinks. If Phil was the villain, he would never have given his real address. And who made that call to me? It could only be the burk who put the stuff there for me to find. It’s all been laid on, Sergeant, it’s got all the hallmarks of a set-up. It stinks, it really stinks does this one.’

  ‘And it stinks to me, Rowan,’ Blaketon replied drily. ‘Right, Bellamy, I must now warn you that I intend to search your flat immediately. Come on, Rowan, I need you as a witness.’

  ‘No, Sergeant, this is terrible … please, no. I’m not guilty.’ Bellamy was distraught now.

  ‘Shut up, Bellamy, the less you say the better. Rowan, bring the car round to the door. I hate this as much as you, Bellamy, but I must do my duty.’

  Within fifteen minutes, they were entering Bellamy’s tiny bachelor flat; it was untidy with unwashed crockery in the sink and dirty clothing lying all over the bedroom floor. The living room needed dusting and there were dirty cups and plates on the floor in front of the television set.

  ‘Sarge, I’m sorry about the state of the place …’ I am not concerned with the state of the place, Bellamy, even if it is like a pig sty. I am looking for evidence of your involvement in a crime. I am seeking stolen property and if I find it, you will be arrested and escorted to the cells. Do I make myself clear?’

  Phil slumped on to his settee in embarrassed silence as Blaketon ferreted among his belongings, turning out drawers and inspecting the wardrobe and kitchen cupboards. Nick, meanwhile, noticed a photograph on the bedside cabinet and examined it; it was of a woman in a glamour pose. He was sure he’d seen her around the town, in the company of Jack Scarman, perhaps in one of the pubs. He made no comment and replaced the photograph.

  After half an hour’s intense searching, Sergeant Blaketon said, ‘PC Bellamy, there is nothing here to further implicate you. I shall place that on record. But you know the procedure now? Due to the weight of evidence already available, I am obliged to suspend you from duty as from this moment. Now, hand me your warrant card.’

  Almost in tears, Phil Bellamy opened his wallet and passed his warrant card over to the sergeant.

  Once again Nick spoke up for his friend. ‘Sergeant, this needs to be investigated at the highest level. I’m sure Phil’s been set up, this doesn’t add up.’

  ‘I am perfectly aware of the seriousness of the situation and I am equally aware of the likelihood of Bellamy being framed, but the entire affair must be impartially investigated under the procedures laid down by the Discipline Code. Rules must be followed, Rowan. The matter will receive the most stringent scrutiny, I can assure you. Now, one of those rules is that serving officers do not have any contact with officers who are suspended from duty. You will therefore have no further discussion or contact with Mr Bellamy until this matter has been resolved. Is that clear?’

  Phil looked at Nick and there was a moment of dreadful silence as the two friends began to appreciate the appalling consequences of Phil’s predicament.

  ‘Come on, Rowan, back to the office,’ said Sergeant Blaketon. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  Greengrass had taken David Parrish to watch Wilf Welford’s greyhounds in training. There was the usual small crowd of bystanders, including Jack Scarman and his girl, Debbie. The track owner, Wilf Welford, was also there.

  Greengrass and David Parrish were standing together some distance from the edge of the track, while a series of starts and mock races were held. Alfred, Greengrass’s lurcher, was tied to the pick-up tailgate, while Claude was airing his knowledge to the youngster who held Jimbo on a leash. Jimbo, seeing the other dogs in action, was whimpering and quivering, anxious to be among them.

  ‘How about your Jimbo having a run?’ Greengrass suggested. ‘Just to get the feel of things. It’s in his blood, son, you can see that. Look at him, he can’t wait to get running.’

  ‘Well, if you think it will be all right, Mr Greengrass.’

  Greengrass blinked and twitched. ‘All right? Course it’ll be all right. These are my friends, business colleagues, men of like interests to me, countrymen, like you and your grandad. Now, what these dogs need is a good pacer, David, a dog that’s not racing, but one that’ll set ‘em a pace, to make ‘em go faster, to train ‘em. I reckon your Jimbo’s just the chap to do that. Come on, fetch him over and we’ll show ‘em what a good dog can do.’

  Claude shambled over to Jack Scarman and Wilf.

  ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought along this dog I was telling you about, Jack. Lovely mover, do you fancy seeing him perform? If you need a pacer for this lot, Jimbo’ll fill the bill.’

  Scarman nodded to Wilf. ‘Give him a run, Wilf, set him up with the best you’ve got - and put Northern Flash in as well.’

  ‘As you say, Jack,’ said Welford, taking Jimbo’s leash and leading him towards the track. David watched with some apprehension as Jimbo was bundled into the traps along with several other dogs. Northern Flash was brought from the kennels too.

  ‘He’s a dead ringer for your dog is that one,’ smiled Claude. ‘Good job your Jimbo has a white patch on his head, eh? Otherwise you’d never tell ‘em apart.’

  ‘He’s not used to racing, Mr Greengrass,’ said David.

  ‘No, that’s why he’ll do well as a pacer for these others, they’ll learn from him. Now, shut up everybody, they’re ready for off.’

  With his right arm held high, Wilf indicated that the mechanical hare was about to be set in motion, then his arm dropped to start the run. With a trundling sound, the hare began its circuit. As it rumbled past the traps, the gates were lifted high and the dogs exploded from their places, streaking after the hare with long, loping strides.

  The inexperienced Jimbo was slightly slow in leaving the trap but the excitement of the moment reached him and he burst out, rapidly catching the others with tongue lolling as he flew after the speeding hare.

  ‘Look at that …’ Claude was almost beside himself with excitement. ‘Just look at that dog … by, I’ve never seen owt run like that …’

  Scarman watched with never a word. He showed no emotion as Jimbo overtook the field and raced home the clear and undoubted winner. Scarman’s own dog, Northern Flash, came in a poor last.

  ‘What do you think to that, young David?’ beamed Claude Jeremiah, placing his arm around the lad’s shoulders. ‘How about that for a thrill, eh? That dog of yours is some pacer!’

  ‘You said he’d be good, Mr Greengrass.’

  ‘Well, I know my dogs, you see. I’m a bit of an expert, modest with it, mind, but well respected in these parts by those who know.’

  ‘I never thought of him as a racing dog.’

  ‘Well,’ said Greengrass with an avaricious grin on his face, I never said he was a racer. He’s a pacer, one that sets the standard for other dogs when they’re in training. Now, having seen Jimbo run here, I reckon he could help those others train up for the Maddleskirk Trophy. I don’t think he’s up to winning standard himself, not on a proper track with crowds and noise and distractions, so don’t forget that was just a training race. What we need is to have Jimbo down here regular like, to get those racers fit, set ‘em against him on a daily basis. Then, in time, he might even be allowed a race or two himself, but not just yet. That comes later. This is his sort of apprenticeship, if you understand. What do you think about that, then, about Jimbo coming down here regular, to be pacer?’ ‘I’ll have to have words with my grandad …’ ‘No, keep him out of it. Let’s make it our secret, shall we? A surprise, a sort of get-well surprise, if you understand. It’ll do him a world of good to know his dog’s helping to train those less capable than himself but he’s got enough on just now, with that illness of his. Now, I forgot to say, you’ll get paid for fetching him here.’