‘That’s what I was thinking. So leave this with me, Debbie, and not a word to anybody, least of all Jack Scarman!’

  ‘If this gets me free from that bastard, it’ll be worth it!’ she said.

  page 183

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nick’s enquiries around the specialist garages in the district quickly produced the name Eddie Mooney and the registration number of the souped-up minivan. Mooney had tinkered with the engine until he had something that sounded like a high-powered sports car. A check with the vehicle registration department at Northallerton revealed an address in Leeds, but a phone call to Leeds City Police showed that Mooney had left that address several months ago, and was now thought to be living in Ashfordly or perhaps Strensford.

  Nick then went along to the Maddleskirk Greyhound Track to confirm the dates and times of the forthcoming race meeting, especially of the Maddleskirk Trophy which was the highlight of the event. Men and dogs from all over the north-east of England were expected to arrive, and already extra police officers had been drafted in to control the crowds and traffic, and to ensure law and order on the course. On the day of the meeting, the place would be buzzing with punters and bookmakers. If there was any place where he could guarantee Jack Scarman’s presence, along with his minders, it would be here, and it would be during the race for the Maddleskirk Trophy. From a secure telephone kiosk, Nick rang Phil Bellamy and told him to attend the races, especially while the Maddleskirk Trophy was being run. This could be the time for a showdown with Jack Scarman and Eddie Mooney, he explained, and in his view, a public place was far better than one of Scarman’s own premises. Nick advised Phil to remain in the background until his presence was required. ‘Thanks, mate,’ said Phil, and he meant it.

  It was that same morning that Kate got the letter she had been awaiting. Its postmark told her it had come from the laboratories and when she opened it, she gave a little cry of delight - just as Alex Ferrenby entered the surgery. He looked rather tired, but he was dressed as if for work.

  ‘Won the pools, have you, Kate?’ he smiled.

  ‘No, it’s just some good news,’ she said. ‘About Geoff Parrish.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I had intended to see him, he’s had bronchitis, you know, quite badly. But with me being off, I never got round to visiting him.’

  ‘I went to treat him, Alex, that’s what this letter is about.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I took a blood test, I wanted to check for any reaction against allergies.’

  ‘Are you saying you disbelieved my diagnosis?’

  ‘I read an article in a medical journal, Alex, about a disease which affects farmers who work among mouldy

  hay. Some of them are allergic to the spores that are produced; the trouble’s been called Farmer’s Lung. Well, the blood test shows that Mr Parrish is allergic to those spores. The technical name is extrinsic allergic alveolitis, it affects the air sacs in the lungs, and if it’s not treated immediately, it can have long-lasting effects.’

  ‘So I was wrong?’ Alex suddenly sounded very unsure of himself.

  ‘I had read the article, Alex, you hadn’t,’ Kate said gently.

  ‘But I could have gone on treating him wrongly for the rest of his life. He’d have been crippled with that breathing difficulty …’

  ‘Well, he’ll recover now. I must advise him not to continue with his calves and other livestock, and to keep away from hay and straw. Then he’ll soon be better.’

  ‘You must forgive me, Kate, I seem to be losing my touch.’

  ‘It’s progress, Alex, I happened to have read the right article at the right time, that’s all. You’re still a good doctor …’

  ‘But I’m past it, is that what you’re saying?’ And he left, slamming the door behind him.

  Kate almost went after him, but decided it was best to leave him alone with his thoughts. This might just prompt him to retire, to end his career while he was at the top of his profession. And Alex Ferrenby was at the top; he was one of the finest of rural General Practitioners. Or, she told herself, he had been. Now she must take the news to Geoff Parrish.

  He was sitting on a settee when she arrived, in far better condition than on her previous visit. He told her he had not been in the same place as any hay or straw since then, and already there was a noticeable improvement. Kate then explained the results of the tests and advised him that, provided he kept away from hay and straw, and ended his new career with cattle and sheep, he should be able to eradicate his problem.

  ‘What did you do before you came here?’ she asked.

  ‘I bred greyhounds,’ he said. ‘Racing dogs. I won every trophy in the north of England. Here, I’ll show you.’

  He led her into the lounge where he indicated a display cabinet full of trophies, rosettes and photographs of him receiving awards or showing off one or other of his prizewinning dogs. He added that he’d never had any trouble with his breathing during that career.

  ‘It’s not the animals, it’s their food and bedding,’ she said. ‘So the dog that your grandson is training, that’s yours, is it?’

  ‘Yes, I trained him before I was ill. His name’s Jimbo. Now, if I’d been fit, I’d have been entering him in some of the local events.’

  ‘Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t soon be able to!’

  ‘It would be nice, although officially I’m retired. Jimbo’s a greyhound man’s dream, Dr Rowan, he’s a natural, the sort of dog you wished you’d found when you were at your peak. I haven’t really trained him for racing, you see, because of my breathing troubles. I couldn’t cope with the effort, the exercise, so our David’s been walking

  him. I’d have liked to have been training Jimbo for the Maddleskirk Trophy. I won it twice before, with other dogs. One day, David might take up greyhound racing, but he wants to go to university to study to be a vet.’

  ‘David’s been taking Jimbo down to Wilf Welford’s track with Claude Jeremiah Greengrass,’ Kate said. ‘The dog’s been there regularly, I wondered if he was going to enter it for the Maddleskirk Trophy.’

  ‘I knew nothing of this!’ said the old man. I know Wilf Welford, he trains for a villain called Scarman. But who is this man Greengrass?’

  Kate felt she ought to tell the truth about Aidensfield’s resident rogue. Mr Parrish listened carefully and then said, ‘Thanks, Doctor. You have made my day. I was one of the country’s most experienced greyhound trainers, even though I say it myself, and I know every trick in the book. Do you think Greengrass is up to something with Scarman? I know Scarman has a useless dog which is all black; like our Jimbo but without the white patch … I’ll tell you what, Doctor, I’m not relishing what I’m hearing.’

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m pleased you have. From what you’ve said, it seems your Mr Greengrass is trying to pull the wool over my grandson’s eyes. Why would Greengrass want to train our Jimbo like that? I’ve a feeling I might just have to teach him a lesson!’

  ‘He deserves a hard lesson every so often, Mr Parrish. He’s had several since we came to live here, but he never seems to learn from his experiences. I wish you the best of luck with him, and with Jimbo. Now, I must be off. Goodbye.’

  ‘Bye, Doctor. When David comes in, I’ll get the whole story from him, he’s an honest lad. And I’ll get the names of the people he’s been associating with. Perhaps I’ll see you at the greyhound meeting?’

  ‘Who knows?’ smiled Kate, taking her leave, I expect my husband will be on duty there.’

  On the day of the Maddleskirk Trophy greyhound race, the track was busy with a small but enthusiastic crowd. At one side of the track was the public area with the bookmakers in evidence and ticktack men signalling the odds to their colleagues. There was an atmosphere of excitement, with money changing hands, dogs being examined and form being discussed. Greyhounds were being warmed up with short runs by the sides of their trainers.

  Jack Scarman and Debbie were talking to Wilf Welford, who stood near a small pony trailer with Northern Flash on a lead. The dog was wearing a highly distinctive body coat; pale blue emblazoned with a bright red flash of lightning along its length. As one race was being prepared, with the dogs being placed in the traps and the bookies shouting the odds, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass arrived in his pick-up. He parked next to the same pony trailer and Wilf acknowledged his arrival. In the pick-up was David Parrish, nursing Jimbo, while tied in the rear was Alfred, the lurcher. Travelling in the open rear section was a mode of transport not unfamiliar to him.

  Claude climbed out of the pick-up and said to David, ‘You go and watch over there, among those spectators. You’ll learn a lot about racing. You can’t go into the members’ enclosure, it’s for folks like me, men of substance who’ve paid for the privilege, but I’ll take Jimbo. It’ll get him used to the atmosphere, you see. He’ll be all right because Alfred will be with him. Greyhounds love atmosphere, son, they drink it in as if it’s their mother’s milk.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said David, I’ll see you after the big race, then?’

  ‘Done, and if I’ve played my cards right, I’ll be celebrating. Money on the right dog, if you understand. Them that’s in the know will be backing Northern Flash, but you’re too young to bet, eh, being under eighteen? I know the law, you see, son.’

  Claude Jeremiah Greengrass returned to his pick-up to let Jimbo out of the passenger seat before trudging away to go about his business. To Alfred’s disappointment he was left tied in the rear.

  Nick had also arrived. His presence was not unusual on such an occasion, for at any similar gathering on his beat he would have been on patrol in uniform. It was his duty to control the inflow and outflow of traffic, and to prevent trouble on the track, in addition to looking out for pickpockets, bookmakers who might welsh with their takings or punters who might turn to violence if they lost heavily. He therefore patrolled the public and private areas of the track, although today he was particularly interested in Jack Scarman and his minder, Eddie Mooney, in his souped-up minivan.

  Sure enough, the distinctive sound of a noisy engine alerted Nick to a new arrival. He watched the dark green minivan roar into the parking area, its driver revving the engine every few seconds to emphasise the nature of this innocuous-looking van. Nick checked the registration number against the one he had noted in his pocketbook. It tallied. Among the crowd, Nick spotted Phil Bellamy in civilian clothes, looking every inch a greyhound racing fan. Nick raised a hand; Phil nodded. The arrival of Eddie Mooney had been noted. From this point, he would be kept under very close observation.

  Nick wandered down to the rails, ostensibly to observe the next race. From there he saw Mooney, a powerful man in his late twenties with brown hair, walk over to Scarman, who was standing nearby.

  Mooney spoke. ‘You left a message for me to be here?’

  ‘You’re late, I expected you sooner.’

  ‘I went to Leeds to visit my aunt. So I’m here now.’ He grinned at Debbie at Scarman’s side. ‘Hi, gorgeous. Missed me, have you?’

  Debbie did not reply.

  ‘She’s not very friendly, is she?’ commented Mooney.

  ‘She’s like one of these dogs, she’s learning how to behave,’ said Scarman who then opened his wallet and pushed a fistful of notes into Mooney’s hands. ‘You know what to do, so do it.’

  Nick listened to these exchanges, wondering whether they might be related to Greengrass’s recent outings with

  jimbo. Then he moved away to keep Mooney within his sights.

  Meanwhile, in the official enclosure, Wilf Welford was standing in a short queue before the manager’s clerk with Northern Flash on a leash; the clerk was seated at a table and was registering all the graded dogs which had been nominated to take part in the race for the Maddleskirk Trophy.

  ‘Next,’ called the clerk.

  ‘Northern Flash,’ responded Wilf.

  ‘Owner?’

  ‘Mr J. Scarman.’

  The clerk pulled a card from a filing box and checked its details, studying the dog’s colour before saying, ‘Right, entered. Next?’

  While Welford registered Northern Flash, Claude Jeremiah was walking with Jimbo on his lead, weaving among the array of trailers in which the competing dogs had arrived. Many were small horseboxes, the kind that would carry a pony to a gymkhana, and he paused for the briefest of moments outside the one belonging to Wilf Welford, Scarman’s trainer. Then, in a trice, he opened the rear door and vanished inside with Jimbo.

  Geoff Parrish and David were watching him.

  ‘Will Jimbo be all right, Grandad?’ whispered David.

  ‘He’ll be fine. Now just you stay with me and keep your eyes on that trailer. I know what game they’re playing, and it’ll be interesting to see who plays it best, eh? They’re getting ready for the Maddleskirk Trophy now. It’ll be run in a few minutes, so things should start to happen.’

  David still looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand, Grandad.’

  ‘You will. Look, here comes Wilf Welford now with Northern Flash. How’s that for a bonny body coat? A fair dazzler, isn’t it?’

  Mr Parrish and David watched Wilf and the colourfully coated dog make their way to the pony trailer.

  Inside, unseen by anyone, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was quickly but effectively applying some stove blacking to the white marking on Jimbo’s head. The finished job looked perfect - Jimbo was now a totally black greyhound with not a glimmer of his former white patch. Meanwhile, outside, the odds on Northern Flash were shortening because of the unexpectedly heavy betting on this dog, initially regarded as a rank outsider. Claude could hear the calls of the bookies and hurried because he wanted to place more bets before the odds were too greatly reduced - although he’d already bet a substantial amount in advance.

  Wilf entered the trailer and whispered, ‘All right, Claude?’

  ‘Aye, just finished.’ He chuckled. ‘You can’t see the join, as they say. Now, let’s have that jacket and I’ll put it on Jimbo, then nobody’ll tell the difference.’

  The switch was quickly made. Without protest, a nervous Northern Flash was put into a kennel hidden beneath a horse blanket at the rear of the trailer. The kennel door was closed behind him, and the concealing blanket was lowered again.

  ‘I’ve just time to get more bets on,’ said Claude. ‘You stay here till I get back, I’ll make sure nobody lets Northern Flash out. And keep an eye on my Alfred, will you? He’ll try to follow me now, and we don’t want him getting mixed up with them dogs on the track!’

  ‘You’ve only got five minutes before they call me,’ said Wilf, nervously.

  ‘Long enough for a fast mover like me,’ and Claude lumbered out of the shelter of the trailer. In the pick-up next door Alfred strained his lead to follow but Claude only shouted, ‘Shut up you daft dog,’ and hurried off.

  In a nifty movement Geoff Parrish materialised and released Alfred who galloped off joyfully in pursuit of his master. Then Parrish wrenched open the door of the pony trailer and shouted, is that your dog tied up there? It’s off, heading for the track …’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Wilf, rushing out in pursuit of Alfred.

  The moment he was out of sight, Geoff Parrish and David, who had now been suitably briefed, entered the trailer. With the speed of one experienced in handling greyhounds, Geoff Parrish released Northern Flash from the Kennel, removed the colourful coat from Jimbo, and replaced it on Northern Flash. Jimbo was then popped into the kennel and the horse blanket returned to its position. Then they left. It took but seconds, and when Wilf returned to fasten Alfred in the rear of the pick-up, the real Northern Flash was waiting in his beautiful sky-blue coat. Now the runners were being called to the start and Wilf seized Northern Flash’s lead and hurried to the starting traps.

  ‘Now we’ll get Jimbo,’ said Geoff Parrish. ‘And let this be a lesson to you, young David!’

  ‘Thanks, Grandad. I hope Greengrass loses a lot of money!’

  ‘I feel sure he will, and not just him, I fancy,’ smiled his grandfather, still a little short of breath. ‘Come along. We’ll get Jimbo then. I think we should go and watch the big race.’

  Having placed Jimbo in Geoff’s car, they headed for a good vantage point on the track in time to see Claude Jeremiah Greengrass emptying his pockets and placing all his cash on Northern Flash. It was less than two minutes to the off.

  As the tension mounted in the final moments before the race started, Eddie Mooney appeared at Scarman’s side. Greengrass was there too, looking proud and confident, while in the background, their eyes on Mooney, stood PCs Nick Rowan and Phil Bellamy.

  The constables were prepared to wait a little longer; Nick had spotted old Mr Parrish and David moving towards the finishing line, being particularly anxious to watch the outcome of this race. But suddenly, the starter was signalling that the dogs were ready. A hush fell on the crowd and all betting was halted. Scarman could be heard congratulating Mooney and several others who had placed money on Northern Flash on his behalf.

  If the dog won, the bookies would suffer an enormous loss, while Scarman was set to make a fortune. He

  couldn’t wait to be the proud recipient of the Maddleskirk Trophy.

  They heard the distinctive rumbling noise of the mechanical hare as it moved towards the starting traps; the dogs were growing excited and the crowd was shouting, and then, with an almighty crash, the traps flew open and the dogs burst out. The race was over in seconds, and Northern Flash was fourth. A poor fourth.

  Scarman stared in disbelief; Claude could not understand, but he was quick enough to hurry away as the crowd surged towards the bookmakers to collect their winnings.

  ‘Greengrass, I want words with you!’ screeched the angry Scarman, chasing after Claude, who now began to run through the crowds, hoping against hope to find some kind of refuge before Scarman caught him.

  Mooney stood alone.

  ‘Now,’ hissed Nick, removing his handcuffs from his pocket. ‘Ready?’ ‘You bet!’ grinned Bellamy.