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

  “This is an official arrest for questioning, Phil, not a Wild West show, remember?’ I just want that man inside,’ said Phil grimly. Nick came upon Mooney from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Eddie Mooney?’ ‘Yeah, who wants to know?’

  PC Rowan, I’m arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering St Nicholas Pawnbrokers in Ashfordly. You can go and get stuffed!’ growled Mooney, quickly bringing his fist up, but Bellamy was behind him now. In a trice, he had that arm locked in a secure hold and twisted behind Mooney’s back.

  ‘As I was saying,’ smiled Nick, I’m arresting you on suspicion of breaking and entering St Nicholas Pawnbrokers in Ashfordly. You are not obliged to say anything but what you say may be taken down in writing and given in evidence.’

  ‘Bastards!’

  ‘Got that, Phil?’ smiled Nick, I think the courts will be interested in his reaction. Come along, Mooney, you’re going to the cells.’

  As they walked towards Nick’s bike to radio for a car, they passed Claude Jeremiah who was with Scarman and Wilf Welford. Claude was rubbing Northern Flash’s head, and saying, ‘But this black won’t come off, Jack … this is your own bloody dog …’

  ‘Well, so who rung the changes, Greengrass?’

  ‘Trouble, Claude?’ asked Nick as he passed by.

  ‘No, Mr Rowan, no trouble. Just a bit of confusion about a dog.’

  Scarman saw Mooney being led away, but made no comment. He wanted nothing to do with Eddie Mooney now - Eddie was on his own.

  He turned to Greengrass. ‘You owe me an explanation, Claude, and, I suspect, a good deal of compensation for my losses. Now, I’m a reasonable man until folks don’t pay. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye, well, I’m a man of substance myself, Jack, a man of means … I mean, I’ll see you all right, so I will.’

  ‘Of course you will, Claude. Of course you will. I’ll see you tomorrow. In the Aidensfield Arms, with your pockets full of money, all for me. I’ll work out what you owe me. Right?’

  ‘Right, Jack.’

  ‘Mr Scarman to you,’ said Scarman.

  When Eddie Mooney’s flat was searched, the remainder of the property stolen from the pawnbroker’s shop was found, along with many more items from similar crimes. Faced with this evidence, he confessed to the shopbreaking, but he steadfastly refused to implicate Scarman.

  ‘He’ll go down for a year or two,’ said Sergeant Blaketon afterwards. ‘Well done, Rowan. And Bellamy, here’s your warrant card. You’re back on duty, a wiser man I hope.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Phil Bellamy.

  ‘You know, I still don’t understand why Scarman tried to frame you, Bellamy. And I still can’t work out where you were when that shop was broken into.’

  And he walked into his own office with a knowing smile on his face.

  ‘He knows summat,’ said Phil.

  ‘Don’t we all?’ said Nick. ‘Life has no secrets. Well, I’d better get back to Aidensfield. I’ve a feeling poor old Claude Jeremiah will need some protection very soon. I might just ask him if he’s got any good greyhound racing tips.’

  It was several weeks later when Claude Jeremiah Greengrass went out to the old wrecked Ford Popular which he used as a henhouse. Accompanied by the ever-faithful Alfred, he fed his hens, collected some eggs and then lifted the seat of the old car to reveal a space beneath it. It was here that Claude kept the old biscuit tin, bearing a picture of the Queen’s coronation on the lid, in which he hid his spare cash.

  His secret hiding place was empty.

  ‘Alfred!’ he yelled. ‘Hey, somebody’s pinched all my money!’

  He searched the car, scattering hens and causing feathers to fly as he looked for any sign of his roll of banknotes, but there was nothing. Someone had sneaked into his secret place during the night to take his cash. There had been fifty pounds, he knew. Fifty hard-earned pounds. And his precious tin.

  ‘You can’t trust anybody these days,’ he grumbled to Alfred. ‘Come on, this is a job for the police.’

  A few minutes later, he was hammering on the door of the police house. Nick answered, dressed in a sweater and slacks.

  ‘Morning, Claude,’ he smiled. ‘You’re out early.’

  ‘Early? I’ve been up half the night with worry, Mr Rowan. I’ve come to report a crime.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to admit committing one?’

  ‘Gerroff, it’s nowt like that. Look, somebody’s pinched my money, my life savings.’

  Nick shrugged. ‘Well, you’ll have to go to Ashfordly and tell them, Claude. I’m off duty. It’s my day off today.’

  ‘Day off?’ Claude snorted ‘Policemen don’t get days off, do they?’ ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘Well, I can’t get to Ashfordly, my battery’s flat and the pick-up won’t start.’

  ‘There’s a bus in half an hour …’

  ‘Bus? I’m not going all the way to Ashfordly on a bus. I’m a ratepayer, Mr Rowan, I pay your wages, it’s blokes like me that keep this country going.’

  ‘OK, I’ll make a note now and I’ll come around to visit the scene and investigate the crime when I’m back on duty.’

  ‘Right, well, I suppose that’ll have to do. I thought I’d get better service than this, me being a pillar of this community and a ratepayer.’

  ‘I’ve said I’ll deal with the matter, Claude!’

  ‘There’s one law for the rich and one for the rest of us, I can tell you,’ grumbled Claude. ‘I bet if I’d been Lord Ashfordly, you’d have got your notebook out sharp.’

  ‘You’d know about laws, Claude, you seem to break most of them. So how much did you say’s been taken?’

  ‘Fifty quid! My life savings. And my cash box. Well, an old biscuit box with Her Majesty’s coronation on the lid. Very loyal subject, I am. It was a good box, was that. You don’t get tin boxes of that quality nowadays.’

  ‘After your deal with Jack Scarman I’m surprised you’ve got anything left to pinch, even a tin box!’

  ‘Aye, well, he knows nowt about that spare cash, Mr Rowan. You don’t tell folks like him everything, do you, so I’d be obliged if you didn’t let him know. This was my nest egg, you see.’

  ‘And where did you keep it?’

  ‘In the henhouse. Well, it’s an old car I use as a henhouse. My flock of Rhode Island Reds crossed by White Leghorns love the upholstery, you see. They’re very content, sleeping there at night.’

  ‘And you kept your money in the mobile henhouse, which isn’t locked?’

  ‘It’s not mobile, it failed its MOT.’

  ‘I’ve never come across a henhouse before which failed its MOT, Claude.’

  ‘Well, I could have scrapped it, but the hens love it. Anyway, I shut it against foxes at night, but folks round here don’t need to lock up, Mr Rowan, there’s no criminals about the place. I mean, I’ve never had owt pinched before.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Now, who’s been prowling around the Greengrass estate, Claude?’

  ‘Trespassers, poachers, ramblers crossing my land, sneak thieves …’

  ‘But somebody knew it was there. It’s not everybody who keeps his life savings in a motorised henhouse, is it? So you go home and get thinking, then I’ll come and visit you and we’ll get the fingerprint experts out to examine the scene of the crime.’

  ‘You mean my house will be swarming with coppers?’

  ‘You’re a ratepayer, Claude, and you deserve the very best, so I’ll call out the Crime Squad, the CID, the police dogs to search the premises, the fingerprint officers to check for prints left by the thief and then I’ll come and search the premises to see if you’ve mislaid the cash and the tin.’

  Claude gaped. ‘You mean I’ve got to subject my private premises to this kind of invasive scrutiny just because somebody’s pinched my money?’

  ‘If a crime has been committed, Claude, ratepayers like you, pillars of the local community, deserve only the best. Just like Lord Ashfordly.’

  ‘Do you think I’d better go and have another look around the spot first, before you make it official, like?’

  ‘Right, Claude, as you wish. I want only the best service for you, you know.’

  ‘You’re being sarcastic now, Mr Rowan.’

  ‘Who, me? Never!’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll go and have another look around myself, before your fellers come along and disrupt my way of life. I might have misplaced it, mightn’t I? I mean, I’d look a bit daft if they found it when I said it had gone, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Very possibly, Claude,’ and Greengrass pottered away from the police house. The last thing he wanted was a load of detectives and police constables searching his house.

  Back inside, the telephone rang.

  ‘You get it,’ Kate called from the kitchen.

  ‘No, it’s your turn,’ Nick shouted, it’s my day off!’

  page 203

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The call was for Kate. Helen Rawlings, the wife of a gamekeeper on Lord Ashfordly’s estate, explained that her daughter, Susan, was ill. Susan was at Ashfordly Grammar School where she was working hard for her forthcoming A levels, and Helen expressed concern that her daughter might be overdoing things or getting into a state about her exams. Kate promised to come around after morning surgery.

  When she arrived, Helen Rawlings, an attractive woman in her late thirties, apologised, saying that it was her husband, Matt, who’d insisted on calling the doctor.

  ‘He dotes on Susan. She wasn’t very strong when she was little, you see, and he’s so concerned whenever she’s poorly.’

  ‘He’ll be having a busy time, just now?’ Kate commented.

  ‘Yes, it’s the annual shoot on the estate. He’s up to his neck with work. All Lord Ashfordly’s business contacts and friends are coming today, so everything’s got to be just right.’

  Kate nodded understandingly. ‘He’s invited Dr Ferrenby, that was kind of him.’

  ‘Yes, I heard the doctor hasn’t been very well lately.’

  ‘I think he was overdoing it, Mrs Rawlings, and that knock on the head when his surgery was raided didn’t help, nor did his involvement in the train crash. But he’ll be all right given time, and outings like this shooting day to help him to relax.’

  ‘Please send him our regards.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Kate. ‘He looked very splendid this morning in his shooting gear, plus fours and tweed suit! Very much the country gentleman. I’m sorry he couldn’t come to see Susan.’

  ‘I’m pleased you’ve come,’ smiled Helen Rawlings. ‘A woman’s touch is sometimes best. Come along, I’ll take you up to her room.’

  They paused outside the door while Mrs Rawlings knocked, saying, ‘Susan? Dr Rowan’s here.’

  The door opened slowly to reveal Susan in her nightdress; she looked extremely pale and unwell.

  ‘I told you I didn’t need a doctor,’ she snapped at her mother. ‘I told Dad, but he didn’t listen either!’

  ‘If you’re unwell, Susan, it’s only natural your parents are concerned,’ retorted Kate. ‘Now, let me in and I’ll have a look at you.’

  ‘Shall I come in as well?’ asked Mrs Rawlings.

  ‘No, Mum, leave me alone. I can manage,’ and so while Susan admitted Kate, her mother returned to the kitchen downstairs. Kate looked around the room; it was that of a typical teenager, with a transistor radio, posters of pop stars-and pop groups, a CND poster and school books spread across a desk.

  ‘So, Susan, what’s wrong?’ Kate smiled and sat on the bed, indicating that Susan should join her.

  ‘I’m all right, honest, I’m just tired.’ The girl tried to shrug off her sickness, whatever it was.

  ‘Your mother said you’d been sick.’ Kate was now rummaging in her bag for a thermometer. ‘How many times?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just after I came to bed. It’s happened to some other girls at school, there’s a bug going around.’

  ‘Have you eaten or drunk anything that’s different, something you don’t normally have?’ asked Kate.

  ‘No, nothing, just my ordinary school dinners and the usual things at home.’

  ‘All right, open your mouth, I want to take your temperature.’ As Susan obeyed, Kate received a strong whiff of alcohol. She tested the girl’s pulse too, then said, ‘Susan, you’ve been drinking!’

  ‘No, I haven’t!’

  ‘I can smell it on your breath. Don’t lie to me.’ ‘You won’t tell my mother, will you? It made me sick …’

  ‘I’m not surprised, it must have been a lot to leave a smell like that. You’ve been drunk, that’s what’s wrong. You’ve had an almighty hangover and it’s not left you yet! So, what you need is lots of water to flush you out, and then some exercise and fresh air.’

  ‘Dad said I could help him if I felt up to it.’

  ‘Well, that might not be a bad idea, but you look awful. Get some rest first, and no more drinking, except copious amounts of fresh, clean water!’

  ‘So what will you tell Mum?’

  ‘I’ll say it sounds like a tummy bug, something you’ve picked up at school. But this is the last time I cover up for you - keep off the drink and concentrate on your exams, without overdoing it. And plenty of fresh air and exercise should help you get over this one.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ smiled Susan. But her pale face bore a very worried look which Kate did not miss.

  Having enjoyed a leisurely breakfast after Greengrass’s departure, Nick decided he might do some work on his old car; he’d managed to buy a vintage MG from Greengrass, a rare vehicle, the true value of which Claude had overlooked. He changed into some overalls, then decided he needed some petrol with which to clean some engine parts, so strolled down to the garage with a can in his hand. As he arrived, Malcolm Mostyn came out to greet him.

  ‘Ah, Nick, glad you’ve come. I’ve been ringing your house …’

  ‘Sorry, Malcolm, I was in my garage. I didn’t hear the phone. What’s the matter?’

  ‘We were broken into last night.’

  ‘Not you as well?’ groaned Nick. ‘Much gone?’

  ‘Cash,’ said the garage owner. ‘Not a lot, I don’t leave a lot lying around at night. Just some loose change in the till. I reckon there was about fifteen shillings in silver.’ ‘How did they get in?’

  ‘Through a back window. They smashed the glass, reached inside to open the catch and climbed through. There’s some muddy footprints on my desk and on the floor.’

  Nick followed Malcolm inside where the trail of evidence was easy to distinguish. He studied the marks and the mode of entry and said, it looks like someone fairly agile to get in through that window. A youngster, obviously.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, somebody after a few bob.’

  ‘I’m off duty today, Malcolm, but I’ll ring the office at Ashfordly and get the fingerprint people organised. They’ll want to examine the woodwork around the window and so on. It’s funny, Claude Jeremiah reckons he had some money taken last night as well, he’s doing a double check for me.’ He grinned. ‘He doesn’t want our experts rummaging through his house.’

  ‘I heard somebody had got into the pub too,’ said Malcolm. ‘George was on about it this morning. I didn’t know my own spot had been raided an’ all! I’ve just discovered it.’

  ‘I thought I was going to have a quiet day off!’ grumbled Nick. ‘What’s gone from the pub? Money from the till?’

  ‘George couldn’t see that anything was missing, but a back window had been smashed.’

  ‘I’d better get across there and have words with him,’ said Nick. ‘I’ll come back for my can of petrol, I just wanted a gallon to wash my engine parts with.’

  ‘I’ll fill it up, Nick. Call back when you’re ready.’

  Nick found George in the cellar of the Aidensfield Arms preparing for the day’s opening. He’d been planning to call at the police house when he went to the shop and had mentioned the breakin to Malcolm when Malcolm had popped in for some cigarettes earlier. Entry had been through a small window in the kitchen at the rear of the premises; George always left the drawer of his till open at night so that would-be thieves could see that it was empty. No cash had been taken, therefore, and George was baffled.

  ‘Cigarettes not taken? Spirits?’ asked Nick. Those were the usual objectives of thieves who broke into licensed premises.

  ‘No cigarettes are missing, I just got my order in yesterday and they’re stacked up in my back store in boxes of 200. I’d know if one of them had gone. They could have taken a bottle or two of something I suppose. I’d never miss a single bottle. If they’d taken a crate then I would know.’

  Nick told George about Claude’s missing money and the raid on Mostyn’s Garage just across the road, and asked George to keep his ears open in the pub. If it was youngsters doing it for a dare, then their boasting might just surface during the next few days.

  Nick returned to Mostyn’s, collected his can of petrol and paid Malcolm. He was just walking back to the police house when Bill Francis, the butcher, hailed him.

  ‘Nick,’ he called from the forecourt of his shop, ‘have you a minute? Somebody’s broken into my van during the night.’ ‘I don’t believe it!’ cried Nick.

  Someone had smashed the quarterlight of the passenger’s window, reached in and opened the door. They had then crept into the rear of the empty van where the till was kept: Bill Francis did a round of the villages every Tuesday and Saturday, selling meat from the van, and so he carried a small till in the vehicle. Something around two or three pounds in small change had been taken.

  The time had come to report this mini-crime wave to Sergeant Blaketon, and to the CID. Clearly, someone had done the rounds last night, breaking into anywhere that might contain cash, however small an amount. This was not the work of a travelling criminal, thought Nick; it had all the appearance of somebody local, somebody with knowledge of the habits of local business people so far as their cash was concerned. It seemed that Claude Jeremiah had been right; the thief or thieves had even known of his secret hiding place.