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  CHAPTER FIVE

  High on the North York Moors above Aidensfield there is a stretch of moorland which lies in the shadows of Fylingdales Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station. It is called Holtby Moor and from time to time, Nick patrolled the bridleway which passes close by. The bridleway forms a very useful short cut between two streams which are very popular with picnickers and ramblers. Sometimes, when lone hikers get lost, they take shelter here; at other times, moor fires begin, having been started by careless tourists. Nick, like all conscientious police officers, believed that people needed to be reminded of their responsibilities when visiting these beautiful areas; he also knew that the occasional sight of a police uniform could persuade people to behave themselves.

  Except, of course, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

  One quiet afternoon, Nick decided to walk along the bridleway. The snows of winter had thawed and there were signs of spring everywhere. New shoots were appearing on the trees; the days were growing longer; and the moors were looking less threatening with patches of new grass growing among the heather. Enjoying a few minutes of calm, he suddenly noticed a man hammering a signpost into a patch of earth at the edge of Holtby Moor.

  Nick was too far away to read the words on the sign and although the man was too distant to be clearly identified, Nick recognised the familiar bulk and ambling gait of Claude Jeremiah with Alfred at his heels. His old pick-up truck was parked nearby. Secure in his own patch of moorland and concealed behind a young spruce tree, Nick waited and watched until, eventually, Claude stood back with an indication of satisfaction, admired his handiwork, and left the scene, calling to Alfred to get into the truck. As the battered old pick-up bounced and trundled across the rough moorland, Nick strode across to inspect Claude’s sign. It said: ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY - KEEP OUT.’

  Nick was baffled. He stood and surveyed the surrounding patch of moorland. There was nothing here but a windswept area of heather and bracken, interspersed with partially concealed boulders and inhabited only by red grouse and moorland sheep. In a patch of green a long way below was Aidensfield with its stone cottages, while to the west was a higher bulk of moorland upon which stood Fylingdales Early Warning Station. Nick scratched his head as he pondered the reason for Claude’s notice; why place such a warning sign on this deserted place?

  Back at his motorcycle, he radioed Ashfordly Police Station. Alf Ventress responded.

  ‘Alpha Four Six Six to Control,’ Nick repeated his call sign. ‘Have we anything on file about Holtby Moor, near Aidensfield?’

  ‘Negative,’ said Alf. ‘The only time we hear about it is when somebody finds an unexploded bomb left over from World War II. And it’s mighty windy too - for all sorts of reasons, therefore, you’re likely to get blown off that moor.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

  ‘So why might Claude Greengrass want people to keep off?’ Nick pressed his colleague for some clue.

  ‘Search me. Maybe he thinks there’s hidden treasure there or something. So far as I know, there’s nowt but heather and rocks. I should think he could have the moor for nowt if he really wanted it.’

  ‘It looks as though he has acquired it,’ said Nick.

  ‘He’s welcome to it,’ retorted Alf.

  ‘But it’s near Fylingdales,’ Nick reminded Alf. ‘A top-security establishment if ever there was one.’

  ‘You’re not saying Claude’s turning his sticky hands to spying, are you?’

  Nick frowned. ‘No, course not. But, well, it’s a bit odd to say the least. He’s up to something.’

  ‘My advice is to get off that moor before you’re blown off and stop worrying about Claude Jeremiah. If he wants to acquire a useless piece of unproductive land, then it’s his problem, not yours. Forget it, Nick.’

  Nick shook his head doubtfully, if it was anybody else, I would forget it, Alf, but with Claude, well, I know he’s up to something devious. He did say something about coming into money so I wonder if he’s got some kind of deal going with this land? But thanks for the advice. I’ll keep my eyes on that man! Delta Four Six Six to control -over and out.’

  As Nick resumed his patrol, he was determined to find out just what his old adversary was plotting. Being Greengrass, he wouldn’t be planting signposts on an isolated patch of moorland just for the good of his health - he’d be scheming in some devious way. George Ward, landlord of the Aidensfield Arms, was the one to ask …

  ‘Morning, George,’ Nick greeted the affable landlord. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Quiet, Nick, but ticking over nicely. In fact, I’ve got a paying guest - bed and breakfast. First one since Christmas! A lady called Miss Smith. Maiden lady, well spoken, middle-aged and quite well off, if the look of her clothes is anything to go by.’

  ‘She clearly recognises a classy establishment, George. She’s not a secretary, is she?’ Nick asked with a straight face.

  ‘I don’t know what she does for a living, Nick, I never ask my guests …’

  ‘A joke, George! Take a letter, Miss Smith … you know, office jokes and things … all secretaries were called Miss Smith!’

  It was clear that George had no idea what the policeman was talking about, so Nick changed the subject.

  ‘George,’ he said, it’s Greengrass. What’s he up to?’

  ‘Up to? How do you mean, Nick?’

  ‘I saw him on Holtby Moor this morning, about an hour ago. He was putting up a “Keep Out” sign, it said it was private land.’

  ‘He’s been after that patch of moor for a few weeks now, so I’m told,’ George grinned. ‘I did hear he’s nearly done the deal, which would make him a landowner. Mind, I wouldn’t have bought that bit, it’s only big enough to keep a couple of sheep on and isn’t worth anything. You can’t build on it, you couldn’t open a moorland cafe or build a house right up there … I reckon he’s been conned, Nick.’

  ‘Did he pay a lot for it?’ Nick asked.

  ‘A fair bit,’ said George. ‘A customer of mine was in the Northern and Provincial Bank in Ashfordly when it opened this morning and saw Claude plonk a fistful of notes on the counter in return for a banker’s draft. Claude doesn’t believe in bank accounts, as you know, so this isn’t a cash purchase, Nick. If he’s had to get a banker’s draft, it sounds like an official deal of some kind.’

  ‘But nobody in their right mind would spend good money on a tiny patch of useless moor, would they?’ said Nick.

  ‘Right,’ said George. ‘So that means the old scoundrel’s up to something. He’s been saying for a while now that he’s coming into some money - he got that old Cadillac on the strength of it. How he’s going to make anything worthwhile from that bit of moor is a mystery, but so long as he pays cash for his pints in here, I don’t really care.’

  Nick resumed his patrol and decided it was time to pay a visit to Ashfordly; the divisional mail would have arrived, there would be internal circulars to collect, summonses for eventual service and other routine matters to conclude. He calculated that he could ride to Ashfordly and back before lunch.

  When he entered the police station, Alf Ventress was sitting behind the counter puffing at a cigarette, ash covering his uniform; it was Alf’s lunch break and he was about to crack a pair of hard-boiled eggs by knocking them together.

  ‘Watch it, Alf,’ grinned Nick. ‘They might be raw…’

  ‘They won’t catch me with that trick again!’ smiled Alf, though he was very careful how he tapped the shells together, holding them over a piece of newspaper. But they were hard-boiled and he smiled with relief. ‘She’s got it right this time,’ he said placidly.

  ‘Rowan?’ bellowed a voice from the sergeant’s office, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘In my office, now!’

  Nick stepped on to the hallowed ground of Sergeant Blaketon’s office and stood before the desk. ‘Morning, Sergeant,’ he greeted his stern-faced superior.

  ‘Anything to report, Rowan?’ demanded Blaketon.

  ‘All quiet, Sergeant.’

  ‘It can’t be all quiet with a man like Greengrass at large, Rowan. What’s he up to now?’

  Nick explained about Greengrass’s unusual purchase of the piece of moorland.

  Blaketon nodded judiciously. ‘I’d better have words with the security people at Fylingdales, just to warn them about Greengrass. They don’t want a character like that operating on their doorstep.’

  ‘I think he’s been conned, Sarge,’ suggested Nick.

  ‘Conned? Nobody cons Greengrass, Rowan, he’s up to something and I want you to find out what it is. You know he was in the bank this morning, here in Ashfordly?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, he was obtaining a banker’s draft so he could conclude the purchase of that bit of moor.’

  ‘I’m pleased you are up to date on important matters, Rowan. Clearly, the criminal intelligence system in Aidensfield is functioning correctly. But the reason I want to talk to you is that there was somebody else in the bank, Rowan. A suspicious character.’

  ‘More suspicious than Greengrass, Sarge?’

  Blaketon ignored Nick’s retort and continued, ‘You know there’ve been some bank robberies in the North Riding recently - Northallerton, Whitby, Stokesley?’

  ‘Yes, I have read the crime circulars.’

  ‘Well, Rowan, a suspicious character has been seen hanging around the Northern and Provincial Bank in Ashfordly. A woman, Rowan. She’s been spotted for the past two or three days, waiting around outside the bank, keeping an eye on the premises. Stanley Hepplewhite, the manager, rang me to express his concern. He thinks she might be casing the joint.’

  ‘There’s no offence in just waiting outside a bank, Sergeant,’ said Nick.

  ‘I know that, Rowan, but even a southern city type like you must admit it’s a bit odd. So get round there and have words with Hepplewhite, find out as much as you can, get a description of the woman and circulate it to all stations.’

  ‘Very good, Sergeant.’

  ‘And see if you can prove better than these people who write detective novels, Rowan! They make us all seem duffers, except for Amanda Young. I finished one of her books last night, Rowan.’ He produced a paperback from his desk drawer. ‘This lady, Rowan’ - Blaketon pointed to a photograph on the rear cover but it was too far away for Nick to see with any clarity - ‘this lady makes her detectives come alive. She uses real police officers, Rowan, real places and real crimes as the basis for her fiction.’

  ‘She’d find some right characters round here, Sergeant,’ smiled Nick.

  Blaketon did not heed that remark, but went on, ‘She spends hours doing research, Rowan, to get things just right.’

  ‘I had no idea you were an aficionado of crime fiction, Sergeant.’

  ‘Only the very best, Rowan. People who write this kind of quality novel can teach us all a thing or two about research, careful planning and the detection of crime through intelligent thinking. Now, that’s what I want you to do with this case. Research it well, find out everything you can and if we have a potential bank robber, or a scout for potential bank robbers, on our patch, we want to know. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  Nick walked around to the Northern and Provincial Bank in Ashfordly and was soon settled down with a cup of coffee before the manager’s desk. Hepplewhite was a smart man in his middle forties, dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. He was visibly relieved, when Nick explained why he was there.

  ‘I hope I’m not being silly, Mr Rowan, but after a spate of robberies in the area, we have been warned by our head office to be on the alert.’

  ‘It’s not silly spotting suspicious characters and telling us about them!’ Nick reassured him. if only more people would do this, there’d be fewer crimes and more criminals would be caught. Now, what about this woman?’

  Mr Hepplewhite explained that over the past two or three days, his staff had become aware of a woman who appeared to be showing more than the usual degree of interest in the bank. She had spent time hanging around in the street just outside the premises, making notes and watching deliveries of cash. The staff had drawn his attention to her, and in fact, she had entered the bank this morning but had not made any transaction. She had simply watched the queue of people going about their routine business.

  ‘Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was in this morning,’ Nick reminded the manager.

  ‘Yes, he was. I saw the woman watching him, Mr Rowan. He had a large amount of cash upon him which he exchanged for a banker’s draft. But when I came from behind the counter to go into the public area, she quickly left the premises. I lost her outside, although I did once see her in that cafe just opposite.’

  ‘Has she been in the cafe before?’

  ‘Yes, watching from there too. She sits by the window and pretends to drink tea or coffee, but all the time she’s making notes.’

  ‘These deliveries of cash, Mr Hepplewhite, do they come at regular times?’

  ‘Yes, same day each week, and usually around the same time of day.’

  ‘Then you ought to change the delivery time; she could be obtaining timings to pass on to her accomplices, you see. She might be doing all this research so that her armed colleagues can come and raid the delivery vehicles. So that’s your first priority - change the times of all your regular cash deliveries.’

  Nick managed to get a detailed description of the suspicious woman, promised to circulate it to all local police stations and patrol cars and asked Mr Hepplewhite to ring Ashfordly Police Station if the woman turned up again. As the manager escorted him to the door, he suddenly stopped short and said urgently, ‘Mr Rowan, she’s there … in the cafe, she’s just leaving. She must have been at the back, out of my sight … that’s her!’

  Nick stood and watched as the woman left the cafe and walked quickly along the street towards the marketplace. Rapidly he said his farewell to the manager and hurried after her, managing to keep her in his sights as he pushed through the lunchtime crowds until she disappeared into the Crown Hotel. Nick hurried in after her and was just in time to see her disappearing up the stairs with one of the maids. He halted at the reception desk.

  ‘That woman who just came in,’ he said, is she a guest here?’

  ‘She stayed here yesterday and the day before,’ the receptionist said. ‘She didn’t stay with us last night, though, but has left an umbrella behind. She’s come back to see if it’s still in the room she used.’

  ‘Who is she? It is important,’ he stressed. ‘May I see your register?’

  ‘Miss Smith,’ said the receptionist. ‘She gave a Coventry address.’

  The name rang a bell. George also had a Miss Smith staying at the Aidensfield Arms; it was a common name though. Nick examined the entry but it told him little more than the receptionist had: ‘Miss A. Smith’ with a Coventry address. He thanked the girl behind the desk. ‘Did she pay her bill?’

  ‘Yes, cash. She was no trouble, Constable. What’s she done …?’

  ‘Nothing that we know of, but she has been acting somewhat suspiciously … Hello, she’s coming back.’

  Clutching a red umbrella, Miss Smith descended the stairs towards the foyer, thanking the maid for her help and saying that the umbrella had been in the wardrobe. Then she left the hotel. As she passed Nick, she smiled sweetly at him but did not speak and he decided to see where she went. He followed her to the marketplace where she waited at the bus stop.

  Within fifteen minutes, Arnold Merryweather’s service bus to Aidensfield arrived. Miss Smith boarded the bus and after Hannah, the collosal conductress, had collected the fares, the old vehicle disappeared upon its circuitous route through the countryside to Aidensfield.

  Nick hurried back to the police station and told the expectant Blaketon what had happened.

  ‘Then you’d better get yourself mobile to pursue her, Rowan, especially if she’s entering your patch! But be discreet! Don’t alert her to our interest!’

  Kicking his Francis Barnett motorcycle into life, Nick drove back to Aidensfield, knowing that as long as nothing occurred to divert him, he would reach the village ahead of the lumbering bus. He also knew it was lunchtime and he was hungry, but he had little choice but to wait for the bus to come in. When it arrived Miss Smith alighted near the war memorial, then went into a cafe and sat down at a table. Nick watched her order a light lunch. There was no bus out of Aidensfield for a couple of hours so Miss Smith couldn’t go far. Surely now he could have his own meal break. He must not make his interest in Miss Smith too apparent; if she realised he was watching her, she would leave and the whole operation would fail.

  Thankfully, he made his way back to the police house, wondering if this was the Miss Smith who was staying at George’s inn? If so, he’d be able to keep her under observation fairly easily. Nick reckoned it must be the same person, but he couldn’t work out why a bank robbers’ researcher would come to Aidensfield.

  Over his sandwich, he told Kate about Greengrass and Miss Smith, while she chatted about her morning in the surgery and upon her rounds.

  ‘How’s Alex?’ Nick asked.

  ‘A bit quiet,’ she said. ‘He’s not recovered from that attack yet, Nick, and his experience in the train crash has really set him back. He’s not really fit to resume work. I’m very concerned about him. I’m trying to persuade him to go away - he should take holidays, visit his relations, go for long walks and so on.’

  ‘He needs another interest, something other than his fishing and shooting,’ Nick mused. ‘Something light-hearted and totally different from his work.’

  ‘There’s going to be a talent contest. I’m thinking of putting his name forward as a judge!’ smiled Kate.

  ‘Now that would suit him. But what talent contest? Who’s organising it? I knew nothing about this!’ It wasn’t often Kate could surprise Nick about village news.

  ‘Your friend Phil Bellamy’s got something to do with it, and Alf Ventress is going to be the MC; it’s not in Aidensfield, though, which is probably why you knew nothing about it. It’s going to be at the Oddfellows Hall in Ashfordly, to raise money for the football club.’