Gary, meanwhile, had whispered to Catherine what was happening, advising her to keep very quiet and stay out of the house, so she decided to go for a walk. Gary returned to Medinah, having left Louise a message about Jamie on the front door, for when she returned.
***
A little over two hours later, wrestling with a dream, Jamie half-woke, covered in sweat. He had been pulling a girl’s arms over her head as she crouched down, bent over something. She was distraught, sobbing and shaking. He was in his father’s dark study, and could sense the Judge’s foreboding presence. Sitting up, he let the twilit memory of the dream fall away. Fully awake now, he realized that the headache had gone and his vision was back to normal, but he still felt fragile. Getting up, he turned on the Golf Channel and went for a shower, lingering for some minutes under its revitalizing stream. Loud cheers from the television eventually caught his attention, and he went back to the bedroom to dress. Louise returned at about the same moment, entering the house cautiously, happy to see Jamie up and about, having read Gary’s note.
‘How are you feeling?’ she called through the open door.
Jamie simply grunted in reply. Looking fresh, he entered the living-room and turned on the big-screen set there. ‘I’d be feeling a lot better if the Europeans would buck up a bit’, he finally offered. ‘They’ve already lost two of the afternoon matches. We’re 10 – 4 down. It’s dreadful... Rory and Poults are two holes adrift with six to go, and the other match is dicey too… I don’t know if I want to watch this.’
Having stashed the groceries in the kitchen, Louise came and sat beside him. ‘I’ll watch with you’, she said.
‘Get me a beer, then,’ said Jamie, all thoughts of his migraine having departed. ‘That’s better… McIlroy just sunk a monster putt to birdie the short thirteenth. Now they are only one-down.’
The next hour produced amongst the most riveting golf Jamie had ever seen. In the front match, Luke Donald and Sergio Garcia were one-up when they came to the seventeenth tee, facing Lake Kadijah for the final time, the flag front-left about 150 yards away. The US team fired first. Steve Stricker and Tiger Woods both put their balls on the green, Tiger’s pretty close to the flag – a very makeable putt. Sergio went next and found the back of the green, not that close. Donald must have known how important his next shot would be. Despite the pressure, or maybe because of it, staying totally focused on the precision task required, he nailed the shot. The ball finished no more than three feet from the hole. Woods holed his putt for a birdie two. Donald followed him in for the team to remain one-up, setting up victory. They duly halved the final hole and thousands of European supporters breathed a sigh of relief.
At this stage, the team scores were USA 10, Team Europe 5. No team had recovered to win from worse than 10 – 6 at the beginning of the final day in all the years since 1927. The Americans had turned that exact score around just once, at The Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts in 1999, on a remarkable day of golf that the European side much preferred to forget. A great deal was therefore riding on the final Day Two match. For this reason, Ian Poulter, in his trademark visor and shades, was beginning to look like the hero of the day.
Poulter had rolled in a remarkable putt on the fourteenth green for a birdie, and followed that with an even more remarkable three at the next, chipping his ball into the hole over a bunker from thirty yards. The crowd roar was deafening. He and McIlroy, having finally erased the deficit, were now level with their opponents. On sixteen, Poulter faced another opportunity. He was looking at a very tricky downhill twenty-foot putt that was going to break five or six feet from the left. Cool as ice, he stood over the ball and made a beautifully smooth, rhythmic swing with the putter, launching it tenderly on its way. Even the commentators were holding their breath as it rolled slowly, picking up speed down the slope, heading just off-centre for the cup. ‘He hasn’t done it again, has he?’ comes the excited voice from the television. ‘He has!’ Applause almost drowned out his voice.
On they go to the seventeenth. This time, it is the American Zach Johnson who delights his partner, Jason Dufner, by landing his ball stiff, just three feet from the hole. Poulter’s approach shot is good, but again leaves him a very missable twelve-foot putt that will swing, this time from right-to-left. Once again, the man from Woburn slots it square in the hole. He and McIlroy are, at last, one-up with only one hole to play. There is no way they can lose the match. A half is guaranteed, but both men still feel they absolutely must win.
The quiet American, Dufner, threatens to spoil the show on eighteen, this time with a terrific second shot inside four feet, from where he will surely be rolling in the final putt. With McIlroy out of it, the situation demands Poulter, once again, to come up with a superhuman display. He must sink his putt from fifteen feet for, unbelievably, his fifth birdie in a row. This alone will give the pair victory in the match.
The captain, Olazabal, the vice-captains, and all the European team players, are standing beside the green to watch… And Poulter does not disappoint. As if in slow-motion, the ball runs forward, takes the slight left-to-right borrow, and finally dives safely into the cup. Poulter, eyes bulging, immediately swivels, turning to his comrades, crying out ‘Yessss’ with the roar of a lion, fists pumping wildly. ‘We can do it’, he seems to be telling them, and in the playback later, you can see it in their tear-filled eyes. They believe him. ‘Seve must be watching from heaven’, says someone, to anyone who might listen. ‘It’s like having a thirteenth man on our side.’
Back at the house, Jamie was standing and cheering at the screen. This was terrific. He wished he had been there in person, instead of confined to bed for the afternoon, but at least he had witnessed the start of the fight-back and his next thought was to contact Chuck to double the bet they had on the match, preferably at favourable odds. For the visitors to win eight and a half points from a possible twelve on Sunday, as the home team had at Brookline, still seemed extremely unlikely, but this was exactly the kind of gamble that Jamie loved to take on.
***
Back in Sussex, it was late that Saturday evening. Holly was preparing for bed. She did not tune in to the golf and had no idea of the state of play. She had something else on her mind. She was sure that earlier she had actually heard the voice of the killer.
After leaving Rose Cottage, because it was on her way, she went first to the SRGC for a meeting with Peter Harding. In the event, there had not been anything new for him to report. He had not heard back from Jamie Royle. None of the staff or club members had mentioned anything helpful since the previous day. He gave Holly a list of the club’s suppliers, mostly of food and drink, green-keeping requirements, their laundry service, the plumbers and electricians they used, and whatever else he could think of. He told her that he normally worked on Saturdays, when many club members came to play who were otherwise occupied during the week, and when quite a few club competitions took place. He added that he would also be there the following day as he only took alternate Sundays off, but Monday was his habitual rest day. Also, on Thursday afternoons with a regular group of friends, he regularly took time off to play a round of golf himself.
Holly had spotted Mark’s car in the car park. He had not been in the clubhouse, so she guessed he was out on the course, playing. It could be a couple of hours before he returned, and she could think of no reason to linger. She thought about leaving him a note on his windscreen, but could not think of anything appropriate to write. She was a little annoyed that she had even thought about it. ‘Get a grip, Girl!’ she told herself, relieved that no-one could hear her. Then, whispering this time, with something like a sigh, she repeated, ‘Do try and get a grip on yourself…’
It was only three minutes’ drive from the club to ‘Greenings’ and the homicide incident suite. Two rooms on the ground floor had been set up, full of desks, telephones and people. As expected, Holly found food and drinks in the kitchen. Someone with
a sense of priority had brought in tea and coffee, bottled water, plenty of assorted rolls and sandwiches, soups and pizza slices, with both a kettle and a microwave oven to heat up whatever was necessary. There was also a bowl full of fruit. She helped herself to a cup of tea and a tuna roll before returning to the communications hub next door where the duty officer gave her a brief update.
‘There’s nothing much to report, Sergeant.’ This was DC Sally Blackshaw, an eager recent recruit from the uniform branch. ‘We’ve been trying to contact removal firms, but many of them, especially since noon, have just left their answering machines on, saying they open again on Monday. We’ve left messages saying how to contact us; and those we have got through to mostly say they need time to check their records and will get back to us next week. None of them report unusual or unauthorized use of a vehicle after dark on Wednesday.’
‘We’ve also got detectives calling door-to-door in the neighbourhood, asking about any possibly suspicious goings on’, she continued, ‘But none have reported back yet.’
Holly asked her to spread the word about checking horse-transport vehicles as well… ‘And another thing, Sally’, she said apologetically. ‘Can you please check psychiatric hospitals? We know poor Jane had severe anorexia. Could she have been treated, either locally or in a specialist eating disorders unit somewhere? ’ It was going to be a lot of work, and would take time. ‘Have any members of the public phoned in?’ she asked finally.
‘Only a few inquisitive people’, the Constable replied. ‘No-one with any useful info… Not so far, anyway.’
Holly finished her snack and was about to return to the kitchen for an apple or a tangerine when the phone beside her started to ring. The male voice, when she picked it up, sounded muffled or croaky.
‘You’re after the wrong people’, it said. ‘It’s those golf club murderers you have to go after.’ There was a click and that was it. Holly stood there, listening, trying to imprint the voice on her memory. All the calls were recorded, of course, and she later listened to that brief message a dozen or more times, but never again did it sound as chilling as on that first occasion.
By simply dialling 1471, Holly had the number. Quickly calling the duty officer with access to the reverse directory, she soon ascertained that the call had come from a public telephone in a pub called ‘The Grapes’ beside the River Rother just north of Midhurst. Holly called her boss and, getting the go-ahead, set off there at once. The journey took only twelve minutes.
Approaching the pub, Holly was realistically prepared to be disappointed. It would be too good to be true to find the man with the croaky voice quietly still sitting there supping away on a pint; but Holly was still fully alert. Once parked up, she quickly took photographs of all the vehicles in the car park and nearby, making sure to include their number-plates. Once inside the building, she identified the landlord and quickly showed him her warrant card. Muttering something about Sussex Police business, she drew him to one side, noticing at the same time that the place was buzzing, still busy with people finishing off their lunches.
She explained about the phone call, and her search for the caller. The landlord, a tall, genial heavily whiskered fellow called Dave, had no recall of serving a man with a distinctively gruff or husky voice that day. He said he would ask his staff. Sadly for Holly, he also told her that there was no CCTV in the pub or trained on the car park. She had already ascertained that there was none covering the roadway either. It was just too remote from the centre of town.
As for the phone, it turned out to be in a short passageway leading to the toilets and, as it happened, close to one of the exits. The caller could have entered from the car-park. If he had made the call and departed swiftly, without entering the bar or restaurant area, no-one need have seen him. Holly took pictures again. She noticed one man sitting alone, concentrating on a newspaper, the debris of a roast beef meal before him, a half-filled glass of red wine within reach. But this was not her man. In a clear voice, he said he was alone because his wife was in hospital, having had breast cancer surgery a few days earlier. His own cooking skills were rudimentary, he added, hence this visit to the pub.
On questioning, none of the bar staff, nor any of the waiters serving tables, remembered a man with a sinister, hoarse or gravelly voice. ‘He might have been faking it’, Holly told herself, ‘When he spoke on the phone.’ Climbing into bed, many hours later, she had the same thought once again. Either way, something macabre about that tone of voice persisted as she replayed the message over in her mind before finally falling asleep: ‘You’re after the wrong people. It’s those golf club murderers you have to go after.’
The 11th
Chapter
Holly awoke the following morning to the muffled distant peal of Sunday’s church bells. Putting on a T-shirt, shorts and socks, she then donned a track-suit and went to look for her trainers. Drinking tea in the kitchen, soon after, she gazed sleepily through the window into the mist for several minutes, then set off for a run.
It was cold as she made her way towards the Shoreham footbridge, but she soon warmed up as, taking the towpath westward along the river, she ran past the long row of beached houseboats, many drab and weather-beaten, but others painted gaily. There was one, in particular, that had been created in fantastical shapes and colours, cleverly assembled from copious junkyard material: the side of a small caravan, the front of a washing machine to make a porthole, a large section of a road-coach complete with front and back wheels; and, deliberately plunged into the mud beside it, great empty shell-casings and other warlike paraphernalia covered in slogans of peace.
Holly smiled at the incongruous scene then hurried on, shedding her top layer, wrapping the track-suit arms round her waist as she did so, crossing the main road when she reached it, heading for the tunnel under the railway that took her through into Shoreham Airport. Sticking close to the perimeter, running on grass beside the metalled road, she emerged minutes later on the north side, turned due east, crossed the picturesque wooden toll-bridge, then north on the towpath again, under the flyover and on beside the river until she reached the derelict cement works, at which point she turned, retracing her steps back past the toll-bridge into Shoreham Town and over the walking bridge home. She had covered just over eight miles, taking a few minutes over the hour, and would have been quicker had she not paused beside a riverside bench at one point to do body-stretches, standing briefly too in wonder at the majestic view of Lancing College’s famous chapel building, rising splendidly out of the mist across the River Adur, its tall perpendicular gothic turrets reflecting back the sun’s golden rays, seagulls circling, riding the air currents, swooping and rising again, a wonderfully uplifting vision.
As intended, the run had emptied Holly’s mind of worldly concerns. Inside her kitchen again, she found herself singing. Having put crumbs out earlier, she could see a blackbird through the window foraging on her tiny back lawn. She found herself singing a barely remembered childhood hymn, popularised later by Cat Stevens: “Morning has broken, like the first morning… Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird!” Unable to bring any more words to mind, she continued humming anyway as she made more tea and toast. ‘La La La-la-la… La La La-la-la’, she sang, on and on. ‘What has got into me?’ she thought, eventually sitting down to eat. ‘I suppose I must be happy.’
Police work was not always conducive to her happiness. Holly tended to be serious in mood much of the time, and was content most days to be more or less emotionally neutral. Maybe her current cheeriness was connected to having an excellent night’s sleep; then she remembered another fleeting erotic dreamlet from the previous night, about a lover’s nocturnal visit. ‘Oh my goodness’, she thought, connecting this pleasant but disturbing reverie instantly once more with Mark. ‘What am I going to do about that man?’
At that same instant, spookily, her phone began bleeping. As if telepathically, the lover in her dreams had sent h
er a message:
‘Golf lesson # 2? I’ll be at the club later… 2.00 pm?’
Irrationally feeling conspired against, Holly hesitated to reply. She decided to have a shower and get ready first.
There was, of course, still police work to be done. It may have been Sunday, with a reduced roster at Greenings and fewer people contactable by telephone but, on a case like this, Holly always felt she had to be doing something, especially at such an early stage when they had so little to go on. She would go to the incident suite, go through all the reports from the day before, then she would check on the group doing outside enquiries, mainly door-to-door calls on residents in the local area. Perhaps she would go to the golf club, if only to check in with the Colonel, but not before late in the afternoon. That, at least, was her plan.
In the event, when she reached it shortly after one o’clock, Greenings was closed. DI Garbutt had sent everyone home for the day, so Holly faced a dilemma. What to do?
After phoning her father and leaving a message to say she would be over to share an evening meal later, Holly decided to make her way back to The Grapes, where she sat for the best part of an hour over a soft drink, a tuna baguette and a packet of crisps, watching and waiting, admittedly with little real hope or expectation, in case her croaky-voiced murder-suspect should return. The man with the newspaper was there again too, seated at the same corner table. ‘I’m making the most of it’, he called across to Holly at one point. ‘My wife’s coming home tomorrow, and I won’t be getting as good a feed as this for a while.’
The Red Chairs Mystery Page 15