Dead on Course

by J M Gregson

  Munro grinned a tight acknowledgement of this tribute to his skills. He seemed of the three the one most aware of the incongruity of this situation, where hunter was to consort for the afternoon with the hunted, while all of them pretended that amusement was all they sought. His reserve set Lambert wondering what if anything he would learn from this bizarre three hours’ traffic on the golf course. He for one would not be forsaking his calling, and he doubted that any of them expected him to do so.

  He would study his three companions with interest. If one of them was a murderer, he would be intensely wary. But that in itself would be noticeable and significant, since presumably the other two would be freer and more natural in their exchanges. That was the sort of consideration that had made him accept Goodman’s invitation in the first place. He told himself that as he sniffed the warm air and swung his driver at the head of a daisy with anticipatory enthusiasm.

  In fact, the afternoon proceeded more freely than any of them had a right to expect. For the first two holes, their exchanges seemed edgy and artificial. Then the rhythms and challenges of the game began to blunt the edges of embarrassment, and the four of them behaved on the surface at least much as they might have done in a friendly game set in a more normal framework. Lambert was reminded of the occasions when the police video-recorded soccer crowds or city processions. For a few moments, people were intensely self-conscious. Then, surprisingly quickly, they forgot the presence of the cameras and became absorbed in their immediate concerns, even when these were sometimes highly questionable.

  Golf and its handicap system demanded their concentration. Munro was easily the best player, but Goodman at his own level was almost as steady. Receiving several shots from the taciturn and skilful Scot, he was content to play within his limitations and await his opportunities. Lambert and Nash had games which kind commentators might have described as mercurial and more realistic ones as erratic.

  Each was likely to disappear from a hole completely, leaving his partner to salvage what he might, but each was capable of the occasional surprising success.

  Lambert, who described himself as a ‘rather optimistic’ nine handicap, was enjoying one of his better days. The slice which was his natural shot was under control for most of the time, and he took the third hole with a long putt for an unlikely birdie. The May sun seemed suddenly even brighter, the sky an incredible, Mediterranean blue, the air alpine in its freshness. The murder room was out of sight, the investigation for a moment out of mind.

  It could not last, of course. He caught Sandy Munro studying him surreptitiously while Goodman prepared to drive from the next tee, and was instantly back among the questions which remained to be answered about these three. Munro and his wife must surely have compared notes, in which case they must by now be aware of the discrepancy in their stories about the night of the murder. Munro had said that he had found Alison in bed when he had returned from his midnight walk; she had said that he was in bed and asleep when she had returned.

  Munro flighted a two-iron to the edge of the next green as Lambert watched enviously. He could not know yet that he had left fibres from his sweater on the clothing of the murder victim. He was wearing that very sweater now: Lambert made a mental note that they must obtain it as police evidence before much longer. The Scot was a remarkably cool customer, guilty or innocent. No one else got anywhere near that green, into the wind; Munro rolled his long putt to within three inches of his target and took the hole with a minimum of fuss.

  For a murderer, the ability to behave coolly under pressure and assess the odds with accuracy in any situation would be valuable attributes. For a moment, Lambert toyed with the attractive and romantic notion of games as delineators of character. Then experience drove him back to reality. He had seen too many chivalrous games-players who battered their wives to place any reliance on such parallels.

  Nor could he deduce anything useful from the play and bearing of the other two participants in this Kafkaesque exercise. Tony Nash seemed unguarded enough in his responses, preoccupied with the problems of his own game. By his own admission, he was the last man known to have been with Harrington, after the others had gone their separate ways at the end of that fateful evening, and he had quarrelled with him with startling if transitory violence during the meal. Yet his cheerful string of oaths when he despatched a ball into the river seemed totally unforced, a perfectly natural reaction for a violent man under stress.

  Lambert noted his assumption of a natural violence in this broad-shouldered, powerful man. And how much did Nash know of the background of Meg Peters and her previous relationship with the dead man? How much, for that matter, had she held back about herself and what Harrington knew of her? He was sure she had not told them everything. Yet Nash, concentrating grimly over his iron shot to a par three hole, seemed totally absorbed in the challenges of this infuriating game. But he would not be the first murderer who had successfully compartmentalised the different areas of his life.

  And what was the Superintendent in charge of the case to make of George Goodman, the only one of his three companions he had not yet interviewed? At that moment, Lambert would have liked an opinion on that question from someone else. Bert Hook’s solid presence and sturdy dismissal of human pretensions would have reassured him, even if the Sergeant had been able to be no more definitive than he felt himself about the part in this business of the oldest of the suspects.

  Goodman, leaning on his club at the edge of the green and regarding Nash’s contortions over a six-foot putt with benign amusement, seemed perfectly relaxed. After nine holes, he produced a hip-flask and offered it around the four. Sandy Munro, still watching Lambert rather nervously after completing the first half of the course in only one over par, was the only one who refused the whisky, explaining tersely that spirits did not agree with him.

  Goodman accepted the refusal with a wide smile and a relaxed shrug, as though acknowledging the eccentricities of his flock with good grace. He examined his golf ball meticulously as they prepared to address the second half of the course, holding it in his surprisingly delicate and immaculately manicured hands. Lambert was reminded ridiculously of a priest with the communion host; he wished Goodman’s bent head did not carry such an obviously ecclesiastical hairstyle.

  Goodman, the man who had invited Lambert to join the party and thus set up this strange exercise, now presided over it with genial relish, keeping his own game running smoothly while quick to praise excellence in others. He seemed totally calm, totally in control, at peace with himself and the world around him. Lambert looked forward increasingly to interviewing him.

  It was Goodman, inevitably, who finished the match on the seventeenth, taking advantage of the final stroke he received to win it for Lambert and himself, despite Munro’s immaculate four. The Superintendent, excusing himself from the ritual of post-match drinks at the nineteenth on the grounds of pressure of work, found himself two pounds better off for his afternoon’s efforts.

  It was collected from the opposition by Goodman and delivered to his partner as if he were distributing Maundy Money. He was saved from pomposity only by the ineffable impression he created that he was in some way guying himself in all his actions. Perhaps, after all, his whole bearing was an elaborate act, a facade behind which the more ruthless George Goodman operated in watchful safety.

  The four of them stood awkwardly for a moment on the path behind the last green, wondering how to take leave of each other and return to the real and more terrible world of murder and retribution. It was Nash who looked back towards the hollow where the corpse had been found and said conventionally, ‘It seems incredible on an afternoon like this that someone we know could have lured Guy Harrington out there and battered him to death.’

  Lambert studied him carefully for a moment, assessing whether the dead man’s employee was testing the extent of police knowledge of the crime. Then he said quietly, ‘But he wasn’t, you know.’ Three faces turned towards him in surprise: whether it w
as simulated or real he strove to determine. Munro at least knew that the police were aware that the corpse had been moved: Lambert had indicated that to him in their interview. He was a taciturn man, but he would surely have discussed this with the others; unless he had some reason of his own to leave them in the dark.

  Lambert pointed out with the air of a man seeking confirmation, ‘You and George found him out there, Tony, so you may have deduced something from the lie of the body.’ He found himself still using the forenames of the golf course with his companions, perhaps for the last time. How strange were the intricacies of English etiquette! ‘In fact, Harrington was trundled out there on a wheelbarrow and dumped without ceremony.’

  ‘But why, Superintendent?’ It was George Goodman, with a characteristic sense of decorum, who returned them to the world of criminal investigation by his use of the title.

  Lambert chose to prolong the moments in which he could study their reactions by a detailed exposition. ‘Perhaps merely to delay the discovery of the crime: any delay tends to spread the network of suspicion more widely. Perhaps in an attempt—in this case largely unsuccessful—to divert suspicion away from the immediate group who had spent the evening with the dead man. Perhaps because whoever moved it thought the original position of the body pointed to a particular person as murderer.’

  He paused between each of the three possibilities, pretending to improvise as he spoke, seeking all the time to increase the tension and study the reactions of his companions.

  They were interesting. Nash stared at him wide-eyed, possibly overdoing his shock, but perhaps genuinely surprised by a development he had not anticipated. Goodman listened carefully and nodded slowly as he accepted the logic of the Superintendent’s arguments, as if he found the matter of absorbing but detached interest: for an instant, Lambert was reminded of the pathologist Cyril Burgess and his enthusiasm for the processes of detection.

  But there was no doubt of the most intriguing reaction among the three. Lambert had told Munro that the police knew where Harrington had fallen to his death, but he had not indicated until now that they knew just how the body had been transferred to the course. And he had still not revealed that he was privately certain that it was Munro who had performed that macabre transfer of the corpse at dead of night. But the reaction of the Scotsman to his revelation about the wheelbarrow was the most interesting of all.

  Perhaps Sandy Munro was not as practised in dissimulation as his companions. Or perhaps his emotions on hearing the extent of police knowledge were simply more powerful than theirs. Through the three hours of golf his sharp face had generally maintained a dour impenetrability.

  Now for a moment he lost control, and it was animated by fear and dread.

  16

  Within twenty minutes of the end of their golfing partnership, Lambert was interviewing George Goodman. The golf might have been in another life, so quickly was it erased from their consideration.

  Goodman seemed anxious to help the transition, as if he recognised as always the demands of decorum. He came to his appointment still in casual clothes, emphasising that for him questioning was nothing more than an interruption of his holiday activities, which was necessary, but should be accomplished with the minimum of disturbance.

  He had changed his sweater: the V-neck olive green woollen he now wore was complemented by a cream shirt and a dark green silk tie, as if he sought a middle road between the formality which would acknowledge the serious procedures of detection and the casual dress which would indicate how unstressed this business was for him. He had washed of course in the short interval since Lambert had left him; his countenance had been polished to a becoming light pink. He looked almost cherubic in the soft sunlight of the late afternoon.

  He settled himself comfortably into the armchair opposite Lambert and said, ‘Fascinating to be on the other side of the fence for once, Superintendent. I am watching the efforts of your team with interest. Not many magistrates get the chance to see a murder investigation at first hand. I suppose that’s just as well!’

  If it was meant as a reminder of his JP status, it was lightly done: his interest and enthusiasm seemed quite genuine. Despite the protective shell of middle-class courtesy he had grown around himself, Lambert rather liked the man. Or what he knew of the man: so far Goodman had preserved his privacy from the intrusions of the murder team better than any of the others in his group. Now he said, like a prosperous solicitor attending to a new client, ‘What can I do for you, Mr Lambert?’

  Bert Hook was less tolerant of Goodman’s easy-going panache than his chief. He flicked his notebook ostentatiously to a new page and said firmly, ‘You can start by telling us about the discovery of the body.’

  ‘Of course. Well, I rose earlier than is my wont and—’

  ‘Was there a particular reason for that?’

  Goodman smiled, resolutely refusing to be ruffled, treating Hook as if he were a young officer new to CID work and anxious to make an impression, rather than the grizzled veteran he strove to present. ‘Only that I hadn’t slept very well, Sergeant. No doubt you will wish to know the reason for that too. Well, I never sleep as soundly away from home as I do in my own bed these days. No doubt that is one of the less disturbing side-effects of advancing years. And perhaps we had all eaten not wisely but too well on the previous evening.’

  ‘And drunk quite a lot as well, we have gathered.’ Goodman’s determined calm seemed to be making Hook uncharacteristically aggressive: Lambert had time to wonder if that was the effect the man had intended, so that his own calm might be the more impressive.

  ‘Indeed, as you say, a good deal of wine and the best part of a bottle of brandy had been consumed.’ It was the most accurate summary they had been offered: for all his relaxed magnanimity, Goodman had been recording the events of the evening shrewdly. ‘I hadn’t drunk very much myself, but then I find even a modest amount of alcohol seems to keep me awake nowadays. So your inference may well be correct, Sergeant. Perhaps it was the dehydrating effects of the brandy that prevented me from sleeping very much. At any event, I was awake with the dawn chorus, and I don’t think I managed anything more than a few minutes’ doze after that.’

  ‘So what time did you get up?’ Hook was anxious to record the first fact on his still unsullied page.

  ‘It must have been about six. When I finally accepted that I wasn’t going to get any more sleep.’

  ‘And you met Mr Nash at what time?’ Hook, happy to see the first figures appearing in his slow, round hand, prepared for a second entry.

  Goodman pressed his fingers together and pointed them towards the ceiling. He studied them, appeared to find their symmetry satisfactory, and said, ‘It must have been about twenty or twenty-five past six. I’d shaved and made a cup of tea in my room before I caught sight of Tony through the window and stepped forth. It was such a beautiful morning that it tempted me.’

  ‘Had you arranged to meet Mr Nash at that time?’

  ‘Oh no.’ For the first time, Goodman’s reply was hurried, as if he were anxious to remove any notion of collusion between himself and Tony Nash. His reaction set Lambert thinking. None of the party could have been in bed much before one; Harrington had probably been murdered sometime in the hour after that. To find two of them meeting just after six the next morning was a little curious, in the circumstances, especially as Goodman now seemed anxious to establish that the meeting was a chance one. Adapting Wilde, he thought that one person unable to sleep and thus abroad at such a time might be curious, but two suggested collusion.

  As if he had caught the thought, Bert Hook said, ‘Mr Nash was merely unable to sleep, like you?’ He managed to imply in his tone that he didn’t believe a word of this.

  Goodman was discomposed for the first time. He said, ‘There was no rendezvous arranged between us, if that’s what you mean. Has anyone suggested there was?’

  Hook was too old a campaigner to answer that. When a subject as imperturbable as George Goodma
n was on the run, you kept him moving. Bert said, ‘And after this random meeting, you decided to play golf at that time in the morning?’ This time Bert’s scepticism was genuine enough: he still could not comprehend why anyone would waste his time on such a ridiculous game when there was serious stuff like cricket to be undertaken. And golf before breakfast at that; it was all highly suspicious.

  Goodman, understanding none of the Sergeant’s sturdy prejudices, looked suitably puzzled for a moment. ‘Yes. I think I suggested it, as a matter of fact. It was a beautiful morning, and the course was completely deserted at that hour.’

  He looked automatically to Lambert, no doubt believing that a fellow-golfer would immediately understand. The Superintendent’s smile was as much at Hook’s sporting bigotry as in acknowledgement of Goodman’s mute appeal, but he said, ‘An empty course on such a morning would have been an irresistible invitation to me too, George.’ With the return to golf, he had dropped automatically back to a first-name address; he caught Hook’s stern disapproval. ‘Was Tony Nash as keen as you on the idea? He doesn’t really strike me as an enthusiast for early morning exercise.’

  Goodman smiled: ‘No, I agree. But on this occasion he seemed only too anxious for activity.’ He thought back: what he had scarcely remarked at the time might now seem significant. ‘He looked as if he’d had even less sleep than I had. There were bags under his eyes and his hair was all over the place. And his clothing was all dishevelled, as if it had been thrown on in a hurry. I remember that I got him to tuck his shirt in before we started.’ He stopped, as if aware that what had seemed amusing at the time might now be more sinister in the eyes of others.

  ‘Would you say that Tony Nash is normally careless about his dress?’