by Andrew Garve
‘A drive. A drive hooked off the eighth tee. It seems it struck your father full pitch on the back of the head and—Luckily Dr. Roach was in the club-house. He went straight out and—’
‘How bad?’ Harry said, forcing himself to keep his voice level. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Well, Dr. Roach was with him when I came back to phone for the ambulance but I’m afraid – his head hit a stone in the brook.’
‘Jump in,’ Harry said suddenly. ‘I’m going to follow that ambulance.’
The secretary scrambled into the passenger seat. Harry set off along the grass track, not caring if his suspension took a hammering from the uneven ground. The ambulance had already disappeared, swaying ominously, into the hilly section of the course – referred to feelingly by the members as The Himalayas. Neither he nor the secretary spoke another word till they came over the top of a rise and found the sixth green in a little hollow below them.
The sixth hole was a very tricky Par 3. The green was hidden from the tee so the drive of some 190 yards was a blind one. And the length had to be just right, for a set of bunkers were waiting to trap a ball which fell short and a drive hit too strongly would finish up in the deep burn just beyond the green.
It was from this steep-sided burn that the two ambulance men were lifting a body. They laid it on the mown grass edging the green and moved to fetch the stretcher from the ambulance.
Dr. Roach was squatting at the top of the bank, packing his instruments into the suitcase which every doctor keeps in the back of his car. He glanced up as Harry slammed the door of the Austin and walked quickly over. Harry had played the doctor in the early rounds of a club tournament, and he could not help liking the small, greying and slightly fussy G.P.
‘How bad is he, Doctor Roach?’
Dr. Roach straightened up with something of an effort and looked compassionately at Harry.
‘I’m deeply sorry, Mr. Dawson, but your father’s dead. He must have been killed by the fall.’
Harry had been in the presence of sudden, violent death before and had learned not to be unduly affected by it. But when he looked down at the still form with its blood-soaked head and twisted grimace he had to make a violent effort to control himself.
‘Killed?’ he repeated incredulously.
‘It was probably instantaneous. The blow from the golf ball stunned him and he fell down this steep bank into the stream. There’s so little water in it now that the stones are all exposed. He cracked his head on one of the large boulders. I don’t suppose he knew a thing about what happened—’
Harry stood back to let the ambulance men place his father on the pull-out stretcher they had brought from the ambulance. His gaze never left the scarred face till the attendant pulled up the blanket, hiding it for ever from his sight.
Only then did Detective Inspector Harry Dawson lift his eyes to record the scene around him.
The sun had broken through the morning clouds and the course was looking particularly beautiful. Yellow flowers speckled the dreaded gorse bushes to the left of the green. His father’s golf-bag lay on the grass at the edge of the green. Three or four of the new Dunlop 65s had spilled from the pocket. Standing in a ring but keeping at a respectful distance were a couple of groundsmen and half a dozen players who had been drawn to the spot by the unusual sight of an ambulance swaying across the eighth fairway. A little apart, talking to the secretary in whispers, was a young man of about thirty. He had a small selection of clubs in a light bag over his shoulder and was emphatically dressed for golf, so much so that he might have posed as a model for some fashionable brand of sportswear. And he had the rather exaggerated good looks to carry it off.
At the moment, however, he was nervous and distressed. He moved tentatively towards Harry and spoke in a quiet, low voice.
‘Mr. Dawson, I want you to know how – dear God, I wouldn’t have had this happen for—’
His voice tailed off. Harry did not stop watching the blanketed form being carefully loaded into the ambulance.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Peter Newton. I was out practising. I drove a ball off the eighth tee up there and sliced it badly—’
‘The eighth tee?’
‘Yes. I’ve been trying to cure this slice—’
Once again Harry cut through the man’s hesitant excuses. He spun round towards the secretary.
‘Have you notified the police?’
‘The police?’ the secretary echoed and his mouth remained open.
‘Naturally,’ Harry said, and then, as he saw the Commander hesitating, he suddenly exploded. ‘Damn it, a man has been killed here!’
‘Of course.’ Commander Whitby nodded and finally got his mouth closed. He turned away and hurried off in the direction of the club-house.
Harry now for the first time directed the cold stare of his blue eyes at Peter Newton.
‘Where’s his friend?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The person he was playing with. Where is he?’
The clubs rattled in Peter Newton’s bag as he turned to look round him helplessly.
‘As far as I know he – your father was alone.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Well, I certainly did not see anyone. The moment I saw I’d sliced my drive towards him I yelled out “fore”. But he can’t have heard me. When I saw I’d hit him, you can imagine. I dashed across. He’d fallen down the bank, was lying down there, right in the bed of the stream. His head was—’
‘And no one with him?’
Peter Newton shook his head. ‘No one when I got here. Mr. Dawson, this is the most terrible thing that’s ever happened to me. I mean, as I was just trying to explain—’
Harry turned away from the pleading face. ‘Save it, Mr. Newton. Save your explanations for the police officer in charge of the investigation.’
Ten yards away the ambulance doors were slammed shut, providing an emphatic punctuation mark to Harry’s terse statement.
‘An accident,’ Harry said. ‘He kept calling it an accident. Damn fool of a Divisional Inspector. How can he know at this stage? I tried, Nat, I tried to tell him. But—’
‘But he told you to mind your own business.’
‘More or less, yes. As you know I’m on annual leave just now – persona non grata and all that. Would you be a mate and get on to him for me?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Nat’s voice faded in the telephone receiver as he turned away, probably reaching for a memo pad. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Carter. And if he’s still saying there’s no suspicion of foul play. I suggest you—’
‘Leave it with me, Harry,’ Nat cut in reassuringly. Harry realised that his personal involvement in this thing was impelling him to talk rather emotionally. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can.’
‘Thanks, Nat.’
Harry replaced the receiver and leaned back with a sigh of relief. He was seated at his father’s desk, which was still littered with eloquent reminders of the man who had been using it only a few hours before and now lay in the police mortuary. Nat Fletcher was a colleague of Harry’s and a good friend. It was better to leave him to tackle the officious and self-important Carter.
Douglas Croft had come up the spiral staircase and entered the room just as the telephone conversation had begun. Harry had signalled him to stay and listen to what he was saying. Now he turned to Douglas, who was hovering just inside the door, an expression of bewilderment on his sun-tanned face.
‘Harry, do you – do you think there’s suspicion of foul play?’
Harry did not answer for a moment. He was studying his father’s engagement diary, which lay open on the desk. ‘Suspicion? Yes. Yes, I do, Douglas.’
He stood up and crossed the room to a corner cabinet where the drinks and glasses were kept. He found the whisky bottle, poured a measure and added the same amount from the bottle of Malvern water.
‘A man dies of severe head inju
ries,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘He was supposed to be playing golf with some person unknown. That person has not yet been traced. Blood was found on a large stone beside the brook.’
Harry made a gesture towards the drinks cupboard and Douglas shook his head, refusing the unspoken invitation. He was too intent on Harry’s words to be diverted by anything else.
Harry walked into the middle of the room, staring into the glass of whisky as if it were a crystal-gazer’s bowl.
‘And a man comes forward, Douglas— A man comes forward claiming to have sliced a practice-drive from a tee two hundred and twenty yards away.’
‘A pretty long way to hit a slice,’ Douglas murmured.
‘A drive,’ Harry continued slowly, ‘which stunned my father, causing him to fall into the stream—’
‘Your father?’
Both men turned in surprise. Mrs. Rogers, dressed for the street and still holding the basket of goods she had bought in the supermarket, was standing in the doorway leading through from the kitchen.
Her face had gone very pale. She seemed to have sensed that something terrible was about to be revealed to her. ‘Has something happened to Mr. Dawson?’
‘Come and sit down, Mrs. Rogers.’ Harry hurried across to relieve her of the basket before she dropped it on the floor. ‘Over here on this chair. I’m afraid it’s all very sudden and tragic.’
‘He— Is he— ?’ Mrs. Rogers surrendered the basket but made no move towards the chair.
‘My father died this morning, Mrs. Rogers. He was killed out on the golf course.’
‘K-killed?’ The word half stuck in the housekeeper’s throat.
Douglas Croft interposed, hoping to lessen the shock. ‘It could have been an accident, Mrs. Rogers.’
Harry turned on him angrily. ‘He was deliberately killed!’
The eyes of Douglas, directed over his shoulder, widened in alarm. Harry spun round and saw Mrs. Rogers sway. He reached her just in time to take her weight before she crumpled to the floor.
‘Quick, Douglas, get those things off the settee.’
While Harry supported the very considerable weight of Mrs. Rogers’ inert and sagging form, Douglas gathered up the books and magazines that littered the settee. Harry dragged her over and placed her on the cushions so that her legs were above the level of her head.
‘Shall I fetch some water?’ Douglas suggested.
‘Hm?’ Harry was staring in surprise at the limp face with its closed eyes. ‘Oh, yes.’ Then he added, more to himself: ‘I’d hardly have thought she—’
By the time Douglas returned from the kitchen with the glass of water Mrs. Rogers’ eyelids had begun to flutter. Harry supported her head so that she could drink.
‘Here, Mrs. Rogers. Have a sip of this and then we’ll get the kettle on for a cup of tea.’
Mrs. Rogers ignored the words and the glass of water. Her eyes were wide open now, staring past Harry, past the wall of the room. She was in a state of shock.
She ran her tongue over her lips and whispered just one word.
‘Dead.’
Harry despairingly surveyed the chaos on the breakfast table and the utter confusion which he had succeeded in creating in the kitchen. His watch told him that it was half-past nine. He would not have believed that it could take him so long to prepare and eat his breakfast, even with the whisky which he had polished off the night before befuddling his brain.
When the private door-bell rang he wondered whether to ignore it. He was still in his pyjamas and dressing-gown and had not shaved. It was in any case probably another of those infernal reporters. But the ring of the bell was followed by a sharp ratatat on the knocker which somehow gave an impression of authority. Pushing his fingers through his hair Harry went out into the hall and down the flight of stairs to the private entrance at the side of the shop.
On the threshold stood a rugged man in his early forties. His hair was neatly clipped, his eyes alert and restless. He wore a short blue raincoat and his hands hung at his sides as if ready to make some sudden movement of defence or attack.
‘Nat!’ Harry exclaimed with pleasure. ‘Come on in.’
Nat nodded amicably and began to follow Harry up the stairs.
‘How are you feeling this morning, old chap?’
‘Somewhat numbed still, thoroughly hung over, pestered half out of my mind by the ruddy newspaper reporters.’
Harry stood back to let his guest enter the sitting-room first. ‘Come on through.’
‘Look.’ Nat Fletcher’s voice was gruff. ‘I know I said this yesterday on the phone, but I really am most deeply sorry about your father.’
‘Yes. Sure. Thanks, Nat.’ Harry waved his hand helplessly at the mess on the breakfast table and the general disorder in the room. Nat’s sharp eyes had already summed up the situation and he had not missed the envelope propped prominently on the mantelpiece.
‘Sorry about the mess. Mrs. Rogers, the housekeeper – she suddenly upped and left me. Left a note of apology saying her beloved nephew Hubert has ’flu, of all things.’
‘Considerate of her – under the circumstances.’
‘Frankly, what with the fuss she made about my father’s death, I’m not all that sorry to have her out of the place. Went all to pieces over it, she did. It was bad enough when she lost her dog. But this—’
Nat cleared his throat. ‘Sometimes, Harry, it can be the best thing to give vent to your feelings.’
It was the older man speaking to the younger. ‘Sure,’ Harry’s voice showed a hint of resentment. ‘And maybe some of us have different ways of showing it. So what news from that nit-wit Inspector Carter? He still talking about accidents?’
Nat had unbuttoned his raincoat but did not take it off. He surveyed Harry’s face appraisingly, noting the signs of stress and fatigue. Although these two were good friends that did not prevent them from often disagreeing.
‘Now, Harry, if you’re going to be difficult over this—’
‘Difficult!’ Harry exploded. ‘He was my father, and you expect me to sit back and—’
‘And leave it to the professionals, right.’
‘You have seen Carter?’
‘Of course I’ve seen him. And he’s neither a nit-wit nor is he the type to miss out on things.’
‘What’s he make of Newton’s story? Does he believe it?’
‘Look.’ Nat spoke briskly, as if to an unreasonable child. ‘Newton had never met your father. They were complete strangers to each other. The man was out practising. He sliced an unlucky drive. Damn it, the best golfer in the world couldn’t be sure of hitting a man over two hundred yards away.’
‘If it did happen that way.’
Nat frowned but Harry continued doggedly. ‘Did they find the ball yet? Forensics would be able to tell if it really hit him as Newton says. And what about the stone he’s supposed to have fallen on?’
‘What about it?’
‘Have you seen the post-mortem report yet? Surely the pathologist can tell—’
‘Of course he can. And when he and the lab, boys have all finished their tests, that’ll be the time to start questioning the validity of Newton’s statement. Then and not before.’
‘All right, all right.’ Harry yanked on the ends of his dressing-gown belt, knotting it more tightly. ‘So what about this person my father was going to play with? The person he said he was going to introduce me to at the club-house afterwards. What about him?’
Nat was already buttoning his raincoat up again. ‘Carter’s making enquiries, of course. But so far, Harry, no one’s been found to corroborate that theory.’
‘Theory?’
‘In fact,’ Nat continued in his quiet, emphatic voice, ‘the club professional says he’s pretty certain he saw your father going out on to the course alone.’
Before Harry could find a suitable comment to this statement, the telephone started to ring.
‘If that’s another newspaper—’
Nat
was already moving towards the door, grateful for the excuse to break off this gritty conversation.
‘Look. I’ve got to get on. I’ll let you know the moment there’s any developments. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Harry agreed morosely.
He waited till the door had closed on Nat, kicking himself inwardly for being so brittle. He could not afford to antagonise a good friend like Nat.
The caller was persistent. Harry resigned himself to answering the steady summons of the telephone.
A few miles away in a luxurious residence within a stone’s throw of Hampstead Heath a woman was listening to the ringing tone in the earpiece of her mock-antique telephone. She was determined to ring for two full minutes before giving up.
She was, statistically speaking, in her early fifties, but she had preserved her excellent figure by declining to have children and her facial features by frequent treatments at beauty parlours.
Her surroundings provided a suitable setting. The drawing-room offered a marked contrast with the Dawson sitting-room. It was at the same time opulent and comfortable. Each item showed the influence of a woman with enough money to indulge her expensive taste.
While she waited she gazed at her reflection in the mirror behind the telephone. Sybil Conway liked to watch herself while she conversed with the unseen person at the other end of the line.
‘Hallo.’
She glanced down at the pad on the telephone table. ‘Is that 586 2679?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Conway. Mrs. Conway. There’s an advertisement in our local paper about a poodle—’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Is the dog yours, Mr. – ah?’
‘Dawson. No, it’s my housekeeper’s, but I am responsible for the advertisement. Have you found the poodle, Mrs. Conway?’
‘Yes.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘At least I think so.’
She liked the sound of his voice: It had a kind of masculine harshness about it. She smiled at herself in the mirror. She knew from experience that this device made her own voice more alluring.
‘It looks like the one in the paper – only a little dishevelled, I’m afraid. Actually my husband found it last night in the garden.’