by Ian Simpson
‘When you went out later were you aware of anyone else about?’
‘Someone coughed and we spoke more quietly, but I didn’t see or hear anyone else.’
This information put the housekeeper’s evidence about hearing voices in context, and it left Saddlefell angry and alone, smoking a cigar in a place where he might have seen or heard Parsley and Eglinton making their way to the first green. He had lied initially about his rendezvous with Knarston-Smith, but once he knew the police realised he was lying, why had he not put forward some explanation? The answer, Flick supposed, was that he did not want to be caught out in another lie, but if he was innocent of the murder, and he knew the police were aware of the money laundering, why should he lie at all?
Flick had been gazing out of the window as she thought. Now she turned to Knarston-Smith. ‘Thank you, Mr Knarston-Smith. Please stay in the hotel today. We may have more questions for you.’ It was time to seek ex-Inspector No.
* * *
In some ways Osborne felt worse when he woke up, daylight exposing the horrors of the previous day and night. Moving gingerly, he went for a shower and let darts of hot water cascade over his head and shoulders. He took time to towel himself then attempted to tidy the worst of the mess. He collected the empties from the mini-bar in a bucket and wrapped some of the bedding to conceal the vomit. He ran the electric razor over his face and put on relatively clean clothes. He still felt dreadful, and a glance in the mirror told him he looked it. Most depressing of all was that the craving was back. If he hadn’t emptied the mini-bar already he would have done so then and there. He decided that fresh air would help. He slunk unobtrusively out of the hotel by the Pro’s Shop door, with an effort of will passed the Jigger’s door and turned left, walking along the road beside the seventeenth and away from the town. The cold sharpening his senses, he sat on the low wall bordering the road and breathed deeply, then smoked two cigarettes, one after the other. Looking behind him at the hotel, he wondered what was the point of the small pond between it and the wall. ‘Bloody stupid,’ he muttered then decided he needed to warm up, so went back to the hotel.
He found a corner of the dimly lit library, sat down and ordered coffee. He took it black and strong and was refilling his cup from the pot when Inspector Fortune entered the room and sat down opposite him.
‘Good morning, Felicity!’ he said with a bullishness he did not feel.
She looked at her watch. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Osborne.’
He did not respond. Neither wanted to speak first.
Flick broke the silence with a line she had rehearsed. ‘You made a fool of yourself yesterday. You’re lucky you weren’t arrested.’
‘Bollocks, Felicity. Anyway, my drink was spiked. Probably by the person you haven’t caught yet. How is your inquiry going? Your first murder, is it?’
‘We’re making progress. But what are you doing here?’
‘Earning an honest crust, Felicity, to add to my tiny pension.’
‘Do you have information about the murders? It is your duty to help us if you can.’
Osborne grinned at her, all the time trying to work out if Baggo had told her about Forbes’s scheme to plant the money clip on Saddlefell. ‘But I’ve retired. I’m not paid to do your job.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Mr Osborne.’ Flick glared at him and leaned across the table, catching a whiff of stale alcohol. ‘Tell me what you know now. If I find out you’ve been obstructing or hindering this investigation I’ll have no hesitation in charging you. I’ve become quite an expert on the Police (Scotland) Act.’
‘Ooh, that makes me quake. Ask me specific questions and I’ll answer them.’
‘Right. Why are you here at all?’
‘The board asked me to investigate the death of Sir Paul Monmouth to see if there were suspicious circumstances. When Mr Parsley was murdered I was asked by Lord Saddlefell to come here immediately.’
‘Have your inquiries got anywhere?’
‘No. I was about to start interviewing when Thornton was killed and with your activities it has not been possible for me to do much.’
And your drunkenness Flick thought, but decided to keep quiet as he appeared to be cooperating. ‘Did a chambermaid tell you about a money clip probably owned by Mr Parsley which she had seen in Lord Saddlefell’s possession?’
Baggo hasn’t told her, he thought. ‘Yes.’
‘What did she look like?’
His confidence soared. ‘Oh, pretty, a brunette. Nice pair up front, a lovely pert arse, very slapable but not as nice as yours.’
Flick felt the colour rise in her neck and face. ‘Have you seen her since?’
‘No, don’t believe I have. Can’t give you her name, either.’
‘You can do better than that.’
‘How dare you say I could do better when your investigation is obviously getting nowhere fast? When I had my first murder I didn’t have all the technology and fucking stupid gadgets you rely on. I had my personal radio, we had a forensic lab and a fingerprint lab and that was it. Apart from our common sense. My first murder victim was dismembered, fucking limb from limb, with grass stuffed in his mouth and his tongue cut out. Our suspects were vicious gangsters who wouldn’t hesitate to kill, not bloody millionaire bankers who hate getting their hands dirty. But we persuaded people that it was better to have the police on their side, we got them to talk, and three guys went down for murder. Proper police work is done with people and common sense, not fucking gizmos and human rights. Now go away and write up this interview in fucking triplicate then use your brain.’
Flick tried to hide her fury. ‘Well where is the money clip now?’ she asked.
‘If Saddlefell has any sense he’ll have got rid of it.’ An idea came to him. ‘In fact, my guess is he’ll have chucked it out of his window into that little pond outside the hotel. Watch out, mind, because they’ve stocked it with piranhas.’
Flick got up without a word and left. The encounter with No had not gone well. He smiled, scratched his crotch and slurped his coffee, not minding that it had gone cold.
* * *
Flick sat at the table in the police room, seething. Failure was one thing but to be mocked by No when before their encounter she thought she held the best cards was unbearable. She could not wait to be rid of this dreadful inquiry which was going from bad to worse. Wallace came into the room and sat opposite her.
‘Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll get to the bottom of this. They say the darkest hour is just before dawn. Did you learn anything from Mr Osborne?’
‘No, except that leopards don’t change their spots. He had some ridiculous theory that Saddlefell threw the money clip out of his window into the little pond between the hotel and the golf course.’
‘Is it so ridiculous? If we drained the pond and looked for it, people would see us doing something. And it’s possible we might strike gold.’
Flick shook her head but thought for a moment. If Jamieson heard that she had ignored a suggestion from Osborne, whom he clearly rated, her stock with him would drop further, and she wanted to be able to say that she had done everything possible during her time in charge of the inquiry.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s do it.’
‘There is one other thing, ma’am. The manager of the hotel would like to have a word with you. He’s concerned about our apparent lack of progress and the hotel is getting the wrong sort of publicity at the moment.’
Flick sighed. She picked up the phone and arranged to go straight through to the manager’s office. This time she asked Wallace to come with her.
The manager, Leonard Taylor, was in his early forties. Fit-looking, with blond, receding hair cut very short, he wore a charcoal grey business suit and a green tie. He rose to shake Flick’s hand, a polite smile on his face. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Inspector,’ he said.
After showing his visitors to comfortable chairs and ordering coffee he sat in an armchair and explained his concerns.
‘Frankly, this is not good for business. We offer five star luxury, excellent food, a spa and golf. We want our guests to feel safe and secure, and I am aware of a number who have become very anxious, particularly after the second murder here in one of our rooms. Obviously your investigation takes priority, but the police presence is intrusive and our guests are finding it hard to relax. May I ask how you see things going from here?’ The smile was disarming and the tone was reasonable but Flick knew that a representation to her superiors was not far away.
‘We are very grateful for the help you have already given us and we are making progress,’ she said. ‘Our interviews with staff and guests not involved with the bank are nearly complete. We will be able to give you a better idea tomorrow, but before we scale down the police presence in the hotel there is one thing you could help us with.’
‘What is it?’
‘We need to drain the small pond between the hotel and the golf course. We have reason to think the murderer may have thrown something quite small into it.’
Taylor looked surprised but unruffled. ‘Certainly. We drain it regularly. We might do it now if you like. It’s best done on a Sunday as there’s no play on the Old and you won’t be bombed by sliced drives from the seventeenth tee. Shall I set that up now?’
‘Yes, please,’ Flick said.
‘I’ll phone the duty engineer. But before we start we’ll have to make arrangements for Jack and Tiger.’
‘Jack and Tiger?’ Flick asked. Were there really piranhas in that innocuous looking little pond?
Taylor grinned. ‘Yes. The resident goldfish. It’s a pretty high-tech operation but first we use an old-fashioned net to put the two fish in a tank until their fresh water is ready.’
Flick managed a smile, finished her coffee, thanked Taylor and left.
‘Let me know when they’re ready to start draining,’ she told Wallace.
* * *
The first thing Baggo noticed was that the car in which he had arrived at Haleybourne was in a completely different league from those in the car park, an assortment of mid-range Fords, Mazdas and Skodas, some of them a few years old. The clubhouse had been a grand, rambling house in its day, but the ivy strangling its red brick walls failed to hide crumbling pointing and some loose bricks. The paintwork on the front door and round the windows was peeling and the tall chimneys had a precarious look. A bald man, in what looked like gardening clothes, emerged from a side door and pulled his caddy-car across the car park to the first tee where an older man was swishing his club impatiently.
Baggo identified the pro’s shop, a wooden building beside the first tee whose window offered ten per cent off all purchases of new equipment. ERNEST MILDENHALL PROFESSIONAL was written in crisp red letters above. Baggo noted that the building appeared better maintained than the clubhouse. It was clean with shiny white gloss paint on the window frame and door jamb. Feeling self-conscious wearing a leather jacket with his computer case slung over his shoulder, he pushed the door open and went in.
An assortment of golf clothes and equipment was attractively displayed. Behind the counter stood a man who could have been a sprightly seventy-five or a prematurely grey forty-something. He had a strong, well-tanned face and stooped slightly. His air of authority marked him out as Ernest Mildenhall. Beside the till was a pile of books entitled Mr Chips. The cover showed a dark-haired Mildenhall executing a short pitch. In a corner of the shop a man gripped an iron club, an expression of intense concentration on his face. A stocky young man, smartly-dressed like his boss, was describing how the club was weighted. Grateful for Lance Wallace’s thorough note-taking, Baggo guessed the young man might be Bruce Thornton’s friend, Tony Longstone, but if he was to get him to talk freely he would have to get him on his own.
‘Can I help you?’ Mildenhall asked, not entirely welcoming.
‘I am hoping to take a lesson,’ Baggo said. ‘I do not have my clubs with me, but I was advised to come here. I have just started the game and I am as keen as mustard.’
Mildenhall gave him the ghost of a smile. ‘We can arrange that. When do you want your lesson?’ Baggo detected a trace of West Country burr.
‘Now, please. I have come out from London specially.’
‘Did you not think to phone to make an arrangement?’
Baggo pulled a face. ‘I am very sorry. I wanted to see this place before I committed myself. You see I hope to join somewhere. And I plan to buy clubs to use when I am in Britain,’ he added.
‘All right,’ Mildenhall said. ‘Tony, you give this gentleman a lesson and I’ll help Mr Alford choose his new irons. That will be fifty pounds for half an hour, please.’
By the time Baggo had paid by credit card Longstone had put on a waterproof jacket and fetched a club and a bag of balls. Baggo smiled at him. ‘I will need to borrow a club, please. Do you have a five iron that I may use?’
Longstone looked puzzled but went to the back of the shop and returned with a club. ‘Right-handed, I presume?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Baggo said and they set off. It was warmer than it had been in Scotland and a watery sun made the day quite pleasant. It was a good day for golf.
As they walked together towards the practice area Baggo pumped Longstone for information. In its heyday one of the leading clubs to the west of London, Haleybourne was going through difficult times. The clubhouse was a listed building. Heritage watchdogs had blocked a series of proposals to bring it up to contemporary standards and the roof had needed fixing. The considerable cost of doing that had, however, been dwarfed by the cost of repairing flood damage to four holes adjacent to a river, flood damage that had been repeated two years later, with no guarantee that it would not recur. In order to spread the cost of all this the committee had reduced membership fees to entice new members and for a time the course had been overplayed. The more discriminating members had resigned and many of the new influx had not stayed. With a constantly changing membership, a vulnerable course and an out of date clubhouse the soul of the club had been lost and more new members were sought.
Despite the decline of the club, Ernest Mildenhall had continued to prosper. Renowned for his prowess at chipping, he wrote articles for golf magazines and was in demand as a teacher, even coaching a small number of tournament professionals who found the short shots a bit fiddly. He was a gifted retailer and his business was good enough to keep himself and two assistants fully occupied.
As Longstone hesitantly described the club’s problems, Baggo wondered why Parsley should want to belong to such a place. He had lived in Wimbledon, probably two hours’ drive away, and it lacked the class and facilities he would have insisted on.
They arrived at the practice area and for ten minutes Longstone adjusted Baggo’s grip and stance and tried to improve his pivot.
‘Ooh, can we have a rest?’ Baggo sighed, putting a hand to his lumbar spine. ‘I was sad to read about the assistant here who was murdered in St Andrews.’
Immediately Longstone went on the defensive. ‘Are you a journalist?’ he asked sharply.
Baggo decided that honesty was the best policy. The professional seemed to be a straightforward young man. ‘No. I am a policeman, and I am trying to find out why your colleague died and who killed him.’ He produced his warrant, which Longstone examined as if he had not seen one before.
‘Right,’ he said slowly. ‘Mr Mildenhall said I wasn’t to speak to journalists. Can I help you?’
‘First, can you explain the black eye he had?’
‘Oh yes.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘That was me trying to balance a driver on my finger. See?’ He took the five iron from Baggo and placed the end of the grip on his right index finger so that the club was vertical then took away his other hand. The club wobbled for a while but remained balanced on his finger until he grabbed it. ‘Anyway, it didn’t work and I caught Bruce just above his eye. He was very good about it but Mr Mildenhall was furious.’
‘Is he a good boss?’
The
pause was eloquent. ‘He is, providing you stay on the right side of him. He’s taught me a lot. Bruce too.’
‘Did you see much of Bruce away from work?’
‘No. We got on well, but we didn’t live near each other, so we didn’t socialise much.’
‘Did you know anything about his private life?’
‘No. He didn’t say much about that.’ Longstone frowned. ‘I saw on Twitter someone was saying he was gay, but I don’t believe it.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. ‘He wasn’t the type, know what I mean? And some of the things he said …’
‘He said anti-gay things?’
Longstone was blushing. ‘Well, we all do, in the shop. I suppose we take our lead from Mr Mildenhall.’
‘What sort of thing does Mr Mildenhall say?’
For a moment Baggo thought he would refuse to say more, then he said, ‘He describes men who are you know, girly-like, as “great fucking pansies”. It’s the worst thing he can call someone, I think. Was Bruce gay?’
‘Yes, and he was finding it very difficult, not only here at work but also at home. His parents could not accept it.’
‘Was he with a man when …?’
‘He was in an hotel room he shared with his lover, but no, at the time he was killed he was about to play Santa Claus at a Christmas Fayre. But I have another question. Was he cross-eyed or anything like that? Did he look at you properly when he spoke to you?’
Longstone screwed up his face. ‘There was nothing unusual about him,’ he said definitely.
‘Is there anything you can tell me that might help identify his killer?’
‘I don’t think so. I liked him and I’ll miss him,’ Longstone said softly. ‘He was hoping to play some events on the Challenge Tour next year. I think he might have gone all the way. He was always working on his short game and he was deadly round the greens. Deadly …’
Baggo changed the subject. ‘Can you tell me about Mr Hugh Parsley? He also was killed at St Andrews.’