by Simon Brett
The high, wrought-iron main gates of Lockleigh House were locked (though members of the tennis club arriving by car had electronic cards to open them), but Jude had been instructed to enter the premises through a small door to one side of the gates.
Once inside, she looked up at the high rectangular bulk of the real tennis court, standing at some distance from the house. Before the Sunday she wouldn’t have had a clue what the building might be used for; now she couldn’t imagine it being anything else.
Piers was already there, leaning against the side of his E-Type, basking in the thin October sun. There was one other car parked outside the court, a substantial silver BMW.
His smile of welcome was warm, but somehow strange. After the intimacy of their weeks together, the two days of separation had made Jude feel almost awkward at re-meeting him.
But his kiss was reassuringly familiar. He did have exceptionally full, soft lips for a man.
As they drew apart, he said, ‘It’s been too long,’ in a voice of mock heroics. ‘I will never again let you escape my web of enchantment. And soon you will be bound to me closer than ever.’
‘Oh yes? How’s that?’
‘Soon you will have fallen under the spell of real tennis, and then our shared obsession will allow you no escape route.’
‘Really?’ said Jude drily. ‘Suppose I don’t like the game?’
‘Impossible,’ he said as he moved towards the court building. ‘I couldn’t possibly be in love with someone who didn’t like real tennis. Come on, don’t let’s waste a minute of our booking.’
The door had a keypad entrance system. ‘We only have to use this when the pros aren’t here,’ said Piers Targett. Then he tapped in a code, the door gave and he ushered Jude inside.
After the raucous jollity of the Sec’s Cup, the lobby in which they found themselves seemed almost unnaturally silent. The door to the court itself was closed. ‘Better get you a racket,’ said Piers, and led Jude into a small room just inside the entrance. ‘This is where the pros hang out,’ he said.
A closed door with a glass panel showed into an office with the usual assemblage of laptops, printers and telephones. In a glass-fronted case in the outer area was displayed a selection of white kit, each item bearing the Lockleigh House logo of crossed rackets with a fish above them. Purple and green stripes also featured. Supported on pegs on one wall was a row of rackets. Piers took one down and felt its heft in his hand. ‘A bit heavy for you, I think.’ He replaced it and tried another. ‘This is a better weight, but it’ll probably be easier for you if you have a bigger grip.’ He found a racket that met all his criteria and solemnly handed it across to her. ‘Take it in your hand and feel the first tricklings of your lifelong obsession.’
Jude grinned. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Just do the lights.’ He reached into a cupboard to flick a switch.
‘Are they on all day?’
‘Pretty much. Switched on by the first person to get to the court in the morning, switched off by the last one to leave in the evening. But they’ve got sensors to turn them off if there’s no activity on court. Keeps the electricity bills down. Lockleigh House tennis court doing its bit for the environment, eh?’
Piers opened the door and led the way along the passageway at the side of the court, down towards the club room and changing rooms. As he did so, he glanced to his left on to the court and stopped stock still.
‘Oh, my God!’ he breathed.
Lying on the court, more or less in the position where he’d fallen on Sunday, lay Reggie Playfair. He was not wearing tennis whites, but a smart business suit with some kind of club tie.
And the glazed expression on his congested face left no room for doubt about the fact that he was dead.
SEVEN
In her online Lady in the Lake researches Carole Seddon had by now weeded out the eccentric, ghoulish and frankly demented references and had found only two leads which, while they might not provide a solution to the problem, did at least offer sanity. The first was a posting from a man called Dmitri Gascoigne, who was convinced that the bones found in Fedborough Lake belonged to his wife Karen. He had set up a rather primitive website called What Really Happened to Karen Gascoigne? which had the air of the unvisited. The most recent update was nearly four years previously, so Carole got the feeling that Dmitri Gascoigne’s campaign had maybe run out of steam.
The other — and to Carole’s mind more promising — lead was to a woman called Susan Holland. Her blog made clear her conviction that the Lady in the Lake was her daughter, Marina, last seen in Brighton over eight years previously. From the way she wrote, Susan Holland came across to Carole as a very level-headed woman, not a hysterical over-reactor. If she suspected the dead body to be that of her daughter, then she had good reasons for those suspicions. Carole was also attracted to the woman by the reference to Brighton and the surname Holland, which was quite common in the Fethering area. Both of these clues suggested that Susan Holland might be a local.
Anyway, having decided that she would contact Susan Holland, once again Carol felt grateful to her laptop. Email was such a satisfactorily anonymous form of communication — and geographically unspecific. In the event that the woman being contacting proved to be dangerous or troublesome, the only address she’d have would be a virtual one.
That knowledge gave Carole Seddon a sense of security as she set out carefully to draft an email about the Lady in the Lake.
Jude had instantly tried resuscitation, but it soon became clear that nothing could bring Reggie Playfair back to life.
Then Piers had taken charge. He felt in his pocket for his iPhone. ‘Damn, I’ve left it in the E-Type.’ He handed across the keys. ‘Would you mind getting it, Jude love? In the glove compartment.’ Responding to the puzzlement in her eyes, he said, ‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve known Reggie so long, I wouldn’t mind having a moment alone with the old bugger.’
‘Of course.’
Jude gave him a full five minutes of silent communion with the deceased, then went back into the court and handed across his phone. ‘Are you going to ring for an ambulance?’
Piers Targett shook his head. ‘Arriving at hospital five minutes later or earlier is not going to make much difference to poor old Reggie, I’m afraid. I’m going to ring George first.’
‘George?’
‘George Hazlitt. He’s in charge of the court. He should be informed about what’s happened.’
The pro lived at some distance from Lockleigh House, so it was a quarter to nine before he arrived. Fortunately he was just in time to stop at the door the two young men who had the nine o’clock court booking. Not wishing the news of Reggie Playfair’s death to spread too quickly, George Hazlitt fobbed the two players off with some excuse about there being a water leak which made the court unplayable (fortunately it had rained during the night, so his story was just about feasible). The young men, who had been relishing their singles encounter, left considerably disgruntled.
As soon as they’d gone, the pro took a closer look at Reggie Playfair’s body and started keying a number into his mobile.
‘Are you ringing for an ambulance?’ asked Jude.
‘No, I’ve got to check things out with Don Budgen first.’
Jude looked interrogatively at Piers who said, ‘Club chairman. Remember, it was his wife, Felicity, who presented the trophy on Sunday.’
‘Of course.’
‘Morning, Felicity. Sorry about the hour. Could I speak to Don?’ asked George Hazlitt, getting through on the phone. He then moved into the pros’ office to continue his call in private.
Piers looked back at the corpse, then ruefully at Jude. ‘Poor old bugger. Mind you, after the number of heart scares he’s had, he’s been on borrowed time for the last two or three years. And Reggie really loved his real tennis, so dying on the court is probably the way he’d want to go.’ He let out a wry chuckle. ‘When the news of this gets out, I know the first question a lot of the members
here will ask. .’
‘“What was he doing here at this time of the morning?”’
‘What? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, Jude, one or two people might ask that, but I can guarantee that if I were to say to the average member here, “Reggie Playfair dropped dead on the court”, the next thing they’d say would be, “Oh? What chase?”’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, I explained to you that the chases are the painted lines on the floor of the court, representing the distances from the back to-’
‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with Reggie’s death?’
‘It’s a kind of joke. You know, somebody drops dead on court and obviously the first question you ask is: “What chase?”, and in Reggie’s case it’d be “Hazard better than second” and-’
‘I really don’t think it’s something you should joke about.’
This was a very uncharacteristic thing for Jude to say and the tone of voice she used was out of character too. Certainly in their brief acquaintance Piers Targett had never heard her speak like that before and he was instantly all contrition.
‘Listen, Jude. I’m not saying this because I don’t care about Reggie. We go back thirty years at least. I’m deeply shocked by the fact that he’s pegged it, but I can’t pretend it was unexpected. And the members of this club who’ll ask which chase he died on, they care about him too. It’s just the old thing of a joke making the totally unpalatable just a little bit more palatable. Surely you’ve come across that syndrome before, Jude?’
‘Of course I have.’ She was apologetic now, aware of how unusual it was for her to snap at anyone. ‘More interesting to me, though,’ she went on, ‘is the other question I asked. Aside from the fact that he died there, why on earth was Reggie Playfair on the court in the first place?’
‘Well, I’m sure there are many reasons why. .’ Hearing the door of the pros’ office open, Piers Targett left the sentence there and looked questioningly towards George Hazlitt.
‘Don’ll be here in about half an hour. In fact he was at some dinner in London and stayed up there last night. He’s on the train back now, but Felicity’s managed to get a message to him, so he’ll drive straight here when he gets to Fedborough Station.’ The pro looked at his watch. ‘I should be in time to put off the ladies’ doubles at ten fifteen.’
‘Aren’t you going to close the court for the whole day?’ asked Piers, perhaps trying to demonstrate to Jude that he really did have some respect for his dead friend.
‘I’ll see what Don says.’ And George Hazlitt went back to the office to make the next phone call.
There was more hanging around, waiting for the club chairman. Jude got the impression that George Hazlitt would have preferred her not to be there, but he didn’t raise the issue. She was Piers Targett’s guest and the pro seemed to show deference to the older man.
As Jude had been told on the Sunday, Sir Donald Budgen was a retired British ambassador, and as such presumably used to dealing with more serious incidents than the discovery of a corpse on a real tennis court.
He took one look at Reggie Playfair’s body and said, ‘Poor old bugger.’ (This was clearly the default response to death amongst the members of the Lockleigh House Tennis Club.)
Sir Donald Budgen was reintroduced to Jude. He greeted her with the automatic professional charm of a diplomat. ‘Of course. We met briefly on Sunday. I’m sorry that you’ve come into a situation like this. If you’d prefer to go home, I’m sure we-’
‘I’m fine.’
This was not the response that Sir Donald Budgen had been hoping for, but he was far too well trained to show that. Instead he went straight into organizational mode. ‘The main thing we need to do, George, is to ensure that the news of Reggie’s death gets out to the members in the proper way. We don’t want any rumours spreading around. We need everyone to get the information at the same time in the correct form.’ Jude got the impression that the words ‘proper’ and ‘correct’ made frequent appearances in Sir Donald Budgen’s conversation. ‘I’ll draft an email for you to send out to all the members, George.’
‘Thanks, Don.’
‘But obviously it’s important that the message doesn’t go out before Oenone’s been informed of what’s happened.’ The ex-ambassador glanced at his watch. ‘You say you’ve put off the ten fifteen booking?’
‘Yes. I used the same excuse about a leak on the court. I’ll explain it to the ladies later. I’m sure in the circumstances they won’t mind my little white lie.’
‘No, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Who’s on at eleven thirty?’
‘The Old Boys’ doubles. Every Wednesday morning, regular as clockwork. Shall I call Wally to head them off at the pass?’
Sir Donald Budgen gave another look at his watch. ‘Hold fire for the moment, George. Wally’s only just down the road — he won’t need much notice if you have to cancel. Next thing we should do is call an ambulance to take the body away. If that’s sorted by eleven, then I can see no reason why the Old Boys shouldn’t have their doubles. So, George, you call for an ambulance.’
For a moment the pro looked perplexed. ‘What number should I-?’
‘It’s just a straightforward nine-nine-nine call. Do you want me to do it?’ There was a note of sharpness in the ex-ambassador’s tone, perhaps an echo of some previous disagreement between the two of them about their respective duties. Jude had noticed that the chairman’s manner to the pro was very much that of master and servant. . though she reckoned that was quite possibly how he treated everyone.
The power struggle was very short. With a ‘No, that’s fine,’ George Hazlitt went through to the office to make the call.
Jude couldn’t prevent herself from asking, ‘Don’t you think the police should be called?’
‘The police?’ Sir Donald Budgen echoed. ‘What on earth has any of this to do with the police?’
‘Well, I’d have thought that any suspicious death-’
‘There is nothing suspicious about this death,’ he pronounced in the voice which he had used to face down argumentative foreigners during his long government service. ‘Poor old Reggie had a long history of heart trouble. It finally caught up with him. That’s all.’
‘But surely the question of why he was here in the court must be-’
‘I said: “That’s all.”’ Sir Donald Budgen was not used to being argued with. He cast a slightly reproachful look towards Piers Targett, as if to say, you really ought to choose your girlfriends more carefully.
And Jude did feel a moment of, not guilt, but regret for having been so premature. The investigation of crimes in the past had made her rather prone to make instant categorization of any suspicious death as murder.
‘Then, of course,’ Sir Donald Budgen went on, ‘there’s the small matter of breaking the news to Oenone. As chairman, it’s my duty to do that. I’ll give her a call and then go to the house.’
‘Of course you’re welcome to do it, Don,’ said Piers diffidently, ‘but I think possibly it might come better from me. I’ve been a friend of the family for over thirty years.’
The ex-ambassador accepted the offer with alacrity. Though in his professional life he had had to take on any number of unpalatable encounters, it wasn’t an experience he’d ever enjoyed and he was very happy to be let off the hook for once.
Piers Targett read something in Jude’s face that she hadn’t realized was there. ‘I think this is a job I should do on my own,’ he announced firmly.
And Jude, intrigued though she was at finding out more about the Playfairs, couldn’t deny that he was right.
As it turned out, the Old Boys didn’t have their doubles cancelled. The ambulance arrived soon after half past ten and all traces of Reggie Playfair had been removed before eleven. George Hazlitt had checked to see if he’d left anything in the club room or changing room, but he hadn’t. Using the keys from the dead man’s pocket, Piers and the pro had also checked out his BMW, but found nothing unexpected.
Then Piers set off on his difficult visit to Oenone Playfair.
He told Jude that she could either call a cab and go home or stay and he’d join her for lunch in the Lockleigh Arms. Just down the lane from the court. And to kill time, she could watch the Old Boys’ doubles. That way she might get more idea of the rules of real tennis.
EIGHT
The Lockleigh Arms was the only pub in the village. . though to call Lockleigh a village was perhaps straining the definition. Apart from the big house with its real tennis court, there were fewer than a dozen other dwellings. The only sizeable one of these was a farmhouse that had given up its original function in the 1970s when its extensive acres had been turned into a golf course, the club house for which was on the main road, some mile or so away from Lockleigh. The village’s other habitations had been built for farm workers, though now they had been modernized and interior-designed to within an inch of their lives to provide weekend retreats for wealthy city-dwellers.
Isolated as it was, the Lockleigh Arms might easily have joined the gloomy and increasing statistics of pub closures, were it not for shrewd management. Building on its natural advantages of a beautiful rural location, the (relatively new) owners had invested shrewdly in refurbishing the place. But they had employed the skills of the restorer rather than the modernizer, so the result was a pub that looked as it might have done fifty years earlier. No muzak was ever heard, there were no television screens or gaming machines. The only places where the modern had been allowed to intrude were out of sight, in the superior-spec toilet facilities and the state-of-the-art kitchen, from which their award-winning chef conjured up wonderful meals.
Just as Ted Crisp had found at the Crown and Anchor, it was the food that brought the punters in. Even in recessionary times, there was still a lot of money in West Sussex, and plenty of well-pensioned couples who enjoyed nothing more than going out for a pub lunch or dinner. The Lockleigh Arms’ menu was cleverly traditional. It featured none of the challenging taste combinations and presentational fussiness beloved of television chefs. The menu offered pub favourites — steaks, liver and bacon, sausage and mash, steak and ale pie, fish and chips — but all superbly cooked from the finest locally sourced ingredients. The Lockleigh Arms was not the cheapest pub in the area, but most visitors reckoned that the quality of the food justified the higher prices.