‘It creates them,’ Lars countered, sombrely, in his accented English. He seemed more solemn in his wife’s presence. I wondered if they were all serious people in their household, kids included. ‘And they all add up,’ he continued. ‘There was a player last year who was best in Europe, if you look at the greens hit in regulation. But then if you looked at the money he earned, he is not in the top one hundred. Link those together and you didn’t even need to look at the putting stats to know he was damn near enough worst putter on the tour.’
‘But Jonny doesn’t have any stats. This was his first tournament.’
Lena took me surprise by laughing; a light, pleasant tinkling sound. ‘And so he has stats. From his very first round, he has stats; everything is measured in golf. In this tournament he is number three in greens in regulation and number one in putting. Those are the two that matter; the others not so much. For example, driving distance doesn’t tell you whether the players hit driver off the tee, only how far the ball went.’ She nodded backwards at her husband. ‘Lars, here, he hits three metal off the tee mostly, because he’s lousy with driver. It still goes two eighty-seven yards, but stats say he’s weak.’
Her master class might have taken in every club in the bag, had not Tom arrived, looking flushed and triumphant. ‘Were you fired?’ I asked him. ‘You went crazy when Jonny won.’
He beamed at me. ‘So did you. So did the referee; that made it all right. But Uche’s going to be fined, one of the Tour guys says.’
‘What for?’
‘Swearing on TV. It’s not allowed.’
‘But he didn’t know he was on air,’ I protested.
‘That doesn’t matter; he’s supposed to assume that he can be heard.’ He shrugged. ‘But it’s all right. Jonny said it’s the best advice he’s given him all week so he’s going to pay it.’
That seemed fair to me; and to Uche, it seemed, for he was well happy as he came out of the recording area, although he looked exhausted. His ‘boss’ followed him, and was ushered towards the presentation area by a man in a green jacket.
The enormous trophy, and the enormous cardboard cheque (purely symbolic, I learned later; the money hits the bank through electronic channels) were presented by a distinguished man whom I recognised as the President of the Catalan government. His office didn’t earn him a speaking part though, for Telly Man in the Aussie hat moved straight in on Jonny and began an interview. He asked him about his last shot. ‘Most guys would have played it the way Cormac did,’ he said.
Jonny nodded. ‘I know, and so would I if I’d seen it that way. But I didn’t. As it turned out, I caught it just right, spot on, and I got the other fifty per cent, luck.’
A few more questions followed, but I could tell that they weren’t the ones he wanted to answer. Finally, just as Aussie hat was ready to hand back to the commentary box, he leaned forward and said, ‘Before I go I’d like to thank everyone who’s helped me this week; Uche, Lena, Brush, my Auntie Primavera, and my cousin Tom, who knows more about surfing than I do about golf. But most of all I’d like to thank three people. For various reasons, none of them could be here this week, but they’re the people who gave me the confidence to come out here and play and they’re all the bedrock of my support team: my mum, my Grandpa Mac, and my Uncle Oz.’
At the mention of the last name, Tom squeezed my hand. Me? I had to smile through the tears, for I saw that my nephew was a natural. He knows what a headline is and he’d just given them one.
Green blazer wanted to take him straight to the press tent as I approached. ‘Have you . . .’ I began.
He grinned, and nodded. ‘I called her as soon as my card was registered.’
‘What about your father?’ I ventured.
For an instant his eyes went hard. ‘I just thanked him,’ he murmured. ‘He was the closest thing to a dad I ever had.’
‘And Brush?’ I asked, moving on quickly. ‘What about him?’
‘He called me just before I came outside. We’ll speak again tomorrow, to organise my schedule. I’ve got a tour card now, so everything changes. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. We’ll talk about it over dinner.’
Yes, I thought as he left, I’d like to talk a lot more about the reclusive Mr Donnelly. We would have too, if something hadn’t happened that knocked him right off my ‘things to do’ list.
Eleven
For most people, the day that the circus leaves town is a metaphor for anti-climax. Not for Tom and me, though, not that day. We were high as kites, both of us. He’d shown the courage to be certain of the outcome. I hadn’t: for all the confidence I’d expressed to Ellie after the third round, the closer Jonny had come to the finish, the more scared I’d become, the more fatalistic, anticipating the moment when his luck would change or he’d overreach himself and we’d all waken from the dream. Yes, I had been weak in my faith. But maybe it wasn’t as simple as that: maybe I’d simply been conditioned to assume that the worst would happen by too many not-so-happy endings in my life.
When it didn’t, when the fan stayed shit-free, I was more elated than I’d been in almost eleven years, since the day that Tom was born. Finally, something had worked out the way it was meant to.
I slung an arm around my son’s ever-rising, ever-thickening, shoulders. ‘Home, kid?’ I suggested.
He nodded. ‘Yeah. There’s a Barca game on TV tonight. Jonny was going to take me to dinner with you, but I told him I want to watch it in Esculapi. Is that all right?’ Six months before I’d probably have told him no, that he had to come with us. But his pals would be there, and his faithful hound, and I’d already decided that however big a cheque Jonny was banking, I’d bypass elBulli in favour of Can Roura, in the square. There was something else too; while he was young and while I was filling in for his mum in a way, Jonny was nonetheless a man, and it was a couple of years since I’d been out with one of those on a twosome.
‘Sure,’ I said, and then the thought of Can Roura reminded me of something else. ‘Hey, what about Uche?’ I exclaimed. ‘Isn’t he supposed to be moving into his studio tonight?’
‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘He asked me to tell you to let Joan know that he’s going to leave it until tomorrow. He’s going to have dinner with his dad tonight.’
‘That’s nice for them. Hey,’ I chuckled, nudging him, ‘I wonder if he really is a prince.’
Before he could react, my mobile sounded again; I imagined that it would be a PS from Ellie, so I didn’t even glance at the screen. If I had done I’d have known that it was Susie calling, the official widow Blackstone. ‘I’ve just seen you on telly,’ she exclaimed, without preamble. ‘Imagine, our Jonny the champ. He’s turned into a good-lookin’ boy, Primavera. And was that Tom, carrying his board?’
‘Yes to all of that,’ I declared. ‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. Is his mum not there? I assumed she’d be basking in it.’ Her tone suggested that Ellie’s feelings for Susie were reciprocated. I didn’t remark upon it, though; I simply explained the reasons for her absence.
‘Poor cow,’ she muttered. ‘I know . . .’ she continued, then stopped.
‘What?’ I demanded.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Susie,’ I warned. ‘What were you going to say?’
She sighed. ‘That I know how she feels. I’ve got a wee health issue myself.’
I turned away from Tom so he couldn’t see my frown. ‘How wee?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she assured me. ‘I’m off my food, that’s all. My doctor took a blood sample; now he’s sending me for tests. He’s muttering about pernicious anaemia.’
I switched to nurse mode. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘That used to be serious, but it’s easily treated nowadays. Keep your chin up.’
‘I am. Don’t have any choice with Janet and wee Jonathan running my life.’
‘What about your love interest?’ Susie had acquired a new man a year or so before, a hedge fund dealer that she’d come acros
s in the casino. I’d met him briefly, when I’d delivered Tom for his annual bonding visit with his half-siblings, and had been well under-impressed. I hadn’t told her that, though, and so her response took me by surprise.
‘Duncan? History. He was starting to behave as if he was the kids’ dad, and I wasn’t having that. So you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve binned him.’ I was about to protest, insincerely, but she cut me off. ‘No, don’t deny it,’ she went on. ‘I could tell from your eyes that you didn’t like him. You’ve never learned to fake anything, my dear. Maybe that’s why you’re still single.’ She paused. ‘Or . . . what about Father G?’
‘Now Brother G, and staying in Ireland.’
‘And are you devastated?’
‘Who? Me? No.’
‘Fine. You’ll find him, eventually.’
‘Find who?’
‘The man of your dreams. I had one of my own about you the other night; you were fixed up in it.’
I listened for sounds of suppressed chuckles, but heard none. ‘Do tell. What was he like?’
‘Big bloke, greying hair, grey beard. I didn’t really get a good look at him.’
‘Was he wearing a red suit and driving a sleigh pulled by reindeer?’
‘Hah! Mock me if you will, but I’m becoming fey in my middle age. That’s why . . .’ She stopped, again.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, and this time I really mean it. Love to Tom, and Jonny. I’m off.’
I stared at my silent phone as if I expected a Santa Claus lookalike to appear on the screen. But he didn’t, only my wallpaper, an image of Charlie on the beach. I turned back to my son. ‘Sorry,’ I told him. ‘Susie Mum sends her love.’
‘That’s nice. He’s an emir,’ he declared, solemnly.
‘Who is?’ Susie’s fey dream had erased our previous conversation.
‘Uche’s dad,’ he said, patiently. ‘Uche says that’s the same as a prince. He doesn’t have a palace, though, just a big house in Lagos. He’s very rich. He has an oil company, and he exports tobacco and clothes and all sorts of stuff.’
‘Does he now? It’s a pity about Uche’s mother. Does Uche talk about her?’
‘No. I asked him about her, but he said she’s dead, that’s all. I don’t think he likes to talk about her. I understand that.’
That surprised me. ‘You like to talk about your dad,’ I pointed out.
‘Only to people I know really well. I never talk about him with anybody else.’
I hadn’t appreciated that; or maybe I simply hadn’t noticed it. With me, the subject is usually off limits, absolutely when Tom’s around, and all my friends know that. All my friends, including Shirley Gash. She was bearing down on us, coming from the general direction of the clubhouse. And she wasn’t smiling.
‘What have you done with him?’ she demanded.
‘Done with who?’ I replied, ungrammatically.
‘Patterson,’ she barked. ‘Who else? Where the fuck did the two of you go?’
This was not Shirley-like behaviour and Tom did not take to it at all. I felt his shoulders tense under my arm, and he seemed to grow an inch or so taller. I gave him a little squeeze, to restrain him; the lioness and her cub, roles reversed.
Not that I was best pleased either; astonished, and instantly irked. ‘Would you calm down, woman,’ I told her sternly. ‘And don’t use that language around my son. Now what are you talking about? Why should I have done anything with him?’
‘You went off together, didn’t you?’ she challenged, her chin stuck out.
I stared at her. ‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ I exclaimed, barely stopping myself from shouting, and forgetting my own interdict about language.
‘Come on! We were up on that stand, the three of us; I turned round and you two had buggered off!’
As soon as I recalled the scene, I could see where she was coming from. ‘Yes,’ I countered, fiercely, ‘but not together. I had a phone call; I got down from the stand to take it, then I had to leave in a hurry. But Patterson had gone by that time. You were so wrapped up in ogling golfers that you didn’t notice, so don’t get on to me if you can’t keep track of your bloke. Okay!’
I knew that it was anxiety as much as anger that had made her snap at me, so I wasn’t surprised when her face crumpled and she seemed to fold in on herself. It wasn’t a pretty sight; I’d never seen her looking so old.
‘Hey,’ I said, friend and counsellor once more, ‘what’s this? Don’t panic, Shirl; everything has an explanation. Have you looked for him?’
I had to wait for her to blow her nose on a tissue before she answered. ‘I’ve been looking for both of you ever since. I thought . . . I thought all sorts of things, but mostly that you’d gone off to follow the golf on your own, ’cos I would have held you back, being old and slow. I looked for you all over the bloody course, then when Jonny started I went back to his match, but you weren’t there . . .’
‘That’s right,’ Tom confirmed. ‘She asked me from across the rope, at the third hole, if I’d seen you. I told her I hadn’t. I was worried too, Mum,’ he added. I hadn’t considered that possibility: bad mother.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ I said contritely. ‘I should have taken time to tell you before I left.’
‘Why did you go?’ The question came in stereo, from him and Shirley, simultaneously.
‘Someone needed my help,’ I told them, ‘but that’s not important. Tell me where else you’ve looked.’
‘In the clubhouse,’ Shirl replied, ‘in the tent with all the clothing and golf club stands, in the bars, everywhere save the gents’ bogs. I looked in the car park too, and when I couldn’t see your jeep anywhere, I thought . . . Well, I won’t tell you what went through my mind.’
No, you’d bloody well better not, the guy’s twenty-five years older than me, went through mine, but I let it stay there.
‘You didn’t look hard enough,’ I retorted. ‘My jeep never left. Your imagination was probably running so wild by then, you didn’t want to see it.’ Actually I’d parked it alongside a big Callaway truck to catch some shade through the day, so it wasn’t a surprise that she’d missed it. ‘What about your car?’ I asked, although I was sure that I’d seen it when Alex and Jorge had dropped me off.
‘Still there,’ she confirmed. ‘I looked for that too.’
‘Then on the face of it, he should still be here. Phone him,’ I instructed.
She took out her mobile and obeyed. I watched, and saw hope go quickly from her eyes. ‘Straight to voicemail,’ she murmured.
I frowned, then turned to my son. ‘Tom, I want you to do something for me. Go to the emergency medical centre. You know where that is?’
‘Sure, beside the bar tent.’
‘Good. When you get there, ask whether they’ve treated an English gentleman for anything. You know Mr Cowling, so describe him, and say that he was wearing grey trousers and a blue blazer with gold buttons. Then meet us back at the clubhouse, in front.’
‘Why are we going there?’ Shirl asked.
‘To check the gents’ toilets, or have them checked for us.’
We did, courtesy of the club manager, who despatched a bag boy to look for a locked cubicle with an unresponsive customer inside, but came up blank.
‘He’s gone,’ Shirley wailed, as Tom reappeared, shaking his head.
‘Come on, girl,’ I cajoled her, ‘hold yourself together.’
‘How can I? He’s fucked off and left me. He’s been taking the piss, Primavera, all this time.’
I had to admit, if only to myself, that the same possibility was beginning to gain ground in my list of possible causes for Patterson’s absence. ‘If he has gone,’ I asked nobody in particular, ‘how has he done it? Let’s assume that he isn’t hiding among the trees waiting for it to get dark.’
‘But what if he is? What if he’s had an accident? There are snakes here, Primavera.’ My robust pal was verging on hysteria. I didn’t want to call out the Natio
nal Guard, but . . .
‘He was wearing nice sensible shoes, so forget the vipers,’ I said. ‘Let’s try to answer my last question.’
‘He could have got a taxi,’ Tom pointed out.
‘Are there taxis here?’
‘A lot. Some of the players and most of the caddies use them to get back to their hotels, and the crowd do as well.’
‘Then let’s see if we can find some.’
‘I’ll show you where they are.’
He led us to a compound, alongside the spectator car park. I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. Most of the crowd had gone, but there were still plenty of people around, tournament staff, media and as Tom had said, competitors and their aides. There were a dozen cabs in a line waiting to be picked up. As we approached I saw Lena, Lars and their kids sliding into one, then being driven off.
The lead driver in the rank beamed at me expectantly as we approached. ‘Sorry,’ I said, wiping the smile away with a word. ‘I need your help,’ I continued, in Castellano, then switched to Catalan, knowing that Shirley doesn’t speak a word. ‘My friend here may have been robbed. Earlier on today she met an Englishman, a middle-aged man, in the shopping tent. He said he was on his own, like her, and a fan of golf as she is. He was very nice, very plausible, they talked and they had a drink together, on the clubhouse terrace. After a while, he asked her if she would like to have lunch with him. She said she would, he went to book a table and he never came back. It was some time before she looked in her bag, but when she did she found that her money was gone, and her credit cards and some very valuable rings that she had taken off because her fingers were puffy in the heat. We’ve spoken to the police; they said “Tough” as they do. Our only hope is that he might have used a cab to get away. Can you help us. Did he?’
The further I got into my story the darker the driver’s expression grew. Why did I lay it on? Simples, as that meerkat used to say. If I’d told him that Shirley’s boyfriend had done a runner, had second thoughts and buggered off, there was a better than even chance, no, much better than even, that I’d have run into the male solidarity thing. But show him a woman robbed, rather than a woman wronged, and by an Englishman at that . . .
As Easy as Murder Page 17