by Ted Tayler
Colin turned right on Lansdown Place and made for Eastgate Street. He was enjoying the walk through what was clearly an ancient town. The sun wasn’t much in evidence this morning. The skies were filling with clouds and Colin felt the threat of rain in the air. Nothing would dampen his spirits. There were two particular reasons for this. He was back doing something at which he excelled; and when he glanced at the OS map on the train coming from Victoria, he spotted a familiar name.
This had to be an omen. He was now crossing the River Ouse using the Phoenix Causeway. How cool was that? Even cooler if it was named after his mythological namesake. Colin discovered later that it referred to an old ironworks in the town. A little more prosaic, but even so, he was happy to accept it as an omen.
He continued his stroll, there was no rush. He continued via Malling Street and Chapel Hill, passing the entrance to Lewes Golf Club and arrived at his destination just before twelve noon. He looked back towards the town. Colin could see the property at Chapel Hill where DCI Richard Armitage lived. He lived a bachelor’s existence at present and worked at his cushy number in Corporate Development. This gave him ample opportunity to take time off to wander over the road and play a round of golf. He told his superiors he was ‘networking’ and that was enough for them to look the other way.
Colin knew Richard Armitage finished work early. He drove the three minutes from the Police HQ in Church Lane via Brooks Road and pulled up to his parking spot near his home. This guy had the work, home, leisure equation off to a fine art. Colin remembered the haggard, careworn faces of the commuters on the train to Paddington. Those poor buggers spent at least three hours every working day just travelling; let alone the stresses of whatever job they did.
Meanwhile, on the south coast, there was a criminal who had his job, home and main leisure activity on his doorstep. If you forgave how he amassed the fortune he squirrelled away from his dirty dealings, then the way he managed to come up smelling of roses every time marked him as a target.
Colin heard the bolts go back in the door behind him. His destination had been The Snowdrop Inn which opened at noon, according to their website. Colin followed the other early arrivals to the bar. While they ordered up a meal and a drink, Colin took in his surroundings. The pub didn’t get its name from the herbaceous plant he assumed might pop up in various spots around the Larcombe estate in the spring. He discovered that the inn stood on the site of a fatal avalanche. When it was his turn to order something Colin decided to take it to the beer gardens. That way he could keep a weather eye on the nearby hillside and glance towards Chapel Hill to wait for Richard Armitage.
He was pleased to see umbrellas still available on several tables, in case the clouds brought a more persistent shower. The threat remained, but the October sun was still warm and with his jacket fastened to keep the pistol hidden, he felt comfortable enough. The food arrived and proved to be excellent pub fare. Not up to the cordon bleu experience of his first day at Larcombe, but the fresh fish and local vegetables were just the tickets.
Colin left the Snowdrop Inn after a quick trip to the gents and a friendly wave at the staff at the island bar. He threaded his way through tables with a growing number of the lunchtime crowd now seated, drinking and eating in convivial surroundings. It was a pity he was unlikely to be around these parts after the afternoon’s intended action; it had been a pleasant place to spend an hour.
When he got outside he waited while a line of traffic meandered past, nose to tail on its weary way towards the town centre. He checked his wristwatch, it was fast approaching one fifteen.
“There you are,” whispered Colin. The policeman had found a kind motorist. Fed up with travelling in crocodile file any longer, they had stopped to let him cross the line of traffic. He pulled into his parking spot. Richard Armitage positively jumped out of his Mercedes sports car and trotted to his front door.
The traffic moved even slower now as the crocodile took a while to get back up to crawling speed. Colin waved at a grey-haired old lady driver and darted in front of her. He took advantage of the long gap between the vehicles coming up the hill away from the town. Soon he stood at the entrance to the Golf Club. He retrieved his bobble hat from the rucksack and the binoculars. Hitching the rucksack over his shoulders he set off along the path that ran alongside the course.
The footpath veered off towards New Road. After a short hike, Colin threaded his way through bushes and trees until he reached the approach to the eleventh green. There were several couples and foursomes out on the course. The sight of someone wearing sturdy walking boots, a weatherproof jacket, and bobble hat raised no suspicions whatever. If that someone was spotted later in the afternoon, scanning the skies with binoculars. Birdwatchers got everywhere didn’t they?
Colin kept his distance from the golfers. If a ball landed nearby, he moved fifty yards towards or away from the spot. If anyone asked them later if they saw anyone they might have said they saw a man, a blue jacket, a red bobble hat, jeans, and boots. They may have thought he wore glasses. If their eyesight was exceptional, they might even have said he had designer stubble. Any description would be vague. Height, weight, and age were tricky to gauge at the distances Colin kept between him and the object ball.
Richard Armitage was a creature of habit. Colin imagined him preparing a light lunch and then showering and changing into something suitable for eighteen holes with one of his cronies. An Olympus operative had played here a handful of times over the summer and sussed out the start time that the ‘crafty copper’ adopted. The two o’clock slot was pencilled in for Armitage every Wednesday.
In early October, most people made sure they got off the course well before dusk. Unless delayed by a group of hackers who didn’t know one end of a club from another, Armitage and his playing partner should reach the eleventh hole by four o’clock. Colin prepared to wait. Patience was the key.
Colin used the protective screen offered by the trees and shrubs to remove his pistol from his jacket inside pocket. He loaded it and replaced it. As he watched another two golfers play their approach shots to the green through the foliage, he stifled a yawn. He stretched his body and looked at his wristwatch. His target would be on his way.
The undulating nature of the course high on the downs meant it was as tricky for Colin to pick out Armitage with his binoculars as it was for golfers using the fairways and greens to see him hidden away in the undergrowth. The footpath lay a short distance off to his right and behind him and Colin kept a constant lookout. He wanted to see if there were any ramblers on the course to witness affairs. But the clouds had gathered. Up here, as far from the clubhouse as it was possible to be, it wasn’t a case of was it going to rain, but when.
The drizzle started at a quarter past three and it got steadily harder and harder. The breeze had picked up earlier. As two married couples made their way up the eleventh fairway Colin saw they had donned their wet weather gear. They kept their umbrellas pulled close to shelter themselves. He could have run naked across the green without either of them noticing.
Hardy annuals these golfers, Colin thought. Gentlemen too, he realised as he watched them take care of drying their clubs. They were solicitous in keeping their partner covered with their umbrella until the last few moments before they played their shot. All very chivalrous. It reminded Colin of Sir Walter Raleigh.
“Get on with it. You’re holding up play. The last thing I need is people backed up on the tee because of slow play,” muttered Colin. What was he doing? Passing comment on a game he had little knowledge of and cared about even less. He shook his head. The stuff you have to read up on if you want to do a proper job.
He needn’t have worried. The course wasn’t too busy further back towards the clubhouse. The threat of rain had put off a few that considered turning up on the off-chance of getting a game. Leaving their clubs in the boot of the car they walked over the road to get a drink at The Snowdrop Inn. A pint or two a much better way to pass an afternoon.
Richard Armitage was with one of his regular playing partners, a solicitor from Lewes called Peregrine Watts-Williams. Today was no different from any other occasion they played together. They played a money game, a fiver a hole. Perry, as he liked to be called, was a rank amateur whose handicap was that he couldn’t play golf. It was no surprise that the crafty copper was forty quid up as he put the pin back in the hole at the tenth.
“Unlucky, Perry. It’s not your day, today is it?” said Armitage without a hint of irony.
“Eight holes left Richard,” said Perry, “the comeback starts here.”
The wind and rain were unrelenting as the pair made their way over to the eleventh tee. Colin had walked back towards the point on the hole where the right-hand dogleg came into play five minutes earlier to view their first shots through his binoculars.
Planning is everything. The operative who visited the Lewes course had provided a blow by blow description of the shot that these twos were prone to play, given their level of ability. Armitage had a better than even chance of finding the middle of the fairway. Poor old Perry zig-zagged his way up the fairways as he negotiated the three hundred-odd yards.
Colin watched the pantomime unfold as both Richard Armitage and Perry Watts-Williams shuffled onto the tee. There were umbrellas, golf trolleys, towels and technicolour wet weather clothing everywhere. Colin ran back through the trees and awaited the first shot. He had a small window of opportunity where he could dart out and do what he planned, hidden from the view of the players.
Armitage drove first and as he watched it sail away, he made a mental note to work on correcting a slight tendency to slice his tee shot. Maybe he was relaxing because he was finding it easier than usual to pick up sixty or seventy quid from the old fart next to him. The ball landed four or five yards from the thick rough and Colin congratulated himself on picking the perfect place to hide. He walked over to the ball, picked it up and dropped it in amongst the denser vegetation.
Perry smashed his drive across towards the left-hand side of the fairway, twenty yards further on than his opponent. The best shot he had played that afternoon. Colin groaned and ran after it. He picked it up and lobbed it into the rough. Just the job. The two men were now far enough apart for what he had in mind. They would be unable to see each other play their second shots.
Colin listened for the two golfers to arrive. There they both were. Bang in the middle of the fairway, ever hopeful. They walked up the couple of hundred yards together, and then they parted company to start the search for their ball.
“Can’t see either of them Perry,” called Richard Armitage. “I could have sworn I was on the fairway, even though I admit I tweaked it a touch.”
“I smoked mine, Richard. This is not over yet. I’m hunting my ball, way up on the left.”
“You wish,” replied the policeman. Perry laughed. The two set off up the fairway.
Colin slipped the pistol from his jacket and waited. Richard Armitage parked his trolley and hunted for his ball in the grass at the edge of the fairway. When he looked further into the trees, he saw the spot where Colin had placed it. A little puzzled, the crafty copper moved quietly towards it, wondering how it ended up this far to the right.
He knew Perry couldn’t see him from the other side of the fairway. So he picked it up, found a decent lie and placed it on the ground. Colin watched him from his hiding place.
“I’ve got mine,” shouted Perry, “it’s in the rough but, at least, I’ve got a clear shot. Any luck with yours?”
“Just found it in the light stuff, Perry,” Richard called back, “my turn I believe?”
He selected his club and after a few flashy waggles, he hit the ball. It sailed away into a stiff Lewes breeze. He was engrossed in his shot. He hoped Perry didn’t see him pick up his ball. Armitage didn’t realise until too late that someone had emerged from the trees and now stood right behind him.
“Cheating bastard,” whispered Colin and squeezed the trigger.
DCI Richard Armitage pitched forward onto the fairway, dead before he hit the ground. The PSS pistol lived up to its reputation, silent and deadly. Perry was twenty yards ahead. With few people left on the course and nobody on the footpath away in the distance, no one was any the wiser.
Perry had seen the ball flying straight as an arrow towards the green and cursed.
“Lucky sod. I prayed he might not have a shot,” he muttered. Unaware that he had. Just not the shot he expected.
The corpulent solicitor tried his best and hacked the ball from the rough. He trudged after it with a disconsolate air, dragging his trolley behind him.
“Still my turn Richard,” he called out to his playing partner, “you carry on and I’ll see you on the green in a tick.”
There was no reply.
Colin had not been idle in the minutes since he murdered the corrupt police officer. He reversed his jacket, stuffed the bobble hat in the rucksack and removed items from inside. As he strode back to the footpath, he now wore a maroon top and a white baseball cap. When he put enough distance between himself and Richard Armitage’s body he took the shaver out of his pocket and removed the designer stubble. When he was clean-shaven, he took off his glasses and put both the shaver and the glasses in the rucksack. His transformation was now complete. There weren’t any eyewitnesses in the vicinity. People may have remembered a walker in town this morning. Maybe a customer in The Snowdrop Inn, or a bird watcher on the footpath by the golf course. The man seen strolling away from the scene of crime late in the afternoon resembled none of them.
Meanwhile, Perry had played his third shot and his ball landed on the front of the green. He huffed and puffed his way along the course, looking for his partner. Had he slipped off behind a gorse bush for a pee? He was curious to discover what shot Richard had left. Did he still have a chance of salvaging a miracle half?
Perry still kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see the policeman striding up to join him. No sign of Richard’s ball on the green. Fingers crossed, he had flown over the green and landed in a heap of trouble at the back.
“Come on Richard,” he called out.
“Where the bloody hell has he got to?” he said to himself.
There was no sign of the ball at the back of the green. Perry felt a chill run down his back. He walked over to the pin. Shit. The ball nestled up against the stick an inch below the lip of the hole. DCI Richard Armitage never knew it, but he holed his second shot at the eleventh. The eagle had landed.
“I don’t believe it,” shouted Perry Watts-Williams, “that’s another fiver I owe you.”
Still fuming at his playing partner’s slice of luck he set off back to the fairway. Perry found Richard Armitage face first in the grass by his trolley. There was blood on the collar and shoulders of his wet weather jacket. No shouting or shaking would do any good. He wouldn’t be getting up again.
Perry looked around but there wasn’t anyone in sight. How on earth had this happened? What should he do? A golf ball landed ten yards away. He ran out into the middle of the fairway. Another ball skipped by him and ran towards the left-hand rough. Perry stood still and waved his arms frantically. What a terrible thing to have happened. As he saw club members striding towards him he had one consolation. Realisation dawned. He could keep his money in his pocket. Richard Armitage wasn’t collecting from him on this occasion.
The two golfers realised something was wrong and ran towards the by now distraught Perry. The shock of finding his dead colleague had made him incoherent. He imagined that he too might be in danger stuck out here at one of the furthest points on the course. By the time the emergency services arrived, and the course was cordoned off to preserve the murder scene, Colin Bailey sat on a train heading for London Victoria. He was coolness personified. Satisfied with a job well done.
CHAPTER 14
Erebus had watched the minicab disappear up the driveway, carrying Phoenix to the station. This was the first direct action he had sanctioned to b
e carried out by someone who was not ex-military. His reputation was on the line; Phoenix must not fail him. Erebus had turned away from the window and prepared for the morning’s meeting; there was nothing more to do. He had put his trust in the man they had plucked from the river and he would know in less than twelve hours whether that trust was misplaced.
The old man was now in the drawing-room where he, Athena, Thanatos, Alastor, and Minos met to discuss the status of the operations they were running. In addition, there were new targets to consider for direct action. The most pressing item on today’s agenda was the emergence of a possible terrorist threat to the London Olympics which were less than ten months away.
The five main members of the Olympus group discussed the ongoing operations. Seven agents in various European and African countries were each declared ‘code red.’ This meant the target assigned to them was now due for removal. To further disguise things, on top of the lengthy steps taken by the agents themselves, the group selected specific days and times for the tasks.
They took account of major events in the countries involved. Religious holidays, strikes by public servants, even a celebrity wedding. Any extra item that could add to the list of newsworthy items on the day selected was pertinent. No stone was left unturned in the search for a good day to bury news of the sudden death of a gangster or politician. In whichever part of the world, it occurred. Everything that might divert attention away from anyone linking these deaths to Olympus.
The next series of items covered potential new targets. They postponed several until the surveillance staff in the ice-house had gathered further data. Other straightforward assignments were delegated to agents in the right areas. Erebus paid particular attention to one background story from Scotland. It sounded as if it might be tailor-made for Phoenix.
A sixteen-year-old girl from Dunfermline had been reported as ‘being disgusted’ with the lenient sentence handed to a policeman who assaulted her and her sister. The forty-eight-year-old constable Had received a one year’s community order.
