The Red Chairs Mystery

by L. D. Culliford

  ‘That’s what those overhead wires are for’, said Georgina, pointing skyward. ‘We have another electronic solution. Whenever the temperature drops below a certain point, a thick, transparent plastic cover gets pulled across to make a kind of ceiling. It’s housed behind that wall there. The cover protects the plants from any risk of frost damage… We think of everything, you know.’

  ‘And do you make a profit from the roses?’

  ‘Well it depends how you do your accounting. Probably not, is the answer; even though we have another ten acre site down the road, on even better soil closer to the Downs. That one is covered by hothouses, and run on a much more commercial scale. But we don’t focus on making a profit. We don’t need to. Ever since the accident, Jamie has always picked up all the bills.’

  The women made their way back towards the main house. Georgina stopped beside another Martsey Damsel and, leaning across, deftly cut one of the flower-bearing stems with secateurs from a pouch on the side of her wheelchair. ‘This is for you’, she said, handing the sweet-smelling rose to Holly, who took it without a word. ‘Now, to answer your earlier question, “Do I see him often?” It’s like this… Jamie keeps a room here, next to mine. He uses it whenever he wants to, usually if he’s going to play golf at the club. He was here a lot, of course, when he bought it and during the development phase, but not so often these days; although he does make a point of being here for my birthday in March; sometimes for Christmas too… But, truthfully, I sense he’s uncomfortable here. And, anyway, he much prefers London.’

  Holly was grateful for the older woman’s candour, and delighted with her gift of a rose. This was what she so liked about her job: not only solving difficult cases, but meeting fascinating individuals and hearing their stories, connecting with people, as she felt she had done that morning with a woman she might have considered unfortunate, until she actually met her. Bringing her nose up from the petals in which she had buried it, looking up, she caught the motionless dark figure of Monica Kidd, standing on the terrace, looking in her direction.

  Mrs Royle had noticed her too. ‘Come along’, she said. ‘Let’s go back inside.’

  Sitting in the Micra, Holly was surprised, when she looked at her watch, at how much time had passed. The rose, with its stem now carefully wrapped in moistened tissue paper inside a plastic sandwich bag, lay on the seat beside her, its perfume filling the air. About to turn the key, looking up, she also noticed that a multicoloured minibus from ‘Riding for the Disabled’ was parked in the forecourt, together with a Land Rover and two-berth horse trailer. A smiling young woman with the unmistakeable facial features of Down’s Syndrome stood near the stable-block, holding the bridle of a pony that was munching grass from the verge. Cheerful sounds emerged from inside, but the detective in her was suddenly paying attention. ‘Of course’, Holly thought. ‘It could have been some form of animal transport that conveyed those red chairs to the golf course, not only a delivery vehicle. We shall have to widen the enquiry.’

  Setting off down the driveway, the sun shining into her face, another imperative struck her. ‘I’m going to track down Jamie Royle. I definitely need to speak to that man.’

  The 10th

  Chapter

  At the same time Holly was leaving Rose Cottage, due to the time difference across the Atlantic in Illinois, early-riser Jamie Royle was eating a breakfast bowl of cereal. Tall and tanned, younger in appearance than his sixty-something years, with no spare flesh and a full head of golden-blond hair, elegantly clad in the royal blue and bright yellow colours of Team Europe, a souvenir from the previous Ryder Cup in South Wales two years earlier, he was feeling fit and looking strong.

  The patio door open, he could already hear Gary in the pool outside, the forty-eight year old SRGC golf professional swimming the fifty laps he liked to complete every morning. As befitted a man of Jamie’s extensive resources, they were staying in a luxury house close to the Medinah Country Club, rented for the whole week at enormous cost. The other two occupants were Catherine Pokorny, Jamie’s personal assistant, with a room of her own, and Louise Broad, Jamie’s physio, masseuse, personal trainer, part-time cook and occasional bedfellow.

  Catherine, a highly intelligent young woman from Slovakia, whose name Pokorny, when translated means ‘tame’, presented herself to the world as anything but, rather as a tough, passionless ice-maiden, unreachable and dismissive. Louise, on the other hand, was light-hearted and full of fun. Jamie sometimes spoke of her as ‘a good sport’. To anyone else, Louise might have seemed used, her loyalty to him abused even, but she was very content with the role he gave her. Thirty-seven years old, in good physical shape, and with a marriage behind her that failed due more to inertia than discord, she often asked herself who else could have such a good life.

  She was the moll of a multi-millionaire, a good-looking and courteous fellow who took her to many wonderful places and who, except when they were travelling, left her more or less free; so she felt she had much the better of the bargain. His demands on her, even in bed, she reflected, were remarkably light. She gave him what he wanted in the sack as elsewhere, her highly-toned pelvic floor muscles ensuring mutual pleasure; also that she stayed in control. She only hoped he hadn’t realised how often recently she was faking a counterfeit climax.

  Still in the bedroom that morning, Louise was preparing to go to the mini-gym in the house’s basement for a warm-up session when the insistent tones of Jamie’s mobile attracted her attention. By the time she took the phone through to him, though, it had stopped ringing. They both said ‘Good Morning’. Louise turned to leave. She was on her way, and Jamie was putting the phone down on the table, when it started ringing again. Seeing the call was from Paddy Gryllock, waving Louise out, Jamie accepted it, putting the phone onto speaker.

  ‘Morning Jamie’, said the well-remembered voice of his friend and business partner. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Cut the crap, Paddy.’ Jamie’s reply was terse. ‘It must be bad news if you’re phoning me at this time on a Saturday. You know I’ve got a ringside seat at one of the greatest sporting events of the year.’

  ‘Okay, Jamie… No more bullshit then. It’s this… The Guangzhou people are causing problems. They want to renegotiate the contract… Put the prices up!’

  ‘Can’t I deal with it when I go to Hong Kong. I’ll be there in ten days?’ Jamie was irritated, but not especially alarmed. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘The issue is that they are not in China right now. The main negotiators are in Europe. They’ve been in Latvia, buying up the factory there that we’ve been using; and now they’re in Germany on a mission to acquire as much of the competition as they can, paying top-dollar too.’

  ‘I see’, Jamie was thoughtful. ‘The Vilnius place was only low volume, high spec manufacturing. We could always take that work to Seoul presumably… What about the South Koreans? Could they handle it if we switched everything there? Will that work?’

  ‘They could handle it; but as for profitability, it depends what figure we agree with the Chinese.’ Gryllock sounded anxious. ‘That’s why I want you here to meet them… On Monday if possible, Old Son.’

  ‘You’ve got to be bloody joking!’ Jamie did not sound best pleased.

  ‘There are three of them, and they’re due to land in London on an early bird flight from Bonn on Monday. They’re talking of upping our costs by twenty-five to thirty percent. That’s still lower than the South Koreans, but it will cut badly into our profits. You’re much better at this sort of thing than I am… And one of them is a woman, by the way.’

  ‘Is she sexy?’ Jamie asked, pretty much as a matter of course.

  ‘She’s very sexy, yes… In an oriental sort of way’, answered the man who best knew his friend’s tastes in most things – cars, wine and, of course, women, admittedly also slightly ashamed that he had not yet actually set eyes on Laetitia Chou, the Chinese lady c
oncerned. ‘I think you’ll love her… More to the point, you handsome bugger, I think she’ll love you. That’s why we need you here, to charm the knockers off her.’

  Hooked, as his pal intended, Jamie made a quick decision. There seemed no better alternative. ‘The golf finishes tomorrow evening’, he announced, ‘And I’m staying for the celebrations – although it looks as if Europe might go down to the Yanks this time. Either way, I’ll get a flight Monday evening and be at Heathrow early on Tuesday. Keep them happy on Monday. You can take them to Felicia’s if you like. Use my regular table. There shouldn’t be any problem if you phone ahead. Then set up a meeting with me at the office for Tuesday midday. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Thanks James’, said Patrick, back in London. ‘I knew I could count on you.’ But Royle had already cut the connection, striding down the passageway to get Catherine out of bed to start making new arrangements. He was angry, fuming with a kind of slow-burn of energy that, if he were honest, he rather enjoyed. He was angry with the Chinese for going back on what had previously been a cast-iron deal; but he was also angry with himself, and he wasn’t exactly sure why. It wasn’t connected to business.

  When Peter Harding first contacted him about the body on the golf course at Graffham, Royle assumed he was not directly concerned and refused to listen to details. However, the day before, he had received another text from the Colonel. This one mentioned the red chairs on the fairway. It also said that the police were increasingly keen to speak to him. Normally oozing with confidence, he suddenly felt a wave of alarm. ‘Oh, no… Shit!’ he thought. ‘I could do without that.’ But when Gary, close beside him, asked, ‘What’s up?’ Jamie, switched the phone off, gave him a sheepish look, shrugged, and simply said, ‘Nothing’, then put the thing out of his mind.

  About an hour after speaking to his business partner, Jamie was calmer and very focused. He and Gary were driving to the Medinah clubhouse in one of the two golf buggies that came with the rented house. ‘Look’, he was saying, ‘Catherine and I will return to London. You and Louise go on to Portland as planned, fly down to Bandon and enjoy yourselves for a couple of days. You’ve both got company credit cards, so just have fun. You can still use my tee times. I’m hoping to rejoin you by Friday; maybe even Thursday. That still lets me play Bandon Dunes, the main course, and Pacific Dunes too with luck before we leave again for Hong Kong and Bangkok. It’s supposed to be a fabulous resort Mike Keiser’s built up there. That bit of Oregon coastline is just like Scottish links-land, apparently, and the courses are special.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen their website’, Gary agreed. ‘The whole complex – four courses; three separate clubhouses; fabulous accommodation and several restaurants – it’s a dream. You’ve cancelled our matches, I take it?’

  ‘Sadly, yes’, Jamie replied. I can’t ask John Tonks to hang around for three or four days until I get there. He’ll have to call off his ringer too, former tour pro Jonny Braggard, now back in the amateur ranks.’

  ‘What a name!’ said Gary.

  ‘Braggard? Yes… It suits him too!’ Jamie replied. ‘Actually, that’s his weak spot. He thinks he’s so good, you only have to get slightly ahead and he’s done for. His nerves kick in. That’s why he had to give up the tour… Too temperamental... He and John came over for a game at The Berkshire last year. You remember I told you about it? I played with my friend Angus, down from Scotland. We beat them twice in two days on the red course and halved the decider on the blue on day three. I still wake up in horror at the five-foot putt I missed on the final green to let them off the hook. Even so, we cleaned up. Now John wants his revenge, but he’s going to have to wait.’

  The two men did not have to travel far to reach the course perimeter. From there, it was less than half a mile to the clubhouse, along cart paths that ran near the final fairway on Medinah’s Course Number Two, skirting the practice area, then alongside Lake Kadijah, across the placid waters of which; on Course Number Three, the one being used for the Ryder Cup; players had to hit four times. Holes two, thirteen, fourteen and seventeen certainly made for exciting golf.

  Earlier in the week, Jamie and Gary had played big money-matches on the other two courses against their host, Charles Flanagan, paired with the Medinah Club’s leading amateur, plus-two handicapper, Rob Girt. It was honours even, the British pair having won the first game and lost the second. The third match was due to take place on Monday, the day after the Ryder Cup, on the championship course. This was another reason Jamie insisted on delaying his return to London.

  Well-connected in the world of golf, he was a member of the Royal and Ancient club, based in the impressive grey building behind the first tee of the most famous links in the world, the Old Course at St Andrews. He was also a well-respected rules official, having acted in that capacity at two previous Ryder Cups and three Open Championships – ‘The British Open’, as the Americans insisted on calling it. So this time, although he was not officiating, he was being given full access to the Medinah clubhouse, practice area and all parts of the course. Chuck Flanagan, had seen to all that.

  The two men had first met many years earlier at Sotogrande in Spain. They had been drawn as partners in a local tournament for low handicap amateurs, and had somehow managed to win. Luck was certainly with them. On one occasion, one of Chuck’s worst shots fizzed low off the club, the ball bouncing twice on the surface of a lake before finding dry land on the other side. A ‘Barnes-Wallis’, Jamie called it.

  Another time, Jamie mishit a short iron way off line to the right from a hundred and thirty-five yards, only to watch it bounce at forty-five degrees off a large eucalyptus tree, looping up over a bunker, hitting the sharp down-slope and rolling a full sixty feet in a graceful arc, right to the edge of the cup. Both men that day were deadly with the flat-stick, the putter, and their winning score was significantly under par. Shaking hands with the trophy between them, a lifelong friendship was born.

  The Medinah clubhouse is a magnificent building, a temple of golf designed with Moorish features, created out of red brick with white edging picturesquely offset by a green tiling roof. There is a long, sweeping, curved cloister-like walkway on each side, lined by arched columns and flanked by two oversized, tall, square, cupola-topped minaret-like structures. In the centre foreground, framing the arrival area and entranceway, a rectangular portico, bordered by similarly high, narrower, hexagonal, cupola-topped towers, juts forward, its green roof pointing up towards a larger arch, framing windows that sit symmetrically below white plasterwork and a large, eye-catching, Byzantine-style green dome.

  As Jamie and Gary arrived, Chuck was coming forward down the clubhouse steps to greet them. A short, stocky, powerful man, he was the same age as Jamie but looked considerably older, with thinning hair and a florid complexion, a busy restless man, always on the move. He was about to usher his guests inside when the sound of a flight of five or six small planes could be heard approaching. Looking up, the three men were astonished to see sky-writing appear against the blue above them. Jamie laughed as he read aloud, ‘Anyone seen Tiger?’ Tiger Woods and Steve Stricker had lost both their matches the previous day.

  Another message was more sobering. ‘Do it for Seve.’ Other spectators nearby were looking skywards too, equally amazed. The messages were clearly aimed at boosting the morale of the European team. As the men went inside, there was speculation as to who’s idea it had been and, this being America, about who was paying for it. Chuck Flanagan thought it might have been his uber-rich friend and said so. Jamie, who knew nothing about the airborne encouragement until seeing it himself, simply smiled. There was no point scotching a rumour like that, casting him in such a favourable light. There was no point in doing that at all.

  The golf duly got under way a little later, with frenzy on the first tee as Ian Poulter whipped up the enthusiasm of the European supporters, to the surprise of his opponent Bubba Watson, who had been doing the same for th
e American fans on the previous day. ‘Anything you can do, we can do louder’, they seemed to want to convey. The trick clearly worked, too, because Poulter and Justin Rose managed to beat Watson and Webb Simpson, if only by a single hole. Unfortunately, that morning, the three other European pairs were unsuccessful. By lunch, the US team led overall by 8 to 4, and Jamie Royle had a headache.

  He and Gary were back at the clubhouse, having walked a few holes around the course following the action for most of the morning. They weren’t hungry, having just picked up food from the hospitality area. Jamie was thinking of watching the start of the afternoon’s play on television when he noticed something wrong with his eyesight. He was looking up at one of the big leader-boards and found he couldn’t focus properly. Wherever he looked, the central part of his vision was blank. Shutting his eyes confirmed his fear. It was as if a nest of three or four jagged lines, alternating bright and dark, were moving slowly across inside his darkened eyelids. As he moved his eyes left and right, the flashing stripes followed. The headache had not arrived in full force yet, but he knew anyway that this was the start of a migraine. It happened two or three times a year, often when he was under stress and therefore when most inconvenient.

  Turning to Gary, he immediately said, ‘Go get the buggy and take me back to the house’. Taking one look at his employer’s drawn, pale face, the golf pro did not hesitate and rushed off.

  Catherine was sunning herself by the pool when they arrived, ensconced in a lounger and reading a book. Louise had gone to the local mall for provisions. Jamie, ignoring everyone, went straight inside. He swallowed down three pain-killers with a glass of water in the bathroom, walked into the bedroom, closed the curtains and flopped onto the bed, having taken out a handkerchief to cover his eyes. From experience, he knew this was the only way to deal with the situation. If he was lucky, the pharmaceuticals would soften the intensity, and maybe also shorten the duration of the one-sided headache. Silence and a darkened room were the only other things that might help. If Jamie had been more self-aware, he would know that it was compressed anger that usually brought on these attacks, anger bottled-up usually with an under-current of fear.