The Red Chairs Mystery

by L. D. Culliford

  Holly smiled back. ‘What must it be like to have your life-partner diagnosed with cancer?’ she was thinking. ‘Maybe better not to have a partner…?’ But when she had finished her snack and did not want another drink, she knew she was wasting her time. She also realized she was deliberately keeping Mark waiting, yet it did not feel right to go enjoying herself while there was still a killer at large.

  When she left the inn, she got into the Nissan and looked at her map of the region, plotting a circuitous route backwards and forwards along unmarked country roads to get a better feel for the area, and possibly even spot something unusual that might be connected with the case. It was Holly’s way of letting her intuition run free. Once during her perambulations she was stuck for a few minutes behind a tractor pulling a mucky trailer. This, she realized, like many other farm and equestrian transports, would have been too dirty to have allowed the red leather chairs to remain so clean when left in the open that night. Hay, straw, various seeds, horse-feed and manure would have contaminated them, or would at least have left traces. Even a regular removal lorry would have left telltale traces of dust in crevices or underneath the chairs, despite the rain’s attempt to obliterate them. ‘What would the forensic report reveal?’

  These were her thoughts as she drove finally into the car park at the golf club, well after three o’clock. Mark, from the practice putting green, spotted her immediately. ‘Here you are’, he said simply, by way of greeting. ‘I knew you’d come.’ Holly was forced to admit to herself that she had known it all along too.

  ***

  Less than six miles distant from The Grapes Inn, along a turning northwards from the road to Petworth, in run-down buildings that had once been a traditional farm dwelling with outhouses, the man with the husky voice was lying on a dusty sofa in a chaotically untidy room, in front of a grate containing the remnants of burnt ash logs and cold ashes from the previous night’s fire. He was feeling unwell, short of breath, coughing intermittently, pale, sweaty, and his heart was racing. He was getting used to attacks like this since the diagnosis a month earlier. Tomorrow, he would be starting his final week of radiotherapy, but already had the feeling that it was not doing any good. He was angry about that, about the injustice of getting lung cancer not long after turning fifty when he had never smoked in his life; but there was also something deeper that he had been angry about for a very long time, and now, when he had finally tried to get justice, to do something about bringing shame and retribution on those who deserved it, everything seemed to be going wrong. His chances of making them pay were diminishing as his life ebbed away. The perpetrators of sheer evil, in his eyes, were getting away with it, and that made him angrier than ever.

  That morning, pressure-cleaning his vehicle one more time in the shed across the yard, he had heard the announcer on a local radio station say the police were still trying to identify the woman whose body had been found on the golf course, and that the land-owner and President of the club, Mr James Royle, was away overseas on business and unavailable for comment. Coughing up a small gobbet of blood-flecked mucus and spitting it on the ground, the angry man knew his plan had backfired. His ambition, that Royle and Gryllock would be forced to admit their depravity in public, wasn’t going to work, but he did not want to risk revealing his own identity, not yet anyway, if it could be helped. ‘Something else… I’m going to have to do something else’, he muttered to himself. ‘If only I felt a bit stronger.’

  A wave of nausea suddenly gripped him, so that he was forced to retrace his steps across the yard to go and lie down. He could not help thinking in his befuddled way that it might have been best to have buried his dead sister, Fran, but that was not how it seemed at the time.

  ***

  Over in Chicago – while his cancer-ridden, would-be nemesis, exhausted from his latest efforts to remove all tell-tale signs of his vehicle’s macabre night-cargo of a few of days earlier, was regaining strength – Jamie Royle was already at the Medinah clubhouse, eating pancakes and maple syrup and drinking coffee with Gary and Louise as Chuck Flanagan came by to join their small group. Catherine had stayed behind to finalize travel arrangements for Monday and monitor incoming messages and calls.

  The first Ryder Cup match of the day was not due to tee off until shortly after eleven, which gave the breakfasting spectators plenty of time. They were discussing how best to catch the action, an impossible task with twelve vital and exciting matches about to take place. Television coverage would show everything, or as much as possible, but there was nothing like being out there, on the ground, in the moment, when things were actually happening. Chuck was officiating in Match Four, the match between Justin Rose and the accomplished left-handed American player, Phil Mickelson. Jamie would be able to ride in a golf cart close up behind that group, inside the spectator ropes. He had seen Rose beat Mickelson in a previous Ryder Cup, at the infamous Valhalla Club in Kentucky in 2008, when the hapless Nick Faldo’s European team had gone down to Paul Azinger’s Americans by eleven-and-a-half points to sixteen-and-a-half. Rose was obviously this very day going to have to beat ‘Lefty’ again.

  Jamie and Chuck had already spoken to consolidate their bet. Chuck was giving two-to-one odds against a European victory, and Jamie was staking twenty-five thousand US dollars. ‘What if there’s a tie?’ he asked. ‘Then we’re even’, Chuck quickly replied, ‘And the bet carries over to our match on Monday, if you like.’

  ‘No’, Jamie decided. ‘If money changes hands today, we’ll play double-or-quits on Monday… How’s that?’

  Flanagan agreed. ‘Okay’, he said. ‘So, no money on a tie for today, even if Europe manage to retain the cup… There has to be a clear win.’

  ‘Right’, said Jamie. ‘That’s fair enough!’

  The evening before, after watching the action reach its gripping conclusion, headache forgotten, Jamie had taken the second buggy to the clubhouse where, bold as brass, picking up a magnum of champagne and a fistful of glasses from the bar, he had gone straight into the European players locker-room to shake hands and congratulate everyone. By chance, the first person he encountered, coming out of the showers wearing nothing but a large towel wrapped around his middle, was Ian Poulter.

  ‘That was so good, Ian’, Jamie said, offering to pour him a glass.

  ‘Actually’, said the golfer, waving him away, turning towards his locker, ‘I think I’d rather just have a beer.’

  Another player’s caddy, standing nearby, also took the opportunity to congratulate Poulter. When asked how he had managed to pull off such a stunning victory, the hero of the hour turned to look him calmly in the face. ‘Well Mick’, he said, as if the answer was obvious ‘It just had to be done.’

  Jamie enjoyed recounting that one later when he caught up with Gary and Chuck, mimicking Poulter’s intensity, his icy look and matter-of-fact tone of voice… ‘Well, my man, it simply had to be done!’ Intoxicated by the moment, completely ignoring that Poulter had simply dismissed him, Jamie could not help the embellishment. ‘How cool was that?’ he asked his companions unnecessarily. ‘How brilliantly ‘king cool was that! The man’s a marvel.’ His admiration was excessive. ‘We are definitely going to win tomorrow’, he added. ‘Definitely…’

  But now, with a new day facing the two teams, many European supporters were seeing a more realistic picture and preparing themselves for likely defeat. ‘At least it won’t be a walkover’, Gary heard a man with a Union Jack hat say to his companion, a woman with the yellow on blue, twelve-star, European logo face-painted on either cheek. ‘What do you mean?’ she replied. ‘I believe in them. I’m sure we can still fight back and win.’

  Louise clapped her on the back. ‘Good for you’, she said. ‘I agree! We’re not going to stand for defeatist talk. Are we?’

  She and Gary headed off in the direction of the first tee with their new friends, who were from Staffordshire, to try and secure a place in the stands. Meanw
hile, Chuck and Jamie made their way to the practice range where players were going through their warm-up drills. Luke Donald left for the putting green soon after they arrived. He and his opponent, Bubba Watson, were out first, followed by Poulter and Webb Simpson. For the moment, Rose was the only European there hitting balls before Paul Lawrie and Nicholas Colsaerts appeared… But where was Rory? McIlroy’s tee-time – 11.35 am – was before Rose’s, and he had not yet appeared at the course.

  Astonishingly, McIlroy had misunderstood which time zone he was in, and was still in his hotel room some distance from the course, thinking he had an hour and a half until his match was due to start. It was in fact thirty minutes. Someone soon got through to him and put him right, but there was serious traffic, and had he arrived even one minute late for his game, he would have been disqualified. Keegan Bradley would have been awarded the match.

  Somehow Rory avoided panicking. Down in the hotel lobby, he spotted a US policeman who obligingly agreed to take him across to the course in his car. Using the siren made their journey quicker, and Rory was changing his shoes in the locker-room, picking up ‘breakfast’ – a single energy bar – with a full ten minutes to go. He made it to the tee box five minutes later, greeting his startled opponent, ready to play without so much as a single warm-up shot or practice putt. Nevertheless, as it turned out, he was confident and in excellent form. Not much more than three hours later, he had beaten Bradley by two holes up with one to play, an exemplary ‘two-and-one’ victory, by which time Luke Donald had triumphed convincingly, also 2 & 1, and Paul Lawrie even more so, the Scotsman’s victory score a massive 5 & 3 against the luckless Brandt Snedeker, blitzed on this occasion by utterly superior play. Lawrie, an astonishing six under par for fifteen holes, said afterwards that competing in the Ryder Cup helped him play better than at any other time in his life.

  Soon after Rory, Ian Poulter won his match too, as he had confidently predicted, although it had taken a miracle curling shot, a hundred and fifty yards around a stand of trees to the green on the final hole to do it. Astonishingly, the first four wins going to Europe, the match was now tied at ten-all… But it was a long way from over.

  ***

  Holly was ambivalent, both about the game of golf and equally about her budding friendship with Mark. Deep down she was afraid that things would go the same way they had with her husband, Tony, ending badly. Because it might encourage him past the point at which she felt comfortable, she was not at all sure she wanted another golf lesson, so she told Mark she had to see Peter Harding first. But, the Colonel having nothing new to say, she was left with nothing else to do but go outside again.

  ‘Have a try at putting’, Mark offered when she dawdled back over ten minutes later. ‘It’s pretty easy, and it is an important part of the game. Golfers know, “You drive for show and putt for dough!” That means sinking putts is how to win matches… Did you see Ian Poulter last night? His putting pretty much saved the day for Europe.’

  Holly admitted missing the Saturday night Ryder Cup action. Mark shrugged. ‘Well, I shall be glued to it later, but we’ve time before it starts again. The first singles match tees off just after five o’clock our time. Come on!’

  The SRGC practice green, sheltered from the prevailing wind by a high beech hedge, was exemplary, covering over four hundred square yards of beautifully manicured greensward. The undulations were subtle, and the turf silky-smooth. Mark set up a row of golf balls six inches away from each other and about six feet away from one of the holes.

  ‘This is how you do it’, he said. ‘The important thing is to keep the face of the putter lined up square, perpendicular to the hole as you swing through the ball… Like this…’

  He showed her what to do, swinging the putter-head gently and rhythmically, backwards and forwards like a pendulum. After stroking each shot, he moved his feet forward exactly six inches, making contact with each of the balls in turn. Four of them went into the hole, the other two missing the cup slightly to the left.

  ‘Have a go!’

  Holly accepted the invitation hesitantly. The putter seemed a bit long for her, and she gripped it awkwardly at first. Mark was setting the row of balls up again as she took a couple of tentative practice swings. She thought she knew what he meant by ‘keeping the putter-face square through the ball’, but it was not easy to accomplish.

  ‘Let me show you’, Mark said, approaching her, putting his right hand forward to cover hers, turning to plant his feet either side behind her back, wrapping his left arm around, reaching for the putter with his other hand.

  ‘Just stand still’, he instructed, his lips now only a few inches from her left ear once again. ‘You’re very tense’, he continued. ‘See if you can relax’.

  Holly was tense. ‘Is this golf or love-making, or both?’ she was wondering. Part of her wanted to be able to relax, but a stronger part seemed intent on resistance. Undaunted, Mark pressed his knees forwards gently against the backs of hers, forcing Holly into a slight crouch. He also said to keep her back upright, while bending her head forward a little so that her leading eye, her left eye, was directly over the ball. Then, hands clasped firmly over hers, he moved them first an inch away from the hole, then a couple of inches forward. The putter head moved correspondingly further, about six inches back and a foot forward, the resulting thrust propelling the golf ball in the right direction, but not quite hard enough to reach the hole.

  Mark shuffled them forward and tried again, moving their fused hands slightly further in each direction. Holly had no time to watch the ball disappear below ground before Mark shuffled them forward again to repeat the process. It was, she had to admit, a pleasantly cosy experience. By the time the sixth ball was on its way, she had relaxed sufficiently to be able to feel, in her own hands and body, what Mark was making happen through puppetry. When he let go of her, saying, ‘Now it’s your turn’, she was ready to give it a proper try.

  The novice’s first three shots went off-line, two to the left and one to the right. The first was also hit way too softly, and the others too hard. ‘This is difficult’, she said.

  Mark, saying nothing, continued retrieving the balls, replacing them, extending the original row. Holly then hit three in a row, straight towards the hole. The first went too quickly, hit the back of the cup and bounced out. The second stopped short, and the third, after Mark swiftly got the second one out of the way, fell neatly into the hole. Holly looked to Mark for congratulations, which were duly forthcoming. ‘Keep going’, he said, placing the next ball a little further away than the others. ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer, you know.’

  Holly persevered. By the time Mark was placing balls twelve or more feet away from the cup, she was missing most but feeling more competent, especially when he explained that golfers are expected to take two putts per hole. ‘That’s what the par of the course is based on’, he reminded her. ‘If you can lag putts from this distance and over to within ‘tap-in’ range, which is to say about the length of a gin bottle, or maybe just over, that’s great! That’s all you need.’

  ‘And speaking of gin’, he added, ‘Why don’t we stop now, and please let me buy you a drink?’

  Mark took the putter to his car while Holly made her way into the clubhouse. She chose coffee, when he rejoined her, rather than gin, and noticed that the golf matches were starting up again on the television. The crowd watching in the member’s lounge was smaller than it had been on the first evening, but no less eager for European victory. As the excitement began building over the next hour, Holly decided not to stay and get involved. Mark was disappointed when she left, well before any of the matches were completed, but accepted her explanation that she was keen to reach her father’s house before seven o’clock. She was already aware of the thrill surrounding the unfolding battle, though, and the tension had increased by the time she reached Oving. When she and her father sat for their meal in front of the television s
et, not very long afterwards, the first five matches were already over.

  After the teams reached ten-all, there had been a setback for Europe. On Friday afternoon, the Belgian golfer Nicholas Colsaerts had managed an astonishing performance in his four-ball match, partnering Lee Westwood to beat the redoubtable pairing of Woods and Stricker by the slenderest margin of one hole. In doing so, Colsaerts had scored an unbelievable nine birdies and an eagle, sinking a series of enormous-length putts. Sadly now, two days later, his putting skill had deserted him. He lost his match against Dustin Johnson by ‘three-and-two’. Graeme McDowell for Europe also seemed to be struggling against Zach Johnson. Things were not looking good.

  The 12th

  Chapter

  As well as whatever had happened since with work colleagues and such, Holly’s hesitancy over Mark stemmed originally from the pain she had felt after the break-up with Tony. The couple had met when she was eighteen, during Holly’s first term at Sussex University. She had quickly become infatuated, believing herself in love with her Greek god for a long time; but he turned out to be different from the person she thought she knew.

  Her father had taken a close interest in her schoolwork and, responding to his encouragement, she had excelled, particularly at the sixth form college where she studied geography, English and maths. She was also in a cross-country running team and played badminton to a high standard. One of her teachers even suggested she apply to Cambridge, but Holly’s ambitions were more modest. At that stage, she did not know where her talents might lie, and therefore what best to study. The only drive she experienced was to find out more about people, and about herself, perhaps something important about the meaning of life, so a degree in psychology held some appeal. It was a popular course, and there was competition, but she interviewed well and had no trouble obtaining a place.