The Red Chairs Mystery

by L. D. Culliford

  At the same moment, taking it personally, Jamie was deeply incensed because Molinari was losing seventeen. With Chuck smiling now beside him, it felt like being robbed. His hands in his pockets were sweaty and tightly clenched. His eyes were wide, and his mouth dry. It seemed to be taking an age for the players on eighteen to walk up to their balls, decide on a shot and play.

  Kaymer’s shot from the bunker, though, was worth waiting for. His ball soared in the air, making a graceful left-to-right curve. It fell softly on the green side of the left bunker, from where the slope propelled it helpfully forward and sideways so that it came to a halt no more than twenty feet from the hole. Stricker, like Mickelson and Furyk before him, hit his shot to the green slightly too long. His ball was on the putting surface, but he looked set to get no better than four.

  Kaymer almost certainly needed only two putts to win his match. The European onlookers were confident, sure now that, against all the odds, they would be taking their precious Ryder Cup home… Then things began to go wrong again.

  Martin Kaymer had played only one match before this, partnering Rose against Dustin Johnson and Matt Kuchar in the afternoon four-balls on the first day. They had lost. Despite gaining a Ryder Cup place, his year on the professional tour had not been particularly successful either, and he was hungry for glory. After it was all over, he said that he had wanted to sink the first putt and beat Stricker outright with a birdie, imagining the adulation this would bring. Did he really think his opponent might sink his enormous putt and make a three? No… But the German’s thoughts were a little scrambled, understandably so in the circumstances. Later, he also admitted that he had lain awake much of the night thinking about this very possibility, that the entire result of three days’ hard fought battle would come down to him on the last green, putting for victory. This grandiose vision began to unravel, though, and with it Jamie’s hopes of winning his massive bet, as he stood over his downhill, side-sliding putt and failed to settle.

  At that exact moment, thoughts awry, Kaymer began to worry, convinced that he needed to take more borrow, to aim further left, which was probably true. As a result of the uncertainty, Jamie noticed him starting to twiddle his hands on the putter-grip and re-set his wrists, but without moving his feet or properly re-aligning his shoulders. The result, when the putter head finally made contact, was for the ball to shoot off, both too fast and too far to the right. There were gasps from some of the onlookers as the ball ended up a full six or seven feet from the cup. Chuck heard Jamie groan while Jamie, in turn, caught sight of Ian Poulter who, elated and confident a moment before, suddenly looked similarly dismayed. Down the fairway, the European Captain, Olazabal, could be seen ripping off his hat, closing his eyes and pulling out his earphones in despair, unable to watch or listen to any more.

  ‘Remember Bernhard Langer at Kiawah Island?’ Chuck whispered to Jamie, referring to another German golfer who missed an even shorter putt than the one facing Kaymer. This had been against Hale Irwin on the final hole of the final match back in 1991. That time, in South Carolina, Langer’s miss meant the Europeans lost the Ryder Cup by a single point. ‘I do’, replied Jamie, stony-faced. ‘But this is not over yet!’

  Stricker made his four, courageously sinking a treacherous curling twelve-footer to do so. Then it was up to Kaymer to make good. Everything depended on it. As he lined up the putt and took his stance, Captain Ollie was covering his face with his cap. Rory, crouched down on his haunches at the edge of the green, having raised his hands over his face, was peeping anxiously through latticed fingers. Garcia and Colsaerts were both standing there, literally chewing their lips.

  For a moment, the crowd was completely hushed. The German stood motionless over his putt, then struck it firmly. Unerringly, seconds later, it found the bottom of the cup, and immediately, there was uproar, all the noise being made by elated – and relieved – Europeans. Kaymer let his putter drop so as to raise both fists in the air, shaking them in triumph. His dream coming magnificently true at that moment, he then ran full-tilt at his team-mates, leaping up into Sergio’s outstretched arms, the two immediately enfolded in a bear hug from behind by Peter Hanson. Other players too were hugging each other and laughing.

  It was almost too good, too amazing, to be true… But it wasn’t yet over. The score was fourteen-thirteen. Captain Ollie – and, obviously, Jamie – were still both hoping for an outright win. When things calmed down, everyone’s attention naturally turned towards the final fairway where Woods and Molinari stood waiting to play. Olazabal was down there as well, urging Francesco on, telling him he had to win the hole. Woods was one-up, and this would tie the match to sew up the unlikeliest of European victories. Somehow, though, with fourteen European points already achieved, the diminutive Italian felt considerably relieved of pressure. Much less tense than during the preceding few holes, he made a good swing, safely finding the green with his second shot. Woods, in contrast, missed to the right – but not by much.

  After his next shot, Francesco’s ball was close, just three-and-a-half feet below the hole in three; but this meant Woods needed only, to get ‘up-and-down’ in two shots, for victory. He was certain to chip his ball close. It was on the fringe, level with the hole, only about twenty feet away.

  Under normal circumstances, it was an easy shot; but knowing that America could no longer hope to win the cup, no matter what he did, seemed to affect Tiger. Whatever the reason, he played the shot rather too firmly. The ball ran forward, actually hit the hole, and might have dropped in but was going too quickly. Spinning away downhill, it came to rest past Molinari’s ball, leaving Tiger a putt of about five feet, which he then also missed. He was down in five shots.

  Even so, at this crucial stage, Molinari still needed to sink his tricky putt for a four to win the hole, tie the match, and secure the Ryder Cup win for his team. Jamie was still worried, because the Italian was not known to be the most reliable putter, having missed a couple of short ones under pressure two years earlier at Celtic Manor. Nevertheless, with Woods about to make bogey, Jamie still felt he had been given an improbable lifeline. Meanwhile, beside him, Chuck Flanagan was yet hoping Francesco would miss. The fifty-thousand dollar bet between the two men had come down to this simple question: would Molinari sink the crucial putt?

  On tenterhooks, they were both waiting for the answer when something remarkable and entirely unexpected happened. Tiger Woods picked up his ball. This simple act was an irreversible indication that he was conceding the hole without making his opponent putt out. With that inexplicably generous gesture on the part of the most famous and talented African-Asian-American golfer in the world, their match was halved. More importantly, by 14½ to 13½, Europe had gained full victory in the 2012 Ryder Cup.

  It took a second or two for the win to sink in. Then, cheering, Jamie leapt right in the air, landed, turned and tried to give his friend Chuck a great bear-hug. The unhappy Flanagan, though, evaded his outstretched arms testily. Forced to admit to defeat, like many Americans at that same moment, he was feeling somewhat betrayed. Not entirely in control of his emotions, he began walking away in disgust, then turned and, with an almost demonic growl, called loudly back to Jamie, above the raucous noise of the crowd. Somehow, despite the din, the Englishman caught Chuck’s every word: ‘I shall get even with you tomorrow, Mister. Make no mistake about that.’

  The 14th

  Chapter

  As Holly made her way from her father’s place to Greenings the following morning, the rain was drizzling down. While taking due care at the wheel, she found herself thinking about the exciting finale on television the evening before. The stunned looks on the faces of the American players in defeat had made her feel genuinely sorry, both for them and their supporters. Mickelson, Furyk and Dufner, all three staring silently at the turf, formed a perfect picture of disbelief and despair in the brief moments after Tiger Woods gave Molinari the win. ‘Stricker looks particularly stricke
n’, her dad had said, trying to make a weak joke. Only team captain Davis Love on the American side appeared to retain sufficient composure to react with good grace. Father and daughter had watched him advance across the turf, magnanimously shaking a weary and emotional Olazabal by the hand in congratulation.

  They could also see that Ollie’s feelings were running high during those moments after the victory. After praising his team members, when interviewed on camera about their success, he suddenly burst into tears, looking to the heavens and crying out, ‘This one’s for you, Sevvy’. Then, facing the reporter again, he obviously wanted to explain his words, adding in the sincerest of tones, ‘You know… This one is for my friend’.

  Unable to share it in the flesh with his amigo and great golfing mentor, this remarkable triumph must have tasted bitter-sweet; but the same volatile Ollie, shortly afterwards, was joking with Rory McIlroy, laughingly presenting him with an enormous alarm clock, the idea being to prevent the risk of his being late on the first tee ever again. It was funny, but also a serious reminder that the Ulsterman’s mix-up of time zones had jeopardized the whole team’s success.

  Rory could not stop giggling as he accepted the hilarious gift, and the general jubilation of the team was infectious. As subdued American fans wandered off, making their way quietly home, some at least paused to congratulate their opponents, while many of the European supporters lingered on, gathering near the clubhouse, joining in with impromptu celebrations. The victorious team and their caddies were soon up on the raised walkway, armed with several large jeroboams of champagne, vigorously spraying the throng below amid prolonged cheers in what was now something of a tradition.

  Later, spot-lit in the dark, showered and changed, immaculate in their matching grey-checked suits, the European stars clustered for final photos, holding high aloft between them the golden Ryder Cup trophy, McDowell out front, briefly imitating Ollie’s famous fandango dance-steps as a tribute to such a splendidly passionate captain. They seemed set to party right on through the night.

  The victory was wonderful because unexpected. The British press started calling it ‘The Miracle at Medinah’. ‘I don’t know if you can say Sevvy was helping us today or not’, Garcia told a reporter at one point, ‘But something was… And we needed it.’

  ‘The turning point came late on Saturday’, said Rose in turn, ‘When Ian somehow managed to turn his match around.’ ‘You know’, he added thoughtfully, ‘There’s a difference between thinking you can win and believing you can win… We all came here this morning really believing we could win. That’s what did it for me.’

  ***

  It was raining hard by the time Holly pulled up outside Greenings. Waiting in the car for the force of the downpour to subside, her mind back on the task in hand, she suddenly realized something. ‘There’s a difference between thinking you can solve a crime and really believing you can solve it’, she told herself. ‘This one, I believe I can solve.’

  As the rain eased momentarily, Holly jumped out and ran to the door with her shoulder bag over her head. Inside, colleagues were already busy at work. All the phones were in use. Calling a brief meeting, she discovered nothing much new. They were still focusing on possible means of transport for Jane X’s body and the red chairs. Looking at the list of removals companies, livery stables and so on, Holly said she would take Barrow & Sons. Their maroon-coloured vans were a common sight around Sussex, and she got through to Bruce Barrow right away.

  ‘What can I do you for, Detective?’ he asked cheerily down the line, after she introduced herself. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions, please’, she replied. ‘Come on over, then!’ he said. Fewer than fifteen minutes later, she was there. Luckily, it had completely stopped raining.

  Barrows & Sons Limited were based at a large enclosed site near Fittleworth. ‘My father Percy started the business in Pulborough years ago’, Bruce explained, after showing Holly through to his office. I bought my brother Keith out and moved us here when I took over from Dad, ten or twelve years ago now. I was building up the fleet, and we needed more secure space to park them up in at night. We also needed to build lock-up storage, as you’ll see if you take a look out of the window across the yard. That building opposite is all storage.’

  Holly told him about the chairs on the golf course, showing Barrow a photo of one of them, supplied to the team first thing that morning by the forensics people. ‘How hard would it be to do that?’ she asked, ‘To move a couple of heavy armchairs like these and place them down again on grass without leaving much of a trace?’

  ‘Very difficult, I would say’, replied Barrow. ‘Why would you?’

  ‘That’s what I want to find out’, Holly replied. ‘Can I have a look at one of your vans, please? Were any missing on Wednesday night last week, by the way?’

  Bruce Barrow stood up. ‘Come with me’, he said, leading her back to the reception area next door. ‘Let me introduce you to Jill’, he continued, indicating a short dark-haired woman intent on her work, sitting behind a computer. ‘Jill is my wife, and anything she doesn’t know about what goes on around here isn’t worth knowing… Jill, this is Sergeant Angel. Can you print off the manifest for Wednesday, Thursday and Friday last week, please?’

  A minute later, they were back in his office, looking at the three spreadsheets. ‘As I thought’, began Bruce, ‘All the vans were in for the night on Wednesday except one.’

  Pointing to a large publicity photograph on the wall, showing his entire fleet, he continued, ‘As you see in the picture, we have five medium-size vans, three big ones and a couple of smaller vehicles for running around in. Jill and I use the little ones for visiting people to assess their needs and give them quotes. Not here on either Wednesday or Thursday was the biggest truck in the fleet. It’s in the yard now, as a matter of fact, waiting for Paul, my senior fitter, to check the fuel, oil, tyres, brakes and whatnot after a long run. One of the lads… I call them the Barrow Boys… will probably be giving it a clean soon, too. We’ll go and take a look at it, shall we?’

  As they walked out of the office building, Bruce started to explain why the massive van had been absent overnight. ‘It was on the way to a town called Banchory, in Aberdeenshire, with two of my best men on board: Robert and William Purvis – ‘Bob and Billy’. They’re brothers, and they both worked for my dad before me. On long runs, they take it in turns with the driving. One of their lads will have gone as well; Billy’s grandson Alan, I expect.’

  ‘You like to keep everything in the family, then?’ said Holly.

  ‘It makes everything go smoothly, I find’, Bruce responded, ‘Like clockwork most of the time… On Wednesday morning at eight o’clock sharp, the van will have turned up at the clients’ house in Pulborough to pack everything up and start loading. They were probably on the road north before midday. Knowing Bob, who always wants to press on, they will have had a couple of rest stops on the way up, but carried on going until it was getting dark.’

  They were in the yard now, approaching the lorry in question. ‘Look above the cab there.’ Bruce was pointing for Holly to see. ‘That’s a little cabin… See the curtains on the windows?’

  Holly could.

  ‘Because they’re both in their sixties now, I pay for Billy and Bob to stay in a motorway hotel these days when they’re on a long-haul job; but someone has to stay in the van, especially when it’s fully loaded with some client’s furniture and belongings; so that’s where the lad sleeps.’

  ‘It looks cosy’, said Holly.

  ‘There’s a little heater in there, so it should be’, replied Barrow. ‘On Thursday morning, they were probably all up and breakfasted by seven-thirty, and on their way again to get to their destination before nine. They unload everything, of course – carefully, mind; no rushing. Then they make their way back. It’s about twelve hours’ driving altogether, depending on the traffic. They won’t have wanted to spend a second
night on the road, if they could help it. Bob has the keys to the yard here, so they will have let themselves back in, probably just before midnight, I imagine. After a run like that, I give them a day off, so the van was here all day on Friday. Normally it would go out again today, but Paul had the flu last week. I’ve spoken to him already this morning, and he’s a bit better. He says he’ll come in to service the vehicle this afternoon. I hope so, anyway, because it’s due out again tomorrow! Billy and Bob will be here early, ready for another long run. It won’t be so bad for them, though… They’re only going to Exeter this time.’

  Holly was impressed by Barrow & Son’s obvious efficiency, and their liberal policy regarding older staff. She did wonder, though, how much pressure Bruce Barrow had applied on the phone to his mechanic, Paul, to resume work. The last time she had flu, it had taken her more than a week to recover her strength and get back to the job.

  While talking to her, Barrow had climbed into the van’s cab, and was soon starting the engine so that he could move the vehicle forward a few feet, away from the building, allowing them access to the back.

  ‘We always park them like that, if we can’, he said, by way of explanation, ‘Even when they’re empty… It’s just another precaution against anyone breaking in. You can’t be too careful these days, especially with trips to the Continent. We’ve had no end of trouble with asylum seekers trying to get back across the Channel. I’ve got CCTV inside the back of this van now.’

  They went to the rear. Barrow opened the doors wide. Then he let down the hydraulically operated ramp for Holly to see. ‘It’s quite steep, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Yes… You need muscles for this job’, Barrow agreed. ‘It would take Billy and Bob, both, to carry one of your chairs up or down that ramp. No-one could do it by himself, I don’t think.’