‘Terrific!’ said Dave, but there was slight disappointment when, hitting the up-slope firmly, the ball failed to progress. It finished on line with the cup, but only on the front fringe, thirty feet short of the hole. As they walked forward, Jamie was still thinking he had the advantage. The hole being where it was on the previous day, Chuck would have little room to manoeuvre. Even Phil Mickelson would do well to get up and down from that lie.
‘More likely’, Jamie thought, ‘He’ll either duff the ball into the bunker, or thin it right over the green into the bunker across on the other side.’ So it was a real shock when Chuck’s ball, looping high over the sand-trap, came lightly to earth and rolled right into the cup. Even he seemed amazed at the feat.
‘You’ve broken my heart, Chuck’, said Jamie coolly, confidence coming from somewhere… ‘Now I’m going to have to break yours’.
On reflection, he had no explanation whatsoever for this bold claim. ‘The words just came into my mouth’, he said later. It seemed genuinely unlikely that he could save the situation. Nevertheless, putter in hand, he strolled nonchalantly over to his ball, took aim and calmly rolled it up the incline, a little from the left, into the back of the hole.
‘Just like Kaymer yesterday’, said his caddy, Dave, impressed. ‘Only longer…’
‘But now I need to stay cool like Rose did on seventeen’, thought Jamie. Despite Chuck’s astonishing shot, and his remarkable putt, the match was still all square. There was still work to be done.
Down the first they went again. Both hit good drives, and both found the green with their seconds. Chuck putted first, from twenty feet, running the ball three feet by. It was missable, but Jamie wasn’t counting on it. His putt from a similar distance ran true.
‘Oh! You made it!’ Chuck’s voice sounded surprised. His caddy was already walking towards the second tee and had to turn around. ‘Congratulations!’
Two threes in a row at par fours had been good enough for Jamie to win, a fantastic result. Dave was beaming. Chuck, too, eventually gave a half-smile.
‘There’s no arguing with golf like that’, he said, golf cap off, shaking Jamie by the hand. ‘I don’t think I’m going to play you for money again.’
‘You will’, replied his friend, with assurance. ‘I can’t imagine you turning down the chance to get even some day.’
‘Okay… You’re right!’ Chuck responded. ‘But I’m going to take steroids next time…’
‘It won’t do you any good’, Jamie continued teasing. ‘Face it… I’m just too good a player.’
‘Too damn lucky, anyway. I’ll say that.’ Making their way back to the clubhouse, it was Chuck who had the last word.
***
‘Maybe I am lucky’, Jamie was thinking, still at O’Hare, shortly before the call for boarding came through. Later, on the flight, before closing his eyes and settling down, he remembered what the great South African golfer, Gary Player, had said. The multiple major-winner had just played a marvellous bunker shot on the second hole at Wentworth in some big tournament. His ball went into the hole and a spectator called out, ‘That was lucky, Gary’. Clearly irritated, Player turned quickly on the hapless fellow, responding sarcastically, ‘And you know what, Mister? The more I practice, the luckier I get!’
‘The more I practice, the luckier I get’, thought Jamie, ‘But then, I don’t practice golf very much… Maybe I was just born lucky.’
Jamie Royle was not thinking of himself as lucky, however, by any means the following morning, when he arrived at Heathrow.
The 16th
Chapter
At five-thirty the following morning, Holly was driving northwards along the Horsham by-pass. The sun was bright. There was little traffic. As her mind emptied, she suddenly remembered having another strangely intense dream during the night in which she seemed to be watching a beach scene from a distance of about two hundred yards. She had the impression that she had been standing on a raised roadside bank as the sun was going down, looking out towards a sandy promontory jutting out into a sea inlet. It was a beautiful sight. There was no wind. To the right, she was aware of a low brick building with prominent, white painted corner blocks. Nearby, in the centre foreground, four people wearing Parka jackets with the hoods up and their backs turned – a family, possibly, with parents, a son and a daughter – were looking seawards as a speedboat ploughed briskly backwards and forwards. A man and a woman could be seen in the boat, which Holly was viewing from above the heads of the family. It seemed to her that this was Jane X and her killer, and yet the man in the dream, with his arm around his female companion, seemed peculiarly protective towards her.
Then, although the scene did not change, Holly’s vantage point seemed to. It was now like watching it on television, as part of a news broadcast that she had recorded. Also, she knew somehow that the newsreader had earlier mentioned the names of the two people in the boat, but that she had missed this vital piece of information. She felt the strongest impulse to pick up the remote and wind back the recording but, just then, she had woken up.
‘What could it mean? Is there a hidden clue here?’ The questions remained with her as she drove up, past Dorking, towards the M25.
***
Jamie Royle’s plane, assisted by a strong trans-Atlantic tailwind, had made up some time, but was still forty minutes late on landing that Tuesday. The delay had given Holly and her boss plenty of time liaising with immigration and customs officials to set up the highly anticipated interview. There had also been time for Holly to take a call from Wesley Westland, the team’s technical and communications expert.
‘Hi, Holly... I’ve got something for you.’ Wes’s voice came over clearly. ‘Gryllock telephoned Royle last night, soon after midnight our time.’
‘That would have been while he was waiting for his plane in Chicago’, Holly replied. ‘What have you got?’
‘It’s not too long… Less than a minute’, said the technician. ‘I’ll send you a transcript, but I can play it for you now, if you like.’
‘Thanks Wes… That’s great! Go ahead’, she answered.
Listening, Holly thought Patrick Gryllock sounded tipsy. His first words were, ‘Jamie? We need to talk… The police have been onto me.’
‘Get a hold of yourself, Paddy’, Royle sounded irritated. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘They know about the chairs, Jamie… Your father’s chairs!’ Gryllock was almost sobbing.
‘Get off the phone, Paddy’, came the terse response. ‘We can talk about this tomorrow… Go to sleep.’
‘I can’t sleep’, Gryllock replied. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see those damnable chairs.’
‘Forget about it… Take a pill… I’ll be there in the morning.’ Then the line went dead.
Holly showed the transcript to DI Garbutt, who then phoned Westland and got him to play her the recording. ‘Well done, Westcliff’, she said, possibly the first time Holly had heard her congratulate anyone, even if she did get his name wrong. ‘Now, Angel’, she added, turning to her efficient subordinate. ‘What happens next?’
Holly was pleased. When they came to interview Royle, her boss was evidently going to let her be in charge. ‘This way, Ma’am’, she said, leading the way.
***
Having left his golf clubs and the bulk of his luggage with Louise to forward to Bandon Dunes, Royle was travelling light. Having only a carry-on leather hold-all, he was able to by-pass baggage reclaim at Terminal Five and proceed directly to Immigration, passport ready in hand. Expecting to breeze through, as usual, he stood slightly impatiently as he was made to wait at the desk, a short queue gradually building behind him. There was still time to go home to his apartment overlooking the Thames in Pimlico, shower, change, and get to the midday meeting with Gryllock and the Chinese, but he never liked feeling rushed. Having taken his passport, the officer looked closely at it and
then excused himself. ‘Wait here, Sir, please!’ he said, marching off. It was over five minutes before he returned, and with him were two colleagues. One of them took over his place at the desk and started beckoning people forward; the other was someone from Customs, who asked Jamie to hand over his bag.
Jamie gave up his hold-all and followed the first official who led him towards a corridor to the left side of the hall, and then along it to an unmarked door. Once inside the plainly furnished room, Jamie was asked to empty his pockets on the table and sit down. When he had done this, the Customs man gathered his possessions into a medium-sized plastic box he had taken from a shelf against the wall, then walked out of the room with the box under his arm.
Jamie realized that the Immigration official also still had his passport. He was about to complain vociferously when the door opened again and Holly led in DI Garbutt. The two detectives sat down opposite Jamie as the immigration man in turn took his leave. Holly then made the introductions.
‘We apologize for detaining you here briefly, Mr Royle’, she said sweetly, ‘But we are investigating a murder on Royle Enterprises property, and you are a material witness.’
‘Well, I can’t be a suspect, can I?’ Royle replied dismissively, almost sneering. ‘As you probably know, I was out of the country all last week.’
‘So you know when the body was found’, said Holly without missing a beat. ‘But, no… At this stage, we simply want to ask a few questions. You are not a suspect.’
Royle decided it might be best to change tack. ‘Please ask away’, he replied, turning on the charm. ‘I assure you I’ve nothing to hide.’
Holly brought out a pocket recording device and switched it on, giving it the date, time and location, and listing those present. Then, for Royle’s benefit as well as the tape, she ran through a summary of events so far, from the moment the body was found. Observing closely, she noticed the self-possessed figure across the table looking bored. Neither did the expression on his face alter when she showed him the doctored photographs of Jane X that made her look relatively healthy, a close-up of her in her final emaciated state, then pictures of the two red leather chairs.
‘None of these mean anything to me’, he lied. ‘Can I go now?’
Holly hesitated, feeling rather like Peter Falk, the one-eyed actor in the television series who played Lieutenant Columbo, with incriminating information up his sleeve waiting to pounce. ‘Not yet’, she said after a lengthy pause, enjoying the moment. ‘We intercepted a phone call to you last night from your business partner.’
Holly let this information hang in the air between them, gratified to see some colour appearing in Royle’s face, debunking completely his previous air of innocence.
‘Why did Mr Gryllock refer to these as photographs of “your father’s damnable chairs”? That’s what we’d like to know’, she eventually said, a clear degree of accusation in her voice.
‘He was drunk’, was all the angrily blushing Royle would say.
They pressed him, but he held firm. DI Garbutt thought about arresting him, as he clearly knew something and was therefore ‘obstructing the police in carrying out their enquiries’, but she knew his lawyers would soon have him at liberty once again. She advised him against leaving the country for the time being. She knew that neither she nor the Immigration officers could legally retain his passport or prevent him travelling, but she let him understand that, in a murder case such as this, any failure to co-operate would be treated as highly suspicious. Reminding him of how interested the media were likely to be in those implicated in the situation, she played on his obvious wish to avoid unflattering publicity.
He doubted whether she would inform the press of his involvement. It would be highly unethical; and, after all, they already knew of him as the owner of the golf club involved. Nevertheless, he felt trapped, and his first response to her threatening stance was unprintable. He said he would be instructing his lawyers to sue the police if his name was falsely accused in any way, and he gave no undertaking to postpone or cancel his planned return to continue his travels to the Pacific coast and onward to South Asia. Remembering the icy, withering look Royle received in reply from her boss, Holly could not help smiling about it afterwards. No-one could stare a man down and make him feel small like she could. DI Garbutt was, she thought, quite likely a genuine witch.
***
Rich Baum was happy. He had been given something to do, following what might turn out to be an important line of investigation, enquiring into ‘animal disposal’ services. Phoning from his room in the police hostel, he contacted the businesses in Plumpton and Romsey that advertised on the internet. Neither had any vehicles go missing recently. When he called the third company, the one in West Chiltington, expecting the same result, things took a different turn.
‘Halstead and Makepeace… Priscilla speaking. How may I help?’ Something about this voice seemed genuinely interested in whoever was calling, and he found it attractive. Rich told the young lady he was conducting a police enquiry and, on impulse, asked if it would be convenient for him to visit later in the morning.
‘Who am I speaking to, by the way?’ he added.
‘Priscilla Halstead’, said the voice. ‘I’m helping my dad out. He’s only gone to fill the truck with diesel… Should be back soon.’
‘I’ll come over, then’, the rookie told her. ‘About ten o’clock?’
‘Fine’, she said.
‘Okay’, he confirmed.
It looked like an ordinary farm. Turning off the main road, Baum drove past a dusty field full of pigpens, pigs and piglets. On raised ground in the distance were sheep, and in a big shed across the yard from the office were some cattle. Priscilla Halstead turned out to be a tall, dark-haired person of about twenty with a winning smile.
‘I spoke to dad’, she said. ‘He’s met some of his mates in the village and they’ve gone for a coffee, but he’ll be back soon. How can I help?’
Baum was not sure where to begin. ‘What happened to Makepeace?’ he asked awkwardly, to kick off the conversation.
‘Oh, he’s dead’, said Priscilla. ‘Years ago… He and my grandfather bought the business in the early fifties and gave it their names, but Mr Makepeace never married and had no heirs. I think my grandfather bought his share eventually. The story goes that he sold it to him for a pound.’
‘What a bargain!’ said Rich, a little tongue-tied, wanting to prolong the conversation but unsure what to say.
‘His name was Isaiah’, Priscilla filled in the developing silence for him. ‘Nobody gets called that these days, do they?’
‘I suppose not’, Rich replied. ‘Priscilla is not very common, either; is it?’
‘No’, she agreed. ‘We’ve all got unusual names. My grandfather was Eustace, and my father’s name is Augustus… Although everybody just calls him Gus’.
‘Don’t tell me’, Rich was smiling, ‘You’ve also got an Uncle Julius’.
‘Oh no’, Priscilla laughed. ‘My uncle’s name is Claude… It’s short for Claudius’.
‘And you’ve an aunt Octavia, or something like that?’
‘No aunts… But I do have a cousin called Flavia!’ She was enjoying the banter with this tall, shy copper. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’ she added.
Rich told her, just as Gus Halstead drove up; a big man, taller by several inches than his daughter, dressed in boots, jeans, a crumpled blue shirt and a sleeveless brown leather jerkin.
‘What’s all this about?’ he asked, striding into the office.
Rich explained. This time he went into more detail about the red chairs, but without mentioning the deceased Jane X. Then he asked about a possible missing vehicle.
‘I don’t think it could be one of ours’, Gus Halstead told him, when he had finished. ‘Come and see!’
He led Rich outside, Priscilla following. The flat-bed tru
ck standing there was not particularly large. The aluminium sides only reached about halfway up the height of the cab window. The winch, mounted on the back of the cab, was only three or four feet above the height of the deck. Halstead unfastened and lowered the tailgate, which then became a ramp, and explained how he would use the machinery to haul animal carcases, one by one, up onto the deck.
‘The winch only works in one direction, of course’, he explained. ‘But the truck is a tipper, see!’ he added, ‘So, when we want to empty it out, I just upend it slowly. I don’t think it would work too well for moving those chairs of yours around the place, do you? They’d just tumble awkwardly onto the ground.’
Rich, disappointed, was forced to agree. He smiled, thanked them both and, reluctantly, took his leave. Later he phoned Holly who updated him about the interview with Jamie Royle. ‘It goes like this’, she told him encouragingly. ‘You get setbacks, but you just have to persist. Something will give…’
They agreed to meet up back at Greenings later in the day.
***
Had Holly been able to interpret the message in her strange dream of the night before, she would have been astonished at what it revealed concerning a name. When he went to the Sussex Cancer Centre for radiotherapy that same Tuesday morning, the man with the husky voice was obliged to reveal his identity to the grey-haired person on duty at the reception desk. ‘Pennycuik’, he said softly. ‘Daniel Pennycuik’.
The Red Chairs Mystery Page 22
