The other two had ordered with abandon and Mariusz was only too willing to keep the flow coming. The chefs employed by the hotel were on top of their game and the quality was excellent.
‘Thought it was to be bacon cobs? What went wrong?’
Mike laughed. ‘Couldn’t resist it.’
‘Me neither,’ Samuel agreed. ‘Not every day you have the chance of being waited on and a choice of food this good.’
‘Besides’ – Mike leaned back and gently patted his stomach – ‘by the time we’ve walked our way round eighteen holes we shall have walked it all down.’
‘I’m banking on that,’ I said.
‘And we may likely have to wait our turn to tee-off.’ Samuel poured himself a further cup of coffee.
‘The car park is pretty full,’ Mike agreed, ‘you could be right.’
‘Well, nobody’s in a hurry. Doesn’t matter what time we get back tonight.’
‘Talking of tonight,’ Mike fished in his pocket, ‘I’ve got tickets for a show at the Southview Park this evening.’
‘Sorry …’ Samuel shook his head. ‘Can’t do it, Mike. Promised the little woman I’d be home by nine at the latest.’
Mike frowned. ‘How will you get back?’
‘Oh, I’ll get a taxi to the station, catch a train back to Grantham.’
‘Oh, OK. Are you up for it, Harry?’
‘Why not? I’m a free agent right now. Even Leo’s catered for. So, nothing spoiling.’
I didn’t say anything about catering for Jake Smith. Mike knew as well as I did I’d loaded up Jake with plenty of provisions. But it wasn’t something you mentioned in civilized company. How long the sordid arrangement would last wasn’t something I cared to consider. But even as I’d unloaded the box of food at Nathaniel’s studio, an idea had occurred to me. It was risky, and a decided nail to be hammered hard into my coffin should the police pick up any hint of my knowing Jake’s whereabouts. But it was just possible I could successfully distract the blue boys.
It gave me a decided loosening feeling in my guts thinking about going through with the plan. However, I was fast coming to a crossroads. Something had to be done – and quickly.
Mike teed off, then myself, followed by Samuel, greedily drinking in the keen salt-laden air. We were into the game, walking the damp, springy turf, spikes gripping and grounding. Although the sun had climbed higher, it was a back-end one, pale and without the kick of summer heat.
Mike hit a birdie at the third and was very pleased with himself. Samuel was also giving his best and it was myself who was trailing.
‘Know your problem?’ Mike said as he dropped his gaze from watching his ball arc up into the pale blue before landing close to the flag on the fifth.
‘No, but do tell me.’
He grinned. ‘Simple, you need more practice.’
I nodded. ‘Can’t argue with that little gem.’
Samuel trumpeted his amusement and then delight as his ball also dropped cleanly on to the green only yards from the flag.
‘Following on your philosophy, Mike, that suggests both of you need to devote more time to your day jobs.’
Samuel lightly punched my shoulder. ‘Well, I blame that bacon rasher you scoffed …’
I ignored him and concentrated hard on my stance and swing. And whacked the ball into the rough edging the fifth green. They both sniggered.
‘See what I mean, Samuel? More practice needed.’ Still sniggering, they led the way down the fairway past the public footpath that cuts through the golf course to the north side.
Running from Roman Bank, the footpath crossed the golf course, ending on the beach with the North Sea away to the right. It had been a landmark that had stuck in my memory from when Mike and I had previously stayed overnight.
The last time I’d stood on the narrow path had been at midnight with clouds banking up and obscuring the moon. A black night, in more ways than one. But today, in full daylight, its sombre menace was missing. Today it was simply a public footpath serving the community of Winthorpe.
I stood looking down the half-hidden path. Undergrowth had sprouted unchecked down either side during the growth months over summer, narrowing the path even more.
Overhead, despite the strong winds overnight, the trees growing at the back along the high ridge were still cloaked in heavy foliage that blocked a lot of the skyline. They provided a dark green backdrop to the bright green, short turf of the two fifth greens. One, the nearest to the beach, was reserved for use only on tournaments, whereas the one where Mike and Samuel were even now sizing up the line from where their individual balls had landed was the usual playing green.
Collecting my thoughts and pushing the past back where it belonged, I tugged my trolley over to where my ball seemed to have landed.
The flag was now smartly fluttering. Allowing for the strengthening breeze, Mike swung his iron and, from over twenty feet, holed his ball. His grin spread wide. But Samuel, hard behind him and, from only ten foot away, tapped his in very neatly.
‘A two-horse race, obviously,’ I said.
‘Have you found that ball yet?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘But I’m not giving up; it’s not beating me.’
‘Unlike ourselves,’ Samuel joked. They put their irons back into the trolleys and stood waiting for me.
‘Look, you two start walking – you’re making me nervous. I’ll find it quicker without both of you standing there grinning.’
‘As if we are,’ Mike said, poker-faced now.
‘Want some help?’ Samuel offered.
I shook my head. ‘This is personal.’
Leaving me to it, they turned and began walking off, heads together, discussing the merits of the irons they’d chosen for their putts.
I’d noted the trajectory of my ball as it had flown up into the air and was now tracking its probable location. Using one of my clubs, I thwacked aside the tussocks of rough grass edging the green. Covering the area methodically, I whacked away knowing the ball couldn’t be very far away. I’d be bound to find it soon. And a minute or two later, I did. Caught under what appeared to be dock leaves, the flash of white gave away its hiding place. I gave a grunt of satisfaction and was bending to pick it up when there was a muted crack and a savage swish of air past my bent shoulder. Instead of straightening up, I dropped to the ground and lay still.
The bullet, for that’s what it was, flew on and ploughed into the public warning sign sited at the back of the tournament green, several yards behind where I’d been standing a split second ago. The wood cracked and splintered but I knew it hadn’t the substance to stop the bullet which would have carried on and come out the other side. Where it was now was an unknown. Finally coming down, it would inevitably bury itself in the sand.
And there was a hell of a lot of sand.
Lying cheek down in the grass and without raising my head, I looked sideways across the green. Mike and Samuel were still deep in discussion, still walking away.
They were the only two people.
They were unaware that a sniper had just taken a shot at me.
Whoever had pulled the trigger was no doubt hidden in the trees on the ridge. If they thought the shot had taken me out, there would be no further bullets flying in this direction. I lay still.
Keeping Mike and Samuel in sight, I waited for the moment when they realized I wasn’t following them. That needed delicate timing. At the point when I saw them stop and begin to turn around, I needed to come up to at least a kneeling position.
They’d think I was simply bending down, picking up the ball. And I wanted to keep it that way. It was quite obvious I was the target. That meant the other two were safe.
I didn’t dwell on the harsh fact that if I hadn’t bent at that critical moment, the bullet would have ploughed into my chest – left side. But simply acknowledging how close to death I’d been brought nauseous bile to the back of my throat. OK, race riding was bloody dangerous, nobody denied that
. But a bullet through the heart …
I continued to lie still.
And Mike and Samuel continued walking. They were approaching the curve of the path leading to the base of the ridge. Wherever the would-be assassin was he’d be making sure of his escape now. Once the two men went round the bend, anyone coming out of the wood above that point was going to be silhouetted against the skyline.
Very reluctantly, I prised myself up from the grass. When I was kneeling, I waited apprehensively for a couple of seconds, the blood roaring in my ears. But no further bullet found me. At this point it seemed utterly ridiculous that somebody had sighted down a gun barrel and actually pulled the trigger.
Who in God’s name hated me that much? Nobody, surely. It was a far-fetched flight of fancy on my part.
I turned my head and looked back at the wooden box and the words on it.
Warning. You are going to cross a private golf course.
Keep to the path at all times. Be aware of moving golf balls.
Take responsibility for your own safety.
Ironically, I had, by simply, innocently, bending down.
The box had been intact when the three of us arrived on the fifth green. Now it was in a sorry state. The force of the bullet had slammed into the wood, splintering it and leaving a jagged gap through which daylight clearly showed, proving the bullet had exited by ripping out the rear of the box.
I curled my fingers around the hard, little golf ball and stood up. Thank God for golf balls. Without it, I wouldn’t be here now. I felt like I’d been punched in the solar plexus. The whole ganglion of nerves sited there had absorbed the shock and was letting me know about it. I could have thrown up very easily, wasted all that lovely protein I’d allowed myself for breakfast.
If Annabel were here, I knew what she would say. The trauma would have immediately shrunk the thymus gland – it took up to three weeks for it to regain its size – and knocked the endocrine system for six. Annabel was not only a psychotherapist but also a fully qualified spiritual healer. She knew these things. She’d also tell me to counteract the nausea by deep breathing.
Deliberately, I drew in several long, deep breaths to steady myself. Then I strode away, following the other two men who had now disappeared from sight around the curve of the stone path towards the next hole. I had no intention of telling them what had just happened. They would certainly insist on calling off the day’s golf, then telling the hotel manager and reporting the incident to the police …
I was sailing so close to the wind now by harbouring a criminal, I could already feel the icy blast on the back of my neck. Any further investigations by the police would be disastrous. There would be hours spent inside the police station, questions asked, a hell of a lot of questions. Statements would have to be taken, SOCOs sent crawling about trying to discover the whereabouts of the bullet.
I shuddered.
Right now, Mike and Samuel were focussed on their golf. I wasn’t going to do anything that distracted them. Right now, nobody else knew about it, except the would-be assassin and myself.
No way was I going to come clean. It was going to stay a secret, one strictly between myself … and the golf ball.
NINETEEN
The other two beat me, predictably by a long way – to be truthful, I was trounced good and proper, Mike marginally holding off Samuel’s challenge.
It was several hours later when we trooped back into the hotel. There had been no further incidents. I hadn’t expected there to be. At the same time a sense of relief flooded me as we stashed the golf trolleys away in the boot of our car before going up the back steps into the warmth – and safety – of the hotel.
We ordered a meal. Then sat, sipping the strong, scalding coffees poured by the barman that restored spirits and energized bodies. The comfortable armchairs, calm surroundings and civilized atmosphere made a mockery of the earlier attempt on my life.
While we were playing golf out on the course, I hadn’t considered who the sniper might be. But now we were relaxing instead of concentrating on playing, I let the question of who hated me that much circle in my mind. It was bad enough with Jake Smith’s threat hanging over me; now it seemed he was not alone in the ‘hate Harry’ stakes.
Guns were generally thought of as men’s toys. Not conclusive, of course – there were plenty of splendid shots among the female population. But in this case, I’d put money on the sniper being male. Whoever he was, he must hold a very deep grudge against me. So, it was my turn to think very hard just whom I had come up against before and, following that, who I had bested in whatever way.
Normally, I was pretty easy-going, could get on with most people – some admittedly with more effort than others, but that applied to just about anyone.
What I needed to pinpoint was the person or persons I had had a severe run-in with, leaving them so injured, physically or emotionally, that they felt they needed to get their own back. But even though I scrambled my brains trying to remember, nobody came to mind.
None of my fellow jockeys, even when I’d managed to scoop victories from them in the last seconds of a race, would take it so badly as to try and injure me. It was ludicrous. What they would do was wait their chance coming up against me in a future race to even the score that way. A classic case of don’t get mad get even – thoroughly acceptable in weighing rooms all over the country. So, no, none of my professional colleagues could remotely be considered.
What did that leave? Friends, acquaintances? Who held a grudge, and for what? Nobody at all that I knew about. Nobody had warned me. Nobody had threatened me. It was a complete dead end. So that only left someone deeply affected by Alice Goode’s death or the two men who had died in prison.
The latter could be described as being in prison in the first place because of me. I’d discovered their identities as a direct result of following up information and coming to a conclusion that turned out to be right. They had committed murder, albeit they were on remand, suspected of committing murder, but the police were sure of their facts, had proof, and the two men’s guilt was a foregone conclusion.
OK, if I hadn’t informed the police of my findings, perhaps the wheels of justice would have taken a damn sight longer turning to bring them in. But the end result would have been the same.
Which left Alice. Or rather, Alice’s death. Now had Darren Goode not still been in prison then yes, I could see he was a likely candidate for topping someone in revenge for his wife’s death.
But for goodness’ sake, I personally had nothing to do with it. Yes, I’d suspected Jake Smith all along, until the last few days. Now, I didn’t. So that left whoever had murdered Alice. Were they scared I’d find out they were guilty? I was certainly trying to discover who was responsible. Was I perhaps getting closer, even if personally I had no idea who it was? One thing was sure: the more stones I turned over, the more I found out. And if it followed the pattern I’d used in the past, the pieces of information were like a jigsaw. The more bits I found, the more they linked together and the clearer the picture became.
If I could stop turning stones, I’d remove myself from the line of fire – literally! But Annabel and her unborn baby’s safety lay squarely in my hands. It was looking even more like a choice between saving Annabel or saving myself. And that choice was most definitely no choice.
Although we no longer lived together as husband and wife, it made no difference to my feelings about her. I was as deeply in love with Annabel as I’d been on the day we married. I’d go on feeling responsible for her until the day I died.
I took a deep breath. That day had so very nearly been today.
‘More coffee, Harry?’ Samuel’s query jerked my thoughts back to the present.
‘Oh, yes, yes, thanks, I will.’
‘You look like you could use some more caffeine to keep awake. Thought you’d almost nodded off.’
‘No, just buried in my thoughts.’
There it was again, a Freudian slip, or more likely, my
wrecked nerves replaying the events of the day.
‘Don’t take it so hard, Harry. Even Rory McIlroy gets beaten sometimes.’
I glanced at Mike, who was attempting to take the mick out of me while innocently sipping his drink.
‘Next time out I’ll hang you on the clothes line.’
He snorted. ‘Oh, yes? Partnering Tiger, are you?’
‘Give over, you two,’ Samuel said. ‘There are more important things to do. Look, here comes dinner.’
And as usual, it was beautifully cooked and presented, the steaks meltingly tender, the vegetables firm and full of taste.
Conversation dwindled away as we applied ourselves to clearing our plates.
It wasn’t simply a cliché that a near-death experience made one acutely appreciate being alive and all that implied. It was true. I, personally, savoured each mouthful of the lovely food.
And was bloody grateful to still be alive.
We took our time eating and then repaired to the sumptuous television lounge to relax and digest our meal.
Later, Katie popped her head around the leather room door where we were all sprawling lazily on dimpled leather ottomans watching a football match which had gone into extra time.
‘Taxi’s here, Mr Simpson.’
‘Thank you, m’dear.’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘Got to go, fellas. Train to catch.’
‘Take care.’ Mike flapped a languid hand, eyes still fixed on the match.
‘Yes, see you soon,’ I added.
The door closed behind him and we returned to giving our fullest attention to the first-rate football being played. It went to penalties, both teams evenly matched.
Mike flicked off the remote and rose, stretching extravagantly and yawning. ‘Might as well make tracks.’
‘To Southview?’
‘Yeah. Give ourselves time to have a drink in the bar before the show starts.’
Dead Reckoning Page 13
