by Wonny Lea
Martin replied. ‘I’ve not just racked my brains, I’ve been through all my old case notes, and there isn’t one convicted criminal that matches this bastard’s profile.’
Sgt Evans picked up the lists of names that Martin had just put on the table. At the same moment a PC came across with the latest set of names she had received from the golf clubs and announced with a sense of achievement that she had actually just managed to wake up the Greenway Valley club and get their bookings for the day.
Martin and the sergeant read the list and their eyes simultaneously rested on a name that was known to both of them. The name had never reached the shortlist because it hadn’t appeared on at least two of the other lists. Martin asked Matt for the full list of pupils and scouts, and the name reappeared amongst the names of Miss Rossiter’s pupils.
Sergeant Evans stared at Martin. ‘I would like to say it can’t possibly be him – but it bloody well is – it bloody well is!’
Chapter Sixteen
The ninth hole
The killer woke from a restless sleep and calmed his nerves by arranging and rearranging the envelopes and lengths of coloured cord on his kitchen table. He had spent all of Monday fine-tuning the timescale for his final three murders, and the blue, indigo, and violet envelopes were already addressed and stamped. With his usual degree of arrogance he was assuming that today’s murder was already in the bag – it was certainly well prepared in his mind.
As always, it was the blue envelope that held the most sinister fascination for him, and he was tempted to open it and read yet again the words of that particular poem. He didn’t really need to as he knew that one off by heart. How he wished he could be watching Martin Phelps when he read about the fate the killer had in store for him. He had relished rhyming ‘booted out’ with ‘Shelley’s doubt’. The suggestion that the DCI’s precious organisation and his lover could both dump him would take Martin to the depths of despair – just where he had put the killer.
During his original planning phase the killer had considered it would be futile to send the last two envelopes to Martin’s home address, because dead men don’t get mail delivered. However it would be another twist of the knife, both for the Phelps’ team and Shelley Edwards to be told, even after his death, that their hero was worthless and that the killer had won.
He showered and shaved with more care and attention than he had taken for a very long time, and as he dressed there was no sign of his killing uniform. Today he would be immaculately turned out and just the sort of visitor any well-established golf course would want to receive. He still wore a wide-brimmed black hat, but this one was different. From the tips of his two-tone coloured shoes to the Galvin Green logo on his hat, he looked every inch the gentleman golfer.
He checked his image in the mirror and compared it with the pictures of him, as the killer, that were being circulated. Not even his own mother would have considered the two to be the same person – but then his own mother wouldn’t know him anyway, not even if she was still alive to see him.
The bitch had left him in the dubious care of his father when he was just six and later in life he had used his contacts to track her down. Unfortunately he hadn’t discovered her alive, because she had been killed in a house fire. The killer wasn’t sorry she had died – just sorry that she hadn’t lived long enough to be his first victim.
Picking up his golf bag he checked the contents. Yes, he was keen to ensure he had the required number and variety of clubs, but of particular interest to him was the contents of the deep front pocket. He practised, once again, removing the knife from this section of the bag. He couldn’t remember how many times he had practised it but the movement was now as fluid as he had anticipated.
He had threatened to use a gun on Mr Taylor and he opened a drawer in the table and stared at his second choice of weapon. No, Connie was a woman, and although she kept herself in shape she would be no match for his physical strength. He would stick with plan A and stare her in the face as he thrust the knife towards her heart. The very thought of it made his own heart beat faster, and he looked at his watch to check on the time that was moving far too slowly for his liking.
He had asked Connie to book them in for the first available tee-off time and he had checked with the club to ensure she had done so. The receptionist had told him that they would be the second pair to tee off, as Tuesday was busier than usual and the second slot was only available because some others had pulled out. ‘Typical of the despicable woman,’ the killer said to himself, and was about to slag her off for not letting him know, when he remembered that he had blocked his number when he had phoned her.
Just so long as she turned up. He could of course carry out his threats to expose her drug habit to her friends and her new man but that was not what he wanted to do. He looked forward to the thrill of seeing the abject fear in her eyes, and then watching as her lifeblood drained from her and that wretched voice was silenced for ever.
It was with a strange, almost detached, interest that the killer realised the extent to which, with every killing, his enjoyment of the act was increasing and he was particularly revelling in the planning. The anticipation of the stabbing was almost better than its realisation – but not quite.
He heard a car pull up and was pleased that the taxi driver was on time. The BMW was going nowhere and he had rated the risk of hiring a car as being too great. A taxi would be fine: after all, the driver was not transporting a killer, just taking a perfectly respectable member of the public for a game of golf. Nothing sinister about that.
The Greenway Valley Golf Club was not one of those catered for serious early morning golfers. The membership was more of the social golfing and ‘nineteenth-hole’ varieties, and in keeping with the needs of the members the first tee-off was never before 10 a.m. unless there was some sort of competition booked. Consequently the killer now knew that he and Connie were booked for ten past ten, but it was only nine thirty when the taxi set him down.
This had been his own club and he knew his way around. There were things he had to do. He made his way to the reception and watched one of the cleaners polishing the desk and tidying the magazines. She had been with the club for years and she recognised the man who walked towards her.
He smiled warmly as he approached and remarked on the beauty of the weather and complimented her on the job she was doing.
She smiled back. ‘You’re a bit early, sir, the receptionist doesn’t usually get here until about nine forty-five.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I know that, I just want to check my booking – I think my partner has got the time wrong.’
He prayed that the woman wouldn’t be one of the jobsworths who guarded the receptionist’s books with her life. He needn’t have worried, as she had already forgotten he was even there and was frantically polishing the front door handle.
So far, so good, and he took the opportunity of discovering who was booked to tee off after him. He had planned to draw a line through their names and facilitate a delaying tactic for when they tried to book in but he was given a better opportunity to not only delay but stop the next group of four being a worry to him.
He recognised two of the names and especially the lead for that party, Gerald Ashton. A phone call to a directory enquiries service gave him the information he needed, and he rang the number.
Sounding remarkably like the nice man from the garden centre who had given the news of the competition win he spoke this time of some bad news regarding Mr Ashton’s planned golf round.
‘It’s quite unbelievable, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve never been troubled by moles before, but at least two of the greens have developed what looks like a bad case of hives. There are bumps all over the place, and we’ve got experts here at the moment trying to sort things out.’
The killer was nearly blown off the phone by the force of the reply. ‘What in the name of hell are you rambling on about? I don’t pay your extortionate annual membership charges, and green fees on top
, to be told a session with three business associates is cancelled at such short notice. Get someone to flatten the bumps – bloody hell, it can’t be that difficult!’
Taking a deep breath the killer responded. ‘If it was that simple, sir, we certainly would not have bothered you this morning, but our experts tell us that we need to kill the little blighters that are causing the problem. We’re doing that now. We will ring you as soon as we are able to offer you something, but as for this morning I am afraid it is impossible for you to play.’
‘Who the hell are you anyway?’ asked Gerald. ‘I don’t recognise your voice.’
‘I’ve been called in to help with the extermination of these undesirable creatures, and now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll get on with the job.’
The phone call had amused the killer, and as he strode off to decide on the best of the eighteen holes for his mission his marching step was more pronounced than usual.
Connie arrived at eight minutes past ten, just as the killer was beginning to think that she had bottled out. She drove her black and white sports car much too fast and her tyres screeched on the surface of the car park as she came to a halt.
She was still a head-turner, but today she looked drawn and anxious. The killer was highly amused to see that she was wearing green cotton trousers and a pale green linen jacket. The green cord he had in his own jacket pocket would match the ensemble perfectly – life was playing jokes on people this morning and this time he was not the butt of the jokes.
He stepped from the doorway of the reception area as she got out of the car and he went forward to meet her. It looked as if he was going to greet her with a kiss, and so she sidestepped him and went straight to the reception desk.
Her avoidance tactics had not gone unnoticed, but the killer would get her for that, along with everything else, later.
Connie signed them in, and when doing so was pleased to notice that the group following behind them was being led by Gerald Ashton. ‘Good,’ she told herself. ‘If this creep gives me any trouble it will be good to know that Gerald and his cronies are just ten minutes behind us.’
To any intelligent observer the couple would have presented a strange sight. They walked some distance apart, and no words were spoken between them until, as they arrived at the first tee, the killer said mockingly, ‘Ladies first,’ and Connie took her first swing.
The first hole saw them both take five shots to complete a par four and they moved to the second tee without speaking. They stayed neck and neck for the next two holes, and it was not until Connie sliced her tee shot at the fourth that she broke the silence. ‘OK, what is all this about? You didn’t bring me here just to play golf – what exactly do you want?’
The killer didn’t answer but took his tee shot, which was straight and took him very close to the green. He smiled. His day was getting better and better.
Connie was a good golfer and decided that if he was not going to talk then she would give this game her best effort and beat him. Accordingly she rescued her first rogue shot, and her second one for the par three hole took her to the edge of the green. It was unlikely that she would reach the hole with her next shot but she would have a damned good try.
He lifted his second shot onto the green within easy putting distance of the hole and then tapped the ball in before standing to one side to watch Connie try to match his par score. She concentrated with every fibre of her being and stroked the ball with her favourite putter. She knew the lie of the greens well and, although it initially looked as if she would miss, the slight slope turned her ball towards the hole and it dropped in.
As the ball disappeared so did the killer’s upbeat mood. They had been playing for half an hour and there was no sign of the players that had started ten minutes ahead of them. Connie wasn’t surprised by that, because she had recognised their names in the book and knew them to be two women whose idea of a game was to get it finished as quickly as possible and get back to the club house for a proper gossip.
What did surprise her was that she had not seen any sign of Gerald and his party, nor had she heard them coming up behind. On at least three occasions she had been one of his group and the rounds had always been raucous affairs. They were certainly quiet today.
The next two holes saw Connie move into a definite lead, and the more she improved her swing the more the killer’s mood swung into a hole blacker than any of those being found by Connie’s golf ball. He looked around and as far as the eye could see there where rolling hills and beautiful countryside. They did not even register in his mind. All he wanted to see was the continued absence of other people.
Connie was becoming aware that her success over the past three holes was making her partner very angry and she decided to change her tactics. So far she had not indulged in conversation with the man, so she was no further forward in finding out what he really wanted. She had to do this. She had to find out if her future with Roberto was in jeopardy.
‘Look, there’s no point in us pussyfooting around, I just don’t know what you want from me. We had a couple of dates but that was a few years ago and it didn’t work out, did it? I’m with someone now, in fact we got engaged yesterday, so there is no possibility of us getting involved. You can see that – can’t you?’
If Connie had expected a measured response from her partner she couldn’t have been more wrong.
‘What do you mean it didn’t fucking work out? You made it your business to ensure it didn’t fucking work out. You told everyone I was rubbish. You told them I was as hopeless on the golf course as I was in bed – words to that fucking effect.’
Connie felt scared. It had not escaped her notice that there was no sign of life anywhere on the golf course and that was really strange. They had slowed down quite a bit and she could have expected at least one following party to be on their tail by now. Where was everybody?
She tried to pacify her partner. ‘I didn’t say that, how could I have said that? We didn’t have that sort of relationship. We had never been lovers.’
The killer responded angrily. ‘No, I was never good enough, was I? Not that you’ve ever been choosy. There are very few male members you haven’t slept with, and possibly some of the women too; you’d be happy with that provided your brain was stuffed with cocaine. What’s more, most of them know what a crackhead you are. I don’t know why you’re so worried about me telling them – they already know.’
The killer was spitting out his words and Connie thought he was going to have a fit but even though she was truly terrified his words had given her some courage. ‘Well, if everyone knows, then I agree – there is no point in me jumping through hoops to prevent you telling Roberto. Either he already knows and isn’t too bothered, or he will find out anyway.’
Connie summoned up all her nerve and turning her back on her partner started to walk back towards the club reception building hoping it would not be too long before Gerald and party appeared.
She knew instinctively that the killer was behind her and she hadn’t walked more than two steps before his arm circled her neck and pulled her backwards. The first thing she saw was a length of green cord, but she didn’t realise the significance of it at first. The full details of the killer’s use of colours hadn’t been released to the press, but Connie had been following the recent activities of a serial killer and a few things seemed to fit.
She could imagine the man who had just attacked her in the clothes the television had shown – he was exactly the right build – and then there was the walk. One television presenter had suggested that the man could have been in one of the forces. Her partner walked exactly like that and now she was truly petrified and began to cry.
‘Don’t waste your fucking tears on me,’ he spat. ‘I’m the victim here, not you.’
He had seen the look of abject fear in her eyes, just as he had planned, and so now was the moment to watch her bleed to death. For some reason the killer wasn’t satisfied with letting her die without some more pun
ishment. He thought that maybe she didn’t realise yet that she was going to die. Maybe she just thought he was going to knock her about a bit. Well, that wasn’t good enough, so he decided on the best way he knew to make her physically sick with fear.
‘Got an inkling of who I might be, have we?’ he teased. ‘Well let me put your mind at rest before I help your body to follow it – permanently!’
Connie was in serious threat of losing control of her bodily functions and in some bizarre way it was concentrating on not letting that happen that held her together. The killer seemed to be rambling on and Connie wasn’t really sure if he was talking to her or offering up his words for some sort of judgement.
‘Let me tell you a story of a boy who was abandoned by his mother, ridiculed by his teacher, and raped by his scoutmaster. Can you imagine how all that made him feel? There was never a single moment when he had any feeling of self-worth.
‘He taught himself to hate back and it worked well. He learned to use and manipulate people in the way he had been used, and as he got older he became more adept at lying and bullying became a way of life. Most people are wimps, you know, and their biggest problem is that they like to be liked. Threaten them with anything that will tarnish their reputation and they will do anything for you.’
Connie didn’t move a muscle. She knew that her partner was talking about himself but while he was talking he wasn’t killing so she let him continue.
During the next couple of sentences he changed the subject from some anonymous person and began speaking in the first person. He wasn’t making much sense to Connie as he moved through the various phases of his life and laid blame at the door of a number of people.
