Hole in One

by Catherine Aird

  Sloan said ‘That would be one of your competitions, I take it?’

  Moffat nodded. ‘You’ll have seen some of the Cups over the mantelpiece in the Clubroom, Inspector.’

  He could hardly have missed them. Or the reinforced glass cabinet full of other silver cups, salvers and trophies. They didn’t have any of those at the Police Station. The victories over there were recorded in prison sentences, in a public protected from crime, and in the maintenance of a state in which law and order prevailed. Achieved but not rewarded with silver ornaments, those successes. Their failures, on the other hand, were writ large in newspaper headlines.

  Sloan tried another tack. ‘When did you realise that you’d lost it?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy.’ He let out an involuntary sigh. ‘Yesterday. I was playing the short fifteenth and overshot the green.’ He gave the policeman a sharp look. ‘“Never up, never in”, you know.’

  Sloan didn’t know.

  ‘Got in the rough – dead in line, though – but much too far behind the pin. Thought I’d try a squeeze shot with a bit of spin to hold it on the green and then I found the damn club wasn’t there.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Had to take a five iron instead. Not the same thing at all. A really open face is what you want there. Lost the hole, of course.’

  Sloan began to see why golf has been so famously described as a good walk spoilt.

  ‘I was one down at the fourteenth so naturally it was important,’ carried on Moffat.

  So was finding out who it was who had killed the young man in the bunker at the sixth. ‘Of course,’ murmured Sloan trying to sound sympathetic at this cruel turn of fate for the golfer. The cruel turn of fate of the murder victim was what was really on his mind. He didn’t alter his tone because one of the lessons that had been dinned into him by that peerless mentor, his first Station Sergeant, had been always to agree with an interviewee whenever you could. “Lulls ’em into a false sense of security,” he’d been wont to say before charging a suspect.

  Sloan was fairly sure that Gerald Moffat wasn’t a suspect: only that someone had wanted him to be, which was very different. ‘Did the club do the trick for you when you last used it?’ he asked Moffat with every appearance of interest.

  ‘That day on the tenth?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid not. Eric Simmonds beat me in the Kemberland Cup but he’s been ill ever since and had to give his next opponent a walkover.’

  ‘So, sir, I reckon it wasn’t food poisoning that made the greenkeeper ill.’ Detective Constable Crosby was reporting back to the Clubhouse.

  ‘Someone wanted him out of the way,’ pronounced Sloan mordantly.

  ‘While they borrowed his truck to take the body over to the sixth,’ said Crosby. The truck was something that rankled with Crosby. He didn’t like walking.

  ‘While they dug a hole,’ said Sloan.

  ‘That reminds me, Crosby, very soon we must have a little chat with this man who comes in at night.’ He flipped over the pages of his notebook. ‘Bobby Curd. Find out where he lives, will you? And let me have the results of the DNA tests on the truck as soon as they come back …’

  ‘May I come in?’ Police Sergeant Perkins put her head round the door of the Secretary’s office. She was bearing a tray loaded with man-sized brown rolls.

  ‘Tummy time,’ pronounced Crosby eagerly.

  ‘Technically I think we’re off-duty while we eat and eat we must,’ said the policewoman. She pointed to the food and said doubtfully ‘I hope I’ve chosen the right things for you two. It wasn’t easy.’

  ‘We’re not fussy,’ said Sloan.

  ‘Only hungry,’ said Crosby.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said. ‘It’s their menu. It’s all in golf lingo. They call this little lot an “eagle” and it’s an “albatross” if you have a hard-boiled egg with it.’

  Crosby said ‘As long as it’ll go down red lane, it’s all right with me …’

  ‘Gammon’s a “slice”,’ said Polly Perkins, ‘and “shank” is cold roast lamb.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Crosby between mouthfuls.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what it’s called,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, taking a bite. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Cheese is a “wedge”, whatever that might be,’ said Polly Perkins, ‘and chicken is …’

  ‘We’ll never guess,’ said Sloan ironically.

  ‘“Birdie”?’ suggested Crosby insouciantly.

  Polly Perkins favoured the Constable with a long look before she said ‘And orange juice is a “squeeze”. Me, I’d rather call a spade a spade any day.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Sloan. ‘So we can call this case a …’

  ‘Balls-up?’ suggested Crosby.

  ‘A matter of motive,’ said Sloan coldly. ‘That is, we know how the victim was killed, where he was buried, and probably when.’

  ‘But not why,’ agreed Sergeant Perkins.

  ‘Or who he is,’ pointed out Crosby.

  ‘Or where he was killed,’ concurred Sloan. ‘All of which we shall need to know.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Police Sergeant Perkins. Time was a great healer in domestics. So was a spell in a cell.

  ‘Anyone want that beef roll?’ asked Crosby.

  ‘There’s a lot to be done,’ persisted Sloan. ‘There’s the locker room to be searched for a club and a pair of shoes for starters.’

  ‘Even though we don’t know if they’re there,’ said Crosby, his mouth full.

  ‘And we need to talk to the Planning people at the Council about this new development.’

  ‘Do people kill for planning permission?’ enquired Sergeant Perkins with the detached interest of one who spent most of her time among those without much in the way of possessions.

  ‘They kill for money, which comes to the same thing,’ said Sloan.

  ‘True.’ She stretched out her hand for another roll. ‘What about business? Do they kill for that?’

  ‘That’s money, too,’ said Sloan.

  ‘Gilchrists’ is in trouble,’ she informed them. ‘The word on the street is that they’re laying men off as quietly as they can. And women.’

  ‘Going for broke?’ enquired Crosby.

  ‘Short of work,’ said Sergeant Perkins.

  ‘So this development job with the Golf Club would be important to them,’ mused Sloan.

  ‘It doesn’t exactly sound like chicken feed to me,’ said the policewoman. ‘And I’m not in business, thank goodness.’ She took another bite at her roll. ‘At least, not in that sort of business.

  ‘I should have thought any firm would be glad to get their hands on this contract,’ said Sloan.

  ‘There’ll be wheels within wheels, though,’ said Polly Perkins enigmatically. ‘There always are.’

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door of the Secretary’s office. ‘It’s Molly from the bar,’ said the woman who came in. ‘There’s a man outside asking for a Detective Inspector Sloan.’

  ‘Coming.’ Sloan uncoiled himself from the desk, casting a regretful glance at the last remaining roll on the plate.

  The policeman outside had come post haste straight from the dentist’s. ‘You know the one, I mean, sir. His surgery’s down by the bridge.’

  ‘I know. And?’

  The policeman produced a message sheet and handed it over to Sloan. The message on it was duly signed and quite unequivocal – but no surprise. It stated that the details of the dentition sent over from the mortuary corresponded in every particular with the dental records on the chart of Matthew Steele, aged twenty, kept by the dentist.

  As Detective Inspector Sloan walked back towards the Secretary’s room, an odd phrase came into his mind. He’d first heard it when insinuating himself between the Calleford Hunt and the hunt saboteurs.

  Both groups had been on the point of calling it a day when the hunt had had what they called “a three o’clock fox”. Horses, hounds, hunters, saboteurs and policemen had all set off in
a great hurry in a totally new direction.

  He put his hand on the door and went back into their temporary headquarters. The plate of rolls was empty. But it was Polly Perkins who had the last one in her hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All Square

  Hilary Trumper made her way back to the caddies’ shed, her shoulders drooping ever so slightly now.

  ‘I’ve seen the professional,’ she said to Dickie Castle, ‘like you said.’

  ‘It’s a start, miss,’ said Dickie.

  ‘And he’s going to take me round first.’

  ‘But, Hilary …’ Edmund Pemberton started to say something.

  ‘That’s right,’ Dickie chopped him off. ‘Show you the ropes himself.’

  ‘Our Jock Selkirk knows his way around, if anyone does,’ said Bert Hedges blandly.

  The girl shot him a scathing look. ‘I know my way around, too.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, miss,’ said Bert Hedges, dodging an imaginary blow, ‘but it’s as well to have an expert show you.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, looking round, ‘who did Matthew take around most?’

  ‘Matt? Oh, he’d go out with anyone who wanted a caddy,’ said Bert.

  ‘Not backward about coming forward,’ agreed Dickie.

  ‘Matt was never one of your Right Royal Hangbacks,’ said Bert.

  ‘Who were they?’ Hilary Trumper looked both puzzled and curious.

  So did Edmund Pemberton. ‘I’ve never heard of them but Hilary …’

  ‘You’re too young,’ said Dickie swiftly.

  ‘They’re the troops that didn’t quite get into action but came back with those who had done and got patted on the back just like they did,’ said Bert, veteran.

  ‘So there wasn’t anyone special Matt liked to go out with then?’ persisted the girl.

  ‘Let’s see now, miss.’ Dickie Castle at least took the question seriously. ‘He went out with Mr Garwood for the third round of the Clarembald Cup.’

  ‘Who beat Peter Gilchrist,’ said Bert.

  ‘Or to put it another way,’ said Bert Hedges pithily, ‘Peter Gilchrist didn’t have a caddy and lost.’

  ‘Who else did he caddy for?’ asked Hilary Trumper.

  ‘I know he took Major Bligh out one day and he caddied for that old fuss-pot Moffat for his round of the Kemberland Cup,’ said Dickie Castle. ‘Because nobody else wanted to,’ he added gratuitously.

  ‘Anyone else?’ she asked.

  Bert Hedges wrinkled his nose at the apparent effort of remembering. ‘I think he went out when Brian Southon and Peter Gilchrist played their round in the Pletchford Plate but I don’t know which of ’em he was caddying for.’

  ‘Gilchrist,’ supplied Dickie Castle.

  ‘He lost.’

  ‘Off his game, I daresay,’ said Bert Hedges largely. ‘He must have a lot on his mind and you can’t play good golf with something on your mind.’

  ‘You can’t play good golf with anything on your mind,’ said Dickie Castle, low handicap player, seriously.

  ‘I suppose you remember all the matches and who won them?’ said Hilary.

  Dickie Castle said carefully ‘Not always, miss.’

  ‘Hilary,’ began Pemberton again, ‘I think you need to …’

  ‘We’ve sort of had to bring it to mind lately,’ explained Bert Hedges. He glanced at Edmund Pemberton. ‘Haven’t we, young Ginger?’

  Pemberton said ‘I keep trying to tell Hilary …’

  Bert Hedges said ‘Because we’ve just had the police in here asking exactly the same question.’

  ‘They were looking for you, too, miss,’ said Dickie Castle. ‘Asked us if we knew where to find you.’

  Edmund Pemberton was just in time to catch Hilary Trumper as her face paled and she slid to the floor.

  ‘Who?’ bellowed the Superintendent.

  ‘Matthew Robert Steele,’ repeated Detective Inspector Sloan patiently.

  ‘One of the caddies?’

  ‘Him. Last seen on the course late last Tuesday afternoon after he got back from caddying for Gerald Moffat.’

  ‘And said, wasn’t he,’ Leeyes sounded flinty, ‘to be on his way to some benighted foreign country or another?’

  ‘Lasserta, sir.’

  Since Leeyes considered all foreign countries to be benighted, he ignored this. ‘But I thought you said that that girl Hilary Trumper had been having text messages from him.’

  ‘She said she had,’ said Sloan cautiously. ‘She might have had.’

  ‘You mean, I take it, that someone else might have been sending them,’ boomed Superintendent Leeyes, unwilling as ever to believe that distance didn’t affect the volume of his telephone.

  ‘There was no mobile phone buried with or near the deceased,’ said Sloan patiently. He wondered idly if anyone had been buried with their mobile telephone. One of them as grave goods might be a considerable help to archaeologists in future – after the next Armageddon, perhaps.

  Leeyes grunted.

  ‘It’s not like recognising a voice or handwriting …’ went on Sloan. He wasn’t sure of the legal status of a text message stored in the memory of a mobile telephone, although there would be bound to be legal eager-beavers somewhere out there arguing about it and lusting after test cases.

  ‘I didn’t suppose it was,’ snapped Leeyes, an unwilling latecomer to modern communications technology.

  ‘And text messages are what you might called stylised, sir. I mean,’ he said, elaborating this, ‘for instance I understand the letters IOU mean “I love you”.’

  ‘In my young days,’ thundered Leeyes, ‘those letters meant that you owed somebody something and had promised to pay them.’

  ‘Things,’ said Sloan delicately, ‘aren’t what they were.’ Debts weren’t what they were either: drug-users couldn’t pay for their habit with promissory notes – at least not for long.

  ‘These messages, Sloan, have you checked them yourself?’

  ‘No, sir.’ He coughed. ‘I thought it more appropriate that the girl’s – er – instrument should be dealt with by someone more into that sort of thing.’ That there were forensic mobile-telephone specialists was just another sign of the march of progress. It hadn’t been like that when Sloan had been on the beat.

  Leeyes grunted again.

  ‘The girl insists that she didn’t have any doubts about the authenticity of the messages,’ said Sloan.

  ‘Did he say anything about where he was that would prove it?’ Nobody could say that the Superintendent didn’t have an eye for essentials.

  ‘Only that the trip was GR8.’

  ‘And what might that mean?’

  ‘It’s text-speak for “great”,’ Sloan hurried on, ‘but she did agree there was nothing unexpected in them except …’

  ‘Except?’

  ‘Apparently this fellow always used to sign off with TTFN.’

  ‘And what, pray, might that mean? I’m not into reading the runes, you know.’

  ‘Ta ta for now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘These messages finish with CU.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Leeyes, heavily patient.

  ‘It stands for “See you”,’ said Sloan unwillingly.

  ‘And that was there instead?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But she isn’t going to be seen by him? That it, Sloan?’

  ‘Not now, sir.’

  Detective Inspector Sloan was still sitting in the Secretary’s room when Crosby came in.

  ‘Your wife rang, sir,’ he said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘She wanted to know if you had all the clothes you needed with you.’

  ‘Ring her back, will you, Crosby, and say I’ve got everything I need for the time being, thank you.’ Like any good golfer, he would need to improve his lie – and soon. This was no time for playing word games with anyone, least of all his wife. Tempting as it was to lead her on, he must desist …

  And think.
>
  He sat at the Secretary’s desk, his notebook in front of him. He turned over a new page but the paper, a reproach of virgin whiteness, remained blank. He wasn’t ready to put pen to paper yet.

  Instead he stared out of the window on to the course. The view was made up of a symphony of shades of green. There was the lush fairway, shading off to degrees of rough, deeper-coloured grass, all leading the eye in the direction of a putting green of billiard-table smoothness, the whole surrounded by a careful composition of trees. That it should be the resting place of a murdered young man seemed all wrong – not only an offence against the Queen’s Peace but against Nature, too.

  Nature, though, he reminded himself, starting to doodle absently on the paper, might be beautiful but could be – was – unkind. No, not unkind, merely indifferent …and indifference was something that wasn’t in the police canon.

  This philosophical train of thought was interrupted by Detective Constable Crosby’s coming back to the little office. ‘Mrs Sloan said to say thank you for your message, sir, and that she was looking forward to seeing you later.’

  ‘Right, now sit down and take some notes.’ He would have to formulate a plan of action before the Superintendent got on to him again.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Since the only other chair in the room was piled high with papers, Crosby stood first on one foot and then on the other in front of one of the large charts on every wall on which the names of the winner repeatedly advanced across the sheet, the names of losers falling away as they were defeated and thus out of the competition.

  The Constable put his finger up to the nearest of them, tracing a name along a stepped path not unlike a pyramid lying on its side. ‘The winner doesn’t half have to beat a lot of people to get to the end,’ he remarked.

  ‘Life’s like that,’ said Sloan.

  ‘These cups, sir, that they get for winning …’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Are they worth anything?’

  ‘Not a life,’ said Sloan soberly, ‘if that’s what you’re getting at, Crosby. In fact, from what I’ve seen of them they’re