not worth anything much in themselves either.’
‘Well, then …’
‘Rogues don’t usually bother with them because of the engraving but it’s the names on them that are important to the winners. You must remember that.’
‘But it’s only for a year,’ protested the Constable, ‘that’s if those boards in the bar are anything to go by.’
‘Think of them as trophies,’ said Sloan, drawing another meaningless sketch in his notebook. ‘Taken home with your name on it and put on the mantelpiece for a year. A feather in your cap …’ Feathers in police caps weren’t meant to be visible to the world at large: and that in his view included not standing on the courtroom steps boasting.
‘But having to be fought for all over again next time?’ said Crosby.
‘Life’s like that, too,’ said Sloan.
‘Something must have been worth killing a man for,’ said Crosby.
‘Something must have seemed worth killing a man for,’ Sloan corrected him.
‘What we have to do is work out what it might have been now that we know the name of the victim.’
‘Where does the girl come in, sir?’
‘And why does she come in to the Club just now?’ countered Sloan. ‘She’s not a member, she doesn’t play, and she suddenly wants to caddy for anyone and everyone.’
‘Her father’s a member and he plays.’
‘I’m told Luke Trumper is what you might call a business member,’ said Sloan.
‘The Secretary tells me he picks up a good bit of work in the bar but that he’s not into playing much.’
‘This development …’
‘Good thinking, Crosby. According to Alan Pursglove, Trumpers are one of the firms sniffing round for the contract.’ Sloan started a little list on his pad.
‘So is Peter Gilchrist …oh, and United Mellemetics in the person of their Nigel Halesworth. He plays here, too. Pursglove didn’t mention Calleshire Consolidated but I expect they’ll be interested, too.’
‘So it must be worth something,’ said the Constable. ‘United Mellemetics don’t go in for chicken feed.’
‘Oh, yes, Crosby, it’ll be worth quite a lot – especially to Peter Gilchrist’s outfit.’ He tapped his notebook with his waterproof pencil. ‘But Calleshire businessmen don’t usually go around knocking off their caddies for trade purposes.’
‘Perhaps Matthew Steele knew something we don’t,’ suggested Crosby dubiously.
‘Or something that they don’t,’ said Sloan.
‘Or got in the way.’
‘Somebody must have thought they’d be better off without him,’ agreed Sloan tacitly. He sat up straight and assumed a dictating mode. ‘Now, Crosby, this is what has to be done …’
Molly from the bar put her head round the door again. ‘I’ve come for the tray,’ she said, adding tactfully, ‘your Superintendent’s just finishing his meal, out there, too.’
Detective Inspector Sloan said ‘If he asks for me, Molly, say we’re following up a lead, will you?’ He stood up. ‘Let’s go, Crosby.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Crosby with alacrity. The Constable was not averse to going anywhere provided it was on wheels: four wheels. He had no great love for any other form of transport and none whatsoever for walking. ‘Where to, sir?’
Sloan turned back a page in his notebook. ‘Rose Cottage, Deep Lane, Cullingoak.’
‘Sounds a nice address.’
It wasn’t. Not one that the water-colourist Helen Allingham would have wanted to paint, anyway. Whilst there might once have been hollyhocks lining the path and roses round the cottage door there certainly weren’t now. True, there was a very overgrown rambler sprawled over the fence in front of the cottage but it had the same uncared-for look as the rest of the property. Somewhere a dog was barking.
In fact the outside appearance of Bobby Curd’s dwelling was singularly unattractive. For one thing it comprised a tiny cottage with all manner of outhouses, sheds and a deplorable lean-to abutting it. At the bottom of what might have once been a small garden was a round little brick building which, whatever it was used for now, patently had been there before the advent of main drainage. Less than clean curtains hung in the windows.
‘Lacks the woman’s touch, wouldn’t you say, sir?’ said Crosby, clambering out of the police car and looking at the peeling paint.
‘Lacks any touch,’ said Sloan crisply. ‘Or any roses to speak of,’ he added, looking round.
Their speech provoked a further outbreak of barking from an unseen dog.
‘Come along,’ said Sloan. ‘Let’s see what Bobby Curd can tell us about the course at night.’
The only response to their knocking was another outbreak of barking. They could hear the dog scratching and snarling on the other side of the door but no one came to open the door.
‘Try the latch,’ ordered Sloan.
‘It sounds a big dog,’ said the Constable.
‘I expect it is,’ said Sloan. ‘That’s if its dish over there is anything to go by.’
Crosby regarded a sizeable bowl with misgiving. He braced his shoulders back and advanced on the door, calling out ‘Good dog …’
It was.
A large lurcher was standing sentinel over a dead body that was lying behind the door: a dead body with a fearsome head wound.
In a dry summer large boughs of oak are subject to a phenomenon called “sudden branch drop”. To Detective Inspector Sloan, gardener, looking at the dead body in front of them with its fatal head wound it looked more of a case of “sudden tree drop” than mere branch.
The gardening analogy remained in the forefront of his mind as a few lines of verse from one of his old horticultural books welled up from somewhere in his memory.
He quoted it softly now, almost under his breath:
‘Little Herb Robert,
Bright and small,
Peeps from the bank,
And the stone wall.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Crosby. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’
As the two policemen peered down at the crumpled form that was lying at the bottom of the staircase, still defended by the dog, Detective Inspector Sloan said ‘That would have been his trouble.’
‘What would?’ asked Crosby.
‘Seeing too much.’
Chapter Fourteen
Better-ball
At the Berebury Golf Club all the action was in the locker rooms. Police Sergeant Polly Perkins was leading the search in the Ladies’ Section.
‘All the lockers?’ the Lady Captain asked, eyebrows raised.
‘And all their golf bags,’ said Polly Perkins.
‘You’re looking for something,’ concluded the Lady Captain, giving an involuntary shiver.
‘We are,’ said the policewoman. ‘We’d like each member here to confirm that there are the correct number of clubs in their bags and to identify their own shoes.’
The Lady Captain frowned. ‘That’ll take time.’
‘In a murder investigation,’ said Police Sergeant Polly Perkins magisterially, ‘time is immaterial.’
Matters were not proceeding quite so smoothly in the men’s locker rooms where Superintendent Leeyes, unable immediately to locate Sloan, had decided to supervise the operation himself. This was not a help.
‘We’ll start with all the men up here today,’ he announced to two hapless Constables brought in at short notice from foot patrol in Berebury High Street. ‘Line ’em up outside the door.’
Golfers thus rounded-up hung about out round the entrance to the locker room while the Superintendent addressed them, the Captain at his side. ‘You’re to come in one at a time under police supervision, and check on your own golf clubs – without touching them, of course. And then identify any shoes that are yours.’ He looked round at them all. ‘That clearly understood?’
‘So you know what you’re looking for,’ stated Doug Garwood reasonably.
‘We do,’ said Leeyes.
> ‘And you’ve got some footprints, too, I suppose?’ said Peter Gilchrist.
Superintendent Leeyes ignored this since it wasn’t true but he didn’t want to say so.
‘So can we get on with it then?’ asked James Hopland, whose knee always hurt more when he was standing still.
Leeyes was about to say ‘All in good time’ when he remembered that Hopland, although old and arthritic, remained influential in the Club – and would have a vote at the election for the Committee. He said instead with a courtesy quite alien to him ‘Would you like to be first?’
‘Are you looking for a particular club?’ enquired Nigel Halesworth, adding with apparent inconsequence ‘Mine have all got my name on them – present from the firm, you know, for twenty-five years’ hard work.’
‘We’re looking for any club in your bag that shouldn’t be there,’ said Leeyes blandly. ‘And we’d like you to just identify your own shoes, that’s all. Not handle them.’
As a process it was slow, tedious and at first from a police point of view, unrewarding. But not uninteresting. Some lockers proved to be storing that for which they were not really intended. This included a bottle of rum.
‘For cold days,’ said its owner. ‘Put it back.’
There was a gift-wrapped parcel in the next.
‘The wife’s birthday present. It’s the only place she can’t get to.’
A set of woman’s clothes …
‘No, of course, they’re not mine,’ spluttered a man to the police. ‘They’re the girlfriend’s.’
A teddy bear.
‘A sort of mascot,’ explained another man, blushing deeply. ‘I pat him before I go out.’
A medallion of St Andrew.
‘Patron saint of golfers,’ said the man in whose locker this was hanging. ‘Must be, mustn’t he?’
The only real action came when it was Brian Southon’s turn to open his locker.
Under Superintendent Leeyes’ eagle eye, he peered into his golf bag, saying ‘There should be two woods, eleven irons and a putter …hullo …’
‘Two woods, twelve irons and a putter,’ said Leeyes, putting up a beefy hand to stop Southon going any nearer. ‘Just tell me which is the one that shouldn’t be there.’
‘There are two nine irons in my bag,’ said Brian Southon hollowly. ‘One isn’t mine. Look,’ he said eagerly, advancing towards the bag, ‘It doesn’t match the others, does it? You can see that for yourself, can’t you?’
‘Don’t touch,’ said Leeyes at his most authoritarian. ‘Just point and tell me what you see.’
Southon swallowed. ‘A number-nine iron from someone else’s set. Must be. Besides you aren’t allowed to carry more than fourteen clubs. Against the Rules. Everyone knows that.’
‘And how long might it have been there?’ asked Leeyes, never one to answer a witness’s question.
‘Search me,’ said Brian Southon. He grimaced. ‘Sorry, I didn’ t mean that. I meant, I don’t know, do I, or I’d have handed it in.’
‘When were you last in a bunker?’ asked Leeyes.
Southon rocked back on his heels and said wildly ‘I’d have to think …no, I remember now. It was on Sunday morning and I’d started shanking and ended up in the bad bunker at the sixth.’
‘What did you get out with?’ asked Leeyes.
‘My number nine.’ He looked at the policeman and said with unmistakable emphasis. ‘My own number nine.’
‘And was this extra club in your bag then?’ enquired Leeyes.
Brian Southon looked shaken. ‘I couldn’t swear that it was …’
‘Pity,’ said Leeyes.
‘Or wasn’t.’
‘You may have to swear to just that, then,’ said Leeyes helpfully.
When most people talked abut the full panoply of the law what they usually had in mind was a red-robed judge sitting in oak-panelled splendour under a Royal Coat of Arms set within some ancient and imposing building in the middle of a County town. All and sundry would be present in their best formal dress and definitely on their best behaviour – especially the accused.
The full panoply of the law invoked by Detective Inspector Sloan now at Rose Cottage was more mundane – but just as necessary at the very beginning of the long process of justice as at its culmination. For the second time that day he called out a series of specialists in the technical aspects of the detection of murder – the Scenes of Crime Officers, the police photographers, the fingerprint experts, that arcane species, the DNA technician – new but now vital in almost every investigation - and the consultant pathologist.
‘And there’s nothing for it, Crosby,’ Sloan said with the greatest reluctance, ‘but I’m afraid we’re going to have to hold a press conference, too.’
‘What are we going to do about the dog, sir?’ asked Crosby, eyeing the animal warily.
‘I think you’d better take it into protective custody,’ he said. Protective custody was what he always felt he needed when confronted by the press. ‘It’s not going to let anyone near the deceased.’
‘It is a trifle defensive, sir,’ said Crosby, making no move in the direction of the dog.
Sloan sighed. A police dog-handler would have to be added to the long list of those summoned to Rose Cottage. ‘All right, Crosby. Let’s see what we can see.’
They moved carefully through the cottage, making for the kitchen. An open milk bottle stood on the table, the milk turbid and noisome.
Crosby wrinkled his nose in distaste.
‘Might give us a time of death,’ said Sloan. ‘I daresay the neighbours are so used to turning a blind eye to his comings and goings that they’re not going to tell us much.’
Crosby pointed to a slice of bread, already mouldy. ‘Doesn’t look the sort you’d step round and borrow half a cup of sugar from. Look, sir, the back door’s open.’
‘The exit strategy of whoever did this,’ said Sloan. Burglars always established an escape route: so did murderers.
‘Easiest thing in the world to nip inside and up the stairs …’
‘And get the old chap from above and behind,’ finished Sloan bleakly, ‘before walking out again.’
‘Though why the dog didn’t bark …’
‘One of the other reasons why dogs don’t bark in the night, Crosby, is that they have been doped. Make sure that this dog’s bowl goes to Forensics.’
‘It’s wide enough awake now,’ said Crosby, still keeping his distance from the animal. ‘And hungry.’
‘If the dog’s dinner has been doped,’ said Sloan, thinking aloud, ‘it presupposes a fair degree of malice aforethought, not that I think there’s anything fortuitous about any of this.’
‘It might not like me taking his dish away,’ said Crosby, still eyeing the dog.
‘True,’ said Sloan, ‘but get on with it all the same. We’ve work to do.’
‘I suppose,’ said Crosby, anxious to postpone approaching what was left of the dog’s dinner, ‘what this old boy saw was someone on the course at night digging a grave for Matthew Steele …’
‘And what I suppose,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, ‘is that he was unwise enough to apprise whoever it was that he had seen of that very fact.’
‘Dangerous,’ said Crosby.
‘Foolhardy, if you ask me,’ said Sloan. He turned his head and listened to the sound of a police siren getting nearer. ‘Is that the cavalry I hear in the distance?’
What to do with a fainting girl had taxed the caddies more than somewhat. Their first instinct was to park her carefully on the nearest bench, her back firmly against the wall and her head sunk down between her knees.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bert Hedges solicitously.
Hilary Trumper lifted her head briefly, disclosing a face devoid of colour. She lowered her head again with a despairing moan. She looked a good deal less than all right to the men there, who immediately produced a variety of flasks and offered their contents to the girl.
Hilary Trumper waved
them away with a deep sigh. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’
Bert Castle suggested that they took her over to the Ladies’ Clubroom.
‘No, no,’ protested Hilary. ‘Tell me,’ she said urgently, ‘what did you tell the police?’
‘All we could remember about who he went out with,’ said Hedges.
‘I need to know, too,’ she said, struggling to sit up. ‘Did they say why they wanted to know about Matt?’
It is a common misconception that there is a good way to break bad news. It is equally true on the other hand that bad news can be conveyed without words. There was a concerted shuffling of feet and a universal unwillingness to meet her eyes. And a silence broken only by the odd cough.
In the end it was Edmund Pemberton who spoke first.
‘No, they didn’t. Not exactly.’ he looked round at the assembled men. ‘But we sort of worked it out, didn’t we?’
There were sounds that might have signified assent.
The girl lifted her head again.
‘So?’
‘They say,’ murmured Pemberton unwillingly, ‘that the bo …that whoever they’ve found at the sixth could be …that is, it’s thought to be a man of about twenty.’
There had been a little more colour in her face but it drained away again as she licked dry lips and asked ‘How long had it been there?’
Pemberton lowered his own head. ‘They say about a week.’
He couldn’t see her face now. It was back between her knees. He bent his head alongside hers. ‘I think I’d better take you home, Hilary.’
That brought her upright, eyes blazing, two bright red spots coming into her cheeks. ‘I’m not going home,’ she said fiercely. ‘Ever.’
Chapter Fifteen
Best-ball
‘That you, Sloan?’ barked Superintendent Leeyes down the phone. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘Berebury, at Rose Cottage …’
‘Look here, we’ve found Moffat’s club.’
‘We’ve found Bobby Curd …’ began Sloan.
‘In Brian Southon’s bag in the locker room here.’
Hole in One Page 11
