Cherringham--A Bad Lie

by Matthew Costello

  “Really? Fun. With your dad?”

  “Better than that. We’re in a mixed pairs — me and you versus the club captain and his wife.”

  “You are … amazing. Get to recce the place and ask questions,” said Jack. “Only one problem, I don’t have any gear.”

  “Sorted already, Jack. Dad’s going to lend you some stuff. He said he’d drop it off with you later.”

  “The whole shebang, huh?”

  “You’ll look a treat. He only wears the best. You do play, by the way, don’t you? I forgot to ask.”

  “A little,” said Jack. “Before my daughter was born, a few rounds a year on the public courses. I’ll be rusty.”

  “That’s good,” said Sarah. “It’s bad form to beat the club captain in your first game.”

  “No chance of that,” said Jack.

  “Pick you up at 8:30,” said Sarah.

  “Can’t wait,” said Jack.

  He put his phone away, and carried on walking to the Grey Goose.

  He hadn’t played golf for nigh on twenty years.

  This is going to be interesting, he thought.

  7. Tee-Time with the Captain

  Sarah stood by the golf cart, her clubs neatly strapped to the back. James and Babs Proctor were due any minute, but still no sign of Jack.

  Then, walking down the stone steps that led from the back of the yellow stone clubhouse, she saw him.

  Barely recognisable.

  He wore a crisp golf shirt with the Cherringham Country Club emblem, classic plaid trousers, and white and brown golf shoes. And over his shoulder, her dad’s set of Pings.

  His pride and joy, with the driver and woods all wearing the knitted headcovers that protected them against whatever might happen when they weren’t being used to send a dimpled ball flying into space.

  When Jack looked up and saw Sarah, he took off his cap and gave her a wave.

  Dad really did kit him out, she thought, and not for the first time.

  Jack does enjoy all this so much.

  He certainly had found a way to make life in a sleepy Cotswold village anything but sleepy.

  He came beside her.

  “Morning, Sarah. This our chariot?”

  “‘Tis indeed. I see my father gave you the full treatment.”

  “As you said, good stuff. Trousers a tad tight and the shirt. But shoes — a perfect fit. You think I’d really not be allowed to play if I—”

  “In jeans, with a T-shirt? They’d run you off the grounds!”

  Sarah wore beige slacks and a maroon collared shirt that would pass muster at the club.

  “Those your golf clubs?”

  “Dad insisted I learn the game as soon as I was teenager. Got my own set and shoes.”

  “I may not do the best job of representing the colonies.”

  “No worries.”

  “Hmm? Your dad did say that James Proctor’s a tad serious about the game …”

  Sarah shook her head. “As captain? Oh, I’m sure. But I think you’re being a Yank — a rare find at an English Golf Club — will get you through any hooks and slices …”

  “And lost balls. Seem to remember I went through them at a furious pace.”

  Sarah looked back to the side of the clubhouse.

  As members, James and Babs would have wooden lockers, a place to keep their gear and change of clothes.

  No sign of them yet.

  “Game plan?” she said.

  “Not sure. Bit tricky since Josh’s would-be in-laws don’t even know he’s gone missing …”

  “I know. I was thinking that myself.”

  “Still, we might get some useful information from them about Josh, maybe their friends. And — without being too obvious about it — get to see the eighth hole.”

  “‘The Dreaded Eighth’, they call it.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Turned out that way for Josh.”

  He gave Sarah the once over. “And, I must say, I am looking forward to seeing you out of your element!”

  “Don’t expect any wonders. Like you, it’s been a while, and—”

  Then Sarah caught a cart racing towards them.

  Two people bouncing along the path, dressed to the nines in bright colours and big smiles — James and Babs Proctor.

  This — Sarah thought — is going to be interesting.

  *

  Sarah did the introductions, and James Proctor seemed strangely pleased to meet a real American detective.

  “Kind of you to allow me to play, judge,” Jack said.

  He was right about that, Sarah knew.

  Clubs like Cherringham didn’t easily admit outsiders onto its hallowed fairways.

  The judge was still pumping Jack’s hand. “James, please. No robes allowed on the course! And with a request from a long-time member and my golf partner? How could I say no!”

  He grinned, and Babs — who hadn’t said anything yet — nodded, and smiled.

  Finally, James released Jack’s hand.

  Jack wore a big smile, acting like this was just a lovely day on the links.

  “I hope,” he said, “that Michael warned you. Been a long time since I have played. And I hear that this isn’t exactly an easy course.”

  James leaned close.

  “Easy? It’s –” again, a broad grin and wink from James, who clearly enjoyed his own repartee “a killer, Jack. But no fear, I’ll coach you throughout.”

  “May only do nine. Do have some business later.”

  “Perfect, a quick nine. Then we’ll see if we can sign you up to join our little club here.”

  Little club.

  Sarah knew her father had joined decades ago, when it was more affordable.

  Now you’d need to take out a second mortgage to afford the joining fee and the annual subscription.

  Plus — despite Jack pulling off the traditional uniform so well — she doubted he’d be keen to give up his fishing rods for what Churchill referred to as ‘a good walk ruined’.”

  James looked at his wife then to Sarah.

  “We’re due to tee off. Shall we?”

  “Great,” Jack said.

  As James and Babs got into their cart, she and Jack got into theirs, and the mini-caravan headed to the first tee.

  *

  It wasn’t until just after the seventh hole where Sarah saw Jack nudge the conversation in a different direction.

  A foursome was ahead of them, just teeing off, and she and the rest had to wait in the shade of an oak tree — one of the club’s treasures.

  Up to now, James had been giving Jack and Sarah non-stop insider information on exactly how to play each hole.

  So far, Jack’s drives were mostly a shade to the left or right of the fairway, but he always got a good distance that even had James muttering ‘nice one’.

  Still, the fussy guidance continued, even when they approached the greens where James would tell all exactly how to putt each hole.

  “Years of experience, reading these greens. Important to know exactly when the ball will break. Isn’t that right, Babsie?”

  Babs nodded. She wasn’t a bad player, keeping up with Sarah and her own erratic drives. But she never seemed to relax, as if she felt under pressure not to fluff her shots.

  And James was rarely away from her side, offering her advice on each shot.

  She certainly didn’t seem to be having fun.

  Her husband appeared to have cornered that territory.

  As they sat in their two carts, waiting for the foursome ahead on the eighth to tee off, Jack turned to James as if he had a casual thought.

  “Hear this is going to be a big week for you two?”

  It sounded so smooth, the question so casual, even Sarah could almost believe it had just popped into Jack’s head.

  She saw James’s face shift. Up to now he’d had a constant toothy grin. “Big? Yes, I suppose so …”

  The father-in-law turned to look at the tee.

  Jack d
idn’t let him slip away that easily.

  “Heard about the wedding, St. James. You two must be proud … excited.”

  That was funny …

  Since Jack knew they were anything but.

  James shook his head. “Just know it’s going to cost us a pretty penny. This one here,” James jerked a thumb in the direction of his golf partner and wife, “wanted a big Cherringham ‘do’. No expense spared.”

  Jack hesitated. He gave Sarah a look as if checking … how am I doing?

  As if he was tip-toeing through a minefield.

  She gave the smallest of nods.

  So far, so good.

  “Well, for your only daughter, guess that’s the way to do it. And you’re gaining a son …”

  Cheeky didn’t begin to describe that one, Sarah thought.

  James turned to him, now looking right at Jack.

  “Really? Some artsy sculptor who lives on a barge?”

  Jack kept his smile on.

  No easy task, Sarah guessed.

  “Oh, I live on a barge. Does have its merits.”

  James paused a second. Then: “Tell me, Jack. Back … in the day … when you patrolled the mean streets of Manhattan … you must have come across a lot of different … types.”

  “That I did.”

  James nodded. “Well, my new son-in-law to be, is not exactly the type of man I — we — would have wanted for our Lauren …”

  “James,” Babs said, uttering one of her few words. “Not—”

  A glare from the golf captain.

  Slowly he let his grin return. “But then Jack, what can we dads do, hmm? It will be … a wonderful day, no matter what.”

  Sarah thought James said those words as if trying to convince himself.

  Then the judge turned to the tee for the eighth hole.

  “Ah, they’re off. Shall we go up and I can tell you how to play this one. It’s a devil.”

  “Would appreciate that …”

  The brief chat between holes ended as James zipped his cart up to the white tees.

  With the last place anyone saw Josh dead ahead.

  8. The Dreaded Eighth

  As Sarah drove, Jack leaned close.

  “Did I push that a bit too far?”

  “Just the right amount, I’d say detective.”

  “No love lost there, as Josh’s mates pointed out.”

  “None. And it seems it was ‘Babsie’ who wanted an all-stops out affair.”

  “What mother wouldn’t?” Jack said. “I also found his question odd. About ‘types’. Curious, hmm?”

  Sarah had pulled their cart behind James and Babs.

  Now within earshot, the post-interrogation banter had to end.

  But she said quietly, “Very.”

  James had already bounded up the hummock beside the white markers, his right hand making a visor as he looked down to the fairway, like an explorer eyeing the mouth of the Nile.

  “A monster, you two,” he said looking at Jack, then Sarah. “But I’ll get you through it. Come on. Leave your clubs for now. Come and take a look …”

  *

  “Okay, this is pin position two, so you have a good 512 yards to the green.”

  “That’s a hike,” Jack said.

  “Now that’s not the problem. You see, the hole doglegs right, with all those ponds and bunkers that run along the right side. Got to stay away from them!”

  “So fade left?”

  James shook his head. “Sorry. Not good either. You have to avoid the rough, the trees, more bunkers. But also, on this hole, the fairway is so narrow.”

  James pointed to the other side. “And do you see there? A few feet into the rough on the left, just past that big tree, it slopes down to a large sandy area. Roll down there, and well — Jack, Sarah — your day of golf is ruined.”

  Jack nodded as if getting advice from a village elder.

  He’s playing James as much as the game, Sarah thought.

  “So you’re saying, what exactly?”

  “Straight down the middle, Jack. Get to that dogleg then you can hit right and just hope you don’t go into one of the bloody ponds.”

  “Quite the hole,” Jack said.

  James nodded again as if admiring a trophy animal that needed to be brought down with a rifle.

  “Now, as to club selection, I’d say …”

  And only after another mini-lecture from the sage of the country club, did they go get their drivers and start the hole.

  *

  While they watched Babs shoot a straight, albeit short shot, Jack again spoke to Sarah in a whisper.

  “The mower. It was over there by that tree …”

  “And?”

  “Think I may be hooking left on this hole. If you get my drift.”

  Sarah nodded.

  She did indeed.

  Jack wanted a good look at the spot where Josh had been tied.

  “Alright, Jack. Time to face the beast. You’re up!”

  Sarah watched Jack walk to the space between the pair of white markers, put down his tee and ball then step back.

  Could Jack neatly hit his ball to a spot that would allow him to examine that area by the tree?

  She was about to find out.

  He looked steady, stance good.

  He pulled the club head back just a few feet for practice. Then again steadied, addressing the ball.

  Another glance at the target.

  For him, the target a spot precisely where James said not to hit.

  Jack pulled back, the swing not smooth but his height giving the driver amazing force.

  Jack’s accuracy had been anything but perfect today.

  Sarah imagined he could easily send it flying into a pond to the right, where he’d have no plausible reason to look to the left side of the hole.

  The driver hit connected with the ball with a solid, powerful thunk, the metal head meeting the dimpled rubber-like surface of the ball.

  And Sarah — and the others — watched as Jack’s ball sailed straight, then, on its downward arc, began a slow hook, past the fairway, now tumbling to the left.

  Barely visible, it bumped and rolled to a position that was only a few yards away from the tree trunk.

  “Oh dear, Jack. Bad one. I say — I am captain of the club after all, so if you want to take — I believe you call them ‘mulligans’ in the States — try another shot.”

  But Jack, doing his best to feign disappointment, turned to James.

  “Think … James … I’ll play it as it is. My bad lie to get out of.”

  “Spoken like a true golfer!” James said.

  And only when he turned, did Jack give Sarah a wink and a smile.

  The shot could not have been positioned more perfectly.

  *

  Sarah’s own shot had landed on the right edge of the fairway — despite her best attempt to follow Jack’s example.

  But she drove the cart over to where they saw Jack’s ball land.

  Jack hopped out.

  “Going to pretend I’m having trouble finding my ball …”

  Sarah grinned. “It’s right there …”

  “I did say ‘pretend’.”

  And then Jack went around, nudging the rough grass as if trying to uncover his ball.

  “Now, where in the world could it be …”

  And like a good golf companion, she jumped out and joined in the pantomime.

  “Has to be here somewhere …”

  She followed Jack as he moved to the other side of the tree, where the rough ended in a sandy slope down to a gorge.

  Rough wooden steps, mere planks, had been laid to the left, leading down the slope, to the sand and scrubby plants below.

  Jack stood up.

  “I see why they call it the ‘Dreaded Eighth’. Hit down there, and you might as well pick up, and forget about the hole completely.”

  Sarah though had her eyes locked on the sand below.

  She touched his elbow.
>
  “Jack, look. Down there. Footprints leading from the steps.”

  Jack came beside her just as they heard James’s voice bellow across the fairway, from his good lie.

  “Hey, you two! Get a move on! Club rules — if you can’t find your ball, take the stroke and drop one.”

  Jack turned and gave the judge a wave, and then Sarah saw him turn back to the gorge below, the expanse of sand.

  “Right. Footsteps. But guess a lot of golfers hit down there.” He turned to her. “No reason to assume that they’re Josh’s footsteps.”

  For a second, Sarah thought Jack was right.

  Could be anyone who played a round since Josh disappeared.

  But then—

  She noticed something.

  “Jack—”

  Another shout from James.

  “You two all right?”

  “We’re getting pressed,” Jack said. Then to Sarah, “What?”

  “Those footsteps … they go from the planks of the stairs … and look, they keep going.”

  For a second Jack said nothing.

  “Good eye, Sarah. Whoever went down there kept going.”

  She nodded. “They never came back up here, never went back to the car park, nowhere near any cctv. Nobody would have seen them vanish.”

  Jack pointed at the steps leading away into the distance.

  “Not at all sure what that means, but think they have to be Josh’s steps.”

  He turned back and gave James a wave. The captain was probably starting to regret playing with the American who wouldn’t accept that his ball was gone.

  “Oh, and look. My ball right here.”

  Sarah laughed as she stepped back and Jack took out a nine iron.

  A quick test of the club head against the unkempt rough, then he pulled back.

  She watched his ball sail neatly out of its grassy trap, into the air … now flying straight down the fairway.

  “Quite the recovery, Mr. Brennan,” she said.

  “Why thank you. Let’s finish the next hole — then I think you and me better make a plan.”

  They got into the cart to leave the spot where Josh just walked away and headed over to re-join James and Babs.

  *

  Sarah heard James urging Jack to head into the clubhouse for tea — or, as James said, “maybe something a bit stronger?”

  Jack, though, shook the man’s hand.